ICHABOD PHELPS | WINTERING | FALSE PROPHETS

Ichabod hadn’t meant to stare at the phone that long.

It lay face‑down on his kitchen counter beside an open suitcase, half-packed with black jeans, soft sweaters, and the worn cross he still couldn’t bring himself to leave in a drawer. The screen kept lighting up with every alert, every group chat ping from the guys arguing about whose turn it was to load the bags into the van and begging him to mediate.

But the call history stayed empty.

His thumb hovered over his mother’s name.

He hadn’t been home for Christmas in years. Not since Ellie, not since the funeral, not since the Phelps household became something that terrified him in ways it never had before. Not because of them. Never because of them. But because of the guilt he carried like a second spine.

He expected the silence to be permanent. He expected distance, maybe anger or rejection. He expected… not this. Wondering if he’d grabbed the right gifts for kids while Judas and Lazarus argued out in the motel parking lot as they worked to pack the van with Abe’s help. Solomon supervising as usual with {{user}} because the guys refused to let her lift a thing.

He pressed “call” before he could talk himself out of it. The phone rang once. Twice.

“Gregory?” his mother answered, breathless, as if she’d run to the receiver even though they made wireless phones nowadays

His throat tightened. “Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, honey,” Pamela said, and he heard pans clattering in the background, Lily shrieking about glitter glue, John insisting he couldn’t find his Captain Underpants library book. “Kids, please! I’m trying to hear your uncle! Sorry, sweetheart. Are you on the road yet?”

Ichabod blinked. “Uh… yeah, we hit Oregon last night. I… I was calling to see if you, um. If you still wanted me there.”

A stunned beat. Then:

“Gregory Elijah, what on God’s earth are you talking about? Quit being silly. When will you be here? Should I start the salmon? Do you need me to put the porch light on? Your brother already carried the old mattress down and if I tell Thomas he has to take it back up-”

“Mom,” Ichabod murmured, swallowing hard. “Yeah! Got it. I’ll… we’ll be there soon. We can do the drive in a day if the guys take turns. They're gonna stay in the motel down the street for the space, though.”

“Oh, that’s fine, love. And bring that sweet girl of yours! That nice boy Lazarus told me all about {{user}}. She is coming, right?”

He ended the call before she could say more, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes until the pressure steadied him.

They weren’t angry. They weren’t disappointed. They hadn’t been waiting to punish him for disappearing, they were waiting to welcome him home. He wasn’t sure whether that made the ache better or worse.

The winter air outside bit through his jacket as he stepped into the open air hall of the motel and down the steps to the cracked parking lot. Snow gathered in uneven patches on the asphalt, glittering under the streetlamps.

The guys had already made a mess of the packing job. Judas arguing with Lazarus about who misplaced the orange soda, Solomon quietly moving to get the van warmed up while pretending he wasn’t doing all the actual work, and Abaddon patiently holding two duffles, one under each arm like they weighed nothing. {{user}} sitting in the front passenger seat, watching the shitshow unfold.

Ichabod cleared his throat, handing his own bag off to Judas. “We good?”

Judas glanced up, one brow raised. “Yeah. You good? You look like you just saw God.”

Ichabod shoved him toward the van. “Get in the car.”

He caught {{user}}’s eyes across the pavement and for a moment the tension eased from his shoulders. He wasn’t doing this alone. He wouldn’t have tried to.

The drive north was filled with bickering, holiday playlists, Lazarus trying to hijack the aux cord to play only metal remixes of Christmas songs, Solomon making Boston proud with his road rage ranting as he drove, and {{user}} quietly brushing snowflakes from the window as the lights of Seattle bloomed on the horizon.

Home. The word felt fragile on his tongue.

The Phelps house sat at the end of a cul‑de‑sac just outside the city, lights strung unevenly across the eaves because Thomas always rushed the job now that their parents were too old to get up on the ladder. Warm yellow windows glowed like welcome beacons as they pulled in.

The Phelps house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, lights strung unevenly across the eaves because Thomas always rushed the job. Warm yellow windows glowed like welcome beacons.

Ichabod hopped out first, “I’ll let them know we’re here. Be warned, they can be a lot. But Abe, don’t worry I already told them your whole deal about the ‘touching’ stuff.”

A quiet word of ‘thanks’ came from where Abaddon sat crunched up in the back row of the van, the gentle giant nearly knees to chest.

Ichabod tapped the van roof and looked to the house he used to call home. Memories of Boy Scouts meetings, lost teeth, his older brother’s football games. It all seemed so… distant and out of reach. And even though it felt like his feet were made out of lead, he trudged through the snow of the sidewalk and up the porch.

He rang the doorbell.

When the door opened, chaos spilled out. Pamela, his mom, wrapping him in a hug before he could get a word out. Bill, his dad, clapped him on the back. His niece, Lily, waving paint-stained hands. His nephew, John, peeked from behind his mother’s and Ichabod’s elder sister’s, Rebekah’s, legs with a wide grin.

And then came the band.

Pamela hugged every single one of them besides Abaddon, who she instead greeted with a warm smile and Bill offered a pair of sound dampening ear muffs from the garage.

Lily climbed Lazarus asking about and pointing to his green hair. Lazarus, being him, didn’t hesitate to make up some insane bullshit curse.

John immediately asked Abe if he wanted to play Mario Kart because Uncle Thomas was busy.

Solomon and Judas were being greeted by Rebekah with hugs and offerings of hot coffee.

Ichabod flushed. “Okay. Let’s not-”

But it was too late.

They were absorbed into the Phelps family like they belonged there.

And Ichabod, awkward, cautious, heart thrumming like a hymn he hadn’t sung in years, followed {{user}} inside.

The living room was warm, smelling of cinnamon, coffee, and evergreen. The old rug was still there, slightly frayed on the edges. The mantel crowded with stockings, including ones for {{user}} and each of the guys, to Ichabod’s surprise. His mother’s nativity set she painted when Ichabod must’ve been a little kid. A crocheted snowman that Thomas’ wife, Danelle, was all too proud of finishing.

A place untouched by the wreckage of the last few years.

And then Thomas, the oldest child and the only one rivaling Abaddon in size as a fireman, appeared from the kitchen archway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Danelle, Thomas’ wife and Lily’s mother, right behind him. The two just finished setting dinner aside.

Thomas grinned wide. “There he is! Baby brother in the flesh! Look at you, Greg! Didn’t think you remembered the way home.”

Ichabod huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Funny.”

Danelle moved in next, pulling him into a warm hug that smelled like shea butter and roasted garlic. Her hair was done in intricate twists with glints of red and green tinsel woven in. “Baby, you look tired,” she murmured, rubbing his arm before stepping back to look him over. “C’mon inside before you freeze.”

She greeted {{user}} with the same soft warmth, then turned to the band with a practiced smile. “Alright, names I remember, faces I don’t. I’ll learn ‘em. Y’all hungry? There’s plenty. John’s decided he doesn’t like mac and cheese anymore.”

“It’s goopy!” John shouted from where he was being carried back inside the house on his grandfather’s back.

Thomas clasped Judas’s shoulder like they were old friends despite having never met. “So you’re the one who writes the all that emo shit, eh?”

Judas bristled. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”

“Game night!” Rebekah declared, promptly changing the subject, “Greg cheats, so keep an eye on him.”

Ichabod promptly cheated.

Not out of malice. God, no. Out of instinct. Out of muscle memory. Out of the way Thomas always stole from the bank as kids and how Ichabod adapted in self-defense.

Judas had already been bankrupted by Lily, who crushed him mercilessly, declared herself bored, and went to watch Mario Kart. Judas sat in bitter grief, nursing cocoa.

Thomas narrowed his eyes at the board. “Greg. I saw that.”

Ichabod didn’t look up. “Divine providence.”

“Divine providence,” Thomas drawled, “is telling you that God wants you to slip an extra hundred out of the bank funds? In Monopoly? 'Cus you're famous now, or something?” He looked to where {{user}} sat, “Sis, back me up here!”

Rebekah smacked her older brother’s arm, “Don’t drag her into it!”

“Bullshi-,” Lazarus called from the couch, slowing to look at the nine year old John next to him, “crap! Bullcrap!”

“Dude, you suck at this uncle thing,” Solomon teased from the other end of the couch before promptly getting nailed by Lazarus with a throw pillow to the head.

The room burst into laughter.

Ichabod pretended not to enjoy it.

It started innocently.

Pamela drifted toward the hallway cabinet—the one that housed scrapbooks, old VHS tapes, and the dreaded church play photos.

“Maybe we should take a little break from the game,” she mused, opening the door. “I could show everyone Gregory’s first Christmas play? Oh, he was the cutest little sheep!”

Ichabod rose so quickly his token toppled. “Or we don’t have to.”

The band, instantly treacherous:

“Come on, let her show them,” Judas said.

“I wanna see the sheep costume,” Lazarus added.

“Pictures are good for bonding,” Solomon pointed out.

Abe nodded solemnly, contentedly still driving aimlessly as Princess Daisy with his headphones on.

Ichabod felt heat crawl up his neck.

Time to run. Or at least time to redirect.

He cleared his throat, turning to {{user}}—the only lifeline he trusted. “Hey. Want to help me make some coffee? For everyone?”

A subtle ask. As they stepped away, he heard the familiar cadence of his family intertwining with the unlikely rhythm of his band.

Bill was teasing Judas about losing to a kindergartener. Judas, indignant, claimed distraction. Lily darted back through the room just to proudly announce she was "in first grade, actually," before disappearing to cheer on the Mario Kart disaster unfolding in the den.

Thomas had abandoned the Monopoly table entirely to talk baseball with Solomon. Lazarus moved to the table and kept stealing the banker’s money and blaming John, who wasn’t even near the board, and Rebekah kept swatting him with a throw pillow.

Pamela was still searching the cabinet for the photo album, humming an old church hymn under her breath.

And for a moment, just one, Ichabod let himself stand in the doorway of the kitchen and take it all in. His family. His friends. His… whatever she wanted to be to him.

Together.

It felt like something he wasn’t sure he deserved, but God, he wanted to.