Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Calling himself the Crowfather had been a joke. Honestly. No matter what Sneeg might swear behind Phil’s back, the only ‘children’ he’d had in mind when he’d picked his villain name had been crows, and still only in a metaphorical sense.

Crowfather, because he was big and dangerous, sort of like the ‘mother-of-all-whatever’ expression, and because it had been a late night on his first week of crime and he’d been so damn tired when the annoying reporter had tried to corner him in an alley, forgetting he had wings, and knives, and would use both if pressed. 

So, Crowfather it was. At least he hadn’t panicked and said ‘Crowman.’

The point where the problem came in, was when he started collecting actual kids. Like a damn magnet, actually. He didn’t mean to, but they just kept showing up, with puppy eyes and head injuries, and saying ‘oh, Crowfather, could you teach me to throw knives’ , and ‘oh, Crowfather, tell me how to control my powers’ , and ‘Crowfather, how does it feel to fly?’

…Well, saying “I’m only agreeing because I could kill you just as easily inside,” and “I’ll tell you if I can have both of your granola bars,” and “The only reason you’re not dead already is because I don’t want your kid to hear you thrashing as you drown, but I’m open to getting creative, if you try anything stupid. ”

Anyways, he never went into a situation intending to keep the little shits.

He didn’t .

___

Phil was watching a rerun of The Great British Baking Show when someone fell from the sky and hit his balcony hard. 

He jerked in surprise, sending water sloshing out of the bin he was using to soak his swollen ankle, and struggled to his feet, hands tangling in the blanket Tommy had draped over him before going to bed.

The person lying on his balcony let out a faint groan, barely audible through the glass, and peeled themself off of the railing, clutching at their ribs.

Phil yanked at the lock, and the person on his balcony whirled around. Red cape, with some sort of bodysuit covered by heavy duty pants and a poet shirt. A deep blue mask under the cowl of the cloak, which covered the person’s hair and upper face.

A sword on their back.

The wind picked up as Phil stepped out onto the balcony, one slippered foot not protecting him from the windchill tearing at his still-wet other leg. The person who had almost skewered themself on Phil’s shitty azalea bush reached for their sword, then choked, stumbling. Phil reached out to steady them, and was slammed against the railing, and damn that was going to make his bruises worse. 

The person holding him to the railing, the villain, most likely, was breathing heavily, dark eyes wide and panicked, and their hands shook where they were clenched in Phil’s shitty sleep shirt.

“Hey, mate,” Phil tried, “Wanna let go of me? I’ve got a first aid kit inside.” 

They didn’t let him up.

He sighed. “Honestly, I’m not gonna hurt you. I spilled my ice bath all over the rug, and I really want to clean it up before more of my floorboards mold or rot.”

They had to have landed right on their ribs, and from at least a story up, that was a tough fall to handle. “I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

“Don’t think I trust you,” the person said, and then let him up. “I could kill you just as easily inside, ‘s all.”

Phil scooted gingerly to the side, then opened the door wider. “No use standing out in the cold and rain.”

The person walked past him cautiously, stepping past the sofa and the water stain seeping into the rug to sit on the kitchen counter. They stayed silent as they lifted themself onto it, despite the motion seeming painful. 

Phil jiggled the lock on the balcony door uselessly, it hadn’t closed for years, but he always tried anyway. The door slid closed, but the wind still swirled unnaturally inside, and the eyes of the villain in his kitchen were laser-focused onto Phil’s movements.

He moved into the kitchen, awkwardly shuffling by the villain’s legs, and reached into a cabinet to pull out the can of hot chocolate. 

“You can make yourself comfortable, mate, I’m not going to bother you. First Aid kit’s in the lower left drawer, right by your leg. Got any allergies?”

The villain blinked at him. Their sword stuck up behind them like a warning. “No,” they said, reaching a hand into the drawer and feeling around for the kit, “You meant it about the hot chocolate?”

Phil laughed. “I know, seems like a bit of a stretch to me too, but it’s always better to be cold and in pain with a hot drink than without.”

The villain peered into the kit, then stared directly at Phil, who was pouring milk into two mugs.

“These bandages,” they said, “Don’t match the kit. Different brand.”

Phil paused, confused. “That a problem, mate?”

“And the gauze,” they continued, “There’s much more of it here than in most kits. Only three basic band-aids, no ice packs, or gloves, and the pain meds are all prescription.”

Phil raised his eyebrows and waited.

They pulled their legs up on the counter, and leaned their head on one hand. “What I’m sayin’ is, you refill this kit a lot, and not with standard medical supplies. These-” they waved an Altoids tin of pain relievers- “shouldn’t be out of a prescription bottle, and no way someone with a kid’s jacket on the floor in the hall just doesn’t have normal band-aids.”

“So,” they continued, leaning forwards and grinning, “What I’m sayin’ is that you’re a super too.”

Phil blinked. 

“I let an injured villain into my apartment and started making them hot cocoa, and the lack of band-aids are what clued you in?”

The person on the counter blinked, then leaned back. “Fair.”

There was a silence as Phil broke the chocolate against the table and plunked it into the mugs. He turned on the microwave and moved to lean against the fridge, opposite the intruder.

“You gonna try and kill me if I go clean up the ice bath?” Phil asked.

The villain shook their head, and shoved their non-injured arm behind them. The water that had been slowly soaking into Phil’s floorboards rose into the air, and dumped itself in the sink.

Huh. So, not just wind then. “Thanks, mate.” 

The microwave beeped, and Phil made his choice. This villain didn’t look experienced, although they were too tall to be definitively clocked as a child, and they were still bleeding onto his counter, not to mention whatever was going on with their ribs.

“It’s Phil, by the way. He/him.” Using the general they was well and good, but if the villain preferred something else, it was kind to ask.

Their eyes widened, but they regained control quickly, and begrudgingly offered, “Boreas. Villain, technically, and, uh. They/them.”

“And what do you go by when you’re masked?” Boreas asked.

“Straight to the point, huh?” he paused for a second, before making up his mind. There was nothing they could do to him that he couldn’t handle, and they had seemed moderately well behaved already. “It’s Crowfather in the field, then.”

“Alright, Boreas,” Phil pulled the hot mugs out of the microwave, and started to stir, making sure the chocolate was fully mixed. “Sit down somewhere, and I can take a look at your injuries.”

“Why are you helpin’ me?” Boreas asked, not bothering to step down into the kitchen, simply sliding their legs to the other side of the counter and standing up in the living room, moving to an uncarpeted patch of floor.

Phil brought the mugs of hot chocolate over, properly garnished, and returned for the first aid kit. 

“Frankly, mate, you’re not much of a threat right now. I can handle any villain in the city, and they don’t have the backing or funding the heroes do. Any good hero would at least be polite, whether or not they turn me down, and any bad hero? Well,” he grinned, “they wouldn’t bother me for long. And to be honest,” he said, sitting down beside Boreas, “I’ve hit that railing at top speed a few times myself, and it’s a shit way to end a patrol.” And, I’m lonely, he thought to himself.

They nodded. “Must be a rough landin’, especially from the air.”

“Boreas, you fell off of the roof, that’s ‘from the air’ to me,” Phil laughed.

There was a pause as Phil sipped from his mug, and Boreas eyed theirs, suspicious and hopeful.

“You gonna wrap my ribs or somethin’?” they asked, “I’d do it myself, but my arms aren’t feelin’ great, gonna be honest. Movin’ isn’t exactly one of my top priorities.”

Phil sighed. “Gonna have to see the bruising first, honestly. Make sure you aren’t bleeding internally.”

They pulled back. “Didn’t hit the balcony that hard.”

“You’d think that, but one of my friends got internal bleeding from running into a doorknob too fast. Hide and seek can get pretty intense around here.” Sneeg had been running from him at the time, and insisted he was fine for a day before seeing a doctor. Idiot.

Boreas looked unsure still. Phil sighed. “Mate, if I was gonna try something nefarious, I wouldn’t have made you hot chocolate in my best mug, okay?”

They looked down at the mug, a garish pink thing with three hippopotamuses in ballet outfits dancing along the side. “Uh-huh.”

Phil magnanimously ignored their lack of taste in mug collecting, and waited for them to make a decision.

“Fine.” They rolled their eyes, and started to pull at the fastenings of their poet shirt. Metal clasps, Phil noted, a sensible choice for such a dramatic garment, especially if they were in combat, and he was pretty sure they didn’t carry a giant sword for dramatic effect. 

They peeled back the undersuit, tying the sleeves around their waist, and glared upwards, as if daring Phil to say anything. He poked lightly at the bruises, feeling for any stiff or swollen spots. “Any nausea?”

“Aside from bein’ dizzy after fallin’ for a story? Nah.”

“Extreme thirst? Sweatiness? How’s your breathing?”

“A little sore, but I did just hit your railings from a story up. And-” they took a sip of the hot chocolate- “Not very thirsty either.”

Phil sat back on his heels, and put on a faux-serious face. “Are you unconscious?”

The kid- and when did he start thinking of them as a kid?- rolled their eyes. “I’m talkin’, aren’t I?”

“Fair.” Phil paused, then sighed. “You’re going to have to take the binder off, mate.”

“With you watchin’? No way in hell.”

What the fuck was up with this kid? “Of course not, I don’t-” he rubbed his aching forehead- “I meant that you’re going to have to take it off for a few days, and definitely to get home. It’ll only keep pressure on your already bruised ribs. Ideally, I’d recommend not even wearing a sports bra, but…” he trailed off, Boreas already starting to give him the expected glare, “Yeah, didn’t think that was gonna be an option for you.”

They pulled harshly at the knotted sleeves of their undershirt, trying to untie them, and Phil sighed again. 

“I wouldn’t recommend putting any stress on your ribs for a month, if I thought you’d listen. You need to take a week off patrols, or missions, thefts, whatever you do,” Phil raised a hand to forestall any complaints, “ because if you don’t, you’ll probably fuck them up permanently. If you want to be able to jump buildings in the future, you need to let this heal now.”

Boreas grumbled a low ‘understood.’

“Also,” Phil continued, “You can’t bind for at least a week, mate, hell, maybe two. You just can’t. Same reason as before. And especially when you’re out in costume, what the hell were you thinking?”

Boreas was glaring at him now, and Phil sighed. He was doing a lot of sighing, tonight. 

“I get it, okay mate? I’ve been there. You just can’t. Think of it as part of your disguise, hell, just another thing that’ll throw them off your real identity. It’s hard, but you really will fuck up your body. Maybe irreparably. And binding while jumping buildings and swinging around a sword longer than I am? Boreas-”

“Fine,” they snapped, cutting him off, “Fine, I get the idea. Binding bad, ribs good.” They curled in on themself a little, then winced. “I don’t… technically need to go out and do super stuff this week, I’ve got other resources to fill the gap. I’ll be careful.”

“Your body can’t keep going forever. You’ll have to be careful.”

“ If the mind is willing, the flesh can go on and on without many things, ” Boreas mumbled, “Sun Tzu.

“And the best sprinter in the world couldn’t keep running with broken legs,” Phil shot back.

Boreas laughed. “He did say something like that, actually. Even the finest sword plunged into salt water will eventually rust. ”

“Well, there you go.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, and Phil took a deep breath, reminding himself not to push too hard. The kid was obviously skittish, which was fair, and a dad lecture wasn’t the way to go. The Great British Baking Show continued in the background as Phil slowly watched the kid droop over, taking sips of hot chocolate to wash down a few painkillers.

When they were mostly horizontal, Phil asked, “Got anywhere you need to be, mate? ‘Cause I don’t mind if you crash on my couch, but-”

“No,” Boreas grunted, pushing themself back up, “No, you’re right. I should be goin’, places to be and all that.”

Phil watched them tiredly pull together their belongings, swinging their sword onto their back with a wince and balling up their torn cape. “You want a ride?”

They paused, considering. He didn’t push, just moved the hot chocolate mugs to the table and started to reroll unused bandages.

“Yeah,” Boreas decided, “If you don’t have anywhere else to be, then sure.”

Phil was relieved, but kept it hidden. Better a ride than the kid walking however many blocks home with badly bruised ribs, even if they could keep the rain off magically.

“Okay, car’s just on the street, want to use the stairs this time?” he joked, and Boreas let out a huff of amusement as they stepped into the elevator while Phil was busy fiddling with his keys.

“Not usually partial to the balcony route. We’ve got railings for a reason,” they glanced at Phil, still in a bathrobe with one slipper on, “And I think it’s keepin’ old men like you from fallin’ off them.”

“You little shit-”

He could hear their laugh fading as the elevator doors closed, and turned to the stairs.

Boreas was still there when he made it to the bottom floor, leaned against a wall with their cloak pulled over their head like a hood. Probably for anonymity, not the best idea to be walking around in a villain outfit splattered with blood past midnight.

“Car’s just around here,” Phil said, carefully leaving out the fact that it wasn’t exactly his car. Sneeg owed him one, anyways.

The kid had to fold themself into the backseat of Sneeg’s bright blue Prius, which was amusing to watch up until Phil actually started driving, at which point the kid became a nagging menace. All ‘slow down Phil, you’re gonna get us- the car, watch out for the- seriously, you almost just got us both killed-’ and other predictably killjoy comments. Really, everyone he drove with was so easily worried. It wasn’t like he’d crashed Sneeg’s car yet.

Boreas fed him disgruntled instructions from the backseat as he wove through traffic and swerved around bends, until Boreas pointed to a shabby apartment complex and asked him to pull over.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and was halfway out the door before the kid’s glare reminded him to put on the parking brake. Oops.

“This it, mate?”

“Yeah,” they said, “Uh, thanks. For helpin’ me, and for the hot chocolate.”

“No problem,” Phil said, fully meaning it, “If you ever need my help, you know which balcony to crash on, Boreas.”

They laughed, then, “Technoblade.”

Phil blinked. “You what, mate?”

“Technoblade. That’s my name.”

Phil paused halfway through a word. He hadn’t been expecting that, and his voice came out quieter than he’s been planning. “Thanks for telling me that. It’s an honor, Technoblade.”

They grinned. “Not bad to meet you either, old man. Enemy of my enemy, and all that.”

He watched them climb the steps to the door, leaning on the wet hood of Sneeg’s battered Prius, a small cushion of air above Phil’s head keeping the rain off. Technoblade turned to wave, and the house’s door clicked shut, but the rain shield stayed.

The wind curled around the back of Phil’s neck, and he shivered. The gusts of wind, which had calmed with Techno in the car, picked up again on his way home.

Chapter Text

Phil was exhausted. He’d spent all night out fighting people who were fighting crime, and gotten home at 5 am. Then, of course, the sink’s water pipe had woken him up at seven by bursting open all over the walls and floor, so he’d dragged himself out of bed to try and control the floodwaters of doom lapping at his bathroom door. 

His suit from last night’s patrol, left on the floor in the bathroom, was hopelessly sodden, along with the floorboards and the three other suits lying in the hall near the apparently leaky bathroom door. Which, to be fair, wasn’t built to hold in water, but Phil wasn’t exactly in a charitable mood, so the door could take all the blame he was going to give.

He trudged down the apartment hallway and into the laundry room, holding his sodden suits, and was all the way across the room and already loading them into a washer before he heard an odd creak from behind one of the machines.

Phil paused, and walked over to the dryers on the other wall, then peered over the back of one. Between the machines and the wall, there was a space about half a foot wide, strewn with lost socks, discarded clothing, dryer sheets, and a copious layer of dust. Currently occupied by a small raccoon hybrid, glaring up at him.

… What?

Phil let out a startled “Hey, mate,” and got a hiss from the kid in response.

And he had been hoping his day couldn’t get any more complicated.

“I’m just putting my laundry in, you can stay where you are.” Prime knew Phil had been in enough high-stakes matches of hide and seek himself, he wasn’t going to give the kid away.

“Course I can, you can’t make me move!” the kid responded, and Phil could just feel the headache building behind his eyes. He sighed and returned to the other side of the room, continuing to load his sopping wet clothes into the washer.

A glance over his shoulder revealed a pair of curious eyes watching him, but he ignored them, until the kid called out again.

“Bit stupid, innit? Putting wet clothes in the washer?”

Phil pressed a hand to his forehead, only remembering too late that it was a hand with a soggy haori in it. He let out a truly ridiculous sigh, and turned to pull all of his wet clothes out of the washer again. It wasn’t like he’d brought any detergent with him anyways.

The kid curled back behind the machines as he approached, probably not having considered that Phil putting clothes in the dryer meant getting closer to where he was hidden.

It wasn’t hard to see over the machines, and if a little more water than necessary ended up flung over the back of them, well, that wasn’t Phil’s problem.

The kid was dirtier than he had realized at first, and his clothes were much too grimy for a kid who lived in a building with free washing machines. There were specks of dust and dryer fluff clinging to his ears and the end of his tail, and he glared back at Phil, curled against the back of the machine next to his.

The only machine that was running, Phil realized. Maybe the kid was there because it was warm, because his short sleeves wouldn’t do shit against the weather outside. 

He finished loading his clothes, and turned to leave, throwing a quick “don’t steal my shit!’ over his shoulder, met with an irritable hiss.

He wasn’t going to worry, he insisted to himself. The kid was fine, he was probably moving on anyway. There was no way he’d still be there when Phil got back. He was a neighbor kid, or the friend of someone who lived here, he was playing hide and seek, he was just warming up. 

He wasn’t curled up behind the dryer because he had nowhere else to go.

The kid would be gone when Phil took his laundry out.

~

Phil pushed the laundry room’s door open with his foot, careful not to spill the hot chocolate or drop the granola bars. He set his armful of items down on the washing machine closest to the door, then took a deep breath and stepped over to look behind the row of dryers. 

It had been about an hour, and the kid was asleep, curled in a tiny pile of discarded clothing and back pressed to the cooling surface of Phil’s dryer.

“Hey mate,” Phil called softly, and the kid spasmed awake, eyes wide and teeth bared, and hissed at him. 

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Phil continued, and backed away towards the door, but that only seemed to agitate the kid more. He skittered back into the corner of the room, and then, shockingly, opened the door of an unused dryer and folded himself inside of it.

Phil had to take a second for shocked blinking, before he started to rush forwards, then paused, remembering the kid’s fear.

“It’s just me again mate, I came to get my laundry…” he trailed off, walking forwards cautiously and moving to sit on the floor facing the dryer with a little face pressed up against the door. How the hell did the kid even fit in there?

“I brought you some hot chocolate, do you want it? And I brought snacks, too. It doesn’t look too comfortable in there, want to come out here and have some?”

The kid stared back with wide eyes. His hands slipped on the smooth door, trying to get purchase. Prime, Phil hoped there was enough air in there.

He sighed. “There’s a handle on the outside, mate, if I wanted to I could have opened the door. C’mon out.”

The kid squinted at him suspiciously. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yup.”

“Is it made with milk?”

“Of course.”

The kid slowly pushed the squeaky door open, and uncurled his arms to slither out of the machine and onto the floor, banging a knee on the way out with a curse. His tail was all staticky from the metal and glass of the machine’s drum. The dust on the floor and in the air slowly migrated to his hair and tail as he glared up at Phil.

Phil skirted the edge of the washers carefully, giving the kid his space, and held out the mugs in offering. “Marshmallows or whipped cream?”

The kid padded up cautiously, then took the cup with marshmallows, backing away to sit on top of the still-warm dryer where Phil’s clothes were. Little shit.

“Marshmallows are better, whipped cream just turns into milk.”

“I like marshmallows too,” Phil offered, “But I wasn’t sure what you would want.” He took a seat across from the kid, on one of the washing machines.

The kid scrunched his nose up as he took another big sip. “Well, it’s mine now. Germs, innit?”

“That’s fine, I just didn’t want to guess wrong. Speaking of, what’s your name?”

The kid paused, taking another long sip, before muttering, “Tomathy. Big Man Tomathy Innit.”

Phil took that with a grain of salt.

“Can I call you Tommy?”

The kid squinted at him, thinking. “Only if I can have both of your granola bars.”

“Done.” Phil handed them over.

And that was the way he got the kid inside his apartment too, eventually. The weather only got colder, so every day he’d go down to the laundry room to meet up with Tommy, ‘trading’ food for snippets of information or bad knock-knock jokes. Tommy had watched him pull his villain costumes out of the dryer with wide, knowing eyes, but he hadn’t said anything, not even to Phil.

So, a few weeks after he met Tommy, when the kid had started waking him up in the mornings pounding on the door of his apartment asking for breakfast, Phil had just grumbled and said, “I’ll trade you a key if you shut up and let me sleep for another hour.”

Tommy’s eyes had gone wide, then narrowed in suspicion. “You gonna murder me and shove my body in a closet, old man?”

Phil grumbled, and rubbed his eyes. “The longer you make me stand here the more I’m considering it.”

Tommy stood watching him.

Phil sighed. “If I was going to kill you, I would have done it already. It would have saved me a fortune in Mini Cheddars.” He walked back to his room, not waiting for Tommy’s response.

The door clicked closed a few seconds after it normally would have, and there was a jangling at the key hooks on the wall. 

Phil had made a keychain half a week ago, a red and yellow paper one. He’d scrawled Tommy on it in sharpie and then laminated it with packaging tape.

When he got up again, around noon, there was a box of Corn Flakes left open on the counter, and the red-tagged key was gone.

A bit of poking around revealed his bathroom drawers jostled slightly, books on his shelves moved around, and a snoring hybrid asleep in the spare bedroom, drawers half-open and wearing new clothes, a fuzzy pillow from the couch hugged to his chest.

Phil smiled softly, and closed the door.

Chapter Text

Phil knew that Boreas could handle themself. Even after his last… encounter, with the kid, Phil was well aware how capable they were with the sword strapped to their back. 

That’s why he didn’t worry when a group of heroes engaged the kid in an alley. There was a flying hero on the Crowfather’s trail, and that was enough of a problem for the moment.

Phil didn’t start to worry until he heard someone scream his villain name in a panicked voice. Few people in this fight would be asking for his help, hero or villain, but Boreas? Technoblade? They had a standing invitation.

‘Call me any time, mate,’ and the quiet click of a car door, a raised hand in acknowledgement, a cup of cocoa left half-empty on the table.

Boreas had been extra talkative today, mostly sending gusts of wind and water at the heroes all fight, keeping them off balance and occasionally sending them over the edge of a building, but they hadn’t touched their sword.

Hadn’t needed to, Phil had thought, but here he was, diving towards the alley that the scream came from, here he was skidding to a stop on the cracked, muddy concrete, just on the outside of a purple forcefield that surrounded four heroes circled around a villain crouched against the wall, and Boreas’ sword still wasn’t out. 

They were bleeding. 

There was a deep cut on their upper arm, and definite charring over their left side, flames still licking at the edges of their cape, and their brown eyes were panicked under the mask, and still, Boreas was just staring up at him.

Starting to unravel the protective barrier around the small fight, damn those force fields, Phil raised a hand to urge them up, and Boreas blinked, startled out of their haze. They struggled to reach the sword, and it caught on its scabbard, tangled in the cape. Boreas yanked it free with difficulty, and one of the heroes let out a loud laugh. 

“Not so flashy now, are you?”

Boreas gritted their teeth as the heroes closed in, and tore the sword through the cape, holding it out in front of them with both hands. Even from the end of the alley, Phil could see the blade was shaking. His fingers worked faster, pulling at the threads of the spell, but the heroes got closer and closer to the teen on the ground. 

Boreas swept the sword in a ragged arc, and the heroes dodged easily, stepping right back into place. They scrambled sideways a few feet, and wedged themself further into the corner. Their eyes met Phil’s, and there was only panic in them. Their hands were tight and shaking on the hilt, and the last strings of magic fell apart around Phil’s feet just as Technoblade took the first blow to the side of their face, an armored fist snapping their head backwards into the rough brick of the building.

Phil stepped into the alley proper with a shout, and the heroes turned to face him.

Their mistake.

His daggers were quick to find new sheaths in the heroes bodies, and Phil found he didn’t much care if any of them were breathing as he hurried over to Boreas’ side. 

He ripped a piece of his haori hem to tie around the cut in the kid’s upper arm, and then lifted them carefully.

No-one would bother the Crowfather, flying a figure across the skyline in the dead of night. No-one would dare.

~

The kid hadn’t woken up on the flight over, or when Tommy insisted on poking at them after Phil set them carefully on the couch.

They jerked awake when Phil undid the bandage, though. Pushing upright on one shaking arm and swatting Phil’s hands away as the sink’s water pipe burst, again. Phil backed away, trying to look reassuring and nonthreatening, and listened to the sounds of ragged breathing, water splashing onto the bathroom floor, and-

“Whoa, big man!”

“Tommy, stay in your room, okay?” Phil said calmly, eyes still on Technoblade, who looked much more panicked than Phil thought they should. “It’s just me mate, this is my apartment, remember?”

Technoblade laughed bitterly. “If you’re dumb enough to let your kid stick around for a villain abduction, how do you expect to hold me?” They held their bleeding arm with one hand, and raised the other, siphoning water from the cracks under the damn bathroom door.

“Hey, Boreas, calm down. Breathe, yeah? It’s me, Phil.”

Technoblade blinked rapidly.

“Why the hell would I believe you? Just, giving me your identity? For nothing? Absolutely not, no-” They let out another painful laugh, “No fucking way. You’re fucking stupid for a kidnapper, and there’s no way I’m being tricked into trusting you.” 

Phil tried to step forwards, but a threatening wave of water surged over to join the whirlpool on Technoblade’s hand. 

“The only reason you’re not dead already is because I don’t want your kid to hear you thrashing as you drown,” they bared their teeth, and Phil couldn’t tell if it was in threat or pain, “But I’m open to getting creative, if you try anything stupid. ”

Phil sat down, slowly and carefully, on the dampening living room rug. He set the first aid kit down in front of him, and called, “Tommy? Could you do me a favor and bring my hat in?”

Technoblade was watching him, breathing heavily. Obviously ready to strike. Blood trickled down the side of their cheek from the head injury.

Tommy’s head peeked in, and he threw the veiled hat at Phil like a lopsided frisbee. Phil caught it, and held it up for inspection.

“Not lying, mate. Why don’t you remember me?”

Boreas’ eyes widened, and they dropped the water.

“We’ve met?”

“Yeah,” Phil sighed, “You landed smack in the middle of my balcony and then we had hot chocolate.”

“Oh, did I,” Boreas growled, “How interesting. And how badly was T- was I hurt?”

Phil didn’t miss the slip. He sat back on his heels, contemplating the person in front of him.

“You’re not Technoblade, are you?”

Their eyes widened, then sharpened. “What makes you say that? How do you know t-my name?”

“Because they told me after I drove them home, and because I’ve seen them fight, and they’re damn good with a sword.” The person in front of him, Boreas, looked just like what Phil had seen of Technoblade. Same dark eyes, same lanky build and height. Their short, dark hair curled around their ears, freed from the hood so Phil could examine their head wound, but the mask stayed firmly in place. Phil wasn’t about to cross that boundary without asking.

The other Boreas paused, then gasped in faux realization. “Oh, of course! How could I forget, so silly of me. Crowfather! The hot chocolate guy!”

Phil was unimpressed. “Got any facts I didn’t just tell you, mate?”

They stuttered, and he pressed on. “What about my hero name?”

Not-Technoblade quieted at the ‘knowledge’ Phil was a hero.

“Easy question,” they scoffed, “You’d never tell me that on the first meeting.”

“No,” Phil replied, “Easy question because I’m a villain. One of the first things they figured out about me.”

Boreas grinned. “Smart one, Blade. Well, if you’re going to be a bother about it, fine. I’m not Technoblade.”

Phil’s knives were out immediately, and Boreas let out a squeak as he pressed them into the couch, one knife at their throat and the other poised just below their ribcage. “Then I recommend telling me exactly what you’ve done with them, mate. Because I’m not a patient man, and I get unfriendly real fast if anyone hurts my allies.”

The false Boreas gasped for breath against the knife, and gritted out, “We share the identity, you bastard, they’re my twin. Happy now?”

Phil stared ominously for a long second, then let them up. “Where do you live, then.”

They sputtered. “That’s a creepy fucking question!”

“I drove Technoblade home. Where.”

“You know,” the potential twin pointed out, “If I had killed Technoblade and shapeshifted into them then I would probably know where they live, right?”

Phil glared.

Boreas named the road.

“And do they like marshmallows or whipped cream in their hot chocolate?”

The kid blinked. “Dunno, honestly. Never asked.”

“Neither did I,” Phil admitted, “Was a bit busy making sure they didn’t pass out on my kitchen floor.”

“There’s no way for me to prove I’m who I say I am.”

“No,” Phil agreed, “But you’ve got the same powers, which is a good sign, and you’re carrying the sword. You didn’t blow their cover when you easily could have, either.”

They sighed. “You can call me Siren, then.”

Phil laughed. “Bit dramatic. As I said, Phil, he/him, but you might know me better as Crowfather.”

Their eyes widened. “Well then. Wilbur, he/him. And, well, Boreas. Some of the time.”

“Not much of a revelation on my part, mate, Technoblade already knows my identity.”

Wilbur slumped back onto the couch. “I obviously can’t really prove anything, but you don’t look like you’re going to kill me. Do you have any painkillers, or did Techno clear you out?”

“I wouldn’t let them take all my stash, I get into plenty of scrapes on my own.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “As everyone in the city knows, one way or another.”

“C’mon, I haven’t hit that many windows!”

Wilbur cackled. “I meant in the papers, but that works too. Oh, I can just see it, terrifying Crowfather splayed out on an office building’s window, little feathers drifting down sadly around him. “

“This is slander.” Phil stood up, knees creaking dangerously, and Wilbur giggled again.

“Old man Crowfather, scourge of the city, creaking like an accordion when he moves.”

As Phil moved into the kitchen, he caught sight of a tail, quickly moving back into the hallway. He sighed. “Tommy?”

Tommy poked his head out guiltily.

Phil shook his head. “Mate, what if he’d actually wanted me dead?”

“But he didn’t!” Tommy countered, “And he knows you’re a creaky old man, so he’s obviously too smart to take on the best villain ever in his own house!”

“I’m not- okay. Wilbur, Tommy, Tommy, this is Wilbur. Remember when I told you about Boreas, the villain who hit my balcony?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. He was looking around Phil at Wilbur and grinning in a way Phil had come to know meant trouble. “This him?”

“Apparently not. Meet their twin brother, who better not be fighting in a binder, now that I think about it.” Unfortunately, Wilbur’s immediate guilty look confirmed Phil’s suspicions.

Tommy grabbed Phil’s arm to swing under it, leaving Phil off-balance as he approached Wilbur with excitement. “Your sword is so cool! Can I see?”

“Absolutely not, child,” Wilbur said, “It’s my sibling’s. If I chip it I’ll have to do dishes for a month.”

Tommy wrinkled his nose. “ ‘M not a child. Dishes suck, though.”

“You’ve never once done the dishes!” Phil called over his shoulder, pulling out the hot chocolate almost on reflex.

“That’s ‘cause they suck. Dishes are for- for lesser men.”

Wilbur laughed again. He seemed much less guarded than Technoblade, but just as sharp, in a different way. Tommy was still rambling, and Phil tuned back in as he broke the chocolate into pieces. 

“...and I’d be the best villain, obviously, but I’m too important to fight so Phil does it for me.” 

Wilbur was nodding along, amused. “And what’s your power, big man? ”

Tommy puffed up his tail and splayed his fingers to display his claws. “I’m a raccoon, bitch!”

“Oy!” Phil called, “No swears from the child!”

“Fuck you!”

“If you’re going to bother Wilbur, at least check on his concussion for me.”

Tommy grumbled, but sat down on the couch facing Wilbur, making him follow the motion of a claw with his eyes, and maybe making it a little harder than absolutely necessary.

By the time the chocolate was done, Wilbur’s head was drooping towards his chest and Tommy, up far past his bedtime, wasn’t much more alert. Phil picked him up carefully and carried him to his bedroom, tucking the soft blankets around him and closing the door quietly to mumbled protests.

He set the chocolate down in front of Wilbur, who blinked at it confusedly. “For you, mate. I’m taking you home now, come on.”

Wil tripped three times on his way to the car, and dozed through the ride, jostled periodically by a question from Phil or a particularly hard swerve of the wheel.

Technoblade was waiting in the doorway of their building, and they jogged to meet the car as Phil pulled up to the curb. They were out of uniform, long pink hair tied back in a messy ponytail and leather jacket zipped tight against the cold.

“Didn’t know you had a stunt double, mate,” Phil joked, making sure the parking brake was on this time. Technoblade didn’t respond, pulling at the handle of the car door. They must have noticed Wilbur in the back seat, leaning against the window. Phil obligingly unlocked the car, and Technoblade was half-inside before he knew it, poking at Wilbur’s bandages and checking his temperature.

They scooped Wilbur up gently, despite protests, and turned to face Phil.

“Thank you, Phil,” They said seriously, “I owe you a debt for this.”

Phil shuffled, uncomfortable with the absolute dedication in Technoblade’s voice. “It’s fine, I would've done it for anyone, really,” he lied.

Phil didn’t want to think about his reaction when Wilbur hit the ground, when he pulled the kid up to check for breathing, when he thought it was Technoblade there, bleeding into the dirty alley.

How well Wilbur got along with Tommy, even concussed and missing a good deal of blood.

He wasn’t developing a set of weaknesses. He wasn’t.

Technoblade looked at Phil like they knew he was lying, and nodded seriously. Wilbur waved halfheartedly from their arms, looking as disgruntled as a cat at being picked up and carried around.

Phil stayed in the empty car until Technoblade and Wilbur were safe inside their apartment building.

Chapter Text

Phil had been sure the storerooms this deep in the heroes facility would be empty and unguarded.

He was right about unguarded, but empty? Apparently not.

He ducked behind a low wall as another crate of equipment smashed into the wall where his head had been, and whoever was throwing them advanced closer to his position.

“Any chance we could talk this out, mate?” he tried. It was a long way to the exit, especially if he was being pursued by someone who knew the building. 

“Not likely,” his attacker yelled, “No fucking chance I’m going back to that cell.”

…wait.

“You’re not a hero?” Phil asked, edging further from the person’s last location just in case they got any more ideas about throwing boxes.

“No chance in hell, not after they locked me up, anyways.”

Interesting. “Why did they lock you up, mate?”

“Power’s too dangerous.”

“And that power would be…” Phil tried.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?” They shot back. Okay, no go on the powers.

“Well, I’m no friend of heroes either,” Phil continued, “Maybe we could call a temporary truce?”

There was a tense silence. Phil risked poking his head above the lip of the wall, then immediately flinched back as another crate sailed by.

“Stop fucking moving!” they yelled.

“Okay, sorry!”

A minute passed. Then, “You leave me alone the minute we make it out. Swear.”

“Sure, mate,” Phil said, “Nice to work with you.” He slowly raised his head over the edge of the wall, and observed his new ally. Short, plain pants and shirt, probably prison wear, fluffy brown hair with truly ridiculous bangs.

They dusted off their hands and grinned. “Who’re you then, breaking into a hero facility in the middle of the night? I thought the only important thing they kept here was me.”

“You might know me as Crowfather,” there was a hum of acknowledgement from his new ally, “He/him, please. And I’m here to make sure the heroes don’t have access to a very powerful weapon.”

“What weapon?”

Phil crossed his arms. “Gonna need a name from you, mate. Or some show of trust, at least.

“Tubbo. He. What’s the weapon?”

Phil sighed. “Something nuclear, the information was too vague to know exactly what, but I brought a gamma counter-”

The boy laughed, a worryingly manic rasp, and advanced towards Phil.

“You’re not gonna have to worry about finding the nuke,” he said, and the gamma counter beeped louder and louder with each step he took closer to it, “Because you’re looking at him. And he sure as fuck doesn’t want anything to do with the heroes.”

Phil blinked rapidly.

“Ah. Okay, Tubbo, so-”

His grin showed what Phil thought was too many teeth. “I’m the nuke, yeah. Shit power, innit?”

“Not the worst I’ve seen,” Phil said carefully, “I thought it would be something strength related though, you’ve got some arms on you, mate.”

His grin got even wider. “That’s all my hard work.”

Okay. Never angering the tiny bomb man, check.

“Well then. I guess we’re both trying to get out of here.”

“Lead the way, bossman.”

Phil did.

-

For someone who’d spent an unknown amount of years locked up in a nuke box, Tubbo was a surprisingly good shot with improvised projectiles. Phil watched boxes, bins, a desk lamp, a desk chair, and on one memorable occasion, a tub of slowly shifting green goo impact guard after guard. It seemed like overkill to use his daggers, especially on low-level guards, but Phil could get used to watching goons being beaned with a toaster.

Tubbo seemed to be enjoying the experience, too. At least, Phil hoped the cackling was a good sign, but if it had been him locked in a cage for who knows how long, he would have gone a little batty too, so he lets it slide.

At the door of the facility, he stops Tubbo with an outstretched arm.

“Okay, mate. I don’t want a kid that’s been used by the heroes to have to suffer any more, and honestly, I don’t want a walking bomb living on the street, waiting to be snatched back off it.” 

Tubbo glared. 

Phil continued. “Which is why, if you want, you can stay with me.” Tubbo’s mouth dropped open, but Phil was already raising a finger, and continuing. “There are rules, of course. First, I want to know how radioactive you are. If you can control your emissions around my- around the apartment, and promise not to hurt anyone else staying there, you can stay.”

Tubbo blinked up at him, looking very confused. “I’m not radioactive enough to harm people in normal contact with me,” he said, “But-”

“The only people at the apartment are other villains or runaways, ones I trust with my life. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but it’s an option. Until you get on your feet, or until you feel safe, or as long as you want. Here, don’t decide now. Come back and check the place out. I’ll make hot chocolate, you can crash on the couch for the night until the search for you dies down.”

Tubbo didn’t say anything, but he followed Phil as he walked home.

When Tommy woke up the next morning to a super strong radioactive teen sleeping in his living room, a duo made in hell came into being. Phil, who didn’t wake up for several hours, was too late to stop the bonding, and woke to excited screams.

No-one wants to be greeted by two kids heating bars of soap in the microwave to watch it foam up. He got three separate noise complaints before being able to tame the ruckus with an offer of banana pancakes.

If he saw Tubbo carrying a mattress in the hallway that ended up mysteriously appearing in Tommy’s room, Tommy-and-Tubbo’s room, Phil didn’t say anything.

By the end of the week, there were three keys on the hooks by the door.

Chapter Text

It was Phil’s day off, and he wasn’t looking for trouble. Honestly, truly, he wasn’t. He just wanted a nice day out. Tommy wanted to go to the arcade, and Wilbur wanted to go to the aquarium. Techno looked on in amusement, and Tubbo was actively backing both sides. Phil actually wasn’t sure why Tubbo was even there, but he’d learned there was no getting rid of him once he’d decided to join.

The kids had spread out along the boardwalk, Wil somewhere on the beach, probably terrorizing the local crab community, while Techno settled on a bench with a book and a worryingly large bag of Reeses Pieces. Tommy was pulling Phil towards the arcade, while Tubbo trailed behind both of them, fiddling with something in his pocket that Phil wanted no knowledge of or responsibility for.

Phil had taken Tommy to the arcade more times than he’d like to admit to himself or Sneeg, who wouldn’t stop pointedly grinning whenever he stopped by Phil’s place and there was a new kid on the couch or the floor. The little shit’s car was barely big enough for Phil and four kids, not that it would stop Phil from taking it. Serves him right.

Tommy made a beeline for the racing games, while Tubbo leaned against the wall to examine the prizes on display. Phil sighed and shelled out ticket money to the bored teenager at the register, delivering about thirty tickets to each boy. 

“Keep Tommy out of trouble,” he told Tubbo wearily, and clarified at his grin. “I know I’m in charge of him, I meant specifically to keep him out of the trouble you’re going to cause.” 

Tubbo’s grin didn’t waver, but he didn’t immediately go find Tommy, which was a better sign than Phil had been expecting. 

Phil took a seat on a stool near the wall, and watched the chaos unfold. Packs of children roving through the stands and games like herds of wild animals, preying on the weak and those with too many tickets to keep track of. Sticky hands were thrown, silly putty met hair in a disastrous tangle, and several kids started crying, at various decibels and for various reasons. Tommy looked content at the racing game, and while he wasn’t exactly making tickets, he wasn’t losing many, so Phil wouldn’t have to enter the fray to give him more.

It wasn’t a bad view, honestly. Bright lights and displays, and it was funny to see the things kids talked about and fought over. Phil considered a few empty games, but Tommy hadn’t tired of his racing station yet, and Phil had promised to play pac-man with him after.

He was just thinking about how unusually peaceful overall this trip had been when he saw Tubbo, teetering on the top of one of the arcade machines next to the ticket booth. He had earned one of the plastic grabber claws, and was leaning much too far over for comfort, towards the rolls of tickets in the booth. The teenager manning the ticket station was on their phone, oblivious to the danger their job and physical safety was in.

Phil was already moving, a quick glance over his shoulder reassuring him Tommy was still wrapped up in his game. He threaded through the crowds, trying his best not to send kids flying, and glaring at Tubbo, apparently too focused on his attempted theft to look up. 

Tubbo leaned out even farther over the booth, holding on to one of the decorative spikes on the machine with one hand. Even from across the arcade, Phil could hear it creak. He sped up, dashing around the corner of a group of machines and running smack into a tall teenager in bulky headphones. The teen startled badly, jumping back, and then completely disappeared in a flash of purple energy.

Phil was left staring stunned at the empty floor where purple sparkles were still floating to the shitty carpet. He raised stunned eyes to the machine behind where the teenager had been standing, a pink claw machine with a towering mound of stuffed animals inside its glass case.

A mound of stuffed animals that were crushed to all sides, as the startled teenager stared back at him from where they were crammed into the box of the claw machine.

Their sunglasses were askew on their face, headphones dangling around their neck, and their long limbs were folded in a very uncomfortable looking position. There was a stuffed duck covering half of their face.

Phil blinked, and they blinked back.

Then the spike Tubbo had been holding onto broke off, and he clattered to the floor in a mess of tickets, cheap plastic ornaments, and whatever fake roofing material the booth had been made out of.

The teen startled again, banging their head hard against the metal roof of the claw machine, but the bolts held firm. They sunk further into the mound of stuffed animals, struggling resignedly as if they’d already accepted their fate.

Tubbo scrambled up off of the floor and booked it out of the arcade, tickets fluttering behind him from where he’d crammed them in his many pockets.

The employee in the broken booth blinked startledly, made an aborted move to chase after him, then sighed and started to clean up the fake roof tiles.

The kid in the claw machine was staring forlornly at Phil over the mound of stuffed animals, and it was just such an odd image that Phil cracked up laughing.

Their look shifted into the realm of intense, world-ending exasperation.

“Mate-” Phil gasped between giggles, “Mate, don’t worry, I’ll get you out of there-” he collapsed again in a fit of laughter.

A hand peeled itself out of the mountain of stuffed animals and gave him a gloomy thumbs up. The kid did not look confident in Phil’s ability to extricate them.

He took several deep breaths and quashed his laughing fit, mostly, then turned back towards the disgruntled teen in the arcade machine.

“So, you teleport in there, mate?”

“Yes,” they mumbled through the glass, and what sounded like a mouthful of fluffy stuffed creature.

“Can you teleport back out?”

“No,” they said, “It’s a stress response, mainly, I haven’t quite learned how to control it, and, uh, the only times I’ve been able to decide where I go is in really non stressful situations, and-” they fumbled with the headphones around their neck, bringing them back up to cover their ears. No cords, maybe noise canceling, “And this, um, this isn’t a non-stressful situation, exactly?”

“What triggered it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

They fiddled with one of their necklaces. “Um, it’s usually stress, a startle response. You uh, bumped into me, and-”

“Ah. Sorry about that. I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Ranboo,” they said, then much quieter, “he/they.”

Phil smiled. “He/him for me, mate. Good to meet you, any ideas on how to get you out of here?”

Ranboo let out a long sigh. “Normally, we- uh, I just get someone to scare me more.”

“Like hiccups?” Phil asked skeptically.

“Something like that, yeah. The problem here is, uh, I was already uncomfortable in the arcade. It’s loud, you know? Busy. And apparently, my teleportation thought the inside of this arcade machine was a safer environment. So, the only way to get it to activate is to make me think I’m in danger, and that the outside is scarier than the inside, and uh, that’s gonna take a lot of work. Maybe cause some sort of scene, which just makes outside even worse-”

“Hey, hey. Breathe, Ranboo. We’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

They visibly exhaled. “Okay.”

Phil looked for a simple exit, but of course, there were no doors built into a claw machine.

“Okay, new plan,” he said, “You know that thing you said about making the environment you’re in unsafe? Fuck that.”

Ranboo blinked in confusion. “Okay?”

“You start doing whatever will make you more comfortable, maybe digging yourself out of those plushies, or breathing deep or something. I’m gonna go see if there’s a wrench or a socket lying around.”

Their gloved hands, previously pushing stuffed animals out of the way, impacted the wall of the claw machine frantically. “No!” Then they took a quick breath, and quieted. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“Okay mate, then-” he pulled out his phone, “I’m gonna call one of my-” kids? Friends? Friends-of-the-kid-that-lives-in-my-spare-room? “My kid’s friends, he’ll be able to help.”

“Thank you,” Ranboo mumbled, slowly shifting the pile of brightly colored animals and pressing them down into a floor instead of an overwhelming pile. They really were much too long to fit in the machine, and even with the animals getting more squished with every ring of Phil’s phone, they still couldn’t even sit up fully in the small plastic case. It was obviously affecting Ranboo, his breathing uneven and hands shaky, but he was pretending to be fine. Not ideal.

Tubbo picked up on the fifth ring. “Phil! Sorry, but I’m not gonna turn myself in to the arcade police. If you’re calling because you bought us ice cream, though-”

“Tubbo,” Phil interrupted, “I got a kid stuck in an arcade machine, and I need your help.”

There was a brief and deeply confused silence.

“You what?”

He heaved a sigh. “I got. Someone. Stuck. In a claw machine. They teleported in and now they can’t get out, and I’m not leaving him in there alone to get stared at by a bunch of elementary schoolers like a fish in a tank. So I need you to get back over here and help me get them out.” 

“Say no more, Bossman,” Tubbo said, in a voice that was altogether too excited for Phil to be confident that he would make the situation better and not worse, “I’m on my way!”

“You just stole from here, at least change-” the dial tone cut him off.

“Great.”

Ranboo was watching him curiously from inside their commercial prison. “That’s the friend?”

“Yeah. He’s on his way.”

“You said he stole from here. Is he the one who was climbing that other machine?”

Phil sighed. “Yes. He’s a little… out of control, sometimes.”

“I mean, he’s already conquered one of these, maybe it’ll help him with this one.”

Tubbo ran up, skirting the more open areas to avoid the gaze of the employee at the ruined booth. He tapped on the glass, and Ranboo flinched back.

“Tubbo, this is Ranboo. They’re in uh, a bit of a predicament.”

“No shit,” Tubbo said, “Want a ring pop?”

Ranboo blinked. “What?”

“Do you want a ring pop?” Tubbo repeated, sliding one out of his pocket. “You might be stuck for a bit, and it’s something to do.”

“Sure?”

With a bit of stretching, Tubbo was able to hand Ranboo the ring pop, shoulder deep in the machine’s item slot as they reached down from inside. 

Tommy popped up from behind another machine. “Are you two married?”

Ranboo startled again, badly, but luckily didn’t teleport. Tubbo grinned. “I don’t know, are we?” He turned to Ranboo. “Do you have any liquid assets, Ranboo? How many?”

“Do I- what?”

“Li-quid ass-ets, boob boy!” Tommy repeated, “do you have ‘em?”

Ranboo blinked, completely confused. “Like, cash?”

“Sure,” Tubbo said, rooting around in the pockets of his enormous coat, “But jewelry’s fine too, if it's untraceable.” He pulled an adjustable socket wrench out of a pocket deep in the recesses of the left sleeve, and approached the machine.

Ranboo did not look confident in his extraction skills. “What are you doing?”

“Freeing my husband. What do you have?”

“...about a nerf gun’s worth of tickets?” they offered.

Tommy cheered, and Tubbo smiled. “I’ll take it.”

“Tubbo,” Tommy said, pulling on his sleeve, “Tubbo, he’s rich! He can get us both guns!”

“ Nerf guns,” Phil made sure to clarify loudly. The concerned parents that had turned their way turned back to their own kids.

“Are you sure you don’t just- I can try to teleport out again?” Ranboo offered.

Phil frowned. “Mate, doesn’t that only work if you’re scared stiff?”

“Unacceptable,” Tubbo decided, “Only I am allowed to scare my new husband.”

Ranboo smiled weakly.

“All right,” Tubbo said, grinning in a way Phil knew meant trouble, “Hang tight, hubby, I’ll get you out in no time.”

-

Well, that was one place they wouldn’t be coming back to on Phil’s free weekends.

“In my defense,” Tubbo said, wiping whipped cream off of his face, “I didn’t think the lady working at the ticket booth would recognize me.”

“After you dismantled one whole machine and broke another?” Wilbur asked.

Tubbo took another sip of hot chocolate. “Yeah.”

Ranboo, pressed in between Wilbur and Tubbo, with Tommy on his lap, was smiling stiffly, hands gripping tight on the seats in front of him as Sneeg’s shitty Prius swerved through traffic with Phil at the wheel. 

He didn’t know who had made Ranboo so dismissive of their own comfort, but they’d continued to offer to terrify themself for the twenty minutes it had taken Tubbo to dismantle the claw machine, and insisted it was his fault to the employee before Tubbo had bodily picked him up and walked out of the arcade.

He didn’t want to meet them. They wouldn’t like the experience very much.

But for now, Ranboo was squished between two of Phil’s other kids, balancing shitty store-bought hot chocolate on their lap, ring pop securely fastened around one finger. He’d already exchanged phone numbers with Tubbo, and recognized the cover of Techno’s book, as well as quietly humming along to several songs in Wilbur’s playlist, which was quietly playing in the car. Tommy kept reaching for their ring, but Ranboo kept it just out of reach like they’d been doing it their whole life, unfazed by being crammed into a car with more people than seats, and only a little fazed by Phil’s driving

Phil had to stop acquiring kids, he thought. He was going to run out of space in Sneeg’s car.

Chapter Text

Phil was trying to investigate the lock on his chains, but the blood dripping into his eyes was making it hard.

He was in some sort of abandoned building, he’d figured that out in minute one. It’d taken until minute three to notice he was bleeding, not a good sign considering the room was definitely wavering around him. He could flex his fingers, but not move his wrists, and the blood that ran down his forehead had crusted in his eyelashes, making it near-impossible to examine whatever was holding his wrists together.

Minute four was when he realized his wings were pinned. He couldn’t turn his head, but the clattering sounds when he tried to flex his wings told him they were probably chained too.

Everything hurt. A deep throbbing that was utterly confusing, leaving him unable to focus, unable to figure out what was a fatal wound and what was a bruise. The blood on his face itched, and he tried to brush it off, but the chains around his wrists didn’t budge.

Oh. He’d forgotten those were there. 

He tried moving his wings, and it left him gasping. An afterimage of darkness he couldn’t blink away and an intense stabbing pain in his wings, in his bones, in his teeth. He slumped against the- wall? Chair? Against the… something, trying to remember how to breathe. 

Phil was taking in air, but it just slipped out again in a painful wheeze, and the breaths got faster and faster. He was shaking now, shaking and the chains were jingling and whoever had put him here was going to hear them, and there was a deep, shocky calm settling into his bones, and he couldn’t breathe.

The blood on his face itched. He reached up to- no, his hands were bound. When had-

There was a crash, and he tried to flinch, to turn his head away, but it was so much effort. There were spots flooding his vision, and he tried to blink them away, and, oh, there was blood crusted in his eyelashes, and when did-




Flashes.

The shine of a sword in dim light, the feeling of water flowing over his arms, the freezing cold of ice.

The sound of shattering metal.

Hands on his wings, his wings-

He struggled, flailing with all of his limbs, and there were shrieks around him, shushing noises, he struck out blindly at them, his wings wouldn’t move-

Phil could feel a bolt of metal sliding along the inside of his tendons.

Some sort of screw, pin, sliding along a hole in his wings.

He sobbed, and felt hands on his face, familiar hands. A missing pinkie finger, rough scarring on the tips. Tubbo. But how was Tubbo-


Another bolt, sliding out of his wings. It released one from where it had been pinned open, stabbed through the joint, and he listed to the side weakly as it slumped to the floor and the world turned back into static.

Blinks of color, light. Of motion.

The backseat of Sneeg’s prius, worried faces leaning over him. Hands on his wounds, shoulder, leg, side, wing. The feeling of his chest expanding, his lungs taking in air.

A hand in his. Several.

He blinked open his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom.

The pain was fainter, not far by any means, but dulled. He must have taken the good shit, because he didn’t remember much of-

Oh.

Phil struggled upright, gasping, and Ranboo startled in return, falling out of their chair at the end of the bed.

“Shh,” he whispered, “You’ll wake Tommy.”

Sure enough, there he was, curled into Phil’s bandaged side.

Ranboo asked if he needed anything, then left to tell the twins and Tubbo that Phil was awake. 

Techno leaned against the side of the bed, quietly reading a story, while Wilbur doodled idly on his phone and Ranboo and Tubbo played Battleship. Tommy was still asleep, curled into Phil’s stinging side.

His arm was painfully sore, and he had been told by four very stern teenagers not to even try to move his wings.

There was a cold cup of hot chocolate on the bedside table, and a note from Sneeg pinned to the door. Tommy was curled at his side, and Tubbo and Ranboo’s faint arguing overlapped Techno’s steady voice. He could see Wilbur’s dark curls over the footboard of the bed.

There was a glass of hot chocolate on the bedside table, with his next few doses of pain medication carefully sorted beside it.

Phil went back to sleep.