Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a whistler on the streets. The sound echoed off cobblestones made dark by ash and night, bouncing off walls of houses and shops and ricocheting into a thousand pieces. 

The whistler was walking. He walked, a dark coat wrapped around him and a seaman’s bag under one arm. He’d had companions, at first, but now he was alone, footsteps falling on the empty street.

He continued to whistle. On the roofs of buildings above, birds gathered, feathers dark as the sky they leaned up against and eyes gleaming as they grumbled to each other. The man knew they were there. They’d been following him for years. 

The man looked up briefly to scan a street sign, then nodded and continued on his way. As he walked, the houses grew smaller and closer-together, turning the street into little more than an alleyway with occasional open areas where chairs or trees grew. 

The man eventually came to the end of the street. There, a building rested, slouching and scowling down at the street with gaping windows and askew doors. The sign hanging above the door was painted with an image of a breadbasket.

The light was on inside. The man could see it, gleaming orange-red like the flames of hell. Not surprising, for a bakery. The work started early.

He stepped up and knocked. 

A shape appeared behind the door. Considerably larger than the man, hulking and with something long clutched in one hand.

The door opened. The man looked up to meet the eyes of the figure, which gleamed the same red color as coals.

“What do you want?” The figure growled. It was a man, if one more oxen than human in size and a butcher knife in one hand. 

“I just want to ask a few questions,” the whistler said, raising his hands. “I’ve come a long way for this.”

The man squinted at him.

“To ask questions?” 

“Eh.” The whistler tipped his hand as the man turned back, striding across the room to open an oven. The room burst with that light, though it dimmed when the man pulled out a rack of steaming pies and set them on a table. The oven door swung shut again. “You’re a baker?”

“You could call me that.” The man picked up a pie, seemingly oblivious to the heat, and pushed it forward. “Give it a try.” 

The whistler frowned, then picked up a nearby fork and used it to split the pie so steam burst into the air and the cracked crust showed gravy and strips of meat. 

“See, meat pies are easier than others,” The man said conversationally as the whistler waited for the pie to cool. Not hard, as despite the oven in the room the air was chilly from the night. “Fruit’s hard to get, especially in Fleet Street. Meat’s expensive though, so I can’t usually get a lot of it.”

The whistler ate a bit of the pie and promptly regretted it, judging by his expression.

“Yeah,” the man said. “They’re awful. Should’ve warned you. Oh, sure, I’ve been baking for almost twenty years. Never learned anything, though, so I’m still terrible.” He inspected the whistler’s face, which was still partially obscured by untamed blonde hair. “What was it you wanted to ask?” 

The whistler looked down at the pie, considering if he should try and force it down so he’d at least have something in his stomach, or leave and try to hope he could get food somewhere else. 

He sighed, and stuck his fork into the pie again. Waste not, want not.

“The people who used to live in this building.”

“Yeah? What about them?” The man stood again, inspecting the various boxes and bags that lined the shelves. He muttered to himself as he looked through a bag. “Moldy flour, old eggs, withered carrots… it’s amazing you can even force it down.” 

“It would be easier if you didn’t say that,” the whistler said weakly, having just had an unfortunate run-in with a clump of the aforementioned moldy flour. “There used to be a barbershop upstairs, right?”

“Right.” The man slammed his butcher knife into a cutting board, where it quivered nervously but stayed upright. 

“And a family ran the bakery.” 

“Yeah? What of it?” The man shook his head, prodding a lump of meat that was more brown than red. “Gristly meat. Gets stuck in your teeth, you know.” 

The whistler picked some out of the gap between canine and molar, making a face as he did.

“You’re not actually the baker, are you?” 

“You got me.” The butcher knife was wrenched free and used to cut the meat into neat chunks. “I’ve never been married. No kids. Don’t want to. Guy who lived here before, though, he had the whole dream- wife, kid, functioning business. Anyway, no, I’m actually a barber. It’s less hot, and I don’t have to be up as early.” He chuckled, a little darkly. “Still involves sharp things, though.” 

“What happened?” 

The man paused, and sighed. 

“The baker’s wife was known to be beautiful. Her husband wasn’t much of anything-” The whistler rolled his eyes. “- but people said she could charm the birds out of the air just by smiling at them. And people got jealous. There was this man, this judge or something, and he was constantly trying to get her to leave her husband for him, but she wouldn’t. Poor thing.”

The whistler had been holding the pie in his hands, but as the man spoke he clutched it tighter and tighter. 

“He invited her to this party one night, gave her drinks, and- and made sure she couldn’t fight back.”

Nearly-scalding gravy spilled onto the whistler’s hands.

“Her husband, on the other hand, was accused of committing a crime, dragged out of the building. Nobody saw him again.” The man finished with the meat and began to drop the pieces into a bowl smeared with crusted gravy. “He’s probably dead.”

“He was put on a prison ship.”

The man turned. The whistler was staring down at the ruined mess of a pie smeared all over his hands. 

“It was bound for a work camp at one of the colonies,” the whistler continued. “That's where you send people you never want to see again. But the ship wrecked before ever reaching the port.” He slowly raised one hand and began to lick the gravy and flakes of crust off his fingers. “So he spent twenty years trying to get back home.”

The man blinked, and stepped closer. He leaned down and inspected the whistler more closely. Under the hair, a pair of blue eyes returned the inspection.

“Oh my god, Phill-”

A hand went over his mouth before he had a chance to finish. 

“It’s just Phil now, mate,” the whistler said, and it sounded like a warning. “If you remember, I’m still a criminal.” He frowned. “And, Tech, you really should’ve recognized me earlier.” 

Technoblade, for that was his name, frowned too and sat back, folding his arms. 

“Why are you really back?”

Phil shrugged.

“Revenge. That judge turned my life into a living hell, and I dragged myself back just to return the favor.”

Technoblade blinked, and regarded him for a moment. When Phil spoke of the revenge, his expression got dark. To anyone else, it would’ve been frightening. To Technoblade, it was intriguing. Tantalizing, even, like holding one’s fingers a breath away from a candle flame so you could be burnt at any moment, just to feel the warmth.

Instead of saying that, however, Technoblade merely shook his head.

“You look like a bush.” 

“I’ve been at sea for twenty years. Forgive me for not going to a barbershop.” Phil paused, then, and gave Technoblade a smirk. “I’d have to find a barbershop, too.” 

“Ha ha.” Technoblade gave Phil’s hair a once-over. “It’s not that bad. Even out the ends, a good brush, and you’ll be fine.”

“Brush,” Phil said, as if the word was unfamiliar. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.” 

“I can tell.” Technoblade stood, as if to turn away, but Phil’s icy fingers were around his wrist and he couldn’t move.

“Sit back down.” 

Technoblade sat. Phil’s eyes seemed to burn, under his hair, like they could fit in quite easily among the flames of the oven. 

“Where is my wife, Tech?” 

Technoblade paused, and finally sighed. 

“The judge dumped her on the street and she ended up at the hospital. There she found out that you’d been taken, and she…” he trailed off, and shook his head. “Poor thing.”

“What happened to her?”

Technoblade paused. He thought of Phil’s wife, and the fire in his eyes. 

“She poisoned herself.” 

Phil stood.

“What?” he didn’t wait for Technoblade to repeat himself, pacing and muttering- “no, no, not her, she can’t be, it can’t be-”

“I’m sorry,” Technoblade said, soft as melted wax.

Phil turned and flipped the table over with a scream that sounded less human and more animal, wild and unpredictable. He stood there a second, panting, big black coat swallowing an otherwise slight frame. He swallowed, and his arms went around himself.

“And my son?” He asked. “Where’s- where’s-”

“The judge didn’t want him,” Technoblade said quietly. “He’s- well.”

Phil let out a long, slow sigh. He wavered for a second, as if about to collapse, but stayed standing. The shadows reached out towards him, collecting in his eyes and the curve of his grin. He didn’t scream. Not out loud, at least.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him, Tech, I’m going to do it slowly and painfully and watch him suffer as he dies.” 

Technoblade let out a soft breath, and stood.

“How?”

“I don’t know.” Phil wobbled, and leaned heavily against Technoblade’s chest when they were close enough. “I just need to get close to him, a-and.” He sighed. “Problem is, I’m out of money. Never really had any, in fact. So I can’t stay anywhere.” 

“You can stay with me.” 

Phil paused, and looked up.

“Huh?”

“Look,” Technoblade said, “I only started baking because I wanted you to have a place to come back to. You can take over, bake and whatever, and gather whatever you need to kill the judge.” 

Phil nodded, and smirked slightly.

“That pie really was awful.” 

“It was,” Technoblade said with a sigh. “Still haven’t gotten the hang of baking.” 

“Aren’t you living in the bakery though?” Phil asked, eyebrows flicking up.

A grimace.

“Yes. But the upstairs hasn’t been sold, people think it’s haunted, so you can stay in my old room tonight.”

“Haunted?” Phil scooped his bag up and followed Technoblade as he grabbed a key off a hook near the over and went outside.

“Yes,” Technoblade said. “Apparently people find me scary.” On the street, he stepped past a bundle of rags and what might have been a tattered dress at one point. 

“You do have red eyes, mate,” Phil said, and jerked as a bony hand wrapped itself around his ankle. The rags had turned out to be a woman, with wild matted hair and awful burns streaked across her mouth and face.

“Don’t I know you?” She asked, voice little more than a croak before Technoblade kicked her away. She hissed at him and curled herself up into a knot, glittering eyes disappearing into the crevice in a wall.

“Crazy wench,” Technoblade muttered, unlocking a door also on street level. “She’s always hanging around, accosts me every time I step outside.” 

“Strange,” Phil said. “You’d think I’d remember her.” 

“Eh.” Technoblade pushed Phil up the stairs first, glancing behind as if to make sure no one was watching before he shut the door behind him. 

Phil squinted in the darkness, but fumbled for the knob of a light he knew was nearby as he carefully edged up the stairs. 

“It might be a bit dusty,” Technoblade said, voice swallowed by the wooden stairwell. It seemed like a throat, really, like Phil was walking down into the stomach of some great beast. “I don’t come up here all that often.” 

That was obvious, based on the thick layer of dust strewn across the front room. It contained only a chair, and a small table with a box. 

“The room’s past here,” Techno said, and took the lead. The floorboards creaked under his weight, but held when he turned another light on and gestured at the doorway past the first room. 

Inside, it was dusty. The bed, the chair, the table, all was layered in a grey-brown fuzz that coated Phil as he trailed through it.

“Sorry,” Technoblade said, a little awkwardly. “I can change the bedding out, if you need-”

“Oh, it’s fine.” Phil peeled the top quilt off, sending down a cascade of dust. Underneath, the remaining blankets were fine. “I’ve slept in worse places, believe me.”

“Like a shipwreck?” Technoblade guessed dryly. Phil gave him a very thin, shadowed smile. 

“It can be very hard to forget the smell.” He set his bag down, cracking his knuckles idly.  “Well. This will be great, mate, thank you. You can go now.” 

Technoblade nodded, and left without another word. 

The next morning - or, rather, a few hours later, since the morning started early in a bakery - Phil descended the wooden maw and ended up on the street again, pulling his big black coat tighter around himself like a protective shadow. 

He could see the ‘crazy wench’, as Technoblade had called her, accosting passersby on the street. Phil could recognize her tattered violet dress, hair afly as she clawed at other men’s sleeves, staggering on bare feet as ragged as the rest of her. He could hear her croaking voice, pulling and pressing for- well. 

Phil pitied her, being forced into only one option for a chance at eating. The illusion of choice for a woman in dire straights.

Then she turned, and saw him, eyes glittering black, black, black under hair stringy and matted with liquids Phil would rather not name. She held out both arms, as if ready to grab him from all the way across the street, cracked voice rising like a bird and toppling at his feet. Poor thing.

“Want a bite, sir? A bite for you, a bite for me?”

Phil shook his head, but the woman persisted.

“I believe I know you, mister, you’d like a bite wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? A bite of a miserable woman?”

Phil’s stomach turned, and he followed it away, heading for the bakery. Above his head, above the head of others passing, crows darted across the road to land on the windowsill of the room above. They croaked to each other like smoother versions of the beggar woman, feathers sleek and shining.

“No trouble,” Phil told them, and entered the bakery.

Technoblade looked up from a tray of long-cooled pies and blinked. 

“Oh. Phil. I’d almost forgotten.” 

“Aw, my heart’s broken.” Phil picked up one of the pies, breaking off a piece and trying it. He grimaced. “So’s my stomach.”

“I wouldn’t object to you taking over,” Technoblade said, voice almost half as dry as the crust of the pie in Phil’s mouth.

Phil hummed. 

“I think not. Haven’t baked properly in almost twenty years, mate, and I’ve got other things to be about.”

“Like murdering the judge?” Technoblade asked. “He moved, Phil, it’s not as simple as breaking in and stabbing him.” 

Phil shuddered, and his friend paused. 

“Do you still… have that thing about knives?”

Phil paused, then grimaced as though the pie was still on his tongue. 

“Well, uh- no, not really, I just don’t like stabbing anything…. Alive. I don’t like poking a knife into something and feeling it squirm.” 

Technoblade folded his arms. 

“Phil, how are you going to kill him when you’re weird about knives?”

Phil considered that for a moment.

“Strangulation,” he said finally. “Or poison. You never know.”

Technoblade rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, while you figure out how to do either of those, I have pies to sell.” He grabbed the tray again, but Phil had bumped his elbow up the front so it flipped back and all of the pies broke on the floor, the table, or Technoblade’s apron. “Phil!”

“Whoops,” Phil said. “Time to go and get more ingredients.”

Technoblade frowned at him, yanking the gravy-soaked apron off and tossing it onto the table. 

“I already have ingredients-”

Phil strode over, seized the bag of flour, and threw it into the oven before slamming the door shut.

A muffled BOOM echoed through the room and puffs of grey smoke spurted from the slits in the door. 

“Now you don’t,” Phil said cheerfully, dusting his hands off. Technoblade fumed at him.

“Phil.” 

“Oh, lighten up.” Phil chucked him under the chin, grinning, and swung away. “It was moldy anyway.”

Technoblade grabbed him by the hair. Not very hard, as the mess of tangled blonde strands reached to the middle of Phil’s back. Not as thick as it looked, however, contained neatly in Technoblade’s grasp.

“When was the last time you took care of this?”

“The last time I was in a city that didn’t smell like horse shit,” Phil replied. Technoblade grunted, unimpressed, and a moment later there was a sharp shearing noise.

Phil whirled, and was treated to the sight of Technoblade setting down a pair of shears and opening the oven door to toss a sad bundle inside.

“The smell of burning hair is horrific, I hope you know that,” Phil said.

“Eh. It bothered me. Now you look less like a mangy Komondor.” Technoblade went past, not waiting as he picked up a basket and his coat, which was a deep red color. “Are we going shopping or not?”

Phil didn’t reply for a few seconds, standing and feeling the ends of his newly shorn hair. It wasn’t exactly short, as it flicked down past his chin, but it was still… different.

After a moment, he shook his head - ends brushing against his cheeks - and walked after Technoblade. 

Outside, the sun was finally out. It peeked behind clouds as if hiding from the two men walking below, traversing stone veins between buildings on their way to market. Darkness followed Phil, wrapped around him in a coat and flying his way on ink-feathered wings.

“First thing of baking goes a long way,” Phil said, having taken the basket from Technoblade and been inspecting storefronts as he walked. “Good ingredients. Of course your pies are terrible- you’re going for cheap stuff in bulk, and when you don’t know shit about baking of course it goes bad fast.” 

Technoblade huffed. 

“I don’t think we can spare the money, Phil. I sell maybe one, two pies a day if I’m lucky.” 

“You’ll learn,” Phil said. “You have to keep a job anyway when I’m shipped back off to prison.” 

“That’s assuming you’ll get caught.” 

Phil stopped walking, and turned back to Technoblade with a curious tilt to his head.

“Tech,” he said, “Did I just hear you encourage me in murder?” Technoblade paused, and struggled to explain himself for a few minutes. Phil watched the mess for a moment, then shrugged. “Sounds like a ‘yes’,” he said, and kept walking. 

“Phil- Phil!” Technoblade caught up, and scowled as Phil snickered. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Mate, when I made a joke about my aspirations in life, you implied I would never be convicted.” Phil raised his eyebrows, looking over at his friend. “Which means that, when questioned, you wouldn’t tell a soul what I’ve done.” 

Technoblade didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. 

“They took everything from you,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you get your revenge?”

Phil’s expression flickered, and he smirked a little.

“Glad you’re with me on this one, mate.” Then he kept walking, footsteps quiet on the stone. 

Technoblade trailed after him, a little awkward as Phil haggled with shopkeepers. 

“Phil,” he said, “Phil, you don’t need-”

“Now I see why you let your stuff be shit,” Phil said with a sniff, setting a new bag of flour in his basket and handing it to Technoblade to carry. “You’re too antisocial to put your foot down. Pity, too, since you could be quite scary if you wanted to.”

Technoblade snorted as they continued down the street.

“The reason I don’t like people is because I’m scary.” 

“You don’t scare me,” Phil said, passing a stall of meat and inspecting the goods for a moment before scanning the prices. “Huh. That’s expensive.”

“Exactly. And you didn’t burn the meat like you did the flour, so let’s just go back and start from there.”

“No, we need butter,” Phil said. “Yours is rancid.”

Technoblade huffed at him.

“You’re too nitpicky to be scared of me, old man.”

“Old man?” Phil choked, and huffed back at him. “I- excuse me, sir, I have maybe five years on you.” 

Technoblade chuckled a little.

“See? Nitpicky.”

“My god,” Phil said, “for someone who wants me to do his job for him, you’re awfully keen on insulting me.”

“It’s not an insult, it’s just a character trait,” Technoblade said with an offended sniff. “You, Phil, are nitpicky.”

“Yes, well, with my help maybe you’ll actually make money.” Phil continued on his way, scanning the signs for a dairy. “How on earth can you still afford meat?” 

“The skill is in really bad cuts,” Technoblade said dryly. “And more carrots than anything else. Trust me, you’re lucky- there’s a woman a few streets away who also sells pies.”

“Uhuh. And?” 

“And it’s pretty hard to keep a pet when she’s around, if you catch my drift.”

Phil wrinkled his nose.

“Ugh. Keeps the stray problem down, I’m sure, but dog and cat taste terrible.” 

Technoblade gave him a sideways look, readjusting the basket handle in one elbow. 

“How do you know this?”

Phil shrugged.

“Laws of the sea, mate. I’ve been shipwrecked more than once, and when you’re on an island with no food and the ship’s cat washes ashore, well…” he made a face. “Still. Terrible.” 

“Hm.” 

They continued along. Phil, now reassured in his place of pulling this business out of the gutter, happily chatted away with the dairy workers as he haggled with all the ferocity of a gambler on his last penny. Technoblade watched him as one would a passing hurricane, occasionally shaking his head in both awkwardness and acceptance.

“You’re a force of nature,” he said as he and Phil left the dairy. 

“Wouldn’t say that,” Phil said absently, pleased as he arranged the butter in the basket. “Just good at what I do.” 

Technoblade snorted. 

“There’s ‘good’, and there’s you. You were like this before, but now you’re even more so.” 

Phil’s eyebrows flicked up for the barest moment.

“I’m a lot less of other things, too. The years haven’t exactly been kind.” 

“They never are.” Technoblade inspected the basket as well. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, should be.” 

They kept walking. Phil whistled as he walked, and it echoed off the buildings, the sound barely swallowed by the crowd. 

And then, a sound cut through all the noise. 

“My friends and fellow men, you would not believe how much of a fright I appeared to be! Hair falling out left and right, scabbed and blistered until I was left completely bald! A sight, a sight I tell you.” 

Phil and Technoblade exchanged a look, and both moved towards the small crowd gathered at the street corner outside a barbershop. 

Slipping through the people, Phil got close enough to the middle that he saw a boy no older than fifteen, prancing across a stack of boxes set up like a stage. 

“And then, like an angel, came a man who told me who could help!” The boy hopped over to a higher box, pulling the top off and taking out a bottle with a green label and a yellowish liquid inside. “Dream Hair Elixer! The mastermind himself, the man was, and he gave me a bottle of the very same stuff to apply twice daily.” The boy gestured to his head, which was clustered with gold curls that hung nearly to his shoulders. “One month of application, and now look at me!” 

Phil was looking, but not at the boy’s hair. His limbs seemed rather too skinny for a kid of his height, clothes tattered and shoes nonexistent even as he walked across the splintered boards of the boxes.

“Random urchin, you think?” Technoblade murmured in Phil’s ear.

“I would,” Phil said, “but look closely.” 

The boy was now passing out a few bottles to the crowd, proclaiming they deserved not to be kept from the public. As he turned slightly, Phil could see him holding fingers up against his back, one for each bottle. There was an air of desperation to his speech, to the way he carefully tracked the crowd with bright blue eyes. 

“He’s paid to do this,” Technoblade said. 

“Mhm. Good actor, though.” 

The boy’s gaze flicked to Phil, and he grinned. One of his teeth was missing near the edge, making it even harder to gauge his age. 

“Why,” he cooed, “I don’t think either of you need the help.” Still, he darted closer like some kind of tiny bird, tucking one of the bottles into the basket. “Still! Good for the scalp, it is, makes dandruff disappear like soapsuds.” 

The rest of the crowd was murmuring in amazement, expressing delighted surprise as Technoblade picked the bottle up and unscrewed the top. He sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose.

“What is it, mate?” Phil took a whiff as well, and pulled back. “Ugh. It’s piss!”

That came out louder than he intended. The closest people took notice, as did the boy, who stammered something- 

“Horse, probably,” Technoblade said with a shrug. “That’s easy to find, just slip a bottle down below.” 

“He’d have to be careful,” Phil snickered, “it’s easy to drop a bottle when your hands are all slippery.” 

The boy reddenned, and began talking louder.

“I can vouch that Dream Hair Elixir is not piss! It’s a magical concoction of ingredients, carefully selected from the gentlest of plants-”

“Maybe he scrapes it up off the stones,” Technoblade suggested with a very sharp grin. “The devil knows that would certainly be a concoction.”

“Oof, sure.” Phil pulled a face as people began to demand answers of the boy. “Horse piss, dirt, beggar piss, dog shit, straw-”

“Old meat off the street,” Technoblade said. 

“Ground bone scraped off stone,” Phil added, and the pair cackled. 

The boy stomped his foot, looking absolutely furious.

And a moment later, the door of the barbershop opened and a man stepped out. 

“What’s happening here?” He asked. His eyes gleamed in the light, a green so bright it made Technoblade uneasy and Phil frown. 

The boy on the boxes scrambled down, but wasn’t fast enough and yelped as he was grabbed by the collar. 

“What is this?” The man hissed at him. “Did I hear you say my elixir was piss?”

“No,” the boy protested. “No, Dream, I didn’t, it was them.” He pointed to Technoblade, since Phil was looking away at something and was very easily looked over in favor of his very tall and very burly friend. 

The man - Dream, why did that sound familiar? - let the boy go, and he vanished. 

Then Dream smiled. He had a similar gleaming smile to the boy, if…. More malevolent. 

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” 

“You’re ripping these people off,” Technoblade said flatly. “You’re selling them piss in bottles and, I’m guessing, making them charge through the nose for it.” 

Dream’s grin didn’t flicker. 

“Quite the skeptical gentleman, aren’t you? How could that be so?” 

“I was a barber,” Technoblade said, folding his arms. “And if there’s one thing I know, piss is generally worse for your hair than almost anything else.”

“A barber, you say?”

“Did I stutter?”

Phil, still at his back, glanced around. The crowd was watching, one of which was identifiable as the boy from earlier. He looked nervous, hovering near the stack of boxes. 

“Tell you what, mister….” 

“Technoblade.”

“Mister Technoblade.” Dream held out a hand. “How about a little contest, to prove who’s the better barber?” 

Technoblade grunted, and took the hand.

“Fine.”

Phil sighed, then pulled Technoblade down to whisper into his ear.

“What’s the point of this dick contest, mate?” 

“You’ll see,” Technoblade murmured, and straightened again. “What say that man over there judges us? You’re one of the police, an honest and upright man I’m sure.” 

“Oh, you flatter me.” 

Phil froze upon hearing the voice, watching with ice in his heart as a man with black hair and a gold tooth ascended the platform of boxes. 

“And what’s your name?” Dream asked. The man gave him a little bow, jacket flaring out behind him like a bird’s tail.

“Quackity, good sir.”

Phil stepped back as the other two men stepped onto the boxes, calling for chairs and other things. He sank into the crowd, feeling very strongly the way his heart pounded in his chest, in his head, against his ribs like a screaming lunatic. 

The contest went thusly: each of the barbers, whether current or former, had to shave one face each. The one who stepped away with the cleaner and quicker shave won.

Phil now understood the point of this. Quackity (how that name screamed in his head, he hated hated hated that man) worked directly for the judge. If he saw Technoblade and remembered him, he’d be more likely to come to the bakery. Then they could lure the judge in, and Phil would ensure both judge and bootlicker never saw another fucking sunrise. 

And so, with bated breath, he watched the contest. It wasn’t that he doubted Technoblade’s abilities- it was that he didn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend actually do anything barber-related. With the exception of cutting Phil’s hair off earlier that day. What if he was out of practice? What if he’d forgotten how to keep his hands steady, the razor at the precise angle?

Phil shouldn’t have worried. While Dream clearly knew what he was doing, he was being theatrical about it, drawing people’s attention to him as he made a huge fuss over foam and brush. Technoblade didn’t fuss. He didn’t draw attention to himself, didn’t make a single sound as he snapped open a provided razor and went to work. 

Phil grinned when Technoblade stood back, razor loosely held in one hand.

“Done,” he said.

Dream, who’d just begun, straightened and accidentally nicked the man he’d been shaving, who yelped and clapped a hand over rapidly-pinkening foam.

“What?”

Technoblade snapped the razor shut with a last, decisive click. 

“I’m done. You?” 

“Bastard, you cut me!”

“My apologies, I was startled.” Dream watched Techno late for a long moment. Then he smiled that sharp smile, holding out a hand. “Well, it seems we’ve proved which of us is better.”

“I enjoyed the race, at least.” Technoblade shook Dream’s hand and stepped away, wiping his own hand on his shirt as he stepped off the boxes. “Now I think I’ll be off.”

“Technoblade, everyone!” 

“Mate,” Phil said as they began to walk again. “Now everyone knows about you.” 

“Sure. More importantly, Quackity knows about me and not you. I can handle a little fame if it keeps you out of the spotlight.”

“How generous,” Phil cooed. “Now let’s get home before we get dragged into another incident.” 

Back at the bakery, Phil unloaded the basket as Technoblade watched, foot tapping on the floor. 

“You’re being antsy,” Phil said without looking up. “What’s up?”

“The ceiling,” Technoblade said dryly. 

Phil rolled his eyes. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I haven’t been a barber in almost twenty years.”

Phil paused, and looked up. Technoblade was leaning against the wall, coat hung up so he was left in only his shirt and trousers, boots pressed against the floor. 

“I thought I would have forgotten something,” he continued, voice quiet. He was a very odd man, really- an intimidating presence, but soft-spoken and unassuming when you got to know him. That was why Phil liked him- he was a puzzle, a trick to be mastered. And Phil had mastered it. “I thought my hands would shake, that I’d doubt myself.” A pair of red eyes flicked up to settle on Phil’s face. “But I didn’t.” 

“You were perfect,” Phil agreed, stepping forward for the cold cellar. “God was smiling down on you, I think.”

Technoblade chuckled, catching Phil’s hand as he passed and raising it. The former barber shook his head, bowed slightly.

“There’s only one god I believe in, and it’s not him.” 

Phil smiled down at Technoblade. It was a sharp, barely amused gesture.

“A good idea, I think. Whatever god was up there is certainly dead by now.” He pulled free, pushing the cellar door open. “Well. I’m down to get the meat.” 

Chapter Text

Technoblade was pouring flour into a bowl when there was a knock at the door. He glanced up, and saw a shadow at the window. Not the beggar woman- taller, more solidly built. Short hair. Male.

Technoblade quietly pulled a drawer open, slipping a knife out and into one hand. Drawer shut again, he stepped out from around the table and to the door.

Outside was the man with green eyes. Dream. 

Technoblade clutched the knife tighter behind the door.

“Hullo.” 

The man smiled widely.

“Technoblade, wasn’t it?” 

“Still is. What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk.” 

Technoblade didn’t move.

“And?”

“Can I come inside?”

“Alright.” Technoblade stepped back so Dream could enter. “What did you want to talk about?” 

“When I saw you today, I noticed something.” Dream idly ran one finger down the flour-covered table. “Or, more, some one .”

Technoblade stiffened out of sight. 

“What do you mean?”

“There was a man with you.” Dream brushed the flour off his hand. “Blonde, smaller than you. Black coat.” 

Phil had been seen. 

Technoblade made sure the knife was gripped tightly. Phil may have things about stabbing. Him? He was very, very comfortable with knives. 

“What’s interesting about that?” 

Dream laughed, the sound light.

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.”

Technoblade blinked. 

“What?” He inspected Dream’s face. “Am I supposed to?”

No, wait. Maybe he did recognize the man. But his features were different - stronger, maybe, more himself. 

“Oh,” Technoblade remembered. “You’re that- that assistant I had, weren’t you?”

Dream grinned.

“The one and only. I’m a little hurt you didn’t remember me, but oh well.”

“Yeah, it’s been….” Technoblade trailed off, then shook his head. “What, twenty years?”

“About.” Dream clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “But I thought the bakery had been shut down.” 

“It wasn’t.” Technoblade turned to the flour bag, ripping the top open and sprinkling flour across the table. 

“You, a baker?” Dream laughed, this sound sharper. Technoblade gritted his teeth. “Strange, though, since the last owner got arrested. Wife and child never seen again.” 

“And? I remember.”

“I was just wondering what your friend was doing here back on Fleet Street, since he was put on a prison ship and banished to the colonies.” 

Technoblade froze. 

“What?” His hand curled on the edge of the flour bag, crinkling the paper. “Why does it matter to you?”

“I expect the judge would want to know if one of his exiles returned to the city.” 

Blackmail, then. 

Technoblade rolled the bag closed and heaved it onto a shelf. 

“What do you want?”

“You never come near me or my shop again. A section of the profits you get from your new profession goes to me every month. In return, I let you and your friend live in peace.”

Technoblade snorted.

“Something funny?”

“No. And no.” 

“Then I suppose I have to tell the judge. It’s my duty as a citizen, after all.”

“Tell me, Dream.” Technoblade turned. He was taller than almost everyone he’d ever met, and Dream was no exception. The man had to look up to meet his eyes. 

“Tell you what?” 

“When was the last time you got a decent shave?”

Dream blinked. 

“What?” 

“Mirrors are never as good as you think they’ll be,” Technoblade said, because he knew . “What say we talk some more while I help you out?” 

Dream regarded him for a moment. 

“You’re not angry about my ultimatum?” 

“No,” Technoblade said, which was true. “What do I care about some friend I had twenty years ago? He doesn’t matter.”

Which wasn’t . But Dream didn’t tell the difference, nodding slightly. 

“I see. A reasonable man, then. Perhaps we can be friends.”

“Perhaps,” Technoblade said.

His razors were kept under the bed. They were the few things he considered prized as far as possessions went, and that showed in the way they’d been carefully maintained. Trophies of a time long gone, carefully locked in a box of sturdy wood.

They smiled as Technoblade snapped them open, slight curves of gleaming steel. Teeth, sharp and thirsty for what they would be given. 

“Don’t fail me now,” Technoblade whispered to them. “Wait, and you’ll drink all you want.” 

And then he stood, turning to where Dream was lounging in a chair. An actual barber’s chair it was not- that had been sold for Technoblade to keep the building. But it worked, for now.

Dream looked entirely at ease where he sat, head slightly tipped back and eyes half-closed. 

“Silver, is it?” He asked, seeing the gleaming in the corner of his vision, the claw at the end of Technoblade’s arm.

“The handle is,” Technoblade said, setting it carefully on the table, within easy reach before he started the whole process. 

“Does the grip ever slip?”

“No.” 

“You know,” Dream said, “I’m glad you were reasonable. After that stunt you pulled earlier today, I was worried we wouldn’t get along.”

Technoblade grunted wordlessly. Dream was warm under his hands, blood still rushing, heart still pumping. 

“Why the whole song and dance?” Technoblade asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“With that kid and the elixir.”

“Ah. Well, it brings in money. And a street kid will take anything, as long as you feed them once in a while.”

“I see.” The razor was cold in his hand, at least before it began to warm up. “But there is something you don’t see.”

“What is that?” 

Technoblade lightly rested his hand on Dream’s shoulder.

“You’ve made two big mistakes today.”

“Uhuh.” Dream sounded unconvinced. “And they are?”

The hand moved, and a second later Dream’s neck was under Technoblade’s fingers.

“One. Threatening Phil.”

The edge of his razor kissed skin, sharp edge slipping through Dream’s neck to his windpipe and jugular. He gasped, and choked as blood spilled out over Technoblade’s hand and wrist. 

Technoblade leaned down, pressing his face into the side of Dream’s head to whisper in his ear.

“Two. Letting me anywhere near your throat.”

Dream let out a weak whimpering sound, cough spilling blood over his mouth and chin. Pity. His jugular hadn’t been fully severed. It looked like he was drowning instead as blood spilled into his airway from the slice through his windpipe. 

Technoblade clicked his tongue softly, more to himself than Dream, and finished the job with a nick through the rest of the vital artery. 

Dream’s head lolled, eyes glazed over and mouth slack. Blood dripped from his lower lip, falling onto the fabric over his legs in tiny wet spots. 

Technoblade stepped around the man’s body, lifting his chin. 

“Not so smug now, eh?” 

Dream, of course, didn’t reply. His body, however, was limp and lacking a heartbeat as Technoblade hauled it across the floor, opening the lid of a heavy trunk before throwing it in. 

Technoblade stood, staring at the trunk for a moment. 

“Tech?” Came the call from downstairs. Technoblade looked back, then went.

Phil was standing in the kitchen, wrapped in his coat. He looked infinitely lighter now, hair no longer tangled around him as he prodded a slab of meat with a butcher knife.

“Hi mate,” he said without looking up. “Where were you? I came up and you were gone.”

“Someone came by,” Technoblade said, and Phil raised his eyes. His expression shifted, slightly, gaze flicking over his friend’s face. 

“Is that your blood?”

Technoblade blinked, then looked down at his hands. Both were covered in red, tacky liquid soaked into his shirt cuffs. 

“No,” He said. “But this shirt’s ruined now.”

Phil slipped around the table, and after a moment reached up to brush one of his thumbs over Technoblade’s cheek. It came back red and gleaming in the light, Phil inspecting it as though it was something curious. 

“Who was it?” 

“Dream,” Technoblade said. Phil nodded, then delicately licked the blood off his thumb.

“Good. He creeped me out.” 

He didn’t seem phased at all. That was… interesting. 

“You’re not going to turn me in?” Technoblade asked.

Phil snorted. 

“ No . For one, I’m literally here to kill someone, hopefully more than one. Two, I didn’t like Dream at all. Three, I already knew you had a thing for offing customers.”

Technoblade froze.

“What?” 

“You better wash your hands,” Phil noted, turning slightly to go back to his meat chopping. “That stuff’ll dry and be a huge pain in the ass.” 

Technoblade put a hand down on the table, keeping the smaller man pinned within his arms.

“ Phil. What do you mean, you already knew? ”

Phil tipped his head enough to shoot Technoblade a small, wry glance.

“What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? You bringing people up, and them never coming back down? Dragging sounds, and you being gone all night. Not to mention all those bodies they kept finding in the river, and that’s so close to Fleet Street you know.” 

Technoblade opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but Phil raised an eyebrow. 

“Something to say?”

Technoblade mumbled something and looked away.

“That’s what I thought.” Phil folded his arms. “Where’s the body?”

“Upstairs. In a trunk.” 

 Phil hummed slightly. 

“Going to dump it in the river later tonight?” 

“Probably.” 

“Hm.” Phil swanned away, picking the butcher knife up and prodding the lump of meat sitting on the table. “Pity.”

Technoblade squinted at him.

“ Pity ? Why?”

“This meat’s getting too old.” 

Technoblade blinked, squinted even harder, and inspected Phil as though that would tell him something.

Phil returned the gaze, eyes hot and hungry.  

“You want,” Technoblade said, “to hack the body of a man I just killed-”

“Very fresh,” Phil said, “and less of a hack, more of a slice-and-grind.”

“-up into little bits and bake it into pies ?”

Phil thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Yeah.” 

“Phil.”

“What?”

“That’s cannibalism.”

Phil raised both eyebrows. 

“And?”

“And-” Technoblade frowned. “Why are you so calm about this?”

Phil smirked a little. 

“Laws of the sea, remember?”

Technoblade stared at him for a moment. Then he blinked.

“You ate people.” 

Phil shrugged again, looking very relaxed about the whole thing. 

“I’ve been shipwrecked a lot, mate. When you’re stuck on a rocky hellhole with nothing but you and the water, you’ll take whatever you can get.”

“Even if it’s a sailor?” Technoblade remarked dryly.

“Yeah. And hey, this will be a lot better than sailor. That tastes too much like salt, all tough and stringy.” Phil paused, and regarded Technoblade with an odd gleam in his eye. “You seem awfully unconcerned about it.” 

Now it was Technoblade’s turn to shrug.

“Whatever it takes to survive, right?”

“Except now I’m not talking about survival.” Phil leaned over the table, voice dropping. “I’m talking about honest-to-god eating another human. Look around you- we’re in a nice shop on a decent street in a big, civilized city. Is this really the place to cut a man up into spareribs?” 

“I’m not sure,” Technoblade said, almost quietly. 

Phil’s eyes flickered, burned like fire. 

“You’re curious, aren’t you? Curious how it feels, sinking your teeth into something that you had a conversation with not ten minutes ago? Felt bleed out under your fingers and decided that wasn’t enough, you needed more?” He grinned, the gesture wide and sharp. “I can tell you right now- nothing beats the feeling. Nothing beats the taste. It’s beautiful, watching someone breathe and look at the stars and knowing they’ll be a part of you in the way that few things ever will.” 

Beautiful was the fire roaring in Technoblade’s chest, in the air around him. The flames lapped at his skin, burning in equal measure in the eyes of the man standing in front of him. 

“How did the first one die?” Technoblade asked, soft as a prayer.

“The same way they all did. I lured him away from the rest of the camp, and bashed his head in with a rock. No knives.” Phil tilted his head like some kind of carrion bird, fingers drumming one-through-five on the table. “It’s funny, really. It didn’t properly sink in that he was dead until I was gnawing the flesh off his spine.” He smiled, a little, as though the memory was wistful. “That island had no wood- it was raw. Bloody. It tasted like pork, but bitter and metallic.” 

Technoblade had swayed closer, entranced by the words as he leaned over the table. Blood still coated his hands, but he didn’t care. He was transfixed. 

“We won’t- we won’t sell the meat raw, though. Right?”

Phil laughed, the sound high and clear. 

“Of course not! It would taste terrible. No, I’ll cook it properly. Wouldn’t want to upset the customers, after all.” He stood up straight again, eyes darting to the staircase outside. “You clean yourself up, I’ll bring the body down.” 

Technoblade also looked to the staircase, which was visible to no less than fifteen people.

“How?”

“Oh, don't worry about that.” Phil patted Techno’s arm as he went by. “I know how to hide a body.”

“Thank you.”

“Just get going.”

Technoblade rolled his eyes, but went. 

When he walked back into the kitchen, with a new shirt and washed hands and face, he was greeted by the sight of Phil with Dream’s corpse hoisted over one shoulder, the smaller man not buckling under the weight as he cleared off the table. 

“Lend a hand?” Phil grunted, and Technoblade stepped forward to help before-

“Hello?! Hello! Mr. Barber guy!”

Both froze. Blood dripped from Dream’s slit throat. 

“Shit,” Phil whispered. “Tech, you go out and distract him. I’ll make this quick.” 

“But-”

“There is blood all over my goddamn shirt, mate, I’m not going out like this.” Phil fixed Technoblade with a look that would’ve struck fear into the heart of any man more conscious of morals and with less savagery pounding in his blood. “Go out.” 

Technoblade, who resisted control to the point of a bloody death, nodded and obeyed. 

A kid stood outside, arms wrapped around his middle. He opened his mouth, probably to shout again, then noticed Technoblade and got visibly pale. 

“Oh. Oh- hi. Hi big man. Yup, you’re big. Big man.”

Technoblade inspected him for a moment. Ratty clothes, long gold hair.

“You’re Dream’s brat,” Technoblade said. The boy reddened.

“Am not! I’m just- I’m looking for him. He left, a-and he hasn’t come back yet.”

“And you came to me?” Technoblade folded his arms. 

“He said he was coming here.” The kid tipped to the side, peering through the window. “Is he here?” 

Technoblade stepped along, blocking the kid’s line of sight.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t seen him.” 

The kid frowned, and tilted his head up to scowl at Technoblade.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

The kid folded his arms too. 

“I’m not leaving until he comes.” 

Technoblade really didn’t enjoy the idea of having a kid sniffing around, tripping him and Phil up. 

“Kid-”

“ Tommy . My name is Tommy.”

Technoblade resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“What makes this guy so important to you?”

“Nothing a huge bitch like you would understand, bitch.” 

Technoblade wrapped his hand around the kid’s collar and dragged him closer. 

“Understanding can be easily remedied. Ignorance cannot. Got it?”

“Got it, got it,” Tommy said quickly, because he was a street kid with a sharp tongue and quick hands and that meant he was smart. “Got it, just let go.”

“Why are you following Dream around?” Technoblade asked. “Answer first.”

Tommy paused, then swallowed and looked away.

“He was the only option I got, man.”

Technoblade Iet go, and nodded over to the table set just outside the bakery.

“Sit down.” 

Tommy sat. Technoblade sat across from him. 

“He took you off the streets?”

Tommy shook his head.

“Workhouse. Making lamps. We all knew him- he came around every couple of years to pick out a boy. Freaked all of us out, since we never saw the chosen kid again, but when he picked me last year… I couldn’t stay in that place. I didn’t have any other choice.”

“Why’d he pick you?” 

Tommy shrugged, and gestured to his hair.

“I could pass off his phony piss elixir.” 

“It’s not a wig?”

“Nah. ‘S mine, and it’s blonde, innit? You don’t see a lot of that in my color, according to him.” Tommy propped his chin on one fist. “So he grabbed me out of the line, took me out of that hellhole. It’s not even half-bad, really. I don’t do much but drum up attention and stay out of his way when he’s pissed. He feeds me when I do good.”

Technoblade eyed the kid. Ribs were visible through a hole in his shirt. 

Tommy adjusted his position, tucking himself closer to the table.

“Never said I was good,” he said stiffly. “I’m an annoying little fucker, and everyone knows it.” 

“When was the last time you ate?” 

Tommy didn’t say anything, merely looked away. Now that, that made a little part of Technoblade twist as though pierced with a knife. For all he never wanted children, no kid deserved to look that small and hungry, just happy they weren’t being worked to the bone even when not a single scrap of care or affection was thrown their way. 

Technoblade sighed.

“Wait here.” 

Tommy looked up, eyes flashing like a lamb before a predator.

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to talk to Phil,” Technoblade said, and walked into the bakery.

On the table, Phil had since cut the corpse formerly known as Dream straight down the belly, busily pulling out what was clearly intestines as he whistled to himself, up to his elbows in blood and other viscera as a ribcage yawned around his forearms. Dream’s head was already gone, and the rest of the body looked odd without it- like some kind of rotting log, maybe. Or a bundle of stained fabric, soft and bloody all at once.

“Phil,” Technoblade said. 

“I’m almost done gutting him,” Phil replied without looking up. “Be glad I didn’t nick the stomach- that would start stinking to heaven and hell below.” 

“Dream’s gutter rat is outside,” Technoblade said. 

Phil paused, and looked up. Blood streaked across his forehead, clotting in his hair so he looked like a fantastically alive corpse. 

“What? Why?”

“He’s waiting for Dream.” 

Phil’s gaze flicked down to the man whose organs were being methodically cut out. 

“Well. Looks like he’ll be disappointed. You sent him on his way?”

“Tommy,” Technoblade said. “And no.”

“Why?” Phil went back to his work, taking out a knife and severing some last piece so he could dump Dream’s intestines into a bucket of similarly-smelling offal. 

“Because he’s just a kid,” Technoblade said. “He’s a kid who relied on Dream for everything, and now he’s alone. And he’s hungry.” 

“Mate,” Phil said, and forced his knife into the bone of Dream’s ankle to sever the foot with a nauseating crack! “You just killed a man and I’m cutting him up for us to eat. I don’t think appealing to my sense of sympathy will work.” 

“Probably not,” Technoblade admitted with a sigh. “But you had a son once before. You had a little boy who needed you.”

Phil’s mouth tightened as he hacked off the other foot with more force and violence than was strictly necessary. 

“I’m not saying we’ll keep him,” Technoblade said. “Just… look after him until we figure out something else. We’re kind of his only option right now.” 

Phil snorted a little, then plunged his butcher knife through Dream’s wrist so the corpse’s arm ended in an oozing stump.

“Going soft, mate?” 

Technoblade reached forward, tucking his hand under Phil’s chin and tilting his head up. Eyes met his face. Sharp. Hot. Just a little sorrowful. 

“We can’t kill the judge yet,” Technoblade said. “You know that. We have to wait for him to come to us.” 

“I’m tired of waiting,” Phil said sharply. 

“I know. But if we do this too quickly, we’ll be found before we accomplish anything. What would it hurt to watch out for a kid in the meantime?”

Phil was quiet for a long moment. 

Finally he sighed, leaning his head against Technoblade’s hand just the barest bit.

“Fine. He can stay.” He paused again, then smirked and made a little hum. “Someone needs to taste the pies, after all.” 

Technoblade let out a small chuckle, letting Phil go and shaking his head. 

“Of course that’s your next thought.” 

Phil shrugged idly, and severed the second hand before setting the butcher knife down and stepping back to pick up a longer, thinner knife. 

“Well, you keep him occupied.” The man slipped the blade of the knife under the skin of Dream’s gutting wound to peel it away from the ribcage. “Breaking down a carcass isn’t easy.”

“I know you’ll do great.” Technoblade turned, and spared a glance back. “Phil?”

Phil, covered in blood and satisfied as a cat in the sun as he divested Dream’s body of its skin, glanced up. His eyes burned in Technoblade’s vision.

“Yeah?”

Technoblade’s mouth was dry, the spit evaporated by the flaming gaze upon him. 

He swallowed. 

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

Phil’s eyebrows flicked up, a tiny grin nipping at Technoblade from across the table. 

“Well, be off then.” He made the corresponding gesture too, scarlet hands flapping Technoblade away. 

Technoblade went back outside.

Tommy still sat at the table, which was a surprise. But then again, he’d said he wasn’t leaving. He looked up as Technoblade approached. 

“Well?”

“You can stay,” Technoblade said. “We’ll get you something to eat.”

Tommy’s gaze flickered grateful-hungry-afraid before he looked down. 

“And if Dream doesn’t show up by then?” 

“Then you don’t have to leave,” Technoblade said. 

Tommy’s eyes went wide. 

“You mean it?”

Technoblade nodded.

“Yep.”

“You won’t make me do work?”

“Unless you want to help out.”

“Will you feed me?”

“Three meals a day.” 

Tommy nodded, very energetically. 

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Even if you’re lying, yes.” 

Technoblade spared him a small smile. 

“Then you’re ours. Do you have a last name?” 

Tommy shook his head, then looked over as there came a tremendous heat and glow from inside the bakery. 

“What’s going on in there?”

“Phil’s cooking,” Technoblade said. A moment later came the smell of bread and meat. Tommy hummed approvingly, then squinted through the window.

“Looks like hell’s gates’ been opened in there,” he said.

Technoblade looked over as well. Orange light danced on the glass of the windows, indicating that the oven had been opened to let the flames lick out.

“No,” Technoblade said. “That’s not hell.” 

“What do you mean, big man? I know it’s not really hell, it’s just, y’know, the hellfire and whatnot.”

Technoblade shook his head. 

“Hellfire is blue.” 

Technoblade was sitting at the front table and polishing his razor (the one he’d used on Dream’s overly-talkative throat) when the front door swung open. Both he and Tommy looked up.

Phil was standing there, blood scrubbed off and a tray of pies balanced in his hands. He was smiling, eyes crinkled up cheerfully as he walked closer and set the tray down on the table.

Tommy, who’d set his head down on his hands and had been staring off into space, perked up.

“You’re done!”

Phil, in an uncommonly good mood, chuckled and ruffled Tommy’s hair. 

“Sure am. Have as many as you want, Tommy.” 

Tommy’s gaze went to the tray. At least a dozen pies sat there. The boy’s eyes widened. He’d probably not seen that much food in one place since he was milk-fed. 

“As many as I want?”

Phil looked about ready to coo like a dove. 

“Of course, sunshine.” His teeth were very sharp as he set a pie on the wood before Tommy’s seat. “Start with one, though. We wouldn’t want you to get sick.” 

Technoblade picked up one of the pies as well, letting it sit in his hand. It already looked better than one of his own- the crust was smooth and evenly golden-brown, the slits in the top letting out wisps of grey steam that smelled amazing.  

There was a weight next to him, and an elbow nudged against his arm. Technoblade raised his eyes from the food to see Phil at his side, chin propped on both hands. He grinned in a self-satisfied way, nodding at the pie. 

“Go on. I know you’re curious.” 

Technoblade huffed at him, then raised the pie and took a bite.

His eyes immediately blew open.

The smell was no lie. This was, no doubt, the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

“This is fantastic ,” Tommy said, having evidently taken a bite as well. “What even is this?”

“Carrots, gravy, onions, meat. Spices and stuff.” Phil’s voice dropped as he addressed Technoblade again, who’d taken another bite and was currently letting Dream’s cooked flesh slide down his throat. “You like it?” 

Technoblade nodded mutely, swallowing the pie down faster and faster because it felt like he couldn’t get enough. 

“Hey now, don’t go overboard.” A hand caught at his chin, pulling his face away. 

Technoblade was caught in Phil’s gaze, sharp and shrewd and bright.

“I know I’m a good cook,” the man said, “but if you eat too much you’ll get sick.” He grinned, slow and satisfied. “And I wouldn’t want my butcher to get sick, now would I?” 

Tommy had started on a second pie. 

A butcher. Technoblade was a butcher?

Yes. He was. He was a butcher- he was because Phil said he was. He would be anything Phil wanted him to be, do anything Phil wanted him to do. For Phil, he would be a butcher. For Phil, he would slaughter countless.

For Phil, he would soak the world in blood. 

“You have got to sell these pies,” Tommy said. Phil’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Technoblade. 

“It depends on the availability of meat.” 

A question. Technoblade leaned his face against Phil’s hand. 

“I’ll bring you as much meat as you want, Phil.” 

“Good.” Phil released his face, stroking over his hair (Technoblade almost purred) before pulling away entirely. “I’ll go set up a place for Tommy to sleep. You keep an eye on him.”

Technoblade nodded, and watched Phil leave.

Chapter Text

Dusk had fallen. Tommy had long-ago fallen asleep with his head on his arms, four pies uneaten before him, but Technoblade was still awake. He was watching the darkened street, the occasional shopkeeper still awake. He could hear one of them, right across the road, singing idly as he pulled cages of live birds down from their hooks at the front. 

“Green finch and linnet bird, nightingale blackbird, how is it you sing?” 

On the roof above, a shape clambered. The beggar woman, tattered dress pulled around her as she wedged herself into the side of a chimney. 

“Are you discussing or fussing, or simply dreaming?”

A bird fluttered next to the woman. One of the crows that had been nearby perched on a bony knee, eyes closing and fluffing up as a finger stroked black feathers.

“Are you crowing? Are you screaming?” 

A door rang open. The shopkeeper stepped over the threshold, still humming as he poured birdseed on the stones in front of him. Even though the light was fading, a smattering of wild birds swooped down to his feet, pecking at the seeds. Pigeons, doves, swifts, even the crow from above. This last bird looked up at the man, crooning, and hopped up to his wrist to eat from the bag directly. A small laugh, a glint of teeth as a finger scratched feathers and beak.

“Tech.”

Technoblade looked back. Phil had come outside, wrapped in his coat to stave off the growing chill.

“Yeah?”

“Come inside, mate. And bring Tommy.”

Tommy lolled against Technoblade’s chest, fast asleep as he was carried inside. He still didn’t wake when he was set on the trundle bed dragged into the back parlor, snuggled up under a blanket. 

“Aw,” Phil said, “look at him. He’s so cute.” 

He looked down at the sleeping boy for a long moment, expression faded into something wistful. It was pretty obvious he was thinking of his own son, a child he’d never see grow.

“Phil,” Techno said, to distract him. “You wanted something?”

“Right, right. Come on.” 

The pair ended up leaving the bakery through the back, Technoblade given a basket that was dripping from the bottom and Phil cradling a bucket covered with bloodstained fabric. 

“Where are we going?” Technoblade nodded east, where the sky was darkest. “That’s where the river is.” 

“We’re not going anywhere.” Phil looked up at the sky. “We’re waiting for them.” 

Technoblade cast his gaze up.

While the two humans were standing in a courtyard, hemmed by one other building and two slender alleyways, the crows on the roofs above had no such restriction. Large, and black, they gathered like hungry wolves on the eaves and chattered like a Greek chorus.

When they watched Technoblade, beady eyes fixed upon him, he remembered why they were considered omens of death. 

“They know you?” He asked quietly. 

“Crows never forget a face. They’re friendly to those who are good to them.” Phil shrugged a little, pulling the cover off his bucket. Inside, Dream’s organs were collected in a heap, red and glistening in the faint light. “And they know I feed them well.” 

He dumped the bucket out onto the back alley, and like the birdseed scattered mere minutes earlier on kinder stones, it instantly drew a throng of wings and sharp beaks. The crows descended greedily on Phil’s offerings, squabbling over tidbits of liver or heart. Technoblade wrinkled his nose as a foul smell hit the air, no doubt because Dream’s stomach had been torn open and the contents divided among the young or small.

“How long have you been doing this?” 

“Feeding the crows? Oh, since the first time. There were a couple on each island, plus a few ship’s birds every so often. They started following me, and, well, didn’t stop.” Phil chuckled a little, scraping a few chunks of something unidentifiable and meaty out of the bucket and adding it to the chaos below. “Imagine being a sailor, and you pick up a shipwrecked man being trailed by dozens of crows.” 

“I’m surprised more of them didn’t die of fright,” Technoblade said dryly. Phil grinned at him, then nodded to the basket. 

“Go on, toss them.”

“Toss-” Technoblade opened the basket, and promptly stopped wondering. Dream’s hands and feet were in the basket, looking oddly shrunken now.

“Keeps the bones from being recognizable,” Phil said, still grinning. “Beaks have an easier time severing tendons.” 

Technoblade picked one of the hands up. They felt odd. Very much like human skin, but… cold. Stiff. Four fingers, a thumb. The whorling ridges of fingerprints and a shallow lifeline.

He dropped the hand, somewhere between his feet and a crow currently scarfing down what might’ve a kidney. The crow paused, and looked over at the new offering. Then it lunged forward, nipping one-two-three to sever one of the fingers and carry it off. The rest of the crows soon fell upon this new course, tugging apart bones and ripping flesh so the dismembered extremities were divided and scattered. 

As Technoblade stood and watched, Phil looped an arm through his and leaned against his shoulder. 

“Do you wish I hadn’t come?” He asked. 

“No,” Technoblade said. “It’s more dangerous for you, but… I’m glad you’re here.” 

Phil’s fingers were on the inside of his wrist, fingertips resting on Technoblade’s pulse point. His nails seemed overly sharp, pricking against delicate skin. 

“You’re sure?” He asked. “You don’t know what I might do to you.” 

Technoblade huffed, glancing to the side enough to see Phil grin up at him, teeth gleaming. 

“You wouldn’t really eat me,” Technoblade said. “Would you?” 

Phil’s grin widened. 

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” 

Technoblade snorted this time, and patted the other man’s arm. 

“While you do, I’m going to bed.” 

“I’d go upstairs, but.” Phil wiggled his fingers, which were streaked a rusty scarlet. “This may get someone’s attention.”

“Well.” Technoblade unlooped himself from Phil, stepping towards the door. “There’s room with me.” 

“How generous,” Phil teased lightly, but after a few moments he turned to follow, coat whipping across the stones as he vanished inside. 

Tommy turned out to be almost exactly like how he’d been when Phil and Technoblade had first laid eyes on him. He was loud, dramatic, smart, and after Technoblade trimmed his hair short and Phil got him new clothes he would probably die for them. 

“I could help you bake,” Tommy said, practically attached to Phil’s elbow as the man rolled out pie crust. “It doesn’t look too hard.” 

“Appearances are deceiving.” Phil cast a glance at Technoblade, who huffed at him before turning to look out the front window again. “Some people have no hope. I’d only trust myself.” 

“I can do something, right?” Tommy wrapped his hands around Phil’s arm, bouncing on his feet. “You fed me and stuff, I have to make up for it.”

“You’re a child,” Phil said, “I’m not expecting you to work.”

“But it’s boring,"  Tommy whined. “There’s nothing else to do."  

“There’s books,” Technoblade said, still staring out the window. “Go read.” 

“I can’t read. Bitch.”

Phil chuckled, lightly patting Tommy’s cloud of golden curls. 

“I suppose you can help a little. No baking, but you can help in other ways.” 

And promptly, the door swung open. Technoblade stepped back to avoid being hit in the face, and peered around the door as a woman swept in.

Phil pushed Tommy her way, and soon enough the woman left with six pies (double what she’d wanted, as Tommy had somehow talked her into buying more) and a ruffled expression.

Tommy turned on one bare foot, grinning up at Phil. 

“Did I do good?”

Phil blinked down at him. 

Tommy was so small. Closer in view and without all that false bravado, he couldn’t have been any older than twelve. Who would do what Dream had done to a child as young as that?

Phil knew. He already knew.

“You did good,” he whispered, setting a hand on the boy’s head to card through curls. “You did so good, Tommy.”

Tommy looked up at Phil, eyes big and incredibly blue. His grin got wider. 

“Can that be my job? I help people buy stuff?”

Phil laughed.

“Help? You little goblin, you extort them.” But he ruffled Tommy’s hair anyway, going over to the pies ready for the oven. “Yes, mate, you can handle the customers.” 

Technoblade stiffened and sat up slightly, and Phil spared him a glance from across the room. 

“What is it?”

“I think someone’s looking for a barber.” 

That made Phil look up all the way. Technoblade returned the look, excitement dancing in his eyes like the red fires of hell. 

“Should I see to those customers, Phil?”

Not just excitement. Hunger. Bloodlust. The restrained ferocity of a dog on a leash, all wagging tail and soft fur before the collar broke.

Phil smiled at him, affection pooling in his stomach. He was giddy on the idea of the man being his dog. His sword. His drinker of blood and hunter of prey. “Do all you want, Tech. You’re a shit baker anyway.”

Tommy snapped a twig in half, and tossed it into the oven as Technoblade nodded, stepping outside to lead the waiting customer to the slaughter. 

Phil whistled as he cut a circle of pie crust, smooth and neat as a piece of paper. 

“How long have you two been friends?” Tommy asked. 

Phil hummed thoughtfully, scooping the filling into the pie crust. 

“Oh, not very long. We know each other, but not as well as I’d like.”

“Oh.”

Phil chuckled, tapping his spoon on the rim of the bowl so a chunk of Dream meat fell to the bottom. 

“What did you think we were?”

Tommy considered that for a moment.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally. “You’re confusing.”

“Because I know how to bake and he doesn’t?” 

“Because he’s…… mean. And you’re not.”

Phil snorted.

“Tech? Mean? You just have to get used to him.”

“No,” Tommy said, “no, he’s- there’s something off about him. He’s….”

“Queer?” Phil finished lightly. He picked up the chunk of meat from the bowl, gravy slick against his fingertips before human flesh gave way between his teeth. Tender. Bitterness sweetened by care and a recipe Phil had long-ago perfected. “There are worse things for a man to be.”

“I- I don’t know. He just- he looks..."

“Frightening? Because he’s big and tall? Because he’s got red eyes? Because he doesn’t ever seem to smile?” Phil picked up the tray of pies, opening up the oven to slide it in. Yellow-orange fire licked across the bottom, hungry tongues feasting on charred and crumbled wood. The warmth made him hum a little in contentment, baking away the void that yawned behind his ribs. 

“Phil, are you really just makin’ fun of me to a kid?”

Phil turned, and smiled at Technoblade.

“Oh, mate, what fun would our arrangement be if I didn’t?”

Technoblade huffed at him, arms crossed. Phil gave him a cursory glance in return, inspecting shirtsleeves over strong arms. No blood.

“Need any help?” Phil asked. Technoblade glanced up at the wooden beams of the floor above, half-thoughtfully licking the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.” 

Phil looked to Tommy.

“Anyone comes in to buy pies, tell them to wait.”

Tommy nodded. Phil followed Technoblade upstairs.

There was a body slumped in the rickety single chair in the center of the room. A man, with a carefully-slit throat still leaking blood onto his nice shirt and coat. His eyes were wide and empty, betrayal and pain taking the place of a human soul. 

“How did you get Dream down?” Technoblade asked as Phil considered the new corpse.

“Dumped him out the window,” Phil replied. “But that would take too long to do over and over again.” He hummed a little, talking half to himself. “The meat cellar is two floors down. That’s where the bodies need to go.” 

Something occurred to him, and he stepped across the floor, occasionally stamping a foot and listening to the sound.

Technoblade watched him, expression looking as though he was watching his chair do acrobatics. 

“Phil,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“We should bring a rug up here,” Phil said absently, carefully stepping from one section of boards to the next. “Soften the place, make it look nicer. Maybe put some flowers in a vase.”

“How will that help?”

“It’ll make the place look less like it’s abandoned,” Phil told the man, who still stood unmoving. “Give it a bit of cheer, y’know.”

Technoblade blinked, somehow making even that motion look flat. 

“Phil. I’m going to kill people up here.”

“I never said I had a problem with it,” Phil informed him sweetly. “But this building feels like a mausoleum and if I have anything to say about it neither of its inhabitants are going to die for another forty years.”

Technoblade’s stony expression broke, finally, and Phil relished the twitch of his mouth as he either tried not to smile or tried to smile but failed because he wasn’t used to the motion.

“Why are you stomping on the floor, then?” 

“There’s a, there’s a-” Phil waved one hand. “Tunnel, maybe? Shaft? It connects the floors, and should be big enough for a body.”

“Why would there be a tunnel in the building?”

Phil shrugged.

“There used to be a cesspool below the bakery. Now it’s the meat cellar, but the shaft leading down should still be around here somewhere.” He looked around, scanning the walls. “So tell me- where the hell is it?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re the one who lived up here.” Phil dropped his gaze to the floor again, inspecting each board as he walked. “You must’ve noticed something- a hollow spot, a place the boards looked different, anything.”

“The last time I actually lived up here was fifteen years ago,” Technoblade said dryly. “Forgive me for not having a perfect recollection of some slabs of wood.”

“Ha ha,” Phil said. “Isn’t he comical. He should go into vaudeville.” 

“Oh god. Don’t even make me think about that.” 

Phil spun on one foot, grinning and falling into a kind of half-curtsy. 

“What, no ditty to make the tedium bearable? A jig to spice things up?”

Technoblade snorted, but took Phil’s offered hand and let himself be pulled into an incredibly inconsistent waltz. 

“I think I’d fall through the floor.”

“That would be funny, at least.” Phil hummed, softly, giving tune and beat to a previously-silent song. “You sprawled out in the splintered boards, giving me that glare.” 

“You know, most people are scared when I’m angry.”

Phil’s eyes and teeth glinted up at him through blonde hair. He was small in Technoblade’s hands, but it was his spirit, the stuff beneath, that made static dart across Technoblade’s skin and lightning dance in his stomach.

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” Technoblade murmured. “You’re not.” 

Phil’s smile softened, just a bit, and for a moment it seemed like he’d press his cheek into Technoblade’s chest before he stopped, letting the dance spin out into nothingness around him as he stamped one foot against the floor- one two three -in the exact time of the waltz. 

The sound rang hollow. Phil’s smile spread glittering and metal as a blade again.

“Just as I thought.”

Technoblade merely blinked at him, having forgotten what was going on.

“Hm?”

Phil crouched, stepping back a little, and ran his fingers over the boards where he’d stomped. 

“Nailed down,” he muttered. Oh, right. “I don’t suppose you have a crowbar up here?”

“Um. No.” 

“Or anything, hm, long? Something long, thin, hard… One of your razors, maybe?”

“No,” Technoblade said sharply. “Never.”

Phil spared a glance up, and gave him a quick smile. 

“Just a suggestion, mate.” He stood, wincing a little, and patted Technoblade’s shoulder. “Let’s look downstairs.”

Technoblade spared a glance to the body slumped on the single chair. It would still be warm now, he knew, the blood wet and barely sticky under his hands. 

“What if someone comes up?”

“I’ll have Tommy keep an eye out. Now come on.” 

Eventually a crowbar was located, kicked haphazardly under the wardrobe and partly buried under what was obviously a piece of Phil’s clothing. Technoblade gave the owner of the clothing (and the wardrobe, technically) a sideways look.

“You’re moved back in, huh?”

Phil shrugged, careless as anything.

“My house, innit?” 

Technoblade squinted harder at him.

Phil picked up his coat from where it had been curved limply on the rumpled bed, folding black fabric over one arm and laying it over the foot of the bed. He cocked his head, just a little, and one of those flickering grins hit Techno in the face and burned in his stomach. 

“What, no laugh? I thought I was funny.” 

“You’re taking over my life,” Technoblade deadpanned, referencing the clothes scattered over furniture and the person to whom they belonged. “No humor in conquest, Phil. War is a serious business.”

“As is killing, usually,” Phil said, and with the way his hair fell around his face he may as well have been the sun. “But ill-timed levity is a specialty of mine.”

Technoblade snorted, bending to pick up the crowbar. He remembered why it was under the wardrobe now- after failing to properly rip a rotten board from the front of the bakery, it had been hurled at the bedroom floor (a shirt bloodied from an iron-torn wound needed changing) and bounced under the wardrobe, where Technoblade had promptly forgotten about it until now.

“Oh, you think that’s funny? Where’s the consistency, mate?”

“I left it with the dead body upstairs,” Technoblade said, and his sternum hummed with Phil’s laugh. “Crowbar, Phil, stay focused.”

“You get to hold it,” Phil said, and started to say something before he paused. 

“Phil?”

“Something’s burning.” Phil vanished, and Technoblade tilted just enough to see the man go to rescue the pies from assured death.

“You can let the fire burn down,” Technoblade said as Phil scooped up a log to feed the stove, the barely-browned pies steaming on the table. The man was getting uncomfortably close to the flames, and shirtsleeves were awfully flammable.

“Phil,” Technoblade said.

“What?”

“You’re going to set yourself on fire.”

“Will not.” 

Technoblade huffed, but gave up and wandered to the table. Those pies smelled good, and he was hungry. 

“Don’t touch those,” Phil said without looking around. 

“You’re going to set yourself on fire,” Technoblade shot back, and scooped up a pie. “Are you done fussing with the stove so we can finishing coverin’ up my crime, or should I tell Tommy he’ll be out there for another hour?”

Phil stood again, turning to give Technoblade a disgruntled glance. But then he shook his head and waved idly. 

“Just go upstairs, I’ll be there in a few.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing,” Technoblade said.

“Ripping up the floorboards,” Phil replied. “How else will we get the bodies down?”

“Phil. Just come up with me.” 

Phil sighed, but looped his arm through Technoblade’s and let himself be escorted upstairs.

Technoblade, still not entirely sure if Phil was either incredibly smart or incredibly off his rocker, watched as the man started ripping up the floor near the spot he’d found. The sound of wood and nails wrenching away from each other made him cringe a little, a bull dog with hackles raised and tail between his legs at the crack of fireworks. 

Phil, however, continued merrily on his self-imposed task of destroying the neat pattern of floorboards. It was pretty quickly revealed that, instead of the ceiling or wall being under this section of floor, there was a ring of stone. It looked a little like a chimney, but when Technoblade leaned closer to peer down the shaft, he caught a whiff of something that made him wrinkle his nose and pull back. 

“That’s the shaft, huh?”

“Sure is,” Phil replied cheerfully. “If you move your chair over here, you can slide the bodies right on down to the cellar. It’ll keep them cooler too.”

“I hope you’re planning on washing it out first,” Technoblade said. “It smells foul.” 

“All things are foul,” Phil said. “It’s just personal preference as to which ones are bearable.”

“I’m saying literally.” Technoblade walked over to the chair, wrapping his fingers through the back of his prey’s collar and dragging the body over to the shaft. “Do you want to eat meat that’s been basted in-”

“Alright, I get the picture.” Phil sat back on his heels, nodding to the ring. “But I’m taking the skin off anyway. We’ll be fine.” 

Technoblade huffed, but dropped the body. It tilted, dangling with arms towards the cellar below, and finally toppled in when given a sharp prod by Technoblade’s boot.

He winced when skull met stone with a crack but stayed where he was until the slight echoes had faded.

“I’m not letting Tommy in the cellar ever again,” Phil said.

“Good idea. Should we go down?”

“We shall.”

In the kitchen, Phil having sent Tommy off to fetch something Technoblade wasn’t listening to, the plan was laid out.

While they waited for the judge, they would stay busy. Keep up the facade of a legitimate business- Phil by selling pies, Technoblade by getting meat. Lay in wait, like (in Phil’s words) “a lion”, and eventually strike when the judge was within reach. They didn’t talk about what would happen after. Neither brought it up.

It was a few weeks before either saw hide or hair of the judge. Technoblade was in the kitchen when it happened, sharpening a knife while Phil puttered about with dinner. Like it had been for the past few days, the meat was off one of their conquests. Phil had gotten bored just making pies, and why spend valuable time and money shelling out for chicken or pork when there was the freshest meat around hanging pretty in the cellar? 

“Hey! Is there a barber here or not?”

Technoblade looked up as Phil froze entirely, a platter balanced in his shaking hands. The voice was unfamiliar to Technoblade, but the way Phil looked… 

Phil raised his gaze, and even though he was trembling like an icicle about to shatter his eyes burned in Technoblade’s vision.

“The judge,” he whispered.

There was a sickening lurch in Technoblade’s stomach. He set his knife down, standing so Phil wouldn’t drop the tray. 

“What do you want to do?” He asked, voice soft but very audible to Phil. “You’d deserve it.” 

Phil laughed, just a little. Technoblade could almost hear the pounding of his heart, the pulse in his throat. 

“I’m no good with knives, Tech. It’s up to you.” 

“Hey!” 

Technoblade dipped his head in silent assent, pressing his forehead to Phil’s temple.

“I won’t fail you,” he breathed. 

“I know you won’t.” Phil smiled, and lightly pushed him away. “Now go sic ‘em.”

The judge gave a Technoblade a disgruntled glance.

“What took so long, huh?”

“I was helping in the bakery,” Technoblade replied. He got a snort in reply. “Are you here for a barber or not?”

“Depends. Are you any good?”

Technoblade resisted the urge to roll his eyes and gestured for the judge to go upstairs.

Technoblade picked up one of his razors, giving it a cursory inspection. Still in pristine condition. Not a hint or stain of the blood that had soaked it time and time again. 

“Patience,” he whispered to it. “We will give Phil his revenge sooner or later.”

“I’m not paying you to stand around,” the judge said crossly. “Get to it, man.”

“Of course.” Techno closed the box. 

The judge practically lounged in the barber’s chair. The stance of a man who has never doubted himself, has never feared or fought. The man who destroyed Phil’s life, who took his world away.

This act of vengeance would be sweet.

“Y’know,” the judge said, “I could’ve sworn this shop closed down twenty years ago.”

“It did.” Technoblade slipped his razor down, towards the jugular, but the judge scratched at his neck and the man was forced to bite back a growl. “But now I’ve reopened.”

“You’re the same man, aren’t you? I remember you, though who wouldn’t.”

“Mm.” 

“What I’m wondering, though, is why that bakery’s still open. The last owner went to prison, did he not?”

“He did,” Technoblade said. “I own the bakery.”

“God, though, the baker’s wife.” The judge sucked in some air between his teeth. “Beautiful. Beautiful woman. She was wasted on that scrawny haystack of a husband.”

Techno swallowed back another growl (how dare he how dare he say that about Phil), which choked off into a little ‘hm’ noise that the judge evidently took as an agreement.

“You must’ve seen her all the time back then, you would know. Such delicate perfection deserved aristocracy, not a half-rate baker. And- fuck, he wasn’t even worthy to look at her, much less touch her.”

The judge wasn’t worthy to speak about Phil at all, much less insult him or dare call him undeserving, to call him lesser, to call him anything less than holy.

Technoblade couldn’t stand it. Blood was pounding in his ears, the razor light in his hand, the judge right there right there in his grasp in his teeth-

“Am I right?” 

Technoblade blinked, startled out of his haze. 

“About what?”

“About finding that one person. The one you think about day and night, would do anything for to have and keep. Drives you to the point of madness.”

All Technoblade could think about was vengeance and hellfire. 

“Do you think the baker did not love his wife so?” He asked, the words seeming distant.

“Oh, I don’t know. Can such a man as that even love?”

Phil smiling. Phil’s cheek against his chest. Phil’s hand in his hair. 

“Yes,” Technoblade said. “He can.” He flicked his thumb against the judge’s throat under pretense of wiping away some foam. “And you should fear a man such as that.”

“Why?” 

Technoblade was unsheathing his claws. Was baring his teeth for the kill.

“Because he’ll do anything.”

Almost. Almost. Almost.

Technoblade’s heart was singing razor kissing skin just shy of cutting but there he was doing it the judge would die today-

The door banged open and Techno startled, razor jerking away from the judge’s throat.

“Technoblade!” Tommy had burst in, hair wild and face clear within view of the chair and its occupant. “Do you-”

“Fucking Christ, what kind of barber are you?” The judge jumped up from his seat, whirling around with a hand clapped to his neck. “You just let any rat off the street in and then cut me? What was your goddamn razor doing at my fucking neck?”

“I-” Technoblade was stunned. Was frozen because he hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t prepared for this, he’d lost focus and this was not how it was supposed to go. “I’m- my apologies.”

“I’d thought you were more than some slum barber with devil eyes,” the judge snarled. “Seems you really were nothing more than a half-rate barber over a half-rate bakery.” He pulled his coat back on, wiping residual foam off his face with one of the curtains Phil had hung. “Good day to you.”

No. No. No no no. 

“He’s a dick,” Tommy commented. “Anyway-”

"What were you thinking?"  Technoblade whirled on him, anger pounding through every bone. “Running about and slamming doors like that? I could’ve killed him!” If only you hadn’t interfered.

Tommy blinked, a little cowed.

“Sorry, I- I was just going to ask if-”

“Enough.” Technoblade wasn’t patient, and this entire situation was already grating on him. 

He grabbed Tommy by the scruff, the kid yelping and bleating as he was dragged back downstairs, Technoblade never faltering or letting up.

Tommy was released and stumbled to the floor with a yelp, trembling like a newborn lamb.

“Tech, what-” Phil turned, confused and in the middle of setting the table.

“Your little pet,” Techno said, “barged in on me when I was not supposed to be disturbed."

Tommy scrambled up again, dusting himself off and hiding behind Phil.

“I didn’t know,” the kid protested. “I didn’t mean anything of it, I swear.”

“Mate,” Phil said, “he’s just a boy.”

“Well that boy,” Technoblade snarled out, “lost us a very lucrative customer. The only reason that boy is here in the first place is because I pitied him enough to convince you to let him stay, and that he wouldn’t make trouble.  He scared the judge off. Need I remind you what we’re trying to do here?”

Phil’s eyes flashed.

“I don’t need a reminder, I’m perfectly aware. But what’s done is done, there’s no need to rant and rave about it.”

Technoblade wanted to growl. Wanted to grind his teeth and point out all the ways in which Tommy was more of a hindrance than a help. 

But Phil was glowering at him, looked mad enough to bite, and he would rather never kill again than know he’d done something wrong. 

So he looked away, wilting slightly.

“Fine,” Technoblade mumbled. “‘S your plan, anyway.” 

“That’s right,” Phil said. “Now, do you feel civilized enough for dinner, or would you rather go upstairs to rage some more?”

Technoblade rolled his eyes. 

“Which one of us is the more civilized, really? I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Phil said. “I know you love my cooking.”

Chapter Text

Tommy was extra fidgety when Phil put him to bed that night.

“Something on your mind?” Phil asked. “If you’re worried about today, I made sure it won’t happen again.” 

“It’s not that,” Tommy said, even as Phil smoothed some hair off his forehead. “I’m not worried about myself.”

“Then what are you worried about, mate?”

Tommy sighed.

“There’s- there’s loads of bad people about nowadays, and- and you’re so nice and shit.”

Phil smiled slightly. 

“It’s nice that you’re concerned for me.”

“And- and that Technoblade, he just- he gives me a bad feeling.”

“Well, he’d do nothing to harm me, that I’ll guarantee.” Phil moved to stand, but Tommy’s hands caught at his wrist. “What?”

“I’m gonna keep you safe, Phil,” the child said earnestly. “I promise.”

“Of course you do.” 

“I mean it! I may not be very old, but I’m not stupid! I’m good at reading people, figuring out what they’re actually like.”

Phil sighed to himself, but humored the kid.

“I know, Tommy. You’re very smart.” 

Just not smart enough to see what was actually going on.

“Lots of folks get fooled really easily!” Tommy went on. “But I won’t let that happen, no sir! Big man Tommy is on the job to protect you, and I won’t let a thing happen. I’m sticking by you, no matter what.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Tommy was rather like a puppy, in that way. Phil absently patted the boy’s head.

“And I- I’d never hide anything from you,” Tommy said, more softly. “Never ever. There’s enough liars about.”

“You lied about that hair elixir,” Phil reminded him. Tommy pinked slightly.

“That was different! Dream was a dickhead, and you- you’re not like that. I think you’re the only one not like that, and- and that means something. You deserve better! You deserve better things in life!”

“Why don’t we calm down,” Phil suggested, bodily pushing Tommy back down. “You won’t fall asleep if you’re too worked up.”

“But I don’t wanna leave you!” Tommy protested. “Something might happen when I’m not around to look out for you!”

Phil laughed.

“In my own home? I’ll be perfectly fine, mate, now go to bed. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“Alright,” Tommy said, voice small. He looked small to match, curling up under his blankets with only his face and hair peeking out. “Call if you need me.”

“Of course,” Phil assured him, and turned the light down before leaving.

Down the hall, in the kitchen, Technoblade was rolling out pie crust that would chill overnight. 

“What took you?” He asked without looking up.

“Tommy being clingy,” Phil replied. “Kid kept insisting he had to protect me, keep me safe, all that.” He folded his arms. “I wonder what could have brought that on.”

“You never know,” Technoblade said. “You’d look like an easy target to plenty of people, and the kid knows plenty from the streets.”

Phil’s fingers drummed.

“Nothing at all to do with the fact that you half-strangled him today?”

“Didn’t hurt him,” Technoblade muttered. “Should’ve, for interferin’ like that.” 

“Inter- it’s one client!”

Technoblade’s head jerked up.

“One client?” He repeated incredulously. “One client? That one client was the judge, in case you’ve spent so long near the fire you burnt your brains out.”

“And?”

Technoblade looked as though he wanted to growl.

“Need I remind you that the whole damn reason you’re here in the first place is because of the judge? What he did to you?” 

“I’ve told you before, I know.”

“Then why don’t you care?” 

Phil paused, then let out a breath.

“I do care.” 

“The judge took everything from you,” Technoblade said, and his eyes burned. “I promised to avenge you, and now you’re throwing that away? I don’t take my promises lightly.”

“I still want the judge dead,” Phil said. “Believe me. But there’s a bigger picture here, and if you go about so obviously thirsty for blood then everything we’ve been working for will be over.” 

“And the bigger picture is?”

Phil waved one hand thoughtlessly and inconfidently. 

“I don’t- I’ve been thinking, that’s all. About what we’ll do after this is all over.” He took a few steps, going to assist with the pie crust. “Maybe we could close up shop here, head to a little seaside town where no one will know us. Get Tommy away from all this smog and smoke, find a nice little place where we can see the ocean from the windows and the air smells like saltwater. And we don’t have to stop what we’re doing right now, you can off the occasional customer as the fancy suits you and I can open a bakery that sells more than just pies. I can teach you how to fish, would that be nice?”

“Right now,” Technoblade said, “we have more to think about than some- some dream of a life by the sea. We have a plan, Phil.”

Phil sighed.

“I know. Revenge gets tiring after a while, ‘s all.” 

Technoblade frowned slightly. 

“No, none of that,” Phil told him. “You swore, remember?”  

A nod, if slow.

“Right. And you trust me to follow the plan?”

A nod.

Phil reached out and grabbed Technoblade’s chin in one hand, not being gentle with his grip at all. Their eyes were forced to meet.

“And you won’t do anything to jeopardize that plan, will you?”

Technoblade couldn’t shake his head, seeing as he was currently being held in place. Instead-

“No,” he said, very softly. “I won’t.” 

“Good,” Phil said, and smiled back. After a moment he let go of Technoblade’s face, and instead reached up to brush across his scalp.

“What are you doing?” Technoblade asked, looking very much like a dog trying to ignore being pet even as its tail wagged. 

“You’ve got flour in your hair,” Phil replied. “When are you coming to bed?”

Technoblade raised one shoulder in a shrug. 

“Whenever this gets done.”

“Hm. May as well help, then.” Phil went around the table to work at Technoblade’s side, and with the extra set of hands it was not a particularly large period of time before Phil banked the oven fires for the night and both he and Technoblade left the kitchen.

“How will we get the judge to come back?” Technoblade asked as they walked down the hall. 

“I don’t know yet,” was the reply. “I’ll think about it.” 

Technoblade grunted disapprovingly, and Phil chuckled as he patted the other on the shoulder.

“Don’t be like that, you’ll get your fill of him soon enough.” A pause, and- “why not enjoy the time we have?”

Technoblade paused, and looked over at Phil with a kind of warmth in his eyes.

“Are you saying you enjoy this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Phil grinned at him. “I have a good business, a kid to look after, a supply of fresh meat, and you.” 

Technoblade tilted his head, stopped outside the door to Phil’s room. 

“And what am I?”

Phil raised one hand. It came to rest on Technoblade’s face; slowly trailing across his cheekbone, his jaw. 

“I’m not sure,” Phil said softly. “Are you a dog? A sword? A force of nature?” 

Technoblade tilted his face, eyes falling closed as he leaned almost imperceptibly into Phil’s hand. 

“I’ll be whatever you wish of me,” he murmured like a prayer. To him, Phil’s eyes burned in the lamplight, hair caught in strands of gold. To Technoblade, Phil looked holy. “I’m yours. I’m all yours.”

“Of course you are.” Phil huffed softly, thumb swiping across his disciple’s crow feet. “Are you sleeping upstairs tonight?” 

Technoblade’s eyes flicked open. Under his lashes they glimmered like coals. 

“Is that what you want me to do?” 

Phil didn’t blink. He didn’t want to- didn’t want to lose sight of the fire right in front of him. 

“It’s awfully cold up there alone,” he murmured. “Drafty. Dank. Covered in dust.”

Technoblade didn’t mention that Phil had dusted earlier that day. He merely smirked, just a little.

“Is that an invitation?”

“It’s not a dismissal.”

The building creaked around them.

“It’s chilly down here too,” Technoblade noted.

“I’ll make sure you stay warm.”

Tommy never quite got over his skittishness around Technoblade. Whenever they were in the same room he would fix the man with a suspicious, wary stare, and stay amusingly close to Phil. Amusing to Phil, anyway. Technoblade mostly ignored the kid- it was the only way he didn’t get annoyed again.

One such time, Technoblade was looking out the front window. It overlooked the street outside, and showed several of the shops across said street. 

One of the shopkeepers was visible at the front of his shop, hanging birdcages up for the morning. There was the distant sound of birdsong, the rattle of cages as they glittered in the sun. No singing, not today.  

Anyone from the outside would think Technoblade was plotting murder. Which, technically, he always was, but this time it was a lot more overt. His eyes were locked on the shop across the street, expression tense and somewhat darker than even his usual intimidating stare. 

“Tech?”

Technoblade jolted slightly, hands clutching the windowsill tighter, and he turned around.

“Yes?”

“What are you looking at?” Phil asked idly. “You’ve been staring out the window long enough for me to get a batch of pies in the oven.” 

Technoblade glanced back, just for a moment. 

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Nothing. I was thinking.”

“Hm. Do you know where that pet shop across the street came from, by the way? I don’t remember it being there.” 

“… no,” Technoblade said. “No, I don’t remember either.” A pause. “Why? Need to stretch the meat I gave you?”

Phil snorted.

“God, no, that’d be a waste of time and money shelling out for some poor little kitten that’ll taste awful anyway. No, no, I’m happy with what you provide.”  

Technoblade huffed softly. 

“Good. I’d hate to be unwanted.” 

Phil hummed softly as he rolled out pie crust. Tommy wasn’t dogging his side, for once, as the kid had been sent to buy ingredients, so it was just Technoblade there in the room. 

“It’s been a week,” Technoblade said. 

“Mm? Since?”

“Since the judge.”

“Mhm. I’m aware.”

Technoblade’s hands rhythmically clenched and unclenched at his sides. They looked empty without a razor nestled tight between his fingers. 

“The judge may have gotten over his… fright.”

Phil let out a sharp bark of laughter. 

“And you’re asking if you can go to him and beg like a dog? What a thought, mate, you’re too proud for that.”

Technoblade clenched his teeth. 

“Not too proud for you.” 

A little flicker of a dryly amused gaze. 

“Exactly why I don’t want you going around doing it for any old piece of shit, mm? He’ll come to us eventually. Don’t you fret.”

A stiff nod, and Technoblade backed down. 

“Come help me cut, the customers will be coming in soon and there’s no use in you standing around.” 

Technoblade went over and picked up a knife. 

The bell over the door rang and Phil looked up.

“Oh, Tommy! Hey mate, you took a while.”

Tommy smiled back, but it looked rather… uneasy. 

“Yeah, I had to deal with a bunch of idiots. Um. Could you help me put all this away?” 

‘All this’ being Tommy’s burden of ingredients- butter, flour, vegetables, all stacked in his arms.

“Sure thing.” Phil ushered Tommy out of the room and to the storage. “I’m sorry, I should’ve given you a basket or something.” 

“No, I’m- it’s not too hard for me,” Tommy said quickly. “I- I wanted, um…” 

Phil cocked his head, setting some butter aside. 

“What?”

Tommy looked aside, shuffling his feet awkwardly. 

“When you- you gave me the money, to buy the stuff, and…” Tommy held out a small purse, which Phil blinked at. 

“Yes?”

Tommy scuffed one foot again. 

“It… looks kind of like one Dream had.”

Phil’s expression froze, out of Tommy's notice. The purse did look like Dream’s, it was true. 

Mostly because it was Dream’s. Phil had nicked it off the body all those weeks ago, as picking a dead man’s pockets was arguably one of his lesser crimes against Heaven, and kept it. 

“Huh,” Phil said once he’d gathered his thoughts. “I suppose it might.” 

“Where’d you get it?” Tommy asked, as Phil took the purse and slipped it away.

“It was a gift,” Phil said. “Tech gave it to me.”

Technically true. But still the wrong thing to say, because Tommy’s face got drawn and tense.

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious? I told you, I have a bad feeling about him, and he was the person Dream was going to see that day and he told me he hadn’t seen Dream but now I think he might’ve lied and I don’t think you should trust him-”

“Hey,” Phil said softly, catching at Tommy’s face to smooth his hair. “It’s alright, take a breath. Calm down. Nothing good comes from working yourself up into a tizzy.” 

Tommy looked away, expression resigned and solemn. 

“I just- I have a feeling,” he said mournfully. “And my feelings usually aren’t wrong.” 

“Technoblade’s not a danger,” Phil said. To us. “Look, maybe…”

“Please don’t get rid of me.” Tommy grabbed at Phil’s hands, suddenly frantic. “Please don’t get rid of me, I promise, I’ll never mention it again, just don’t- you promised-”

“Hey, hey, none of that.” Phil shook his head. “I’m not getting rid of you. You still have a place here. What I was saying is, maybe you need something to take your mind off things.” 

Something Tommy hadn’t done before - he picked up on things quickly, and that meant it didn’t take him too much thought to complete various tasks.   

And Phil needed Tommy’s mind to be very occupied on things other than Technoblade’s penchant for murder. 

“Tell you what,” he said. “What if I teach you how to make the pies?”

Tommy finally looked up. Eyes wide and ignorant. Suspicious, but ignorant. The very picture of innocence. Poor thing. 

“Really? Like the whole thing?”

“Yes,” Phil said. “Beginning to end.”

He laid a hand on Tommy’s opposite shoulder. Just in case. 

“First comes the meat,” he said. “Let’s go down to the cellar.” 

In the front kitchen, Technoblade was standing and looking out the window. This time his eyes were fixed skywards, on the roofs and chimneys of the street.

Crows. Crows clustered in thick congregations, muttering and shifting clouds of black that seemed to almost block out the already-dim sun. Something had them anxious. Technoblade couldn’t be sure what; all he knew was that it made him suspect something bad was going to happen.

A hand slammed against the window and Technoblade jumped, instantly falling back into a stance as though he expected to be attacked.

The head of the beggar woman rose into view, narrowed eyes barely visible behind tangled hair. Her mouth moved, and even with the barrier of glass between them Technoblade knew what she was saying.

“This is my place,” he told her, voice flat as he straightened back up into a neutral posture. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away.” 

She bared her teeth, starkly straight and whole within the confines of cracked and scarred lips, and spat out something else Technoblade didn’t need to hear to understand before scuttling away, fading into the growing night. 

“Crazy bat,” Technoblade muttered to nobody. 

Phil kept one hand on Tommy’s shoulder as the two entered the cellar. The room was dark, close and thickly-smelling of old flesh and blood. Stained hooks and chains swung overhead, temporarily free of their burdens as they winked in the dim light and sparkled against a piece of machinery in one dark, close corner. 

“This is the grinder,” Phil said of it. “Lovely, isn’t it? It cuts the meat up for me.” 

Tommy blinked over at him. 

“It… seems like it’d save you time.” 

Phil grinned. 

“So it does. This is what you’ll be working with, along with these spices here.” He fluttered a hand at the tins and bottles lined up on the table next to the grinder, glass and metal relatively clean and shiny compared to the tub of meat just behind. Already-butchered meat, mind you. Phil was still jigging away to keep Tommy in the dark, and obvious human flesh laying out in the open would shine a rather garish light on the whole thing. 

“So I’m…”

“Preparing the meat. According to my recipe, of course.” 

“Where’s the recipe?”

A light, crystalline laugh.

“In my head, mate, I’ve never written it down. You’ll just have to listen carefully.” 

Up above, the ceiling creaked and groaned. Phil kept a close eye on Tommy’s gaze, making sure it never turned up to the shaft dripping blood. 

“Grind it twice to make it tender, spice it twice to make it sweet.”

“Grind it twice to make it tender,” Tommy repeated, walking over to the grinder. “Spice it twice to make it sweet.” 

“You put the meat in here at the top,” Phil said, “and turn the handle smooth and slow until it all goes through. Then you start again.” 

Tommy nodded. 

“I’ve already put the first spices on,” Phil said, “so you just start grinding. Grind all the meat in here, and then you can be done.”

Tommy nodded again, wrapped his hands around the shiny silver handle, and began to grind.

“Good boy,” Phil cooed. There was a ring from upstairs, and he quickly patted Tommy’s head to keep the boy’s eyes down. “You keep at it, alright? I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

“And I’ll be down here,” Tommy said more softly. “If you need me.” 

Phil gave him a last, patronizing smile before going upstairs.

He locked the door to the cellar as he left. 

“Hello? Is anybody here?” There was a man standing in the center of the kitchen, looking around. Phil’s expression turned to something stricken and angry upon seeing the man, but quickly smoothed back out. 

“Why, hello. Quackity, was it? My apologies, these walls are thick and I was in the back.” 

“No trouble,” Quackity replied. “I have all night.” 

Phil gave him an empty smile. 

“What is it that brings you here? Not pies, surely, those are best when you come at midday.”

“Oh, no,” Quackity said, “it’s police business, I’m afraid.”

Phil’s smile remained even as his eyes burned. 

“Police business? Whatever for?”

Technoblade was nowhere to be found. This may have had to do with him, but if it didn’t, Phil would have to stall until there was a good opportunity to… remove this little hiccup. 

“There’s been some complaints,” Quackity explained, rocking onto his toes with his hands in his pockets. “Of odd smells coming from your bakery, the chimney, you understand.” 

“Smells?” Phil laughed. “I’m a baker, mate, part of my business is in smells.”

“Of viscera, too.”

Phil’s laugh hesitated.

“Out back of your building.” Quackity reached up to readjust his hat, which he hadn’t taken off. “Now, I understand you sell meat pies, but leaving bones and the like where any beggar or beast can get at them is something of a health concern as well.”

“Of course.” Phil clasped his hands. “I’ll be sure to do better next time.”

“The smells, though.” Quackity looked around. “I’d like to have a look around, if you don’t mind.” 

Phil mustered a smile. 

“My ovens are right there, mate, look around all you like. I have nothing to hide.” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Quackity said. “But I’d like to have a look around all the same.” 

“Of course.” Phil trailed after Quackity as the officer poked through room after room, clearly looking for something. “Might I ask who made the complaints?”

“Concerned citizens,” was Quackity’s reply as he left the bedroom. His eyes immediately settled on the cellar door. “Might I ask where that goes?”

“The cellar,” Phil replied. “Where I keep the meat.” 

“Hm.” Quackity took a step forward.

“It’s locked, though,” Phil said quickly, “and I don’t have the key.”

He did have a key-shaped weight in one pocket, but he wasn’t about to tell. 

Quackity gave him a suspicious glance. 

“Who does?”

“My, um. My business partner.” Phil smiled. “Also runs the barbershop upstairs, perhaps you remember him. Red eyes.”

“Oh. Him. Where is he?”

Phil shrugged.

“He likes to take walks, clear his head, you know. I can only guess as to where he is or when he’ll be back.” 

“Ah.” 

“If you’d come back another time,” Phil began as a hesitant suggestion, but got nothing for his efforts.

“No, like I said, I have all night.” Quackity’s gaze flickered. “Perhaps we could retire to the parlor? I noticed quite the library you have.”

“My partner’s. He’s more for reading than I am.” Phil laughed lightly, which was echoed by Quackity. 

“No wonder he owns two businesses, then, the scope of his mind.”

They sat in the parlor. During the day the trundle bed was pushed away, so there was no sign that this room held a child at night.

Phil sat nearer the door, eyes unwaveringly fixed on Quackity. The officer didn’t seem aware that he was being watched, taking a book off the shelf and flipping through. 

Time passed. Phil was now getting to be worried at how long Technoblade had been missing. What if he’d gone off to finish the job himself? A dog who’d snapped its leash was a dangerous thing, and all Phil could do was pray.

Without either man speaking, the room was left in silence. Or, near-silence, at least, as the clock continued to tick faintly and the building continued to creak as it tended to do. The parlor was cozy enough, a thick rug and nice furniture and warm lights, but there wasn’t much for Phil to do except wait. 

He and Quackity waited for so long, in fact, that the clock against one wall began to chime.

“Makes me think of a song, that does,” Quackity said absently. He promptly burst into said song, some ditty about bells and omens. “If one bell rings in the Tower of Bray, ding dong your true love will stay. Ding dong one bell today, in the Tower of Bray, ding dong!” 

Phil didn’t know it, but evidently it was common enough, for from below came a muffled-

“One bell today in the Tower of Bray! Ding dong!”

Quackity stopped short, looking down with confusion.

“What in hell was that?”

“My boy,” Phil said. “Helps me in the shop.” 

Quackity looked up.

“That came from the cellar, did it not?”

“Oh, it did.” Phil had to think fast. “Boy’s always been a little slow in the head, I hate to say. Always trying to run off so we find him two days later in a ditch somewhere. We keep him locked in at night for his own safety.”

“Hm,” Quackity said. Then he went back to singing. Tommy sang along from downstairs, voice a little jittery presumably with the effort of grinding the meat. 

“You know,” Phil said, “ever since we met you, my partner’s been saying how much he wishes you’d come in for a shave. Let him repay the favor you did all those weeks ago.”

“Really? Perhaps I’ll take him up on it.” Quackity cleared his throat. “Then lovers must pray!”

Ding.

Phil shot to his feet.

“Why, there he is!” He said with false levity. “In here, mate!”

Technoblade walked in. His step briefly faltered upon seeing Quackity, but one glance at Phil had him back to normal.

“The officer here came in with a complaint, wants to look in the cellar,” Phil said, trying to explain as fast as he could. “But I told him he had to wait on account as it’s locked and you have the key, and I told him how much you wanted to give him a shave and I figured we’ve already been waiting for quite a while, what’s a bit more?” 

Technoblade’s eyebrows creased slightly, but smoothed again as he turned to regard Quackity. 

“He’s right, why wait? I’ll give you a shave, then give you the key and you can be on your way.” 

“Well, if you insist.” Quackity set down his book and stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

Phil caught at Technoblade’s elbow for a moment, keeping him just a step behind. 

“What in heaven’s name were you doing, vanishing like that?” Phil muttered into his companion’s ear. “If you were up to something-”

“I’ll explain when I’m done with this,” Technoblade replied quietly, and laid his hand over Phil’s before pulling away to lead Quackity to the barbershop upstairs. 

Phil stayed downstairs. He replaced the book Quackity had been reading, turned off the parlor lights, and went to the kitchen to bank the fires for the night. 

“Smells in the chimney, my word,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t a man burn clothes and hair without being harassed for it? A little smoke and ash never killed anyone, and neither will a lot. Who’d even smell it? It’s the last thing I do at night, and folks in their beds won’t smell it unless they're right down the damn hall.” he sighed, and shut the oven. “No matter. It’s being handled.” 

Speak of the devil, right on time there was a thump-thump-thump as Quackity’s body plummeted through the chute. A few minutes later Technoblade reappeared, eyes shining with conquest. 

“He’s finished.”

Phil grinned. 

“I’d expect no less from you. Now, what the hell have you been up to?”

“Oh,” Technoblade said, and then he looked awkward, of all things. “Well, uh. I went to the judge.”

“You went to the- are you insane?” Phil swatted his chest. “Mate, Tommy’s gotten suspicious! We have more to worry about right now!”

Technoblade’s eyes narrowed. 

“Tommy knows?”

“No, but he certainly thinks you got up to something where Dream’s concerned. I’ve kept him busy and locked him in the cellar so he couldn’t run but we have to-”

Phil froze. 

“Phil?”

“The cellar,” Phil said. 

“And?”

“Quackity.”

The two exchanged a glance and moved. 

“Of course,” Phil cursed at himself, wrestling the key out of his pocket as he practically ran down the hall, “I forgot about him and it certainly won’t help our case dropping a bloody corpse on his head.”

“I told you,” Technoblade growled, “I told you he’d make trouble-”

“You’re the one who begged me to keep him in the first place!” Phil snapped back, and rammed the key into the lock. 

Click.

Footsteps on stone. Slow. Methodical. A pair of hunters, covering ground and sniffing out their prey. 

“Tommy?”

Phil’s voice was soft. Lilting. The voice of a parent coaxing their child awake in the morning. In other circumstances, it might’ve seemed sweet.

“To-o-ommy. Come on out, sweetheart. Where are you?”

Technoblade still held a razor. It glinted occasionally, having been wiped of blood already. 

Phil stopped at Quackity’s body, which lay crumpled at an odd angle on the floor beneath the chute. Nobody stood at the grinder anymore. 

“Tommy, I promise we can explain,” Phil said gently, holding out his hands to demonstrate that he held no weapons. “Just come on out, stop hiding.” 

Technoblade, behind him, was scanning every shadow and cranny of the cellar. Cast in darkness but for his eyes, he looked like a demon lurking at Phil’s heel. 

There was no sound. Not a rustle or gasp or whimper. 

Phil’s smile slipped into a frown. 

“Damn.”

“Gutter rats are sneaky, you should’ve already expected it,” Technoblade said lowly. “He’ll turn up eventually. The judge will be here soon.”

Phil sighed. 

“Yes, of course.”

Technoblade turned and ascended, but Phil hesitated for a moment. 

“Tommy?” he asked the cellar walls. “I know you want to protect me, sweetling, but right now you’re scaring me. Come on out and we can put all this behind us.”

Was that a rustle in the darkness? The sound of a soft, shuddery breath echoing off stone? Phil waited.

“Phil.”

Phil blinked and looked back. Techno was standing at the top of the stairs. His razor shone like a beacon, silvery and clean and clear. Deadly. 

Phil followed it as if to a siren song, and closed the cellar door again. 

“Do you want to be there?” Technoblade asked, glancing out the front window. No judge. Yet. 

“Hm? Oh, that.” Phil sighed. “No. I’ll stay down here, in case Tommy makes himself seen. Wouldn’t want him getting away.”

An affirmative grunt. Another glance outside. 

“I’ll wait upstairs,” Technoblade said eventually. “Wouldn’t want to… scare Tommy off, if- when he comes out.” 

Phil nodded, and Technoblade went. 

Technoblade was about halfway up the stairs when he heard… a sound. An odd, faintly familiar sound. 

Like singing. 

“I know you’re u-u-up here.” 

Technoblade kept going, every step careful and quiet. 

“You came up, but you didn’t come down. Did you get snatched, you nasty duck? Snatched in that devil’s sharp shiny teeth? You’d deserve it, you cruel thing. Cruel to a poor thing.”

It was that beggar woman visible through the crack of a door left ajar, half-dancing around the room and moving things as if Quackity would be hiding underneath them as her sing-song words bounced off the walls. 

“Come out come out, nasty duck. I know you want a bite, know you want a bite of a miserable woman.”

Technoblade pushed the door open more, which creaked despite his care. 

The woman’s head whipped around, body freezing. She looked awful here in the place Phil had made comfortable- filthy and bedraggled and unwanted. 

Technoblade hated her, hated her dark eyes and burned mouth and tangled hair and tattered dress. That hatred burned in his stomach whenever he saw her, and now it was overpowering. How dare she? How dare she come into this place, put her dirty fingers all over the room Phil had filled with care and defile it?

Technoblade stepped into the room. 

“You,” the woman hissed. 

“Me,” Technoblade replied. “You just had to come back, didn’t you? Had to keep troubling me. Couldn’t stay away.” 

“You’re a demon,” she spat back, “a demon in this place, filling it with the stink of evil. It’s not yours, not your place. You’ve stolen it. A thief. A damned thief and a murderer.” 

“Perhaps. Not that you’ll be able to tell anyone.” Technoblade lifted his razor, pointed directly at her. He suspected she was the one to tip the police off in the first place, which only made this more warranted. “This is the last time you’ll be a problem for me.”

The woman moved, sidling towards the door, and he lunged. 

She was fast, but he was faster, and he had the additional advantage of regular meals and a larger size, so despite her frantic scrambling under and around furniture and the fingertips that almost reached the door-

Technoblade grabbed her and slammed her to the floor, pinning her in place even as she thrashed and begged and cried out with that ugly hoarse voice so she was still enough for him to slash the razor he still clutched across her throat. 

He didn’t care that the noise may echo down the stairwell, that the sounds of a struggle may be heard down on the street, because his blood was singing with the battle, with the kill, with the satisfaction of removing another loose thread, and he cared about nothing but the razor in his hand.

Blood spurted out around his fingers in the middle of her gurgling half-formed plea, splattering to the floor with the force of the swing. She was choking, and this time Technoblade would not take mercy on her as he had for Dream. 

May she have a painful and long death, as deserved for her sins, may she wordlessly beg for kindness and bleed and suffer as she felt her life fading. 

Eventually the woman’s body went limp, and Technoblade let her fall with a crack as her skull hit the floor. 

Finally. It wasn’t the judge, but it was another obstacle to his and Phil’s happiness. He’d remove as many of those as it took. 

He went to the trapdoor, kicking it open, and went back to hide the evidence before the judge came. Technoblade wasn’t about to get whatever grime the body had picked up all over him, so he grabbed the woman’s corpse by the wrists and dragged it towards the chute so it wouldn’t touch him. 

It was lighter than the others, probably a combination of starving on the streets and being considerably smaller than his other clients. The motion smeared blood in a long trail across the floor, which made him sigh, but no matter. He could clean up before the judge came. Probably. He cared more about what blood he may have gotten on his clothes- normally he had time to change before then, but he didn’t know how soon the judge would arrive. 

Luckily, the blood was mostly confined to the floor, and all Technoblade had to do to conceal what little had gotten on his cuffs was to roll his sleeves up. Phil would scold him about stains, but considering the situation it was excusable. 

By the time there were footsteps on the stairs, Technoblade had gotten the blood off the floor and was polishing his razor nonchalantly. 

“Come in,” he said without looking up. The razor gleamed. “I’m glad you took this opportunity.”

“Well, hopefully you have steadier hands this time,” the judge retorted. “You should be glad I even reconsidered after that mistake.” 

Technoblade gave him a thin smile. 

“I am.”

Though not for the reason the judge wanted, or expected. It still rankled his pride to think of how he’d even managed to get the judge to think about coming back. Phil really should have appreciated it more- it was for him, after all. He was the only person Technoblade would do it for at all.

“It stinks in here,” the judge complained as Technoblade approached. He was lounging in the chair like he had before, smelling of alcohol.

“I was cleaning. I wanted to make up for my earlier… slip-up, give you a better experience.”

“Yeah, well, it still stinks.” the judge sniffed. “You people have no sense of subtlety, do you?”

“Subtlety can be learned,” Technoblade replied. “Making lye smell inoffensive can only be bought.” 

“One and the same.” The judge waved one hand. “Get on with it.”

Finally. 

Finally. 

No mistakes this time, no distractions, no interruptions. Just Technoblade fulfilling Phil’s vengeance. And the judge, marked for death the day Technoblade had taken up this mantle of dog, sword, and executioner for his one and only. 

“Y’know, I didn’t take you for a man who begs,” the judge said, scratching his neck and blocking his jugular. Technoblade bit his tongue and stomped down the tension in his bones, pretending there was nothing wrong. 

“This was important enough to warrant it. It is not something I usually do.”

“A prideful one, eh?” the judge barked out a laugh. “Too much pride, nowadays. Especially from the common folk. Not enough of them know how to bow to a superior. Like that- that baker.” 

Phil. Technoblade clenched his teeth. 

“Fucking- he was proud too. Too proud. A nobody like him, he should know how to- how to respect his betters, to bow or kneel or lick boots whenever asked.” 

The day Technoblade let anybody make Phil kneel was the day he was dead. Phil- Phil deserved more respect than this judge, deserved more power and command and control than this walking collection of vices. Phil deserved everything. 

All Technoblade could hear was the hum of the razor, of his head, the anticipation of when metal would finally break skin finally taste the blood it had long been craving finally let Technoblade be the destroying angel he was meant to be for his god and bask in the fires of hell-

 “You know, why stay a barber?” the judge asked. “You have the air of someone destined for more. I bet a few years and you’d have earned a tidy salary and a position in polite society.” 

“Polite society has never been particularly appealing to me,” Technoblade replied flatly. “I’m content where I am.” 

He was burying the almost almost almost singing under his skin, but it was growing louder and he was getting impatient. Why wait any longer? The judge was right here. There was no one left to interfere, no one left standing between him and his purpose. 

“That baker,” he said. “What do you think happened to him?”

A snort. 

“Shipped off to the colonies. Hopefully he’s dead.” 

“And if he wasn’t?”

“What would I care? He’s not a problem anymore. I got rid of him, fifteen years ago.”

“And if you hadn’t?” Almost. 

“If he never made it to the colonies at all?” 

Almost. 

“If he was right here in the city?”

The razor was cool in his hand. 

“Say, right downstairs?”

So sharp. 

“If he knew what’d you’d done and it burned in him, kept him going until he could return?”

So hungry. 

“If he met a barber that would do anything for him?”

Only one thing would satisfy it. 

“A barber you met and told everything?”

The judge’s blood.

“Who you told that your old problem should have licked your boots before you kicked him aside like garbage?”

It was so near. 

The judge moved as if to stand, but Technoblade grabbed him by the throat and pulled him back against the chair, fingers digging into the spot where he would finally be satisfied. 

“Actually,” he said, as the judge gasped and wheezed and clawed at his hand, “I think I already know the answer.” 

“Bastard,” the judge choked out, “I knew- I knew it-”

“What you didn’t know,” Technoblade said, “was that you’ve been dead for fifteen years.” 

The judge reached up, now trying to grab at his head, but he merely took that opportunity to finally take Phil’s revenge. 

His razor sank into the judge’s throat, earning a soft gasp. 

“You just didn’t know it.”

There was no choked gurgling this time. No other noises. 

“You know, Phil actually was reconsidering killing you,” Technoblade said conversationally. “And what Phil wants, I’ll do.”

The judge’s arms were sinking down, losing strength. 

“Then, of course, you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.” Technoblade shook his head. “I’ve killed for shallower reasons. What’s slitting a man’s throat for daring to speak ill of the person I’d give the world to if he asked?” 

He patted the judge’s shoulder. 

“You understand, don’t you? I thought you would.”

The judge’s corpse did not reply, already cooling as Technoblade heaved it out of the chair and towards the chute.

Thump thump thump. 

Finally, it was done.

Technoblade let out a long, slow sigh, pushing some stray hair out of his face with a non-bloody hand, and looked up. 

Meeting the gaze of the boy standing in the open doorway, dark eyes wide and taking in absolutely everything. 

One heartbeat. 

Two. 

The boy stepped back. He was that shopkeeper across the street, couldn’t have been older than twenty. Of course. 

Technoblade stepped forward. 

“I didn’t-” the boy stuttered out, “I didn’t see anything, I was- I was just- I was looking for someone!”

“Oh?” Another step. The boy moved back again. 

“Y-yes, that woman who begs on this street, she- I was supposed to meet her but I couldn’t find her and the last place she went was here-”

“Wrong answer.” Technoblade moved, eating up the distance and easily grabbing the much-slower boy, who immediately began to thrash as he was hauled backwards. 

“I promise! I swear I didn’t- I didn’t see- I didn’t see anyth-”

The razor still dripping with the judge’s blood swiped across the boy’s neck, snuffing him out like one would a light. Another loose thread severed. 

Great. Technoblade had planned for one murder tonight, but ended up with four within the span of an hour. He was almost getting tired of it. 

The shopkeeper’s body was light as Technoblade carted it towards the still-open trapdoor. Ordinarily, Technoblade might not have killed him, but things were too delicate now. This particular individual… complicated things. 

And he couldn’t allow for complications. 

Thump thump thump. 

Technoblade kicked the trapdoor shut and turned. He’d have to explain to Phil why things took so long. 

Phil wasn’t in the kitchen. Technoblade made sure of it, taking in the room, then moved to inspect the other rooms. 

Empty. No Phil, or Tommy. 

That left only the cellar. Considering Phil, he’d probably gone down to look for Tommy again with the idea that it would be easier without Technoblade lurking. 

There was a distinctly Phil cry, and Technoblade sped up. 

Down in the cellar, holding a candle in one hand, was Phil. He was kicking at the judge’s hand and face, then whipped around when Technoblade reached the bottom of the stairs. 

He let out a breath. 

“Oh, it’s just you. Jesus, you startled me.”

“I heard a noise,” Technoblade said. “What-”

“Our dear friend wasn’t quite dead,” Phil replied with a small and distinctly sharp smile, heel crunching against the judge’s nose with a last kick. “Grabbed my ankle.”

Technoblade grunted, and took in his handiwork. There, four bodies lay on the floor of the cellar: Quackity at the bottom, then the woman, then the judge, then the shopkeeper. 

“And- really, mate?” Phil gestured at the woman and the shopkeeper, whose eyes were both open. “Why?”

“They saw what they shouldn’t,” Technoblade replied, hoping to keep Phil’s attention off them. “They… were loose threads.” 

Phil sighed, looking down at them. 

“I always thought she looked familiar,” he murmured, obviously meaning the beggar woman. “Guess I’ll never know why.” 

“Because most women on the streets look similar,” Technoblade said flatly. 

“No, more than that. It’s-” Phil shook his head slightly, brushing some tangled hair out of the woman’s face. “I feel like I know her, or knew her, and- she remembered me. Recognized me.” 

“She was absolutely insane,” Technoblade said. “She might’ve thought you were someone else.” 

“It’s driving me insane,” Phil muttered, frowning down at the body. “The hair, the eyes, the dress.”

“Phil, leave it,” Technoblade said, “let’s search for Tommy and get back to business if we can’t find him.” 

“‘Don’t I know you?’” Phil whispered, head tilting the slightest bit. “That’s what she said. It’s the eyes, I think. The eyes. She has eyes that remind me of-”

Whatever the next word was, it died in Phil’s throat. He stared down at the body on the floor next to him, something like recognition in his face. Or horror. 

It was the exact thing Technoblade hadn’t wanted. 

“Phil,” he said. “Phil.”

Phil raised a hand. He blinked. 

“Mate,” he said, voice light and airy and incredibly unnerving, “why did you lie to me?”

“About?” Technoblade folded his arms. 

Phil looked up finally, meeting his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me my wife was alive?” 

A moment. 

Technoblade sighed, and rolled his eyes. 

“Just look at her. Would you have wanted to know she’d been reduced to- to this?” he waved vaguely. “Your perfect beautiful wife, a madwoman begging on the street and lost forever? It would have destroyed you.” 

“It destroyed me every day thinking she was dead!” Phil shouted. “You told me she was dead, I trusted you-”

“I never told you she was dead,” Technoblade snapped back. “I told you she drank poison, she had. Not my fault you assumed the worst.”

“Well it’s your fault we have to even have this conversation!” Phil stood, burying his hands in his hair as he began to pace. “Now how am I supposed to trust you on anything you told me? If she was truly gone and would never be mine again, that is one grief, but- to make me grieve her and my son and the same time, that’s-” 

He stopped short.

“Phil?”

“You wouldn’t,” he breathed. 

Technoblade didn’t move. 

Phil slowly turned to look at him, voice getting stronger. 

“You wouldn’t lie to me about my son, would you?” Phil asked. “You wouldn’t make me think that my entire family was gone, telling me that my innocent, stolen son was dead when he was living perfectly and happily somewhere, would you?”

Technoblade said nothing. 

But he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking over, from finding the fourth body laid out on the floor, from damning him by settling on that second loose thread. 

Something in Phil’s expression snapped. 

“You didn’t,” he said, and this time it wasn’t incredulous. It was… darker. 

He turned, kneeling next to the corpse of that young shopkeeper, with his wide dark eyes and curly hair and knack with birds. 

“How could this be?” Phil whispered. His hands moved out, trailing over the face of the son he’d found a moment too late. “How could you have been just across the street all this time and I’d never realized?” He choked on a little sound that might have been a sob, brushing some hair out of those unseeing eyes. “Oh, look at you. Look at you, you’re so big. You grew up and I never got to see it and here you are anyway, oh- oh, God, you look like her. You look like her and I know nothing else about you because you were stolen from me and-” He choked again, throwing his next words at Technoblade. “How could you? She- Kristen was one thing, but my- my son?”

“He would have been a distraction.” Technoblade’s voice was flat, but it was shaking despite his effort as emotion bled through. “Tommy was a distraction, a mistake I will admit I made that turned you soft, and he shares none of your blood. Your son? You’d have fluttered off and none of what we accomplished together would have happened. We never would have- would have properly got to know each other. And doesn’t that- look, I may have lied, but it doesn’t change anything. Died fifteen years ago, died fifteen minutes ago, what does it matter?”

Phil laughed. It wasn’t the nice kind of laugh, the kind that burned in Technoblade’s chest. This was derisive, cutting, grating against him. 

“What does it matter?” Phil repeated, and laughed again. “It matters, Tech, it definitely matters! It’s-” he stumbled to his feet, more cackling stuttering out of his chest as if he couldn’t stop. “I wanted the judge dead beca- because I thought my family was dead, but they weren’t! And then you kil- killed them because you were trying to kill the judge!” 

“Phil,” Technoblade said, getting decidedly uneasy, “you-”

“This whole time I’ve hated the judge because he killed them,” Phil said, shoulders heaving around laughter and struggling breaths that almost suddenly faded, leaving him standing trembling in the cellar. “But it was you.” 

Technoblade watched, unsure and slightly on edge as Phil stumbled over to the grinder, leaning heavily on the table. 

“It was you,” Phil said again, “It was- you killed them.” His head was down. “You took my family from me.” 

“They weren’t important,” Technoblade insisted. “They were obstacles, Phil, listen- I didn’t have a choice. I wanted you to be happy.”

“And yet you lied to me.” 

“Because I wanted to make things easier! Listen, Phil, I never wanted to hurt you. I’m yours, I’d never-”

“But you did.” Phil cocked his head. “What did you say? That my son was a distraction? That neither of them were important?”

“They weren’t-”

“They were everything to me!” Phil screamed. 

“And you are my everything!”

Phil whirled around, and his eyes burned. 

“That’s all this is, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “A territorial dog, killing any interlopers. You wanted me all to yourself, right from the beginning.”

He was holding a knife. 

“Phil,” Technoblade said, raising his hands in a last effort to calm his friend down, “you don’t like knives, remember? You don’t like stabbing things that are alive.” 

Phil smiled at him, and for half a moment it was like how things used to be. 

“Oh, mate,” Phil said affectionately. He tightened his grip. “I think I can make an exception this time.” 

And then he lunged.

Technoblade barely managed to dodge, trying to avoid frantic swipes and stabs as he tried to think of a plan. He was used to being the attacker, not being attacked! He still had his razor, he could- no, could he? Could he really kill Phil?

No time to think. Phil was getting closer, making another attempt. All Technoblade could do was grab Phil’s hand, twist the wrist, and pull him closer. 

Phil let out a quiet choking sound, looking up at Technoblade with no fire in his eyes. The fingers under Technoblade’s, wrapped around the handle of the knife shoved deep between ribs, were warm. They’d once trailed across his face gently, those eyes fixed on him with something like affection. Now there was none of that. Just betrayal. 

“You really should let me handle the killing,” Technoblade murmured against his forehead. “Knives aren’t your strong suit.”

Phil gasped for breath once, twice, going limp against Technoblade’s chest. 

Technoblade stroked blonde hair he’d been the one to cut, letting himself be gentle for once. 

“Tech,” Phil whispered, and it was wet and sticky against his neck. “You bastard.” 

“I’ll see you in hell, Phil.” 

It was a long moment before Technoblade moved. When he did so, it was to gently lay Phil in between his wife and son, to remove the knife still between ribs and lay it aside. Phil’s eyes were closed, and if you ignored the wound splitting fabric and flesh, he might’ve looked peaceful. Finally reunited with his family, after fifteen years.

Technoblade took a few steps away and couldn’t stand anymore, crumpling to the floor on his hands and knees. He couldn’t breathe, choking breaths tearing from his throat as his eyes burned. 

He’d done what he was supposed to, done everything he could, and now- what was this? This couldn’t be happening, he couldn’t- Phil couldn’t hate him, right?

“Phil,” he choked out, pulling himself back over and burying his fingers in that hair, “Phil, please, I’m sorry.” 

Phil didn’t open his eyes. 

“Phil,” Technoblade pleaded, “please, I’m sorry, look at me- look at me, please.”

Nothing. Technoblade couldn’t suppress all of a whine, trembling as though he was about to fall apart. Maybe he was, he couldn’t- he couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t live without blue hellfire and careful fingers on his face and the strange baker with cannibalistic tendencies that had walked into his life one day and become his everything. 

Technoblade was so busy trying to make Phil hear him, trying to rouse him as if he could be roused, that no attention was paid to the rest of the cellar. 

However, in one corner, there was a patch of shadow. A patch of shadow where many things could hide. Generally it was rats, or other vermin. 

What stirred in the corner at this moment, unnoticed by the only other living soul down in the cellar, was too large to be a rat. It was, though, about the right size to be a young boy. This young boy slowly and carefully left the shadows in an odd scuttling motion, moving on all fours as if he’d forgotten to walk upright. 

“Grind it twice to make it tender, spice it twice to make it sweet.”

Tommy cocked his head, inspecting the scene. 

“But don’t you ever wonder where the baker got his meat,” he continued in that strange sing-song voice. He moved forwards, stopping a safe distance away from the corpses and the quietly-weeping Technoblade. “I really did never trust you. And now look, made a mess you ‘ave, killed everyone I ever did love and some extras too.” 

Technoblade finally realized there was something else there and looked up. He and Tommy locked eyes. 

“Phil was good to me,” Tommy said, “and you killed him.” He cocked his head the other direction, picking his way around the row of corpses. “Phil was good to you too. He trusted you.” 

Technoblade merely blinked and didn’t otherwise move as Tommy wrenched his fist open, finally pulling free the razor covered in two sets of blood. 

“We were gonna be happy, the three of us.” 

A soft noise left Technoblade’s nose, and he reached up. Tommy skittered away, but all the man did was lay one finger against a particular spot on his throat. Bullseye.

A moment. Two. 

Tommy carefully got closer, well within arm’s reach. He looked down at Technoblade with an absent, hazy expression. Something had snapped within him too, it seemed. 

No matter. Technoblade closed his eyes as the sweet kiss of his own razor finally met his jugular. 

“Maybe they’re out.” 

“Don’t be stupid, the sign says ‘open’.” 

There were two boys standing outside the bakery. They were in similar clothing, well-worn and not the right size, having come from the same place to begin with. 

The shorter lifted himself up on his tiptoes, peering through the window of the bakery. 

“The letter should have got to them yesterday,” he said thoughtfully. “I dunno why Tommy wouldn’t be waiting right outside so he could grab us and make us all fall over.”

“I think we came to the wrong place,” the taller boy replied fretfully. His pants were far too short on him. “Maybe we can ask around-” 

He was interrupted by the shorter twisting the knob of the door, which immediately swung open. 

“Hey, it’s not locked!” 

“Wait, Tubbo-” The taller ran after his companion, who’d shot inside as soon as the door was open enough to let him through. “What if they catch us?”

“Then we’ll tell them the sign said ‘open’ and the door was unlocked!” Tubbo peeked inside each of the rooms he passed. All were empty. “This is weird.” 

“What if Tommy never got the letter?”

“Ranboo, stop worrying for five seconds.” 

Ranboo looked around as he trailed after Tubbo, then paused.

“No but-”

“I’m serious, it’s probably not that weird-”

Ranboo clapped a hand over Tubbo’s mouth to quiet him. 

“No,” the taller boy said, “listen. I hear something.”

Both fell silent. 

At first, there was nothing of note to hear. The creak of wood, the clamour of the people outside. 

But then, ever so faintly-

“-it twice to make it tender, spice it twice to make it sweet. But don’t you ever wonder where the baker got his meat. The pies are better when unknowing, of course until a tooth is showing. Then you will feel even sicker, realize that the pie’s your vicar-” 

The boys exchanged a glance, and started walking. They eventually found the door to what had to have been a cellar, ajar and leading only to blackness. 

“Tommy?” Tubbo called.

The voice stopped abruptly. 

“Tommy, what-” Tubbo moved to go down the stairs, but was stopped by Ranboo. 

“It’s pitch black!” Ranboo protested. “Let’s- grab a candle, or something.” 

“Fine,” Tubbo said with a huff, and folded his arms. “I’m waiting here though.”

Ranboo rolled his eyes and walked off to look for a candle. While he was gone, Tubbo squinted at the darkness down in the cellar as if it would part before the intensity of his gaze. 

“Here.” Ranboo pushed a lit candle into his hand. “You go first.”

“Way to get over your fear of spiders.”

“I’m pretty sure this is more a fear of creepy singing coming from a creepy dark cellar even if-”

Tubbo started going down the steps and left Ranboo no choice but to follow, the latter clutching his friend’s shoulders. 

“God, it stinks,” Tubbo complained, putting one hand over his nose. “Why’s- it smells like something died in here. Tommy! You down here?” 

“I’m gonna be sick,” Ranboo said, voice muffled from the plugging of his own nose. 

“You can save it until we find Tommy.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and both stopped short. 

“Y’know, on second thought, go ahead,” Tubbo said. 

The candle’s light, though faint, had illuminated what was clearly a series of one-two-three-four-five-six human corpses scattered about the floor, having been there for a few days at least.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo whispered while Ranboo retched off to the side, stepping forward with wobbly legs. “Tommy? Tommy, you okay?” 

The bodies- oh, god, he couldn’t really take them in. He didn't want to think about rotting flesh, insects crawling over eye sockets or- were those teeth marks? They dug into the skin and muscle of most of the corpses, only one having remained whole. It looked like a man, Tubbo guessed, blood staining a white shirt and blonde hair matted around its head. 

Tubbo took a step forward. 

“I know someone’s down here,” he said, obviously trying to be brave but unable to fully quell the trembling of his voice. “So who is it? Fess up.” 

He didn’t think any of the bodies belonged to Tommy. They all looked more like adults, plus the voice he and Ranboo had heard sounded like Tommy. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo tried for about the fiftieth time, “it’s me, Tubbo. It’s okay.” 

What had happened here? Tubbo didn’t even want to guess, because he’d probably join Ranboo and right now he needed to be at least somewhat collected. 

“Toms?” He stepped around the un-chewed body, then was unable to keep his eyes from skipping to the next in the row and tilted his head. That couldn’t have been… was that Wilbur? He’d left the workhouse over a year ago, had gone on to bigger and brighter things. He couldn’t have ended up rotting in the cellar of a bakery, could he? “Toms, it’s me.”

Finally, finally there was a soft whimper from one corner of the cellar. Tubbo turned towards it, letting the candle light his way. 

And there he was, crouched in a ball and rocking back and forth in one of the room’s corners. Tommy shied away from the light, scrambling without standing up, and the light gleamed off wide frantic eyes. 

“Toms, it’s Tubbo,” Tubbo said. “It’s me, and it’s Ranboo. You remember us. We’re your best friends.” 

Tommy blinked a few times in rapid succession, staying where he was. 

“We came here to find you,” Tubbo said. “We- we wanted to visit you.” 

A pause, and Tommy coughed. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said. His voice was… weird. Almost sing-songy. He didn’t uncurl from the ball. The only things visible were his eyes and his hair.

Tubbo blinked. 

“Uh. Why?”

Okay, it might have been obvious, but Tubbo was still curious as to how Tommy had survived whatever left six other people dead around him. 

“I’m supposed to grind the meat,” Tommy said. “I’m supposed to- I have to grind the meat.” 

What?

“Why?” Tubbo asked slowly. 

“Because Phil said so,” Tommy explained, like it was obvious. Had a streak of his hair gone white? “Phil said so, and I can’t- I can’t leave until it’s done.” 

“Who’s Phil?”

Another almost-animal whine.

“I can’t- I can’t grind them, I can’t be good, they won’t- they won’t fit and I can’t make them fit and I’m- I want to be good.”

“You are good,” Tubbo said, looking back at the bodies. This can’t have been…

He couldn’t deny that one of those arms looked like it had been stuffed into a meat grinder at one point. 

“I’m not,” Tommy said, and his voice was getting higher and louder. “I’m not, I’m not supposed to eat the wares- I’m not- I can’t eat the wares but I’m so hungry!” He was wailing at that point, a terrified animal driven to madness by something Tubbo didn’t know anything about.

“It’s okay, hey, it’s okay,” Tubbo said, “it’s- I’m sure Phil would understand.” 

“It’s not as good as when Phil makes it,” Tommy whimpered, hands scrabbling at the floor below him so he was slightly unfurled, “it’s not as good but I’m hungry I’m so hungry I’m so hungry-”

Tubbo’s stomach was definitely churning now. He didn’t want to put the pieces together but it was happening already, the teeth that didn’t belong to rats and Tommy’s hunger and the gore smeared across Tommy’s face, stains of various ages over his chin and mouth and cheeks in that sickening rusty-brown color.

“How ‘bout you come with us,” he attempted, “and we can get you something to eat.” 

Tommy hadn’t stopped shaking yet, eyes always fixed unblinkingly on Tubbo’s face. 

“This isn’t as good as Phil makes it,” Tommy repeated, “it’s- it’s bitter. I don’t like it as much as Phil makes it.” 

“Then we’ll get you something else,” Tubbo said. “C’mon, Toms, let’s get out of here.” 

“But I don’t-” Tommy shook his head, rewrapping his arms around himself. “I don’t want to leave him. I don’t wanna- he could get hurt. I left him alone once and he got hurt and I don’t-”

“Who?”

“Phil. I told him not to trust- I said I’d- I’d protect him- he-” Tommy started to wail again, rocking back and forth with that ceaseless noise bouncing off the walls. Tubbo glanced back at the bodies again. Five obviously used to satiate Tommy’s hunger. One left alone. 

“We were going to be happy!” Tommy screamed, clawing now at his shoulders, at his hair. “We were going to be happy! I wanted to be happy!” 

“Were you happy with us?” 

Tommy sniffled and finally quieted, hunching his shoulders. 

“I don’t- I- maybe.” 

“Then how about you come with us,” Tubbo wheedled, slowly and carefully extending one hand. “You come with me and Ranboo, and we can look after you and all three of us be happy together.” 

Tommy sniffled again. 

“I don’t wanna-”

“Leave Phil, I know. But I think he’d want you to come with us, and- and your food won’t last forever.” 

Which was gross just to say, but if it got Tommy out of this awful place, Tubbo would say anything. He wasn’t about to leave his best friend here. 

Tommy was silent for a long moment. He didn’t stop moving, eyes flicking and body rocking and fingers grabbing, but he was obviously thinking Tubbo’s suggestion over. 

Please, Tubbo internally begged nobody. Please, come with us. I can’t let you die here, not like everyone else did.

“And you won’t-” Tommy gulped audibly, breathing shuddery. “You won’t leave?”

“No,” Tubbo said, “no, we won’t leave you. We’ll get a nice house somewhere and live happily, all three of us.”

Tommy sniffled. 

“By the seaside? Where we can see the ocean?” 

Tubbo blinked, but nodded. 

“Yeah, Toms, if that’s what you want.”

“I want to learn how to fish.” 

“Yeah, we can- we can learn how to fish. We can make a competition of it, see who catches more.” 

Another excruciating, agonizing moment, but finally Tommy unfurled, unfolding into a skittery collection of bony limbs that carried him over to Tubbo, who helped him up. 

Tommy stumbled and nearly collided with Tubbo, radiating the stench of- well- a lot of things. Tubbo smoothed his hair anyway, making a note to wash all that old blood and stuff off his face as soon as possible. 

“Hi, Toms. Been a while, hasn’t it?” 

“I missed you,” Tommy mumbled. He looked about ready to collapse, so Tubbo wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him towards the stairs. 

“Missed you too.” 

Ranboo rejoined them, still looking sick but obviously well enough to post himself at Tommy’s other side, all three taking the stairs at once. 

Up in the bakery proper, afternoon light dim and distant, Tommy still squinted and blinked rapidly. 

“How long were you down there?” Tubbo asked softly, shutting the door behind them. Leave the horrors there, in the past and in the earth. 

“I don’t-” Tommy made a frantic gesture at one of the rooms Tubbo and Ranboo had searched previously. “My stuff, my stuff- my stuff’s in there.” 

“Then let’s get it.” 

Tommy had been stuck in that dark cellar with six rotting corpses for four days. He was weak, and wild, and not like the Tommy Tubbo remembered. He’d seen something, something so dark and so horrible that it had changed him permanently. 

Whatever it was, Tubbo promised himself that Tommy would never have to go through it again. Would never have to think of it again. 

He and Ranboo, arms around their friend, pushed the front door open and stepped into the sunlight.