Chapter Text
It’s an old dream.
He’s falling through an expanse of empty black. Stars clip his sides, cutting deep lines into his skin and tearing through every inch of his wings. Phil’s winter clothes have disappeared, left by only a tunic and slacks that let all the cold of space cover him entirely. He’s alone. He’s frozen. He’s scared.
The stars have begun to go out, far above him. He can’t open his mouth far enough to scream. The stars are winking out, one by one.
No — they’re not going out. Someone is covering them.
Phil lurches up out of his bed with a strangled gasp of both fear and pain. Old wounds — wounds that don’t exist out of nightmares anymore, long healed — flare up on his sides, and he bows over, hissing as they slowly fade. It feels like a burn wound. Sharp and quick and then gone as melted tissue destroys nerves and he becomes unable to feel it any longer.
The dream is one he’s had off and on for many years. It all started once he moved down to the SMP. Visions of a sun blotted out by talons and scales, the air covered in a heavy cover of smoke and smog. There have been other variations in the past — the moon swallowed whole by far too many teeth, a single jade emerald turned a sickly purple and black. But this haunts Phil the most. He supposes it’s probably the fact that a stronghold lies just beneath the mountains above him.
Ah, well. It’s his secret to bear.
He slips slowly from beneath his blankets, his back tense, every moment another flash of hot pain. Straightening his back, it cracks, a noisy sound accompanied by another stab — this time through his shoulders and neck. Turning his head to one side, and then the other, he breathes through the stiffness.
Getting beaten into unconsciousness and then doused in freezing antarctic water in one day is not good for someone’s joints. Especially not someone with years and years and years of injuries to worry about.
Standing is a long and arduous process that he’s tempted to just give up on several times. But he manages it regardless, just as he does every day before today. At the very least, this room is warm. The fireplace has gone out yet some of the heat manages to remain in the blankets and such beneath him.
The clothes he’d worn yesterday aren’t dirty enough for him to warrant rooting about in Technoblade’s closets. He just tugs them back on, doing a quick pass in the restroom and wetting his hair into less of an actual bird’s nest. The sun has barely begun to rise outside, but he heads out of his room anyways, wandering back through the halls of the massive home.
He’s as silent as a cat, yet he feels exposed. There’s too much space. No actual home can be found. No paintings on the walls, no drapery over the windows, no plants nor bookshelves. Not a single hall feels lived in despite the vast and extravagant space. Phil finds himself musing about what he would put where and how he would arrange it if he actually lived here.
But his stomach calls for attention, and so he heads down the stairs in an attempt to find the kitchen. It takes several more minutes for him to find the place in the frankly ridiculous home he finds himself in — who the hell designed this thing? — but his search comes to an end with white marble countertops and dark oak cupboards, a few chairs scattered around an open dining area but none cohesive enough to suggest Technoblade has invited anyone over in a long time.
He spots a small coffee container and makes a beeline, rummaging about in Technoblade’s lower cupboards until he finds a saucepan. Everything seems both well-loved and rarely used at once, some things rusted and scraped and then left to collect dust. The water from the tap plunks steadily into his pan as he warms the stove, measuring out a cup or two of the coffee grounds in preparation. Hell — he’ll even make some for Technoblade. Why not get on his new boss’s good graces?
Then, because Phil is hungry and also because he’s incapable of not pushing his luck, he turns to the icebox and pulls it open, ducking his head in and grimacing at the freezing cold air. There are a few boxes of loose vegetables, a slab of bacon (and isn’t that a little ironic?) and a carton of eggs.
The eggs cook quickly. He isn’t used to a stove that actually cooks his food properly, and it’s a struggle to not burn the damn things as he juggles his coffee and his breakfast both at the same time. Soon enough, though, the smell of fresh-cooked food and brewing caffeine fills the room, wafting about as his wings disturb and stir the miasma of tastes together in the air.
There’s a bang. A creak.
Phil’s gun is in his hands before he can speak, wrenched out of its holster and pointed directly at the threat. Threat, threat, threat — a threat to him and this house and to everything he is and everything he stands for, and—
And Technoblade raises his eyebrows, entirely too nonchalant and still dressed in his nightclothes, standing at the door.
Phil coughs awkwardly, shaking hands tucking his gun back in its holster. He shoves an embarrassed grin into his elbow and then laughs the situation off as best he can.
“Uh- sorry, mate,” he says, turning back around to see Technoblade’s eyebrows managing to raise even further. He looks a little funny, but Phil can’t laugh again because oh man, oh god he’s going to get murdered someday, isn’t he? “I— made breakfast.”
“You stole my eggs,” Technoblade replies.
Phil frowns. “Well, you could at least-”
“You pillaged my coffee.”
They stare at each other.
“You are burning my eggs,” Technoblade borderline whines, and Phil turns back around with a loud curse, turning the burner off and yanking the pan off the stove. The edges are a little charred, but it isn’t anything Phil can rightfully call unsalvagable. He shoves them off the pan as quickly as possible and plates them into an awaiting dish, watching the steam rise off of them. Technoblade stares. “...Bruh.”
“What?” Phil implores, slightly desperate. He’d just made this asshole breakfast.
“That was fast,” replies the half-piglin quietly. “I kind of miss eggs.”
This time, instead of replying, Phil just prods the plate forward meaningfully, inviting Technoblade to take it with a raised eyebrow and a sheepish grin. And, a moment later, he takes it. Phil realizes he’s forgotten to get out forks when Technoblade just reaches in and picks up a whole hunk of scrambled egg, chewing it slowly as he tests out the flavors and wipes his dirty hands on the front of his undershirt.
“Hm,” he says distantly, still slowly chewing. Then, with a swallow and a nod: “Yer’ not too bad at this.”
Phil just rolls his eyes and reaches for his own plate.
It doesn’t take much longer for him to get ready. Technoblade, on the other hand, uses the better half of an hour to very slowly eat his breakfast and drink his coffee. By the time they get out the door, the sun is well up into the sky, no matter how many clouds have covered it. They drive along in silence, though every jolt of the car sends an aching throb through Phil’s bones, every quick stop another pulse through the headache in his temples.
Eventually, Technoblade seems to have enough of the silence. He looks over when Phil gives the sun a particularly angry wince, raising his eyebrows. “Did you get into my liquor cabinets last night? You know I can’t have anyone drunk on the job. ‘Specially not a cop.”
“No,” Phil replies, anger coursing hot and quick through his blood at the idea. I have crippling chronic pain, he wants to say . Instead, he lands on: “You smashed my head in with your gun then doused me in ice water, asshole.”
“Oh.” The hybrid sniffs awkwardly. “Oh yeah. I did. Bruh.”
Then, silence.
Phil is more than familiar with the awkward sort of quiet that accompanies two people who don’t like each other very much sitting in the same car together. So he just stares out the window, dissociating enough to wonder when the hell Technoblade will trust him enough to let him go and get his own car.
They steer their way into the old warehouse just as the clock hits 7. It’s later than a shift would usually start on the force, so he can’t exactly complain, but the change makes him antsy. He itches to be up and working already, not just slowly meandering his way through The Syndicate’s headquarters. If he were a lesser man, he might even crack a joke about being an early bird — but seeing as he’s never actually liked getting up early, he thinks any jokes about his insomnia are liable to send him into a bloodthirsty wrath.
“You need to get yourself some winter clothes,” Technoblade says out of the blue, turning around in his own massive coat, nodding. “Mhm. I’ll give you your first paycheck early. Just— stop almost freezin’ to death on my front door.”
That almost makes Phil want to die via frostbite in front of Technoblade’s house — like a cat leaving a dead animal on someone’s door, yet he’s the cat and the bird at once. But he just nods in response, already budgeting out the costs in his head.
“Oh! He needs a thing!”
Phil startles. Technoblade does as well, though he doesn’t reach for his gun — just groans and turns to the source with a glare.
There in the middle of the hall is Tommy. Fresh-faced, beaming, and looking far too eager for his outburst to be about anything good.
“A thing?” Phil inquires.
“A thing,” Technoblade sighs. “It’s—”
“It’s so that we all match,” explains the boy across from them, slipping his fingers across the soft green bandana tied to his neck. “I’ve got this, Ran- boo has got his glasses, Tubbo an’ his novelty socks — we’ve got it all. Cmon, Techno, I’ve gotta get Phil a thing! He’s not a proper part of the gang without one.”
“S’ not a gang.”
Tommy groans in frustration at this. “You know what I mean. Listen—” and he pitters forward, his grin stretching into something almost painfully large and mischievous. “You’ll never belong here unless you’ve got a thing, Philza. You’ll always just be a guy.”
He almost tells the kid that that sounds alright to him. But behind all of Tommy’s malevolent vigor, he looks eager, too. Childishly so, and who is Phil to deny a kid something as simple as some random trinket? It doesn’t matter to him, but he needs to make allies with these people either way.
“And if I get a— a thing?” He raises his eyebrows. “What does it have to be?”
In the corner of his vision, he sees Technoblade move. He returns his hands to his front with a small golden earring within them — nothing more than a simple cuff. “This is mine. Niki has a bracelet. Eret’s got some sunglasses or somethin’, I think.”
Phil mulls it over for a moment. On the one hand — he doesn’t want to purchase anything special so early into his first paycheck. Money is made to be saved, not spent, in days like these. In the past he would perhaps have uncountable riches — but those are just assets now. Rubies and diamonds and emeralds may sell for lots, but those aren’t currency any longer. He almost feels like enemies of years gone past, hoarding riches and weapons and secrets, long dead to anyone but them.
But, he’s only just started working here. If he doesn’t build up trust quickly, no one will ever trust him. So he nods, trying not to be too afraid of the wide smile that crawls onto Tommy’s speckled face.
—-
After a full hour of being dragged around a second-hand shop, Phil is officially exhausted of shopping. Probably forever, too, because Tommy keeps pulling out completely random things he wants to be Phil’s thing. A small bright gold wallet, shoes with pink laces, even a pair of kneepads intended for rollerskates. Phil just wants to get a few jackets and go, but he did promise to get a thing, and he doesn’t make promises lightly.
How could he? When he was a child, legends of the River Styx and of curses as strong as gods themselves wandered around. Maybe some were only meant to scare people into keeping their promises. But Phil’s skepticism has never thrown him too dangerously from his path, so he follows Tommy along anyways. It’s not like the kid is hurting anyone with his enthusiasm.
Half an hour later and after nearly getting hit by several taxis, Phil isn’t so sure about that. At least he has a coat — a long, half-cloak type thing, moss green with golden buttons. It’s surprisingly beautiful for something out of a charity shop, but he’s already got to fix its lack of wing slits. Tommy, though, is not satisfied. He drags Phil to several other stores — shoe stores, cafes, even libraries, though only End knows why the hell he thinks they’ll find clothes at a library.
Eventually, he’s yanked by one sleeve into a hat store. Now — Phil does not wear hats. They’re inconvenient for flights, even if it’s been a long time since he was a traveler, required to fly about to take his trips. He’s settled down here in SMP. He’s never considered any sort of headwear, though, so when Tommy drags him into the store, he’s just desperate to find something and be able to go home.
“You’d better not pick something fucking horrid, Phil,” Tommy reiterates. It’s the same message he’s given upon entering about five other stores, so the avian he’s addressing can only nod and pray to some unknown entity for mercy. “I will, literally, shoot you.”
His hand wanders too close to his pocket for comfort — though Phil knows the kid doesn’t have a gun. Technoblade had told him. Still, he trusts both of them as far as he can fly away from them, so he just groans and curses and nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Why a hat, though? I fly.”
“Because I want you to die.”
Phil splutters weakly, before he turns and punches Tommy in the shoulder. Hard.
“Ah- You’re abusing a child!” Tommy scream-whispers right back, rubbing at the spot where he was punched mournfully. The attendant in the hat shop looks over though, and Tommy quiets, ducking his head down so a shelf of fedoras covers him. “You’re a prick. A stupid prick.”
“You said you want me to die,” Phil argues back, before he ducks down too, punching Tommy again — though a bit softer. The kid yelps and scampers backward, dodging and weaving away as Phil’s wings bend, threatening to hit his sides. “Mate— hold still-”
“No!” exclaimed Tommy as he jumps backward and ducks down to the floor. “No- no you’re trying to beat me!”
“I sure the fuck— gah!”
Phil is cut off as Tommy jumps up, a hand coming from behind his back to slam a hat into his face. Spluttering and rubbing at his nose, Phil recoils, ripping the hat away from his face and growling at the idiot before him.
“Hey— none of that in here!” Shouts the shop attendant loudly, and Phil looks over the hat-racks to see a burly old man lumbering over to them, limping dramatically and left hand curled around a cane. His eyes narrow on Tommy.
The raccoon hybrid freezes, eyes suddenly wide and skin pale. The ringed edges of his eyes seem to darken — and from close up, Phil can see fear, sharp and rapid, crawl up onto his face. It hits him — the shop owner isn’t a hybrid, and Tommy and Phil very obviously are.
So he does what anyone who might be about to have the cops called on him would do. He wraps his hand around Tommy’s wrist, and he runs.
They make it out of the shop as the attendant continues to scream, shouts of thief interspersed healthily between curses and hollering. Tommy still seems shell-shocked as he’s pulled outside and down the street, though Phil doesn’t let him falter. He drags the kid across the street on quick, pounding legs, his turn to almost get them hit by a car. The near-miss with the vehicle proves useful, though, because the shopkeep stops short of getting hit as well, giving Phil and Tommy an out.
They weave through alleyways and hop over short fences, legs pounding across the concrete on autopilot. Phil’s coat and wings fly out behind him, Tommy’s long hair a streak of blond across brick-red and the steel of fire escapes chasing after them. It’s only once they’ve made considerable space between them and the store that Phil stops, breathing heavily, still clutching at Tommy’s wrist as he bends over and plants his other hand on his knee.
“Holy. Fuck,” says the boy, breathless. His face is a bright rosy red with exertion, his eyes wide but no longer fearful. He giggles once, then twice. Then he bursts out laughing, ripping his wrist away and smothering endless hacking coughs into his arm, squatting down as he starts to lose his balance.
Phil turns to him, grinning. “How does it feel to be a thief, you little shit?”
“Wh- whu- huh?” He attempts to ask, still coughing and laughing desperately. His eyes are streaming with tears, his fangs out and bobbing up and down with every single loud chuckle. When Phil points to his hand, he startles. “Ouagh- fuck!”
This time, Phil has to double over with a cackle, choking on his own spit at the horrified expression on Tommy’s face. They both continue to laugh harder and harder in both fear, excitement, and genuine joy, Phil forced to slump over against the wall as he starts coughing.
In Tommy’s hand, clenched in a death grip, is a hat. The hat he’d punched Phil with, specifically. And gods, it’s absolutely hideous. A large-brimmed white fabric sunhat — probably made for women. It’s striped white and green with a string of black ribbon around the part where you slip your head in, and it looks expensive.
“This is—” Tommy coughs again, giggling. “This is by far the most stupid shit I’ve ever stolen.”
“S’ gotta be— gotta—” and Phil is off again, sobbing another laugh into his own shoulder. “S’ gotta be my thing now, mate. Gimme the stupid hat.”
“N- oooooooo!” Tommy warbles, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “No, it’s so ugly Phil!”
“It’s— Give it over!”
He yanks the hat out of the kid’s hands and slams it onto his head, laughing again when the tag hanging out of it flies out and smacks him in the nose. He stops laughing abruptly when he sees the price tag, though. Even in the dingy light, he can see that it has at least two zeros at the end of its number. Tommy must notice too, because he cuts off, a weak gurgle falling from his lips.
“Aw, man… Why did you get something so expensive for your thing.” Tommy points at his bandana mournfully, pouting. “I found this in a dumpster!”
As they both taper off into another round of hysterical laughter, Phil realizes he doesn’t remember the last time he laughed this much.
—-
“It’s stupid.”
Phil nods at Technoblade. It isn’t that he disagrees, but he’s so emotionally attached to the stupid hat now that he’s not sure he could get rid of it if he tried.
Technoblade just sags, half in disappointment and half in what looks like mirth. Then he flicks out a hand, smacking the brim of the hat with his clawed fingers and making it fly over Phil’s face. When he lifts it back up again, cursing in mild offense, the piglin hybrid is shoving his glasses up and squinting closer.
“You could at least take the ugly little ribbon off,” he grouches.
“What? Can stand your employees looking indecent?”
“Yes,” is Technoblade’s exaggerated growl of a response. So Phil laughs — even if his throat is still raw from his earlier uncontrollable fit of giggles. He takes the hat off and yanks at the ribbon, pleased to find that it’s only attached by a small stitch in the back.
“This is flimsy for a fancy hat,” he says, spinning it around on one hand.
Technoblade frowns at the thing as if he’s been personally offended. “How much did you pay for it, anyway?”
“Uh. I…”
For the millionth time, Technoblade groans. “Bruh… Tommy stole it, didn’t he?”
“Not on purpose!” Phil defends the kid, no matter how stupid the situation was. Maybe something about the boy has awakened some protective instinct within him. Maybe it was the fear in his eyes as the older man advanced on them, or maybe it was the way he’d stumbled and tripped on his way out of the store. Maybe it was just that Phil is tired of complacency .
But Technoblade just lets out a snort and a whine of an ehhh. “Yeah, nah, screw the man. Let the child steal if he wants to.”
“I kind of forced him to,” Phil admits, though he grins, putting the hat back on. Technoblade doesn’t dignify that with a response.
—-
Phil is…
Phil is an enigma.
The Angel of Death certainly lives up to his mysterious title. Technoblade has almost no background on the man, and yet his decision to trust Phil hasn’t yet been proven to be a bad one.
It seems that Wilbur’s opinions on the man had been correct.
When he’d first met Wilbur, Technoblade hadn’t been very impressed. Soaked in mud and breathing heavily, the kid had been running away from a group of anti-hybrid protestors, a hand clutching his smashed glasses. Technoblade had stepped in and let the man hop in his car, the two of them driving off as a veritable mob was left in the dust.
It had been a snowy, frozen day. Wilbur had thanked Technoblade profusely — once he’d gotten done with cursing humans violently — and offered a favor in return for his help. That’s when Technoblade had noticed the police badge clutched tightly in his dirty hands.
“You’re a pig?” He’d muttered, surprised.
Wilbur had just shrugged, a razor-sharp grin crawling onto his face. “I’m not a very good one.”
And that had started a partnership that has lasted for nearly a year. Technoblade has come to trust Wilbur, slowly learning more and more about the odd hybrid working under Sam’s wing. And, eventually, Wilbur had come to trust him in return. It had been a few months since their meeting when the man had started talking about a new coworker of his.
Philza Craft was his name. He was odd in a way Wilbur couldn’t quite place — until he finally found out about the man’s wings. Philza Craft, a rare breed of avian, working for the police.
And so Technoblade eventually found out about the hybrid’s plan to attempt to infiltrate the mob. He’d initially planned to kill the man — any hybrid cop is a traitor and will bring harm to everyone involved in their life — when Wilbur had pleaded with him not to. It seemed for a moment that he’d simply underestimated the extent of the connection between Phil and Wilbur.
Then, Wilbur had given Technoblade one of Phil’s true names. The name of an Angel. Of a killer. And Technoblade had been swayed.
So that’s how he’s ended up with a former cop in his home, stealing his eggs and making him coffee. And, he has to admit, Philza isn’t as much of a bother as he’d expected.
He’s secretive, and standoffish, and clearly unwilling to trust anyone he meets. He’s paranoid, and he’s slow to act on occasion, and he is quick to anger. But on the flip side, he’s funny. He’s powerful, and capable, and ready to fight or to run when needed. He also doesn’t seem to hate any of the hybrids he works with regardless of his former job, which Technoblade can certainly appreciate.
And, on the other end—
There’s something about Phil.
Something strong. Something familiar. Technoblade knows hardly anything about this man — but he feels as if he can trust him, for reasons other than just trusting Wilbur’s trust in Phil.
Time will test that trust. Philza remains at an arm’s length. Technoblade sleeps with his eyes wide open and he listens.
But he has hope.
Plus — it’s a little funny that Phil has absolutely no idea that Wilbur isn’t as pure as he thinks.