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It’s no secret that the Craft family were terrible at apologies.
Philza, for all his immortal wisdom, barely understands what it means to be mortal - it’s been centuries after all. For him, apologies can simply be fixing or destroying what he sees as broken.
Wilbur, while he was a man of words and charm, was never good with apologies either. Oh, he spoke what people wanted to hear, but one can never truly know if what he says is meant to be truth or an appeasement for him and the person who receives the apology. Then, there’s the issue of him running away or avoiding the problems he can’t simply charm his way out of. Apologies - ones that are so truly needed - are difficult to say, ignoring them is much easier if you asked him.
Fundy wasn’t any better, no matter how much he wanted to be. One book, a spy’s insight, is not enough to fix burned bridges, nor is it enough to take back hateful words that were not really lies.
Yogurt… well, poor kit thinks cuddles are good enough apologies.
Of course, there are many ways to apologize. Many moments. Many instances where one can apologize. The Craft family is not doomed to a curse, they just need the right instance. Of course, if you asked Fundy, he did not think the day before his bakery’s opening would be that instance. If he was honest, he would say he didn’t believe there was a perfect instance for such apologies.
“Papa! Yogi help!” Fundy grabbed the bowl of batter before it could fall over the counter, his son pouncing up with the energy of a five-year-old who had unfortunately found the cookie jar.
“Yogurt, why don’t you go play outside? Papa can call you when the cakes are done.” The small kit glared up at him, crossing his arms in front of him. Fundy laughed, finding the sight of his son - wearing a too-large blue sweater - to be too adorable. He sighed, picking Yogurt up from the ground before placing him on the counter. “You can stay. But you have to help papa, okay? No stealing any frostings or batters while I’m not looking, or no berry cake for dessert later.”
Yogurt gasped, eyes impossibly wide at the threat. He whimpered, but nodded his head. Fundy chuckled, running a hand through Yogi’s hair… which was a mistake because he forgot he was making frosting. Pink stuck to the kit’s hair, stray frosting that had lingered in Fundy’s hand.
“Shi— You have frosting in your hair, fuc— Okay, this is fine.” Fundy grabbed Yogurt off the counter, making a rush towards the sink. The kit reached up, little fingers threading through his hair in an attempt to grab at the icing. He was already licking some off of his hand by the time Fundy had turned on the faucet. “Hey… no! No! We don’t eat frosting off our hair! Yogurt, no!”
He was drying off Yogurt’s hair with a washcloth when he heard the chime of the bell from the storefront. Fundy bit his bottom lip. He was sure that the sign out front said ‘closed.’ So, who…?
“Quackity, Foolish, or whoever, if you think you can steal cookies from the jar then I’m sorry but Yogurt already ate them all, so—” His voice died down as Fundy turned around, eyes focusing on the ragged and dirty trenchcoat before he finally looked up into a familiar pair of dark eyes. Wilbur stood by the counter, face not giving anything away as he took in the sight of Fundy and Yogurt who had quickly buried his face in Fundy’s shirt. “You’re not allowed in Las Nevadas.”
“Can’t a man see his son for the holidays?” Wilbur raised a brow, and Fundy had half the mind to mention that they had disowned each other. Yet… he couldn’t really find the words. “Fundy, I—”
His ears flicked up, the rustle of feathers in the other room taking his attention off of Wilbur. Fundy sighed, relaxing at the sound. Phil was in the other room. He kneeled down, placing Yogurt on the ground and feeling a bit bad when the kit whined and continued to cling to him. Yogurt wasn’t great with strangers. All foxes were skittish when it came to strangers, and Wilbur was a stranger to both of them. He didn’t know what to expect from the man he once called dad.
“Yogi… why don’t you go play with grandza in the other room?”
The kit immediately brightened up, tail wagging behind him. He gave Fundy a kiss on the cheek before darting past Wilbur and out of the kitchen. He did love his grandza… and his wings…
He waited for a moment before standing up, arms crossed in front of him. “You need to leave.”
“Want me out of your life so badly? You even ran to Quackity because you hated me that much?” He rolled his eyes, brushing past Wilbur so he could return to his bowls of frosting and batter. They weren’t really done yet. He had to add a few ingredients, and he was sure he’d accidentally added salt to one of the frostings… He picked up a bowl and poured it into a baking pan, pretending that Wilbur wasn’t glaring at the back of his head. “Would you rather I stayed dead?”
“Wil, I was working for Quackity even before you were revived! Don’t give me this shit, man!” He growled, baring his teeth as Wilbur came into view. In the process, he spilled a bit of cake batter on himself. Fundy huffed, glancing down at his apron. “Thanks for another mess, Wil!”
“I didn’t— Why are you even baking? Why do you have a bakery? And why in fucking Las Nevadas of all places?” Wilbur took the bowl from his hands, pouring the remains into the baking pan. He watched him as he took one look at the too liquid batter - not enough to really rise into a full cake - before shoving it in the oven. Fundy huffed, turning up the oven to the right temperature and time. They continued to glare at each other. “Quackity hates me, you know?”
“Why?” Fundy retrieved another bowl, this time empty. He needed to make cupcakes too. He added in the flour, baking powder, and salt. Fundy wasn’t really paying any attention to Wilbur.
“Same way as everyone, I imagine. The big bad, here to ruin everything and everyone.” From the corner of his eyes, he saw Wilbur picking up a second bowl. He added in some softened butter and sugar which he began to beat together too aggressively. “You feel the same way, don’t you?”
“Wilbur… you’re my dad. I’m tired, and… I don’t know how to feel about… this.” Fundy gestured to Wilbur, taking in the dead skin and the white streak in his brown hair. He felt the same way with Ghostbur, looking at… someone who looked so much like someone he once loved… but so different. Except, this Wilbur knows what he did. “You’re… my dad… but not.”
“Right, how could I forget?” Wilbur added two eggs at the same time, mixing them both in. He didn’t need to say it, Fundy knew what he was referring to. They both grew quiet over that. Fundy having stopped mixing the dried ingredients and Wilbur continuing his own mixing. “I… It hurt me, Fundy. It hurt me. You were my little champion, my little boy! My son! A-and… and you chose Schlatt over me— I didn’t know what to do. You were my rock. You were my son…”
“And you left me. You chose everyone but me… Schlatt was a dick, but… He made me feel important.” Wilbur had stopped mixing, and Fundy took that as his cue to add in the dried ingredients and the buttermilk, letting Wilbur beat them all together. “He made me feel wanted.”
“I wanted you.” They both winced as a sharp clang filled the air. Wilbur had moved on to pouring the batter into the cupcake trays and had hit the bowl on the edge. “You’re my little—”
“That’s the problem, Wilbur.” His eyes watched the batter drip into the cupcake tray, nose scrunching up but he couldn’t focus on the cupcakes. Not anymore. “I wanted you to see me. Not just as your son, but as… as someone who could make you proud and do something for L’Ma—”
He cut himself off, taking a deep breath as Wilbur placed the cupcakes into another oven, readjusting the knobs until he was alright with the temperature and time he’d set. They still needed to do frosting but… Wilbur stood in front of him, hands in his trenchcoat pockets. His eyes were focused entirely on Fundy, and there was a softness to them now. “I was always proud of you, Fundy. You didn’t need to do what you did. You’re my pride and joy. You’re my ever—”
“It didn’t feel like it.” He could say the many ways Wilbur made him feel invisible, made him feel like he wasn’t the son that Wilbur wanted. And so he did. “You chose everyone over me. You chose everything over me. You say I’m your everything, but look Wilbur, what do you see?”
He gestured to himself, feeling the sharp pricks of tears behind his eyes.
“I see…” Wilbur was silent, and he let out a breath that sounded like he was being strangled. For once, the proud man lowered his head. It was the only time Fundy ever saw his dad look so small. After years of living under his shadow, he’s never felt so tall. Yet… it didn’t ease the ache in his chest or stop the tears from his eyes. “I see a handsome young man who has grown up despite tragedy. A-and… I see a young boy who I failed. I see the beloved son that I failed.”
Wilbur’s hands appeared from his pockets, and shakily, he reached for Fundy’s shoulders. If he had been younger, those hands would have settled on the top of his head, either to give him a pat or to pet behind his ears. Instead, they settled on his shoulders, gentle and trembling against him.
He didn’t realize Wilbur was crying until the man all but collapsed against him. Fundy let out a squeak, knees nearly buckling as Wilbur held him close. “I don’t know how to fix this, Fundy.”
His dad took a shuddery breath, “Tell me what to do, and I’ll try.”
“I don’t know, Wilbur. I don’t know.” But he did. Fundy slowly wrapped his own arms around Wilbur, pressing his face against the yellow sweater that his dad wore. It reminded him of better times, when the sweater smelled of pancakes and sunshine instead of blood and soot. Somehow, he didn’t mind the smell now. He continued to hold on, claws digging into the brown cloth of the trenchcoat. Wilbur didn’t say anything, only continued to hold him closer all the same.
His tears rolled down his cheeks, knowing that his dad was holding him, and for one moment he could pretend that it was just them. For a moment, he could pretend everything was okay.
“I didn’t mean it.” Fundy finally mustered once his tears had dried, and Wilbur had slowly let him go, though keeping one hand on his shoulder. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, a bit embarrassed that his dad saw him cry. Wilbur’s hold stiffened and Fundy realized the words he’d just spoken. “No, shit, that’s not— I didn’t mean to disown you. Schlatt gave me my independence but I still loved you. I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t want to disown you, dad.”
He saw his dad smile, and for the second time, he was back in his dad’s embrace again. In another time, he would have complained. As a child, he loved when his dad would hold him, like he was the most precious person in the world. When he had grown, he grew tired of the constant hugging. Now? He wished he could hold onto his dad for as long as he wanted. And so, he did.
—
“Yucky!”
They laughed as Yogurt threw the cupcake down on the table, sticking his tongue out at the offending thing before cuddling under Phil’s wing. After minutes of crying and hugging, Fundy and Wilbur had forgotten about the cupcakes and the cake… which meant they came out burnt.
“You added salt, mate.” Phil cackled, tasting his own cupcake.
Wilbur winced, face heating up at the mishap. Fundy shook his head, reaching for Yogurt who happily jumped into his arms, no longer afraid of Wilbur. Phil must have explained who Wilbur was. He held the kit close, petting Yogurt’s fluffy ears. “How was it Yogi? Was it really yucky?”
“No ‘nilla!” The kit huffed, kicking his little feet in the air, but not towards Fundy. He thought back to what he and Wilbur had done, realizing then that they hadn’t added vanilla extract at all.
“No vanilla? Papa really made a bad mistake, huh, Yogi?” The kit nodded along, wrapping his arms around Fundy before making grabby hands at Phil again. Fundy sighed, playfully rolling his eyes as he handed his son over to Phil. He really loved his grandza’s wings. “I’m sorry, kit.”
“Make more!” The kit huffed, wrapping Phil’s wing around him, not that Philza minded. Wilbur laughed at the demand, glancing over at Fundy. He sighed, reaching down to poke Yogurt on the nose before heading back to the kitchen, checking to see if Wilbur was following after him. The moment his eyes met his dad’s, the man quickly followed after him, unable to hide his glee as he ran-walked to his side. Yogurt’s voice followed them to the kitchen, “Add sugar! No yucky!”
“Okay! No more yucky! Papa promises!”
Fundy laughed, shaking his head as he and Wilbur stood in front of the counters. He needed to focus on making the cakes and cupcakes now if he wanted to be ready for tomorrow’s opening.
“That was terrible.”
“It was.” Wilbur sighed, an amused smile on his face.
“It had a lot of problems.”
“It did.”
Fundy grabbed another bowl, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Wilbur had reached for another one too, both of them ready to begin again.
“But… we can try again, can’t we?”
“We can. For as long as we have to, as long we want to, we can try.”
He smiled, giving himself another moment to hug his dad. He felt a gentle and warm hand pet at his ears, holding him close, before letting him go once again. This time, as he felt his dad’s hand disappear, he didn’t feel so empty.
“That’s all I wanted, dad. For you to try. For us to try again.”
Wilbur smiled, placing softened butter and sugar - actual sugar - back into the bowl once again.
“Then, we’ll try.”