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Wilbur is definitely sick. Phil may not have any biological children, but he’s got a QPP who doesn’t know when to stop and an adopted son who makes reckless decisions on a daily basis and now a younger son too. He can tell when someone’s sick and refusing to slow down.
“Please, I can help with lunch,” Wilbur’s saying, even though he looks like he might fall at any moment.
“Wil, it’s okay,” Phil responds. He’s honestly not sure what to do. On the one hand, he can’t let Wilbur help make lunch. Wilbur needs rest, he’s obviously not thinking clearly and being asked to do tasks won’t help. Not to mention, a sick teen making food sounds like a good way to get them all sick. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to give Wilbur anything that could be misinterpreted as an order. Wilbur’s shown that he’s way too willing to be trained for Phil’s comfort— they’ve made strides to help him engage as a family member and an equal rather than transferring the loyalty and dependence he clearly had to Kingpin, but it’s still hard sometimes. “Can I feel your forehead?” Phil asks finally. “I think you might be running a temperature.”
Wilbur stares at him, and for a moment Phil thinks he might flat-out say no. Phil’s not sure if that would be a loss or a victory.
Moving slowly, Phil holds out his hands to show there’s nothing in them. “It’s okay, mate. You’re allowed to be sick. No one’s gonna hurt you. Can I check your temperature?”
After another long moment, Wilbur nods.
Phil presses the back of his hand to Wilbur’s forehead, and it doesn’t even take a second to know he’s running a fever. Wilbur leans into the touch subtly, letting his eyes slip halfway closed. Almost a year ago when they first took him in, Wilbur did that all the time, likely without even being aware of it, but he hasn’t done it for months now. Phil makes a quiet concerned noise, and Wilbur’s eyes snap open.
“Sorry,” Wilbur says. “Am I sick?”
Phil nods. Wilbur nods back in a way that makes Phil think he knew it already. “Do you get sick often?” Phil asks.
Wilbur shakes his head, then adds, “When I do it’s usually bad.” He hunches over in his trench coat, and Phil can see him shivering slightly.
Phil hums sympathetically. “Yeah, you didn’t have much of a chance to build up an immune system, did you?” Wilbur shakes his head again, but Phil’s not sure if he’s responding to the question or just Phil’s tone. “I’m not angry, Wil,” Phil continues, quieter. “You’re allowed to feel bad.”
The moment he’s given permission, Wilbur slumps into Phil, weakly hugging him but mostly just leaning there. Phil feels a now-familiar burst of anger at the people who taught a kid to ask permission to get sick. He pushes it aside to focus on Wilbur. “Let’s sit on the couch, okay? You can nap, or just cuddle.”
Wilbur pulls back just a little. “Lunch,” he protests.
Phil shrugs. “Lunch can wait. Tommy’s out with Tubbo, and Techno’s perfectly capable of feeding himself.” Wilbur doesn’t fight as Phil leads him to the couch and settles them on it together.
Once they’ve gotten there, it’s quiet: an all-too-rare moment of peace in this house. Phil sits in the corner of the couch, leaning against the back and one arm, and Wilbur curls up against him under a throw blanket. The teen’s quickly asleep, and Phil just kind of… pets him. Rubs his shoulder, runs his fingers through his hair, gentle touches that Phil knows Wilbur likes.
Wilbur blinks his eyes open, lifts his head off Phil’s shoulder slightly, but his gaze is glassy and far away. His eyes flick from Phil to the rest of the room and back again, and he looks open. Vulnerable. A little bit scared.
“What’s going on?” Phil asks quietly, trying not to startle Wilbur.
“Q?” Wilbur whispers, voice hoarse. Phil blinks in confusion. Wilbur says it like a name, but Phil has no idea who Q is. He settles on making a noise of acknowledgement. “Q?” Wilbur repeats. “Is he… where?”
“He’s… coming,” Phil replies hesitantly. “Don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”
Wilbur’s breath hitches. “Don’t—” He blinks up at Phil. “Tell Q I’m okay?” He shoves weakly at Phil’s side, trying to push himself up.
Phil wraps an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders. “No, no, just rest. Don’t worry.”
“You’re not in charge,” Wilbur slurs, still pushing but not managing to get up. “Q’s coming.”
“Q left me in charge,” Phil says. He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. “He says you should rest.”
Wilbur relaxes. “If… if Q says,” he murmurs, and he’s limp in Phil’s arms again in moments.
Around one in the afternoon, Tommy bangs through the front door. Wilbur startles awake at the noise, and Phil shushes him gently.
“Phil! Techno!” Tommy swings around the frame of the entrance to the living room. “How do you feel about— oh my god, did you poison Wilbur?”
Phil can’t stop himself from laughing. Wilbur gives an unhappy whine at the movement, then says, “Maybe.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Phil tells Tommy, “He picked up a cold or something somewhere. I didn’t poison him, I swear.”
“I feel poisoned,” Wilbur mutters, tangling one hand in the shoulder of Phil’s shirt.
“He’s really out of it,” Phil says in answer to Tommy’s amused-but-suspicious look.
“I’m so not out of it.” Wilbur’s words are muffled from how he’s slumped against Phil and the couch cushions, which doesn’t exactly help his argument.
Tommy laughs. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Does Techno know what’s going on?”
Phil shakes his head. “Techno’s in the basement working on some project. But Wil’s been pretty sick since right after you left, I wouldn’t be surprised if Techno noticed.” In response to his name, Wilbur whines quietly again.
“You’re gonna get sick if you sit there with him all day,” Tommy points out.
“Worth it.”
Tommy shakes his head with a motion too exaggerated to be serious. “No, no, you should get up. No offense to Techno, but you’re the most adult adult here, and if we sacrifice someone it should be someone less vital.”
Phil squints at Tommy. “Is this a trick so that you can cuddle with Wilbur?”
“What? Me? Never.” Tommy’s face is the picture of playing dumb.
“You can just ask, y’know.”
There’s a moment of quiet, then Tommy says, “Can I have a turn sitting with Wilbur?”
“Now we’re both gonna get sick,” Phil replies.
“Worth it.”
Phil gently wakes up Wilbur, then switches places with Tommy. Wilbur makes a discontented sound at the jostling, then blinks at Tommy.
“What’s up, big man?” Tommy asks.
“Tommy,” Wilbur answers cheerfully. He reaches up to brush Tommy’s hair behind his ear with a shaky hand. “I like you. Where were you?”
“I was out with Tubbo, remember?”
Wilbur nods, and Phil almost laughs at how serious he looks. “Tell Tubbo I said he’s okay.”
Tommy’s brow furrows in confusion. “Do you mean tell Tubbo that you’re okay?”
Wilbur’s hair gets in his eyes as he shakes his head. “No, he’s okay. Tubbo’s okay.”
Tommy shrugs. “Okay, I will.”
Satisfied, Wilbur tucks his head into Tommy’s shoulder. With his free arm, Tommy gives Phil a thumbs up.
Phil gives a thumbs up back. “I’m gonna go eat lunch. Don’t set anything on fire while I’m not in the room.”
Tommy gasps. “Philza, I would never.”
Phil turns to leave the room just in time to hear Wilbur mutter, “I would.”