Archive of Our Own

The journey he makes is long, but not nearly as long as others he’s made. Phil used to travel the world, after all. He makes his way through forests, small towns, and crossed a couple of rivers. Nothing too arduous for his bad knees. 

He finds the place Tubbo spoke of- a grotto overgrown in moss, lichen, and decaying tree trunks. There, he will find a masked man who will make a deal with him. 

Is it sketchy as fuck? Yeah, but he’d do anything for his kids. 

He’ll make any deals, cross any road, pay any price for them to be happy. He knows Wilbur spent his childhood alone and voiceless, so he spends every moment he can holding him close, chatting with him. He knows Tommy was ignored and mistreated, so he does his most to dote on him and listen to all his wild ideas. Techno was taught the strict rules of the nether, living a life of battle and survival while fighting with the voices in his head, so Phil does his best to take any burdens he might hold and calm the wild sea of thoughts. 

His newest kid is afraid. He’ll do what he has to to show him they are safe.

“I’m here to make a deal.” He speaks out into the wild. 

A breath, and then- 

“Hello, human.” A voice whispers from behind him. 

He whips around but sees nothing but empty wilderness around him. A hand lands on his shoulder, and when he turns to who left it there, once again there is nothing. A whistle comes from one direction and a twig snaps in another.

“Stop playing games.” He snaps.

“You’re no fun,” the man says, walking out from behind a tree, “but oh well. What kind of deal do you have for me?”

Phil has seen and studied a lot about the world and the monsters that inhabit it. He’s never heard any stories about masked monsters, or those who can turn humans into monsters. 

“My son is ill. I was told by somebody you could heal his ailments.”

The man shakes his head “He needs to come here for me to do anything.”

“What? No, you have to help him. I don’t care what price you demand, but you have to.”

The man raises his hands in a placating manner, “Whoa, calm down. You’re here, aren’t you? Let’s say I make you into a monster that can heal him?”

Phil stares at the man. 

Make him a monster? He’s always been human and content with that. Maybe he wished he had more strength or vitality for his travels, but he’s been happy with things ever since he’s settled into the beach house. 

Of course, there have always been differences between him and his kids. He is the only human in a household of monsters. But they all had their own quirks and needs. In the beginning, when he offered them somewhere safe to hide, there was surely tension about his humanity. But they have all learned to trust each other. 

“Why can’t you come with me?” He asks.

“You could be tricking me. You could ambush me, trap me, even kill me! I’m not dumb enough to trust a human.”

“Tubbo sent me here, you know him.”

The man nods, “I do, but what if you captured him? Tortured him for his name and my location? Look, I have the one deal. You become the monster, or you leave.”

It’s not even a choice in Phil’s head. To leave is to let his youngest die , and he won’t let that come to pass.

“Okay. Turn me into a monster- what is your price?”

He cannot see the man’s face, but he seems very pleased with the turn of events. “Usually I’d just ask for your name, but this is a big ask. Healing the sick isn’t easy, it’s different from physical wounds. How about your name, and your son’s name.”

“Just our names?” Phil asks, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

There’s something he’s missing, this man isn’t to be trusted but what else does he got? 

“Ok. Deal.”

The masked man holds out his hand, and Phil takes it. They shake in agreement, something uneasy settling in his gut.

“My name is Phil, and my son is Tommy. Please help us.” 

The hand is unnatural cold in his, sharp nails grazing against his skin. This close to the man, he can see a wide grin carved into the wood of his mask. 

“Ok, Phil, let the change commence.” 

And then his veins are lit aflame. A burning fire races up his arms, up his neck, down his legs. Blistering pain branches out from his fingertips to his eyes. At some point, his legs fail him and he collapses to the ground. He can’t- he can’t breathe even, under the wound of the pain. He claws at his arms, trying to desperately stop whatever was eating him alive. Tears pour down his cheeks. 

After what feels like hours, the pain starts to lessen. He relaxes into the tall grass surrounding him, sighing in relief. 

And that is when pure agony seizes up in his back. 

He thought the fire in his blood was intense, but he feels something in his back shift. A pressure grows and grows until it is unbearable. It feels like his bones are creaking and breaking around something, and his body is trying to tear itself apart around it. 

Something rips open, and hot blood runs over his back. Phil screams.

This is the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life, he might be dying. 

And finally, the pain goes away. He sits up, eyes darting around the clearing. The masked man is gone. He is alone. 

He moves to stand up, but his legs are still too shaky to support his weight. 

He-

He doesn’t feel too different? He still feels like himself. Well, like himself after running three marathons in a row. 

Phil holds out his hands to see the first change. His nails have darkened and grown into talons. He shifts, looking around for what else has happened- and he sees them. 

Wings. 

Large, beautiful, wings. The feathers are dark and pristine like they didn’t just emerge from his bloodied back. In a moment of wonder, he runs his fingers through them. 

The wing flinches back on instinct, still painfully sensitive to the world. It’s easy enough to figure out how to flex them open and closed. 

Those are his now , he thinks incredulously. Wings. On him. His. 

Perhaps change should be painful and disgusting, but he is in awe. When he was a child he had pretended, like many other children, that he could fly. 

And now he could. 

“Phil! Phil, are you there?” A voice cuts through the silence of the forest.

That- it couldn’t be- “Wilbur?”

He finally stands up and blood rushes to his head, making his sight spin. But he can still make out the figure of the siren running towards him through the wood.

“Phil don’t- shit. I’m too late.” Wilbur shouts, out of breath.

“What are you doing here?” 

“To stop you from giving a fucking fae your name!” 

Fae- he has read about those. Just fairytales from old europe, nothing real.  

“It’s okay, I can help Tommy, he won’t be sick anymore.” He reaches out for his son’s hand, who accepts the attempt at comfort.

“None of us are safe as long as he has your name,” Wilbur says gravely.

Phil winces, “He has my name and Tommy’s.” 

“Fuck.”