Archive of Our Own

Philza woke up slowly. He woke up warm, comfortable and safe, just as he had woken up every single day since he found the Craft children. Or was it Minecraft, now?

He huffed, ears flicking off the remnants of his dreams, to little success.

There was a sizzling sound nearby. Squeaky pops, eggshell cracks, scraping pans, and gentle whispers too quiet for human ears to catch. Philza had no such issue. He practically leaned into the sound, easing himself down onto his side. The nest of rugs and pillows beneath him cushioned his head and a weight shifted against his stomach.

"Stop," came a sleepy murmur from an equally sleepy boy whose face was buried into Philza's fur, a blanket hiding everything but a few tufts of blond hair. 

If Philza could smile, he would, but as it was a bovine's muzzle wasn't all that conductive to smiling. Instead, he lowed softly. The sound rumbled through his body and sent a shiver over his skin, not that anyone could tell beneath all the highland-staple fluff.

Tommy seemed to get the message though, even if it was the wrong one. After making a noise halfway between a yawn and a whine, rather than getting comfortable again the boy slowly, reluctantly, pulled away.

Philza raised his head from the floor, watching Tommy bundle himself up in his blankets. He looked impossibly tired. Red sleep marks lined his face in criss-crossing stripes and with every moment that passed the seconds between each blink grew longer and longer. He was swaying in place, passing out before Philza's very eyes. Swaying. Sighing. Falling…

Down.

The air crackled; Philza rolled onto his back; his body snapped. It snapped again and again and again in one great rush of sound. His bones broke. His muscles twisted. His skin stretched. His fur shed. His ears shrank. Philza changed until, where once lay a ridiculously fluffy cow, now sprawled a far less fluffy – if a bit scruffy – approximation of a human adult.

Philza's face was still shifting as Tommy fell against his chest, but his arms latched onto the boy like a lifeline, his six elbows moulding perfectly around Tommy's torso.

Tommy slowly opened one eye to peer up at Philza's not-quite-a-face-yet with a smile far cheekier than his exhaustion should allow. "Nearly got y'that time, big man," he teased. Philza chuckled, voice cracking as his throat began to settle.

"Not a fuckin’ chance, mate," he said. Then, a little quieter, a little more sincere: "I'll always be there to catch you."

Tommy scrunched his nose but said nothing, happy to melt into Philza's many-limbed embrace for as long as life would let him. Which, unfortunately, didn't turn out to be for very long. Tommy shot up, Philza none too far behind him, as a burst of noise came from the kitchen. They watched in a mix of bemusement and horror as a lanky figure stumbled into view trailing a thick plume of smoke, looking for all the world like a mad scientist caught on the bad end of an explosion.

Well, that was that, then, Philza mused. Time to wake up.

The bedraggled man leaned heavily against a bookshelf to catch his breath, paying no mind to the soot stains he left on the varnish as he combed his hand through his hair. Every few moments his fingers dropped down to dance at his lips, as if expecting to find something stuck between his teeth. He spun his head like a periscope, scanning the living room for… something. Probably not them, considering his gaze had passed over them three times already.

"Wil?" Tommy called out, hesitant, sounding just as confused as Philza felt. The boy jerked back at the sudden snap of Wilbur's gaze. His distressed expression melted into a borderline manic grin at the sight of the two blonds, and with a flourish he whirled back around to face the kitchen.

"See?" he cheered, gesturing grandly, "I told you they were awake!"

"No, Wilbur, I don't see," came the muffled response, swiftly followed by a litany of choking coughs.

More smoke billowed out of the kitchen; Philza eyed the fire alarms warily, ears already starting to ring in anticipation. With a short sigh he hefted Tommy up and off of his lap, popping the boy – and a good few pillows – onto the couch as he marched straight into the line of fire.

The older two were still squabbling by the time he reached the bookshelf. Wilbur's face was plastered with a flickering smirk as he spat line after line at his brother, too distracted to put up anything more than a token protest as Philza gently pushed him away; towards Tommy. "I fail to see how that's my problem, Technoblade," Wilbur jeered, throwing his voice over his shoulder, leaning into Philza's touch.

The smoke growled. And coughed. Philza's gaze flicked to the ceiling again, back beginning to ache as his concern grew. The smoke was still spilling out in impossibly large plumes – it was a wonder the alarms hadn't gone off yet.

"That's enough, mate," he chided softly, poking at Wilbur's nape as the man's steps grew sluggish. They’d gone through this whole song and dance plenty of times before, but this time Philza was in no mood to cater to his son’s dramatics – he needed to get the smoke out of the house as quickly as possible.

"But Phil–"

Wilbur was interrupted by a crack and a pop and a sound akin to damp shredded cardboard; Philza's back stopped aching. Wilbur shuddered and averted his gaze with a grossed-out twist to his lips, suddenly far more compliant as he was handed over to Tommy, who was holding out the edges of his blanket like a pair of wings.

Technoblade's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Philza, the window's open."

Right. The window; the smoke. He needed to deal with it before it got any worse.

Sure enough, if he squinted Philza could see the faint outline of an open window through the thickening fumes. The morning's light streamed through whichever gaps it could find, highlighting pale pink tresses through the dark clouds. He nodded. "On it, mate."

His wings unfurled with two distinctly slick squelches, trembling a little as his muscles readjusted. He rolled his eyes at the stifled gagging and giggling behind him, his audience of two muttering about new shirts and showers. Both were quite unnecessary – his skin was already reabsorbing what little blood his new limbs had spilt, and the "tears" in his "shirt" were nonexistent. Instead, his wings peeked out from beneath it, riding the fabric up his chest as they began to stretch. The fabric which, after a little prompting, melded back into flesh.

Somehow, his audience only grew more disapproving. Really, there was no pleasing them.

"The window, Phil," Technoblade reminded, sounding somewhat strained. The smoke was billowing ever closer to the alarms.

There was a hiss of steam as Philza's skin boiled – just for a second. In an instant, his wings were dry. The paper-thin elytron sheaths spread above his head, splitting into insect wings, swiftly followed by a pair of feathered behemoths. The first pair buzzed and the second pair wafted, working in tandem to shepherd the smoke out, through the window.

Once the last tendrils of Wilbur's treachery were exorcised from the house, Technoblade hurried to rescue the remnants of breakfast.

In no time at all the small family of four were gathered about the breakfast nook, enjoying the early morning sunlight from the comfort of the back garden conservatory.

Philza had remade his shirt, reduced his number of arms to two and, upon popular request – read: demand – kept his wings despite how crowded they made the room feel. Tommy had fashioned himself a lumpy cloak from his blankets, and was emptying his glasses of orange juice quicker than Philza could refill them. Technoblade was fully absorbed by his hash browns and "slightly smoked" omelette, and Wilbur was… well, Philza wasn't quite sure what Wilbur was doing. Usually he'd be fighting over the orange juice or stealing from someone's – Philza's – plate, but instead of throwing the table into chaos, the man had pushed his serving aside to pour over a book, face pressed so close to the pages it was like he was trying to eat them in place of a balanced meal.

Well, Philza thought, bemused, readjusting his wings for the thirteenth time in just as many minutes, as long as he was enjoying himself.

The fact that his enjoyment came at Philza’s expense wasn’t lost on him but, well. If he wanted a lazy morning, he could always try again tomorrow.

“What even happened?” he wondered aloud.

His youngest shrugged, wolfing down a slice of toast at dangerous speeds. Philza patted the boy’s back in absentminded circles when he immediately started choking on it and pried Tommy’s glass from his fingers after he tried to wash it down, only succeeding in giving himself hiccups. They were high-pitched and whistling, sort of like a peeping chick, and judging by the red flush to Tommy’s cheeks he was all too aware of the oddity.

Technoblade glanced at Philza, raising an eyebrow and tilting his chin towards Tommy questioningly, but Philza just smiled and shook his head. Technoblade returned his attention to his plate with an idle hum.

No-one mentioned the strange noises as they began to die down. They had been growing increasingly commonplace as of late – and not just for Tommy – so by this point they’d all learned how to tune it out. Except for Wilbur, of course, who would usually jump at the opportunity to tease his brothers.

Wilbur, who hadn’t even seemed to notice.

“I told him to stop readin', so he put magma cream in the eggs,” the pinkett muttered, suddenly, and Philza blinked at him. Technoblade clarified, nodding at Wilbur's book, “You asked what happened: Wilbur put magma cream in the eggs.”

Oh. Oh!

…wait, what?

It was Philza’s turn to raise his eyebrows, now. He turned to Wilbur, whose face was somehow even closer to the pages than the last time he’d checked, and was starting to scribble in the margins with a pen he’d gotten from god knows where. He turned back to Technoblade. “He what?”

Technoblade grimaced. “Your son’s a menace to society, Philza,” he said, gesturing to the affected eggs in lieu of an explanation – or rather, what was left of them. Because despite Technoblade’s apparent grievances with Wilbur’s tampering, he had polished them all off rather quickly: Philza was certain Tommy hadn’t so much as looked at his serving, but even so the boy’s plate was empty of anything but toast and breadcrumbs. The only proof of Wilbur’s meal were sauce smears, having been picked clean by the vultures some time ago.

If Wilbur truly had dumped a jar of magma cream inside – and it would have been the whole jar; his Wilbur was never one for half-measures – then it was a miracle Technoblade, with his notably terrible spice tolerance, hadn’t spouted fire yet. Instead, he was delicately collecting the last of the omelette onto a crispy hash brown he’d stolen from Philza’s plate, ribbing his brother as mildly as one would discuss the weather. “–said ‘there’s no point to cookin’ if you don’t experiment.’ He’s a fiend, Phil. Truly, I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Were Philza any less familiar with his son, he might have taken his concerns seriously. As it was, he caught the teasing twitch of the man’s lips as easily as anything, and punctuated the roll of his eyes with a playful tut. “He’s your brother, mate.” – you're my son, too.

“Nah, that can’t be it,” Technoblade denied, “how much did he pay you, Philza? I know you’re strugglin’ financially right now, what with the economy and all, but you’re better than this.”

“Oldza’s gotta pay the bills somehow, Blade,” Tommy butted in, butting his chin into Philza’s side at the same time, rubbing his head against Philza’s shoulder like a cat. Technoblade nodded wisely.

“While that may be true, an individual’s character–”

“Little shits,” Philza laughed, ignoring the rest of the nonsense they had to say, relishing in the mirthful eyes and warm smiles thrown his way – this was it. Perfection. 

…Wilbur still hadn’t looked up.

Philza shifted slightly to Tommy's squawking protest, draping one wing over the boy's back while the other carefully – oh so very carefully – pushed against Wilbur's head, primaries tickling his cheek. Wilbur leaned into the touch, but didn't so much as twitch otherwise. Philza frowned. And then– and then he had an idea.

With as much grace as he could muster with a teenager sprawled over half of his lap, Philza let his wing go limp, catching the side of Wilbur’s head, and drew it – and his startled son – closer, reaching forwards to snatch the book from the table.

Wilbur fell against Philza’s side with a startled yelp, too stunned to stop the man from reading his notes; almost too stunned to notice.

Almost, but not quite.

Not one sentence (and half a diagram) in, Wilbur snatched the book back and clutched it tightly against his chest, glaring daggers at his father. Philza just squeezed Wilbur closer in response, entirely unconcerned as he rested his chin on Wilbur’s head.

“I didn’t know you liked biology, Wil,” he commented quietly, delighting in his son’s grumbles. Wilbur huffed, twisting away slightly, only to fall back into Philza’s embrace with a happy sigh.

“It’s anatomy,” Wilbur corrected, just as quietly. Unfortunately, “quiet” wasn’t quite quiet enough when all that separated you from your eavesdroppers was yourself and a small table.

There was a creak as Technoblade started standing up, plate just as clean as when it had been taken out of the cupboard. “I didn’t know you could read, Wilbur,” he said with a questioning lilt just to the left of being mocking, just as Tommy made a pleasantly surprised – if mischievous – hum and rolled over to peer at the book.

“Let me see,” he demanded, already reaching towards it with sticky, jam-laden fingers.

Wilbur flinched. “No! You’ll get jam all over it–”

“Will not!”

“Will, too!”

“Will not!”

“Just let him see it, mate,” Philza interjected, not quite seeing what the fuss was about. He understood the need to defend possessions – yes, he knew that feeling quite well – but Wilbur's defensiveness didn't read that way, let alone the fact that it wasn't even his book: Philza could recognise a piece of his collection from anywhere. If Wilbur was worried about Tommy ruining it, he could just get another one. It wouldn’t exactly be hard. 

Wilbur didn't seem to agree. In fact, he looked positively horrified, paling so much that he was practically transparent. The brunet pulled away in a sharp snap of movement, shrugging off Philza's heavy wing without so much as a grunt of effort, to cower on the other side of the bench, his book pressed so tightly against his chest that it started disappearing into his shirt.

Philza’s brows furrowed, wing feeling oddly cool. But before he could deliberate over the strange sensation; before Tommy could build enough momentum to launch himself across the table; before Wilbur could plot his escape, Technoblade, who had been silently stalking the perimeter of the room all the while, plucked the book from Wilbur’s hands and held it high over his head. Philza felt a twinge of deja vu go through him at the sight of the sly smirk on the pinkett's face.

Wilbur stared down at his hands and curled his fingers into gentle, empty, fists. He gaped at his brother. He puppy-eyed Phil. Philza– Philza paused. But then he remembered how he’d been woken up; he looked away.

Wilbur deflated.

Tommy flew.

They both went crashing to the floor.

Technoblade side-stepped the impromptu wrestling match with not a care in the world, leafing through his spoils. Philza edged away, keeping a careful eye on his boys as he dragged the table with him, out of harm’s way. When he finally rose to his feet, Wilbur and Tommy were still tussling – Tommy caught in a headlock and Wilbur fighting back a grimace as the boy licked up his arm.

“Wait, is that…?” Philza murmured, peering over Technoblade’s shoulder at the book. Technoblade smoothed down the dog ear in the corner and closed it obligingly, letting his dad have a closer look at the cover.

“Stop, don’t look at that– Tommy, fuck off!”

“Never! Gimme the book–”

“I don’t have it!”

“Liar!”

Neither Technoblade nor Philza paid them any mind.

Most of Philza’s anatomy books – the ones his boys would have access to, anyway – were all recent copies. That meant plastic sheaths, shiny paper, and coloured photographs. This book had decidedly none of those things: the cover was sheathed by smoke-singed wax paper, the pages were dry, and while the text was neat – printed – and followed all the usual scientific notation he’d expect to see, Philza didn’t think satyrs were anyone’s subject of study. Except for, perhaps, a historian. But historians didn’t need skeletal growth diagrams.

“Ye Arte ov Ye Unrealitie,” Philza recited.

“They’re usin’ Ys to substitute thorns, so it’s closer to ‘The Art of The Unreality,” Technoblade corrected mildly, opening the book up again to a startlingly realistic depiction of a siren, “It’s a worldbuildin’ aid for history nerds.”

Philza pointedly did not ask how Technoblade knew that last part, gently tracing his fingertip down the length of the paper to hover over some Latin name he couldn’t be bothered to understand. The descriptions were stunningly precise, as if its author had seen the creature themself. As if it were real.

“Huh–” Philza drew back slightly as his nail started pressing just a little too hard– “I didn’t know I had this one.”

Technoblade turned the page. “No? ‘n here I thought you knew everythin’.”

“Only when I need to.”

“Lame.”

Philza chuckled. “If you say so, mate. Say– I kind of want to try this one out, actually.”

“This one–?”

“Wait, really?” Wilbur cut Technoblade off, voice filled with childish awe. Tommy, previously pinned to the floor by his brother’s knee, threw off his assailant and jumped to his feet, skittering away from Wilbur like a frightened kitten. Wilbur didn’t bother to chase after him, sticking out his tongue and standing up, eyes bright.

“Yeah, I don’t see why not.” Philza shrugged, and Technoblade closed the book before handing it over, seemingly bored. Wilbur took it distractedly, eyes trained on his dad. “Should be pretty easy.”

Need a bit more room, though, he considered, taking a glance about the conservatory.

Shifting into an animal or giving himself a few extra limbs here and there was easy, routine, even, but he’d never done anything this extreme– well, no, that was a lie. He hadn’t toyed with his shifting like this in quite some time, but he had. He’d done more, even. Worse. Better. Weirder. And while precise, the diagrams of a speculation weren’t necessarily going to be accurate.

Philza would need to fill in the gaps – wherever they appeared, if they appeared – and to do that he’d need more room.

His gaze drifted outside.

Well, it was quite lovely out, now, wasn’t it? It would be a shame to stay indoors all day, and he’d hate to ruin any of the furniture.

Philza nodded and strode out the room. His sons dogged his heels, all three just as curious as each other.

Technoblade was discussing – seemingly with himself – the ethics of bringing mythical beings to life, hands clenching at his sides in barely-withheld excitement. Tommy was listing every idea under the sun. Winged cows, mothman, and things Philza was pretty sure didn’t exist in either reality or fiction, like “cow-igators”. Wilbur, on the other hand, was almost manic. The same energy from the pre-breakfast fiasco gleamed in his eyes, and he was muttering over his book’s reopened pages like a madman, refolding the corners Technoblade had so meticulously mended.

They walked into the immediate garden, down the path, through the extended gardens all the way to the lake, leaving the house far behind as little more than a palm-sized smudge. Philza finally stopped at a familiar clearing, gesturing for his sons to step up into the gazebo before he started putting a little distance between them.

“Hey, wait, wait, Phil, wait a moment–”

Philza stopped. “Yeah, mate?”

Wilbur dropped his outstretched arm with a winning smile. “You’re doing the siren first, right?”

First, he says. Little shit.

Philza nodded, graciously accepting his fate to be nothing more than his son’s entertainment yet again. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”

Wilbur’s grin grew even wider, even more genuine, and Philza could see the burgeoning crow's feet in the corners of his son’s eyes.

“Do you need to get closer to the lake?”

Philza glanced at said lake in question, fifteen or so metres away, and waved him off. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Now stand back with your brothers. I won’t go too far.”

And he didn’t. Philza took three or four measured strides before turning around, shifting already underway.

This time there were no giggles or gags in his audience. They watched him with wide eyes – some notably wider than others – whatever played-up disgust they felt for his abilities vanishing in the wake of pure wonder.

Philza focussed wholly on his memories of the diagram, ignoring the strange noises of his body readjusting itself around an appearance that was more concept than anything concrete. He could feel his mind drawing on what he’d already sampled to plug up the space where things didn’t quite fit, bloating his body grotesquely before settling down.

Grecian sirens were an odd sort. Like satyrs, their legs were replaced by an animal's – a bird's, in this case – and, according to Wilbur's book, their arms with wings.

Feathers sprouted over his legs and his back as his wings shifted forwards, merging with his arms. His legs dried, skin scaling as talons replaced his feet.

Anything with no basis in what he was already familiar with – and there was unsurprisingly little of that, humans being as constrained to their reality as they were – was contorted this way and that way until it made something entirely new, perfecting the invisible mistakes the diagram had made. His bones… did something to ensure his legs didn't snap under his weight, shortening his body and growing his wings, filling out the muscles in his back.

At last, he was done.

Philza raised his head, rolled his shoulders, and shuffled in place for just a moment before taking off with a heaving beat of his wings.

He was clumsy at first – his taloned feet dragged strangely through the air before he remembered how birds usually tucked them in, and it took a moment to adjust to having wings sprouting from human shoulders rather than from his back – but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.

The man-turned-siren ascended in a loose spiral, riding the wind up, up, up while the indescribable urge to start singing began bubbling up his throat. But no. These were his sons; his sweet, soft, delicate sons, who had barely withstood Philza’s regular voice when they first met. Even if they were more used to him now, Grecian sirens were known for their song; for the hypnotic effect of their voice, leaving their victims helpless as they were dashed against the cliffs.

He didn’t want to subject his children to something like that, and besides: if he indulged this instinct, he’d want to indulge the others, too, and there were no cliffs and vanishingly few neighbours for him to do so with.

With that, just as gently as he’d risen, Philza fell.

There was a shriek from the gazebo as Philza plummeted from the skies, leaves whipping into the air under the force of his descent, grass pressing flat against the ground, lake water – still so many metres away – ripples so deep that they resembled ocean waves. He swooped over the water, dragging the tips of his talons through the surface with a sound like a sheet of rain, and then–

And then he landed. He landed with barely a sound, easing himself to the ground as though gravity were of no consequence.

In the gazebo, Technoblade was the picture of joy. Tommy was much the same, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, hopping on his toes with a disbelieving grin. Wilbur looked confused.

He looked down at his book, then back at Philza, brows furrowed.

Shifting back into his human form went far more smoothly than the opposite, feathers shrinking back under his skin while his fingers un-fused and returned to droop at his sides while he approached.

“That. Was. So fucking cool!” Tommy exclaimed, rushing down the gazebo steps. “Can I do that? No, wait, Tech– Philza. Philza Minecraft, the best man ever, can you turn into a dragon? Because I was thinking, right, and I thought–”

Philza smiled at his youngest as innocently as he could, and pinched the boy’s lips together. “Shut.”

Tommy nodded enthusiastically, breaking free of his hold to dash back up the steps, dragging Technoblade down to a bench to plot. Technoblade didn’t resist, no doubt filing away his questions for later.

“Wil?” Philza paused a metre or so away from the gazebo in an odd mimicry of just a moment before. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah– yeah. I just. Sorry, I know you’re–”

Philza frowned. Where was Wilbur’s excitement? His manic gleam? He looked borderline embarrassed, now. Something in Philza’s chest twisted, and not in a good way.

“ –ugh. Look, what I’m trying to say is: I think you got the wrong one,” Wilbur finished, sounding decidedly uncomfortable. It was a painful reminder of their first meeting, full of careful word games, furtive glances and hunched shoulders; it reminded him of the day he was finally forced to reveal his power, and the days of fear that followed.

Philza relaxed his brow, tilting his head curiously.

“You wanted a siren, right?”

“Yeah, I did– I do! But not like that. Like– like this. See?” 

Philza didn’t, in fact, see. Just milliseconds before he caught a glimpse of whatever Wilbur was trying to show him, Tommy reappeared, snatched the book right out of Wilbur’s hands, and tossed it to Technoblade.

“Cheater,” Tommy accused. Technoblade nodded in agreement. Wilbur looked between the two but didn’t protest, rolling his eyes with a small smile and a dramatic sigh.

“My bad, my bad – I forgot,” Wilbur explained, ruffling Tommy’s hair. Philza’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Wilbur took one look at him before sighing again, a tinge of amusement in his voice. “We wanted to test if you could turn into something you’ve never seen before.”

That was new. Philza didn’t think he’d ever shifted without some frame of reference – shit, he didn’t even know if that was possible, let alone safe. But his sons were looking at him expectantly, ready for anything but a no, and– “Have anything in mind?”

Philza wasn’t very good at saying no. Not to them.

Tommy jumped up, pushing Wilbur away. Wilbur chased after him, tugging him into a headlock. “Yup! Do a–” he tried, but Wilbur cut him off, muffing the rest of what he had to say with his hand.

“A siren,” Wilbur asserted calmly. Tommy shrieked something that sounded vaguely curse-like. Philza eyed him carefully, ready for the inevitable explosion as the boy’s face grew hotter.

“Mate, I’ve already–”

“No, no, not that kind of– Christ, Tommy! What the hell?”

Tommy cackled, bursting free while Wilbur wiped his hand down his trousers with a grimace – not even two hours into the day and Tommy was already turning his brother into some kind of lolly. A record.

Philza cut in before another playfight could get underway. “Just wait a moment, Tom. I’ll do yours next.”

Tommy squinted at him seculatively, scanning him up and down like a prize at a festival stall, but finally nodded. “Fine. Promise?”

“Of course.”

Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose as the boy disappeared again, leaping up to sit beside Technoblade and look through the book for the next creature.

“Sorry Wil, say again?”

“Fish. Fish, Phil. There’s a bird siren–”

“The cool one,” Technoblade interjected.

“And a fish siren,” Wilbur continued, ignoring him, “half human, half fish. They’re also called mermaids, if you know what those are.”

Philza did not, in fact, know what those were, though he had a good hunch. “Depends. Are they half human, half fish?”

His son snorted. “How did you figure?”

“Lucky guess.” Philza shrugged, and Wilbur huffed a short laugh, leaving it at that.

Half human, half fish. The urge to take a peek and see what, exactly, Wilbur had in mind was difficult to resist; far more so than the siren’s song, but he’d had plenty of practice. He only let himself skim the surface of Wilbur’s thoughts, handling his son’s memories and dreams as delicately as he could. He blinked. “Wait, is that why you asked about the lake?”

Wilbur tilted his head. “Yeah. I’m still not sure how your–” he gestured vaguely at Philza– “whole thing works, so I wasn’t sure. Do you? Need it, that is.”

Philza thought for a moment. Even with the hints he got, ‘half human, half fish’ gave a lot of wiggle room, especially if he– oh.

There was an idea.

“Nah,” he decided, suppressing a smile. “Move back a bit. I probably don’t need as much space this time, but just in case.”

Wilbur acquiesced easily, trustingly, shuffling back into the gazebo. The movement caught his brothers’ attention, and they set the book down – though, with how quickly they shut the thing, it was probably more accurate to say they threw it instead.

Once again, they were all watching, unwilling to miss a single moment.

Half fish, half human, with nothing to base it off of but his own conjecture. And mischief.

He was going to make them regret giving him this much freedom.

…actually– “Wilbur, close your eyes for me, mate? You too, Tommy – I don’t know what I’m doing here, and that's gonna show. No, you're fine as you are, Tech."

The giggle budding in Philza's gut was tickled pink as his sons did as he'd asked. There was no doubt in his mind that Tommy would try to peek – he was counting on it, in fact – and with his eyes open for the whole thing, Technoblade would catch on quickly. If everything went as planned, Philza would have the perfect revenge for his sleepy morning's disruption.

Not that he was holding a grudge over that, of course. But actions had consequences. Sometimes.

Philza shifted.

Bird scales and fish scales, while similar, were fundamentally different in a way he couldn't wholly describe, and if he tried to he’d probably just end up confusing himself. They were smooth, almost wet in the same way that getting cold enough could feel wet. Slippery. His skin prickled, stretching and tightening oddly, settling the creases while fins bulged out from the sides of his arms and a flowy sail jutted out from his spine.

His fingers pulled together, then apart, connected by delicate webbing; his hair lengthened, trailing down his back in long, smooth ribbons he knew would feel for currents – and danger – were he ever to go underwater.

Technoblade watched, face flowing from curiosity to confusion to mild dread and dawning horror, then to understanding as Philza’s body began to settle. Tommy was openly gaping at him in delighted disbelief, pinching himself on the forearm.

Philza held a finger up to his lips awkwardly, hoping the message came across.

Tommy didn’t respond; Technoblade nodded, glancing over at Wilbur, who still had his eyes closed. Poor thing. He didn’t know what was coming.

Philza slowly edged his way forward, counting down on his fingers to give his boys enough time to get ready as he quickly skimmed over Wilbur’s mind, delving just a little bit deeper. He nodded – or rather, he made a vaguely nod-like motion – perfect. This would work out wonderfully.

His fingers fell to zero.

Technoblade gestured to his brother belatedly, eyes wide. Philza gave him an encouraging thumbs up.

“Hey uh–” Technoblade cleared his throat; Tommy poked at Philza’s cheek– “Wil? You can open your eyes now.”

Wilbur opened his eyes.

He blinked.

He closed his eyes again, counted to three, opened them, and–

“Blublub?” Philza asked slowly, over-enunciating his words as he tried to get used to his new, inflexible mouth, quietly grateful that he hadn’t gone for a more fringehead design. Despite being a little more malleable, it would have been a chore to adjust to all the fine muscles. Convincing his body it needed a voice box was hard enough.

Wilbur was completely lost for words, stuttering as he tried to come to grips with what he was seeing. “Tech– Techno?” he said, at last. “Techno, I’m not seeing things, right? That’s Philza? Our– our dad?”

Technoblade nodded grimly – though not as grimly as he might have liked, a small twitch of his lips betraying his true feelings on the matter – stepping closer toward Philza, joining Tommy to poke and prod at Philza’s new and improved mermaid head. Philza watched it all unblinkingly, his vision range surprisingly wide. His inner eyelid flicked over his eyes. Wilbur shuddered.

Half fish, half human.

Wilbur didn’t say which half was which.

“Blub blub blub,” Philza teased.

Wilbur looked absolutely horrified.

“I can understand it,” he breathed. “Him– I can understand him. Techno. Techno, why can I understand him? That’s not– surely that’s not normal?”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Technoblade turned to face his brother, one hand still poking at Philza’s frills. “Blub,” he responded flatly, and if possible Wilbur grew even paler. He whirled around, looking desperately towards Tommy.

With a sharkish grin, Tommy let go of Philza’s sail and gave voice to what they’d all been thinking:

“Blublub?” he whine-burbled, eyes comically innocent, “blublib blub.”

Wilbur wailed.

Tommy cackled menacingly, launching himself at the man with wide, open arms. “Blub blub, bitch!”

Wilbur wailed louder, holding tight onto his arms as if that would save him from his youngest sibling. It wouldn’t. He didn’t stand a chance.

“Blu– bulb,” Technoblade corrected himself, and Philza gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. The pinkett repeated himself a little louder, calling over to Tommy warningly, “Bulbblip blub blup.”

“Blap!” Tommy called back, making absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“That kid,” Technoblade sighed fondly, smothering his smile with a hand as he pretended to itch his chin.

Philza nudged him gently, forgetting he didn’t have eyebrows to raise. “Blub blub blupblub.”

“...yeah, I guess.”

There was a moment of peace between them. Wilbur’s shrieks of terror melded into the background of susurrating leaves and twittering birdsong, and the faint lapping of the lake against its sandy shores. Technoblade gained a thoughtful look.

“Actually, how can he understand you? How can I understand you?”

Philza approximated a shrug. “Blub,” he said. Fucked if he knew. It was convenient, at the very least, even if it didn’t quite make sense.

They both fell quiet again, unanimously deciding to shove the question into the corner with all the others – understanding Philza’s fishy blubs was one of the more useful changes they’d undergone as a family.

“Y’know, I don’t think Tommy knows what he’s sayin’.”

“Blub, blub blurp.”

Technoblade paused, considering his words for a moment. “You sure?” he questioned, “cuz from where I’m standin’ he’s just–”

Checking to ensure Wilbur was fully distracted, Philza shifted his face back into a more human-ish shape. He wiggled his face, popped his spine, and tried to fight off the hiccups he could feel looming off in the not-so-distant future, diaphragm complaining at all the shifting he’d been doing.

“Cursing?”

Technoblade nodded. Philza cast his gaze over the gardens, watching the two boys roll around in the grass.

“Blurp bleb bleb!”

“Tommy, please– no! Stop! Phil–!”

He pursed his lips. “Yeah, no, he definitely knows what he’s doing.”

Even if his accent was a little off.

The sun glimmered brightly through the trees, and Philza noted with distaste that his scales were starting to itch. Just as with the siren before, an urge began welling up in his mind, this one telling him to dunk himself in the lake.

He spared no consideration for his sons this time, dismissing the impulse entirely as he undid the transformation. His fins kept receding, head shrinking down, hair un-clumping, skin softening, blood warming, until he seemed fully human once more. He took another glance at his sons fumbling about on the ground before picking up Wilbur’s book again, from where it had been discarded on the bench.

Philza recognised, with no small amount of fondness, that all of Wilbur’s dog-ears had been carefully smoothed out again. The paper was still creased, however, and torn a little from where they’d been tugging it back-and-forth. A gentle swipe of his talon – nail, even – removed the blemishes entirely.

His sons’ screeches had turned into laughter during his distraction as Technoblade joined the fray, lifting Tommy high over his head while Wilbur caught his breath. A small murder of crows began to crowd the branches overhead, snapping their beaks and watching the boys play.

If he twisted his senses just so, Philza could see himself in them. The wings Technoblade loved so much, shrunk down onto Tommy’s back. Scales and delicate membranes scattered over Wilbur, who had seemed so fascinated with Philza’s shifting. Sunlight, stretched into golden bands to glitter in Technoblade’s wild pink mane, brown eyes flashing red from an angle.

The thought welled up a flood of warmth in his chest, and Philza couldn’t stop the smile if he tried.

Perfection.

The remnants of the ribbons in his hair twitched in sync with a distant, whispering roll of thunder too quiet for human ears to catch. Philza had no such issue. He practically leaned into the sound, sitting himself down on the gazebo’s bench to take in the weight of the impending storm.

It was a wonderful day – he was warm, comfortable, and safe.

A mosquito buzzed up to him, happily settling on his outstretched finger. It darkened, growing larger and larger in odd pulses, carapace growing layers of feathery scales; eyes growing round; jaw fusing into a beak, until all that remained of the bloodsucker was a crow. He patted its head, gazing at the creature wistfully.

Ah, well. Good things came to those who waited, and Philza was nothing if not patient.