Chapter Text
There’s a man who lives on the top of the wall.
They don’t talk much. He keeps to himself, takes care of his children. His wings, majestic and black as the night, had been clipped by the Federation, or so someone had said. Cellbit believes it, he truly does. Who else would’ve done something so terrible? Who else would take pleasure in torturing them? Still he doesn’t ask. It’s not his body nor his place to poke and pry. If Philza himself ever wants to talk about it, then he’ll be around to listen.
But Phil doesn’t talk about it.
He keeps to himself. Harmless, friendly.
He stays on the wall and he takes care of his children and they’re happy, they’re safe.
(He’s powerful, a warrior through and through; a force of nature laying in wait, careful enough not to let his true colors show.)
It’s easy to understand, really. His passiveness, his silence. Discontent being spoken only in hushed whispers, only to a few worthy of his trust. Not everyone can afford to be loud. Not everyone can throw themselves in danger’s way to prove a point. Going against the Federation is fighting an enemy they know nothing about and losing over and over and over again— Richarlyson will still have four other parents if anything happens. Chayanne and Tallulah will be left alone.
The man on the top of the wall is gentle, polite.
The Federation mistakes his friendliness for weakness. Cellbit does not.
It’s Philza who takes him in after yet another exhausting fight with Forever (and it’ll be worth it, it has to be—), who forces a warm mug on his hands and a soft blanket over his shoulders. They don’t talk, but it feels good to have someone by his side, even if it’s just for one night. If he lies to himself for long enough, he can almost believe he deserves the companionship, the familiarity of a home he’ll never have nor belong to. If he lies to himself, he can pretend everything will be fine.
(He’s an intruder. He shouldn’t be here.)
The crow on the top of the wall is wise.
The trap he lays is a gentle one, invisible and inviting.
The cat falls for it easily, willingly.
Philza tells stories of past wars, of fallen friends and great warriors; he talks about corrupted governments and battles long forgotten, empires that rose and crumbled to dust, of times when he’d fly over unfathomable miles of land in worlds now left behind, abandoned and forsaken, its only inhabitant trapped away in a far away place. Long stories that take hours, even days, to be completed, only for another story to begin. Cellbit barely notices it, the way he keeps coming back to the wall, day after day, to listen. To pretend he belongs somewhere.
The top of the wall becomes his new home, in a way.
Crows are territorial birds, but this one allows the cat to stay; as long as the nest is untouched and the hatchlings are safe, the crow won’t attack. He’s gentle and friendly. Harmless. The house is safe, full of life. A new name is added to the bunker’s allowlist. A new room is built within the nest. Sometimes, the cat almost believes he’s been adopted into the murder.
Sometimes, when the kids are fast asleep, they just sit near the end of the wall, watching the night sky in silence; sometimes, they sit by a memorial of someone loved and lost too soon. No stories, no recounting of yet another stressful day. No thoughts about the Federation or fallen comrades or broken wings, no conversations about scared children or unnatural monsters or unrequited loves.
They just sit there, existing, and that’s enough.
It becomes easier and easier to understand the man on the top of the wall.
He’s a puzzle of a man, really. He’s draped himself in too many layers of secrecy, of unspoken traumas and blatant distrust masked by friendliness and neutrality. He cares for others as much as he keeps them at arm’s length, never letting his guard down, never allowing them to get too close; only a few had found their way into his heart, found a small crack within his giant walls of protection and worry.
Most of these people are gone now.
The crow keeps on loving them, anyway.
His love is deep, gentle. It comes in too many subtle ways. The house is protected from the inside out, every inch perfectly crafted so nothing could ever reach nor harm the family down there. The nest filled to the brim with shiny treasures from past adventures, little tokens of affection, maps of far-off places they’d visit, albums filled with thousand photos, chests filled with countless books and paintings the hatchlings would craft every now and then; reminiscents of Missa and letters for Wilbur, safely tucked away in a small corner of the bunker— the crow is nothing but patient. He waits, and he’ll wait forevermore.
(His love is quiet. He doesn’t talk about lost loved ones, about how he does miss them.)
Cellbit takes a while to notice he’s the newest target to such affection, too. It started small, amidst a chaos he couldn’t control nor run away from, too many thoughts swirling in his head, too many doubts piling up day after day. For a while he fails to notice how Phil would always bring him a fresh cup of coffee in the morning, how he would every now and then stop by a desk overflowing with papers just to organize everything; Cellbit barely notices when Phil starts weaving little braids in his hair during moments of distraction, how Richarlyson is treated the same way as his siblings.
But he remembers how Philza found him in a rose field, left to die by the same twisted monster that keeps haunting them, hunting their hatchlings; how the crow carried him all the way back to the wall and nursed him back to health. It took weeks for him to recover, too many days and nights filled with agonizing pain and an endless fever that wouldn’t break down no matter what (and maybe, just maybe it’d have been better if the code monster just killed him off—) but the crow was forever patient, gentle.
He could’ve left Cellbit to die; it would’ve been easier, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
He chose to take care of the cat instead, to shower him with that same subtle, quiet love.
Small things, really; almost imperceptible, easily overlooked.
Today, the brazilian yearns for those little details.
(There’s something wrong lurking on the island.)
The bunker feels empty without the kids. There’s nothing to worry about, really, when too many hatchlings share the same birthday. It’s supposed to be a good day, a happy day for them all— it feels wrong still, like a bad dream he can’t escape. The cat stays in a nest that doesn’t belong to him, waiting, wondering if he should leave; but why go there when they don’t want him around? Forever had been especially loud and cruel today, of all days, not even letting Richarlyson get close to the cat.
And he shouldn’t let it hurt him because it’ll be worth it in the end.
He’ll find a way to bring his brother back, a way to destroy the Federation.
(It’s not fair, the way they shun him. He’s doing it for them—)
The crow father returns to the nest alone, hours before he was supposed to; his wings cover them both with ease, a veil of black feathers shielding them from the outside world, from harsh words and looks full of hatred. For a while, they don’t talk. The silence is comforting, the warmth of a full nest almost enough to lull the pain away, almost enough to make the cat believe he deserves this, he deserves to be loved.
It feels safe.
It feels like home.
Phil moves slowly, presses a soft kiss to the brazilian’s neck, hands massaging his shoulders and his hair in a way that resembles a bit too much someone petting a real cat— and some small part of him wants to feel humiliated by the treatment, some part of him wants to fight and complain about it because he’s not a pet, but instincts take over logic far too easily and he melts under the crow’s talons, closes his eyes to push away the tears; he blames the loneliness, the overwhelming need for comfort in a day so full of pain.
“Talk to me, Cellbo.”
It’s a request as simple as it sounds, and Phil is nothing but patient, gentle. He’ll understand and not ask again if Cellbit refuses him, because they both know how unfair this game is right now; they’ll just stay in the nest until it’s time to fetch the kids, and the moment will be gone and forgotten— and he doesn’t want it. He wants to talk, to have someone saying he’s doing the right thing, just for once. But words die easily on his tongue, heavy and poisonous. It’s a mistake to talk too much, to not keep his plans close to his chest as he’s been doing for months on end now and maybe silence is the best option.
If he doesn’t talk, no one else gets hurt.
If he plays his cards right, Felps will be back.
He’ll take the fall alone, but it’ll be worth it.
“I don’t want to get you involved.”
A soft laughter, another gentle kiss pressed against his skin, a free hand finding his only to hold it tight, fingers intertwined; there’s a purr stuck on his throat, the weight of a larger body over his, keeping him grounded, trapping him in the nest with no way to escape it— not that he’d want to, not anytime soon. This is no overcrowded prison filled with backstabbers and traitors, no cold solitary cell, no isolated island in the middle of nowhere. This isn’t a place he needs to find or fight his way out.
This is comfort, safety. Home.
Sometimes it feels too much, the display of love and affection he knows he doesn’t deserve.
“I think we burned that bridge a long time ago.”
There’s nothing but truth in that response, really. Their little flock had been dragged into Cellbit’s troubles the same moment they decided to let him into their lives, the moment they allowed him to walk into their home; it’s not fair, but the Federation doesn’t play fair. So the cat does his best— shields them from Cucurucho’s reach, hides them from the Federation’s eyes and ears. He twists and bends the rules and sells his soul time and time again; it doesn’t matter, as long as they’re happy, as long as they’re safe.
(But that’s something Phil doesn’t need to know.)
The crow moves his body slowly, folds his wings behind his back, gives the cat enough space to wiggle out of the nest if he so chooses— and he does, crawls his way back to his messy desk, pretends not to feel Philza following him around the house; it’s easier to force his thoughts into a logical path when they aren’t so close, when the comfort isn’t too much to bear. He toys with papers and books and photos, only to have something to do with his hands as his brain works on the best thing he can say without giving out too much, without putting the family in any more danger.
“I can’t say much, but…”
Just spit it out, there’s a little voice in the back of his head, harsh and uncaring; one he tries to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist but sometimes it gets too loud, too truthful and he can’t push it away, can’t drown it. You already fucked everything up.
“But I’m trying to… get into the Federation.”
He knows exactly what it looks like, just saying that with no other explanation; and for a moment, Cellbit half-expects Phil to yell at him, to throw him out and tell him to stay away from his family because it’s what he deserves, it’s what the Federation would like to see— but the crow makes no sound, no questions, nothing. For a long minute there’s nothing but silence, and the cat spies over his shoulders, just to make sure he’s not alone; he almost wishes he didn’t.
Black wings half-spread, covering the door, blocking the only way out— a clear sign of warning, of anger building up fast even though Phil’s face is schooled, strangely hollow of any real feelings; one of those endless, small details about the crow that most people ignore but Cellbit has learned to read a bit too easily now. It used to happen more often, when Forever would push his luck too far; it feels agonizing to be under that kind of scrutiny.
The silence is the worst part. It makes his skin itch, his mind go to a thousand different places all at once. It was a mistake to admit even the smallest part of his plans out loud, to let someone else know because how can he explain what he wants to do without risking everything? How can he prove himself worthy of trust when he can’t say anything else?
(He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Now he’ll be alone again—)
“I just need you to trust me, Phil.” The words escape him before Cellbit could swallow them back (and hopefully choke on them, if he were lucky but luck is a thing he’ll never be blessed by, not in this lifetime anyway), desperation a bit too clear, a bit too obvious in his voice. “Please.”
The crow is wise, older than they all are aware; he carries too many stories, too many memories, too many scars. He chose neutrality because he knows exactly how this war will end. Neutrality means safety, it means his flock will be safe from the Federation, from Cucurucho. But the cat isn’t being neutral, no. He’s walking right into a trap, right into the Federation’s clutches with no way out.
Sometimes, the brazilian can be the dumbest smartest person alive.
And it hurts to see it, to watch him jumping right into the monster’s mouth.
Phil sighs softly, allows his wings to relax against his back; there’s no point in arguing now because he knows Cellbit, and he knows that’s a decision made too many moons ago, long before the cat made his way into their flock, into his heart, something that can’t be changed now no matter how he feels about it— it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to smack the guy up the head for being so stupid, and that’s exactly what he does, ignoring the startled stare Cellbit gives him in response, ignores the way his feline ears perk up at the slightest chance of the crow not being disappointed.
Because he is.
He’s disappointed in himself for not noticing something horribly wrong sooner. For letting the cat believe he’d need to go this far, that he’d need to take the fall alone. For ignoring the too many similarities that were clear as day, for thinking history wouldn’t repeat itself here.
(Death follows him close. Always did, always will.)
“I have no idea how you’re still alive.” Phil says at last, offers a soft smile that means nothing at all; but it seems to be enough, by the way the cat relaxes visibly, and he can’t help but pull Cellbit closer, hugging him tight against his chest. “Fuck, mate. Can you promise me you’ll keep yourself safe? That you won’t go around thinking you’re the smartest shit in the room?”
“I can try.” The brazilian replies easily, tries to play it off as a joke— but he’s trembling, his body tense in Phil’s arms still, claws digging (albeit softly) in the crow’s back. “Obrigado. Por tudo.¹”
It takes a moment for the translator to kick in; the crow pretends he doesn’t melt at the words, pretends he didn’t to force his brain to learn them and their meaning right at the spot just because it felt right. It’s getting late and he should already be on his way to grab his hatchlings.
The three of them.