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“Phil? I brought you soup.”
He’s jolted awake, undignified yelp before he’s even fully conscious, wing knocking a little too rough against something beside him – not his bed, vertical, oh, back of the couch. He fell asleep on the couch. And now he’s got a crick in his neck and an angry throb in the joint of his left wing, and that’s on top of the pervasive sense of heavy-tired-slow that’s been seeping into every bone for the last week.
And there’s someone in his house, most importantly.
Tubbo’s in the middle of his living room, snow clinging to his boots and melting into Phil’s carpet. There’s a plastic container in his hands, tupperware stained orange and beading condensation along the edges and smearing under his fingers. Tubbo is in his living room, tousled from the weather, shucking off boots and his coat one arm at a time. Phil hadn’t heard him knock in his sleep. He’s not convinced Tubbo had knocked at all.
“Why,” Phil starts, and he squints against the blurry ripple in his vision.
“Techno said you were feeling under the weather.” Tubbo kicks his boots into the corner by the door, socks on damp rug now.
“You talk to Techno?”
“Ranboo does,” Tubbo says, one-shouldered shrug. He says, “Soup, though. You hungry?”
Phil’s cold right now, more than anything. He’s a little blearily confused, but he feels like he’s got a fair excuse for that, which is being woken up by someone he last saw three or four weeks ago from several stories above with a lot of sulfur and smoke in the air between the two, just waltzing in home like he owns the place.
“Not really,” Phil says, finally, but Tubbo’s already left the living room with the tupperware in tow. Creakily, he drags his feet onto the floor, pushes the knit afghan he’s been cuddled under to the side. Immediately regrets it. Pulls it back over his shoulders, even if it gets caught up between his wings a little, and shivers.
“You don’t own a microwave,” Tubbo calls from the kitchen, informational.
“I know,” Phil calls back. “I’ve got a stovetop that works just the same and just as well.”
“Okay, then I’m gonna heat it directly in the plastic,” Tubbo says, tone innocent, “On the stovetop.”
“Little shit,” Phil says, and he doesn’t get any further than that before he’s coughing. It’s fine at first, just something caught in his chest, but then the catch sticks and it feels like it drags along the inside of his lungs. Sandpaper bottled up, rattling with each attempt to dislodge it.
“You’re proper sick, huh,” Tubbo says, in the doorway again. Hands on his hips, like some sort of disapproving parent. Phil is struck by the irony of the situation. “What’d you do?”
“Sometimes,” Phil says, slow breathing, “You just get sick, Tubbo.”
“Sure,” Tubbo says. “When you’re old. And your immune system is giving out on you.”
Phil sighs, rolls his eyes. If he wasn’t worried his legs would give out, he’d get up to protest a little louder, run with the bit, but as it is, he settles with flicking a middle finger in Tubbo’s directions. The kid laughs.
“Mocking my misery,” Phil says, trying to sound annoyed, and it comes out a little more than he meant it but he doesn’t think Tubbo picks up on that. He disappears into the kitchen again either way, and comes back out with a bowl and spoon.
“I don’t have to be that nice to you,” Tubbo says. He sits on the arm of the couch. Gives Phil the bowl. “Wouldn’t be believable, if I was all sweet and friendly and nice to you now. You know it.”
Tubbo’s worried about being believable . The soup is only lukewarm in his hands, testament to Tubbo’s impatience at a stovetop. He blows at a spoonful anyway, just on reflex. “I think you’re already pushing it by being here.”
“What?”
It’s nothing fancy. Chicken noodle, obviously reheated, noodles puffy and over-soft with time, murky broth, carrot pieces mushy and falling apart. But the taste is good; salt, savory, simply.
“Your act,” Phil says. “The believability. Why are you in my house?”
“You’re sick,” Tubbo says, matter-of-fact, no room for Phil to get in a word of argument. So he doesn’t; he sips his soup instead. “I’m here to take care of you.”
And maybe take-care-of is a little of a strong descriptor for what this is, because the moment they lapse into a silence punctuated by Phil trying not to cough and quietly eat the soup he’s not hungry for, Tubbo pops back up on his feet again. He’s in the kitchen, pots clanging, water running at full blast at the speed Phil knows will spray water all over the floor. He’s asking if Phil wants tea too, and he does it with the mug already in his hand. He’s back in the living room, now picking up his boots and moving them back over to the door in a neat little row beside Phil’s shoes, and then he’s disappearing down the hall and coming back with a towel to put down over the puddles left behind.
Tubbo’s not talkative, not a chatterbox the way Tommy fills up the space, but Tubbo’s definitely not quiet either. Phil hears him everywhere he goes in the house.
And he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a comfort to it. Phil’s a loner, and that extends to when he’s not feeling his best. His usual strategy is to climb under some blankets and hide until he feels better, and maybe Techno gets to come in sometimes, but that’s it. And yet, here’s Tubbo, the last person who should be in his home right now. And Phil doesn’t want to tell him to leave.
“You should probably get a nap,” Tubbo says from where he’s standing on the towel to mop up the snow-water.
“That was the idea today,” Phil says, a little dry. He sets his bowl and spoon on the side table. He fixes the afghan on his shoulders. “Got a little interrupted by somebody.”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Tubbo says. “How’s the soup?”
“Fine,” Phil says. “Did you make it?”
“Nah,” Tubbo says. “Canned. My microwave made it, and then I brought it here.”
“Ah,” he says. “I’m honored.”
“Should be.” Towel kicked into the corner by the shoes. He comes back to perch on the arm of the couch again. “Made that can just for you.”
“Too good to me,” Phil deadpans, and then he’s laughing around it. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Probably not!” Tubbo agrees, cheery.
“You want something out of this?” Phil asks. “You got another arrest warrant you’re waiting to spring?”
Tubbo says, “From what government?”
That’s fair.
The snow outside is getting heavier. Phil watches the flakes come down, thick and fluffy. “You know I had to.”
“Let’s not,” Tubbo says, quickly. “I know, Phil. I’ll get over it eventually.”
“You’re not over it,” Phil says, “And you brought me soup?”
“I dunno,” Tubbo says. “That’s kind of life, right? We all sort of just do a bunch of fucked up shit to each other, and then we–turn the other cheek, hit the other cheek, you know.”
“That’s not–” Phil cuts himself off, shakes his head. The movement makes him dizzy.
“And then I microwave you canned soup,” Tubbo says. “Cos you still get sick even anyway.”
“And it’s simple as that,” Phil says, almost incredulous.
Tubbo adjusts the blanket over Phil’s wings. Flips over the edge that’s been caught on one feather. “Yeah. I don’t want anything. I just made you shitty soup.”
“Thanks,” Phil says. He actually means it.
“Anytime.”
And he wonders if Tubbo means it too.