Chapter Text
One doesn’t have to be in the superhero field for very long to know that supervillains with fire based powers are fucking annoying.
Fire catches onto anything and everything. Smoke gets everywhere, in your eyes, in your lungs, in your uniform, lingering long after arrests are made, and then you have to get home to do laundry and take a shower so that the burnt smell of your own hair can get washed out and be forgotten with the rest of one’s burdens, like the lingering bruises or healing scabs from the rabid fistfight that went down like three hours prior in the middle of a busy highway. (With the symphony of honking cars all wanting to get to their nine-to-five job before the road becomes collateral damage.)
Wilbur likes to think he’s somewhat adapted to a hero's life.
Well. Actually, no. Not really.
He’s three months in, and a part of him doesn’t think there is really a way to adapt to having a hero’s life. You can only just keep living it, and keep breathing in it, and keep letting the days go on and on. This is a battle of persistence, more than anything.
The injuries, overall, were to be expected with this sort of work. Wilbur doesn’t complain about the soreness of his bruises or the ache of his joints, because holding his chin high and being above the pain is what a superhero is meant to do.
He’s gone through his training, he’s done his observation runs, he knows he’s bound to shed a little blood. Danger is a part of the mission. Heroes are the line between keeping the public safe, the protection between those who decide to use their powers for their own benefit, no care to the consequences. He’s a necessary part of the city, and his efforts save lives every day.
But holy shit—he could use a day off by now.
“Eyes still on the target, on the seventh floor!” Wilbur calls out, mostly out of breath, with one hand to his comm, one hand to the wall he’s currently hiding himself behind, because of the burning fire flaring out from further down the hallway, their supervillain of the week trying to keep him at a distance.
He’s still not sure if he should be happy with the fact Phil put him on pursuit rather than evacuation duty. On one hand, dealing with panicking, screaming civilians is a stressful ordeal on its own, not to mention more of a side priority thing when the threat at hand is still running around, being a danger.
But also- getting burnt alive isn’t the most ideal way to go out. He hesitates to say this is more of a proper hero’s duty, because he’s a proper hero now, and he has a reputation to uphold, and a responsibility to bear, but…
It’s fine. It’s totally fine. He’s got this, he’s definitely got this.
The fire, at last, eases down for a moment. Wilbur pokes his head out for a split second, thinking that maybe he can continue following. He narrowly avoids getting all his hair burnt off, slamming himself back to the relative safety of the wall as another burst of flames goes off again.
Nevermind. He’s not got this.
Maybe dealing with scattering crowds would’ve been the better deal. He can deal with having a coward’s reputation- he works with the Crowfather, for fuck’s sake, who expects him to outdo that guy?
Wilbur is interrupted in the middle of internally screaming over his life decisions with a voice buzzing into his ear.
“Are they still climbing?”
Wil reaches his hand back up to his comm, glancing warily over the burnt corner next to him. “No. I think they hit a dead-end. They’re just trying to keep me back rather than get any farther.”
“The roof access is probably locked off.” Phil’s voice replies back, with the faint whistling sound of wind behind his words. “Try and keep them from burning through the door-- the building is almost entirely evacuated, and we have reinforcements on route.”
“Oh, yeah, okay, okay, okay.” Wilbur mutters, crouching down, inching farther away from where sparks are trying to fly up beside his shoes. He’s already dreading the way he’s going to have to have scorch marks over his uniform for the rest of his shift. “Yeah, just let me talk about the weather with the pissed off fire-user, that’s fine, I’m fine with that. That’s gonna end well.”
“I’m telling you to STALL. You don’t have to fight them.”
“All mundane conversation leads to uncontrollable violence, Phil. You would know.” Wilbur replies, (ignoring Phil’s immediate reply of “what the fuck does that mean”) and as soon as the flames lessen down enough that his eyebrows won’t be burnt off, Wil throws himself across the hall to take cover by the other corner, where the walls turn into floor-to-ceiling windows.
He’s not unnoticed in his movement, and he’s probably two seconds away from having more fire chase on his heels, but much to his luck, the villain’s attention right then is caught entirely by something else.
Someone else.
It’s hard to see past the soot and ash that’s caked up on the glass, but a figure passes by outside, like a daunting, threatening thing, a shadow flying over. There’s the faint sound of wings throwing air, a tell-tale sign of one certain hero to fear, and beside such a clear presence, Wilbur can hear a panicked breath down the hall, their fire-user likely realizing defeat is upon them.
After all, the crowfather’s track record for successful arrests is second to none.
“You know, I’m told that prison sentences tend to be much more lenient when the apprehended gives surrender rather than fighting to the bitter end!” Wilbur yells out, resisting the urge to cough against the smoke that’s gathered up around them. He holds his arm over his face, hoping that’ll help with some of the inhalation. “And between you and me, it is really not worth it fighting to the bitter end!”
He doesn’t get a reply to that, but rather, another searing burst of flames, pointing out towards the windows now, with enough power to shatter them entirely, like a mini explosion going off.
Wilbur almost loses his balance with it, and also maybe loses some of his hearing with it, too, the roar of the fire and the crash of the glass practically killing his ears. He holds himself to the ground and holds still until the worst of it is over, and then he lifts his head up with caution as it quiets down, wondering vaguely on the building's structural integrity. How much on-and-off fire can a building really withstand? Not that there’s been much fire in the whole building. Just the stairs, mainly.
Such needless destruction. The smoke is filtering out now, at least. Flowing out into the open wind, with Phil’s figure flying farther away so as to not stay within range of getting burnt up. Wilbur watches him as he circles around the building, going out of sight.
“Can you stay near?” Wilbur can’t help but instantly ask, his hand going to his comm before he can even think twice about it.
“I will.” Phil assures, and Wil takes a very steadying breath, pretending to not notice how easily the majority of his hesitation fades off with that. There is nothing like having one of the city’s top heroes at your back. The crowfather himself, as his backup.
Wilbur steadies himself in where he’s still crouched down on the floor. He’s so composed. He’s so incredibly composed. He’s so normal and dignified about working with his literal idol from childhood right now. No one is being so normal and responsible like he is. He is a superhero. He is going to deal with the supervillain, and then he’s going to save the day.
Okay, okay.
Slowly, surely, Wilbur stands back up with his back to the wall, and he looks off to the hallway beside him, hearing the wind whistling through, the gust of it feeding the residual flames that are scattered around in the corners.
“Look, there’s a dignified end to this!” He yells out. “You could choose that! A whole path of redemption and healing is in your hands!” Wilbur offers, staying firmly out of direct sight despite the hopeful warmth of his words. “All you have to do is stop causing property damage and stop trying to fucking kill me!”
“Fuck off!” The villain shouts, as they proceed to try and kill him.
Wilbur skitters away from the burst of flames coming his way. A buzzing, echoing noise filters through the air around him as he rushes in the opposite direction of the heat, some giddy little laugh rolling out of his throat.
“Fuck off!” Wilbur repeats, vicious and hissing and utterly smug. It’s a near exact copy of the other’s voice, if only with a bit of a ringing tone around the edges of it. There is such a benefit in being a newbie with a power like his. No one knows him yet. Or more accurately, no one knows his strength.
The fire subsides almost as fast as it came. Flickering embers still linger, the floor and the walls are still smoldering from the worst of it, but the fire-user themselves is frozen still. Hands held out in shock.
Powers entirely nullified.
Wilbur makes an instant 180 on his heel and swings himself around the corner of the hall, sprinting down towards his target before they can even realize that he’s coming. They lift their hands up with their eyes held wide, anger and fury and something like fear kept in their expression.
A part of Wilbur sympathizes with them. Wonders why they chose this path, why they decided to be this reckless and cause this much damage. Wonders if it could’ve been prevented, one way or another.
Another louder part of Wilbur is still upset about nearly getting burnt alive, and that part is the part that fuels the way his fist pulls back and whacks them across the face, very effectively putting them out of commission.
His knuckles hurt from the impact, but the way the villain crumples down to the floor is immensely satisfying, and Wil only shakes his wrist a little bit at the pain, pretending that it's far less than it really is. He’s wincing on the inside. His tongue is bit very tightly between his teeth. He’s being very brave and mature about it, and he’s probably going to swear profusely about this in like ten minutes, when he’s sure no one is looking.
“Echo? Report?” Phil’s voice asks, and Wil quickly goes to reply.
“We’re good. All done.” Wilbur sighs, making a futile effort to put out some of the tiny flames around him, smothering them out with the heel of his boot. “Target is down. Yayy. Mission accomplished!” He somewhat cheers, his false joy sounding a little pathetic with how weary he is. Seven flights of stairs. Fire the whole way up. It’s been a long afternoon.
“You got the cuffs on them?”
“Hm.” Wilbur stops. He looks at the cuffs hooked on his belt. “Probably could’ve just done that by itself, instead.” He mutters.
“Instead?” Phil repeats, a bit incredulously. “What the fuck did you do?” He asks, in the sort of way that’s expectant of the building being in imminent danger of getting blown up in the next three seconds.
“They’re cuffed, they’re cuffed. Threat neutralized, we’re good.” Wilbur reassures, quickly putting said cuffs onto the villain so that they’ll be of little harm when they do come to. The cuffs hum a little as they lock into place, neutralizing the powers underneath them with a faint green glow.
Phil makes a slight scoffing sound, as if he’s not all that convinced. “Okay. Backup’s arrived, they’re on their way up. You can stay in place.”
So the action part is done, then. One great weight off of Wil’s shoulders.
A heavy sigh sputters out from his lips. For so much effort, he feels like that was all a little underwhelming. He supposes that’s kinda the point, considering his powers, being able to make work of the threat so quickly, but still. All that’s left is containment and clean-up, now, and that’s a little boring.
…Wil doesn’t exactly need to be here for that.
Actually, he feels a little claustrophobic, all of a sudden, with the hall being so stuffy with smoldering flames and all. Ignore the gaping hole in the wall beside him.
He needs a breather. He quite deserves it. Going back where he came is far too much effort. Far too many stairs, and probably a bit too much smoke. Going up to the roof is the common option, but he’s not exactly the most common person. He thinks outside of the box.
This conveniently open window right next to him, for example…
He’ll admit, in all honesty, taking a window as an escape route isn’t the most ideal option when one is seven flights up. Not unless there’s a local birdman outside providing aerial support. Then that changes everything. Then the window is the only sensible option.
And also the funniest, in terms of raising Phil’s blood pressure.
This itself is like half the reason Wilbur wakes up for work in the morning.
“Hey, Phil.” Wilbur says, one hand to his comm as he turns towards the view of the city right beside him.
“Do NOT.”
Wilbur clears his throat to keep a steady, reasonable tone. “Hey, Phil?” He says. “I am in need of an exit, and there is an open window right next to me.” He informs helpfully.
Phil’s reply is near instantaneous, almost overlapping his words. “Don’t jump out the window.”
“It’s fine, you’ll catch me.” Wilbur insists, with hardly a hint of guilt.
“Do NOT jump out the fucking window-!” Phil warns again, but Wilbur’s already taking a few steps back for a running start.
He takes a passing glance out to the drop before him, considers the wind. The buildings around him all look so grand from right here. It is almost enough to make him want to just appreciate the view. He deserves the treat, after nearly getting cooked alive.
He then bolts for a fully unhesitant leap, throwing himself out right into the open air, much to the shock of the crowd of civilians gathered down below, some screaming voices shouting out in concern on seeing him go down in a freefall for a good few seconds. Wilbur bares his face to the cool air whipping past his face, arms stretching out, and then he’s hit with the force of Phil meeting him midway, the two of them going straight up, sailing right past the roof.
Wilbur coughs out a little for the impact. Phil can only do so much about inertia, and he’s fairly sure he got hit right in the lung in getting caught. He gives an appropriate noise of pain.
“Serves you right, you little shit.” Phil swears, serving no help as Wil scrambles for a second to try and get his head right side up. He tilts them sideways in a manner that’s absolutely more to do with petty revenge than any true flying maneuver, wings flapping out wide, and the crowd below erupts into crying cheers just as Wil starts to scream a little.
“Not upside down, not upside down-!” Wilbur shrieks, Phil granting some mercy and hovering for a moment mid-air so as to let him get his bearings. He lifts him up, hands acting as footholds for a moment as Wil settles upon his shoulder, one hand gripping onto Phil’s collar for dear life, the other hanging down, outstretched to the wind.
There is a familiarity in doing this, already. Wil hopes for it to become a long engrained habit that’ll last to the end of his days. He grins out to the city below them, to the crowd looking like tiny ants, to the buildings looking so meager and small under his feet.
He’s on top of the world, in more ways than one, and Phil gives a long suffered sigh, one hell of a contrast to Wil’s own uplifted mood.
“One of these days, I’m just gonna drop you on the pavement. See what happens.” Phil threatens. Wilbur makes a disbelieving scoff.
“You wouldn’t.”
Phil’s eyes narrow for a second, and he suddenly drops down his shoulder a little, jolting Wil in where he sits. Wil’s grip goes impossibly more tight at Phil’s shirt, knuckles going white, some choked scream getting tangled in his throat. Phil cackles a little for the reaction, and Wilbur pointedly kicks a leg at his side. Not too hard, though. They are hundreds of feet above the ground.
“Your hair is singed.” Phil notes, scrunching his nose at the way Wil’s bangs have a slight crunchy edge to them now.
“Yeah, and so is the rest of me.” Wilbur grimaces, picking at the edge of his uniform, trying to wipe off some lasting burn mark. “Uhg. Phil. I’m going to smell like smoke all day.”
“Could be worse.” Phil insists, shifting Wil down to hold him with both arms, beginning on a glide down towards the rest of the people. “Imagine being covered in giant lizard guts for the better part of an afternoon? That was an awful smell. And a fucking awful clean up.”
Wilbur curls his lip down at the mention of that. He doesn’t want to imagine that. He does remember, vaguely, the news channel talking about said giant lizard terrorizing the lower part of the city, but it had also been dealt with in a rather quick fashion, and he’s keen to forget it along with the idea of how its dead body might’ve smelt, during the entire clean up of it. That’s a past mission, before Wilbur’s debut. Not his concern.
“Remind me to just run the other way if we ever get another giant lizard in the city.” Wilbur still says, though, because he knows he’d be little help in that situation, and Phil just laughs as if Wil’s told a good joke. As if he would ever let Wilbur get out of having to deal with a giant lizard.
---
Wilbur being placed on the same patrol with Phil wasn’t a planned thing, on his part.
That’s not to say he’s entirely against it. Quite the opposite. It’s just that out of all the realistic options Wilbur has to think about in being placed for his first real patrols, none of them would’ve been the actual Crowfather.
And from day one, Wilbur knew how the first few weeks of the job would go. They’re trial runs, in a sense. A way to see his performance, how he would work with others, how useful he’d be. How memorable he’d be.
If he wanted to stay where he is, he needed to be memorable.
Phil is used to being respected. He is used to being idol worshipped, no doubt, he’s used to stammering newbies and fidgeting small talk, he’s the hero that everyone knows. He has worked with so many others, so many other faces, Wilbur’s would likely just be another one to remember and then put aside, someone to meet again a couple years down the road, when a mission demands for their patrol paths to cross.
So Wilbur goes the other way, upon meeting Phil, and he throws all his apprehension out the window, and then jumps out a window, on his third day of patrol.
He warns Phil like two minutes before it. Phil might’ve thought it was a joke, based on the way he laughed through the comm, at first. Then Wilbur mentioned he would really rather not become a smear of blood when he landed, and Phil hauled ass to get near the right side of the building before Wilbur killed himself on his first week of being on the job.
To say he was pissed would be an understatement. Wilbur mostly got away with it by insisting upon it being an efficient evac strategy, and then he ran with it on any time he could, which was fairly often, considering the fact Phil tends to fly around more often than not during the more eventful parts of their shift. And Wilbur tends to end up on a lot of roofs, during the common foot chase to catch their villain of the week.
It’s a good bonding tactic. Wilbur benefits from his efforts, not just from being able to have the near experience of what it is like to fly, but also because Phil warms up to him, after those short fits of anger and holding Wil by the ankle a couple hundred of feet up. (It’s probably hard to stay angry at someone after hearing them scream so high-pitched while hanging upside down.)
Wilbur is pretty sure they’re on good terms by now. He hasn’t yet been transferred elsewhere, and Phil’s not made any official complaints to the higher-ups, even with how he threatens to do so every now and then, so it’s all a success, in Wil’s opinion. Mission accomplished, in a way.
The mission isn’t quite yet done, not until he’s dead or until he’s retired, but it’s going well. He’s got good company for it.
---
They go back to HQ for a debrief and for supervised transportation of their newly caught villain.
Phil takes care of most of it, partially because he’s gone through these motions so many times he could do it in his sleep, and partially because he’s the crowfather, and everyone just looks to him for the next step, rather than spare a glance to Wilbur.
Wilbur isn’t terribly offended by the lack of spotlight. All the better, in his opinion, to be able to skip out on the more repetitive parts of the job. He pats a supportive hand onto Phil’s arm and wanders off the moment he’s able, Phil getting caught up in conversation with some other heroes wanting to gather some intel or advice. He’ll get chewed out for it later, probably, but Wil’s perfected the art of turning off one’s ears during those times. It is not his concern.
He spends the better part of an hour wandering around the main halls of the HQ itself, the shiny, museum-like areas where they let the public have the occasional tour, and have the superhero equivalent of Employee of the Month plaques stuck up on the walls. Plaques and newspaper clippers and framed photos. History of a long, great legacy meant to be upheld by the next generation of superheroes.
Wilbur looks upon it with some vague sense of dread.
He’s doing good in his missions, he knows he is. A part of him knows it's gonna be a little difficult to not do well with Phil at his side, but there is always the slight fear of Wilbur weighing him down, one day. Becoming more of a burden than an assistance.
There’s a fine line between being memorable and being bothersome. Wilbur places himself on the right side of it by making sure he’s well worth the time. He does not complain of injury, he does not hesitate in confrontation. He gives his occasional whining, but it is never something that drags on. He uses his power where it is needed, he strains his voice when the situation demands it. So far, none of his actual limits have been really tested, but he supposes he’s cheating in a way, with having Phil hold most of the heavy lifting.
It’s still a bit too early, too. Only three months in, even if it feels so much longer. Wilbur cannot name himself an honest hero until he’s been at this for at least a year, and he supposes, by then, he’ll be on something of an equal status with the rest of names in his field. Hopefully.
“Echo.” Phil calls from down the hall, drawing Wil out of his thoughts as he walks up to him, and Wilbur turns his head with a returning smile.
“Hi, Phil.” He calls back, dragging out the syllables.
Phil gives a judging look, nearly upset, and then it fizzles out into a normal exasperation, so very familiar to Wilbur, by this point. “They’re gonna get on your ass about names in the field again.” He warns, and Wilbur rolls his eyes.
“I’m not calling you crowfather.” Wilbur looks back up at the wall before him, squinting at some newspaper front page yelling about an army of squids emerging from the sewers. When had that happened again? Few years back? He doesn’t remember that one.
“And why the hell not?” Phil asks, standing beside Wilbur, face towards him with his arms crossed over his chest. His wings shift slightly from where they rest folded at his back, made smaller than usual, for convenience's sake. “Genuinely, why not?”
“Because that’s what everybody calls you.” Wilbur says, Phil’s look only turning confused. Wilbur glances at him with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “I want to call you Phil.”
Phil considers that odd reasoning for a second, then shrugs his shoulders in return, waving it off. “I mean, not the biggest security concern, considering…”
They look to the wall beside them, the one with Phil’s shiny achievements scattered out on it for all to see.
It’s a hefty collection. And it's a simple silent reply. Being one of the top heroes for years means that everyone knows his name. His alias by now is just for the sake of professionalism. A title, more than anything.
“Yeah, I’m doxxing you with your full name and address, Phil.” Wilbur deadpans, so serious that Phil chokes a little on a laugh. “Our enemies are going to blow up your house due to me leaking such top secret information such as your first name.”
“I mean, as long as it’s not my middle name getting out.” Phil reasons.
“You have a middle name?” Wilbur asks, sounding offended by the concept of Phil having a middle name and him not knowing it. “What the fuck- I thought we were friends. How do I not know your middle name?”
“I think we’re amicable coworkers, at best. You don’t even know my last name, either.”
“Phil!”
Phil laughs. He’s kidding, surely, but he’s also not fessing up a name, and Wil feels a little obligated to be annoying about it.
“Crowfather.” Someone calls, and both Wilbur and Phil turn around.
It’s the Blade walking up to them. Wilbur makes a slight face at seeing the hero, still a little unnerved for the skull mask he wears. He’s still not sure what animal it’s supposed to be. It’s freaky looking, even on the best days. Can’t lie and say it's not helpful in intimidating the occasional supervillain, though. The best first offensive move is sometimes just the sheer appearance of one’s presence. The Blade has certainly got a presence.
“Hope I’m not interrupting…?” He says, more to Phil than to Wilbur, Wil glancing off in a sort of disinterested look.
“You’re good.” Phil waves off.
“Hey, where’s your little intern?” Wilbur asks, noting the empty spot at Techno’s side.
“Give it a second.” Technoblade replies, before then immediately moving on. He gives his attention back to Phil. “Do you have the report on that last sighting of the cult down by the east side?”
“The one with the rats?” Phil asks, not sounding entirely sure of it. Wilbur hates the fact there’s enough cults in the city for him to be unsure of it. He hates cults in general, on the account of that one time he nearly got sacrificed by one during his training days. That was a fuzzy set of days.
“Yeah.” Techno confirms, shrugging up a shoulder. Phil hums.
“Yeah, I could send it to you when I can. Are you trying to-”
“I’m back.” Another voice pops in, along with a slight breeze that whacks both Wil and Phil in the face, Techno seeming utterly used to it in the way he smooths down the stray hairs on his braid. “Blade, oh my god, there was this giant fucking dog in the park- it nearly bit my head off, it was like the size of a horse-” Techno’s little sidekick begins to ramble, entirely uncaring of the conversation he’s interrupting.
“Was it a public danger?” Techno asks, just going along with it.
Tommy gives a judgemental sort of glance, mask scrunching up. “No, it was a me danger.”
“Oh, okay, so not the top priority.”
Tommy makes a furious little look. Then he looks at their company, acknowledging them at last. “Crowfather.” He says respectfully, nodding his head. “Echo.” He says disrespectfully, narrowing his eyes in a glare.
“Sonic.” Wilbur says.
“NOT my name.”
“Shadow, then.” Wilbur grins.
“Bitch-?”
Phil snickers a little while Techno pushes Tommy slightly, a sort of reminding nudge. “Aren’t you here for new boots? Don't make us late on patrol.” He warns, and Tommy gives a bothered noise.
“I was getting to it, there was the dog, Blade-” Tommy huffs, and he zips off in a blur of red mid-word, making a slight gust as he goes. Wilbur snickers a little as Phil gives a curious sort of noise.
“How is he still burning through shoes?” Phil asks, looking off in the direction of where Tommy ran off towards. He looks back at Techno. “Are they genuinely just giving him cheaper ones?”
“Well, he’s been better about it. They do last. He’s just been losing them entirely more often. I have no idea where.” Techno replies, seeming somewhat resigned to it. “You were on the news again.” He tells Phil, and Wilbur, presumably, since they were both on the same patrol.
“Aren’t I always?” Phil asks, some mix of prideful and unsurprised. He waves up a hand. “Eh, the building was only a little on fire. Echo dealt with the most of it.”
“Yeah, and now my hair is fucking singed.” Wilbur mutters, touching at the end of it with a scowl.
“New hairstyle wouldn’t hurt.” Techno suggests.
Wilbur frowns. “What the fuck does that imply? My hair is fine.” He asks, Phil not making any effort to hide the amusement on his face.
“Eh.” Techno makes a so-so gesture.
“I’m not taking this from you.” Wilbur holds his hands up, hitting the back of his palm to the side of Phil’s arm. “Phil, tell him. Literally, look at his braid. Grill him.” The hero has bright pink hair, for god’s sake, he has no room to judge, in Wil’s humble opinion.
“I’m not a part of this.” Phil replies. Wilbur clicks his tongue in disappointment.
Tommy returns back, right then, again with a burst of wind, returning back to Techno’s side as he always does. “Ok, new boots on, let's go.” He says, some impatience already simmering through, his weight shifting back on forth from foot to foot.
“That was fast.” Techno notes. A half-hearted joke. Phil gives something of a chuckle.
“That’s my shtick, Blade, get with it.” Tommy deadpans. Wilbur wonders if the Blade makes puns all that often, for how exasperated the kid suddenly seems. “Let’s go.”
“Alright.” Techno agrees easily, already turning away to lead the two of them out. “See you around. Send me that report, okay?” He says towards Phil. “And, Echo?”
“Hm?” Wilbur perks up, surprised to be addressed directly.
“Stop making a habit of jumping out of buildings.”
Wilbur blinks for a second, then breaks out in a smug smile. So the Blade does care. “Aw, it’s fine. Phil can catch me. Won’t you, Phil?”
“No I won’t.”
“Hey.”
“That’s right, Crowfather, show him who’s boss. Be the man.” Tommy nods, puffing up his chest with some show of flexing his non-existent muscles.
“Ok, away, come on.” Techno shoos him off, some small smile hidden under the edge of his mask.
Wilbur flips Tommy off as they go. Tommy flips him off in return, such a promising sign of their good friendship. Phil whacks a wing over the back of Wil’s head for the gesture, with little apology made.