Chapter Text
Phil wakes up to the phone ringing. It’s hardly unusual, considering he’s got two boys at the local University that have a habit of getting into trouble, but it still takes a moment for him to properly wake up. Rolling over to the bedside table, he swipes for the lit-up screen and raises it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Phil, it’s Sam. Sorry for the early call—’
Phil sighs. ‘Which one of them is it?’
He’s known Sam ever since high school. Growing up in Manburg meant that everyone knows everyone, and most of them had never left. Sam, as an example, went on to work for the police. Sadly, Phil’s had more reasons to contact Sam than he ever should have done as a parent, but he tries not to think about that at 1:54 in the morning.
Sam hesitates. ‘It’s not… Are you sitting down, Phil?’
He snorts, rubbing a hand through his short hair as he flops over onto his back. ‘Sam, it’s 2am. I’m in my fucking bed, mate.’
A beat of silence passes, and Phil starts to get concerned. ‘What happened?’ he asks, suddenly fearing the worst. It’s hard not to, when he’s gone through this once before. If anything happened to one of the twins…
‘We found him, Phil.’
The exhaustion in his muscles is replaced with agony. It’s hard not to react to that sentence, when he’s dreamt of hearing it for two years. Even now, when the meaning is so different to what it would have been back then, a spike of hope catches in his chest.
It isn’t real, so he shoves it down. Buries it along with the painful memory of losing his youngest son, and instead tries to focus on the fact that they finally have closure. After two years, one month and three days, Phil listens to his heart finally release the hold it had on his mind.
He exhales softly, audible to his friend, before he works up the courage to reply. ‘Can we have… we can take him, right? We can dig the coffin back up and put him in now, put him to rest properly—’ he rambles, remembering an oak-resin coffin being lowered down into Manburg’s cemetery.
‘Phil,’ Sam cuts in, voice wavering, ‘Take a breath, okay? I need you to listen to me carefully.’
He nods, then remembers Sam can’t actually see him.
After all this time, his son has been found, and Phil can tell his older boys that their little brother is at rest.
He replies with a soft sure, matching his breathing to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall opposite the end of his bed. ‘Sorry,’ he adds, knowing that Sam is probably upset as well. He took it as a personal failure when Phil’s youngest went missing and they couldn’t find him.
‘Don’t apologise, just focus on me, alright?’ Sam says through the phone, like he can see that Phil’s got tears spilling down his cheeks onto the pillow beneath his head.
‘We found Tommy, alive.’
Phil doesn’t say anything. In all honesty, he’s not even sure he’s understood the word correctly.
‘Did you… you hear me? Tommy’s alive.’
‘No.’
Phil adopted the twins first. He’d only been twenty-four, but with a wealthy inheritance and the desire to have something more out of life, he’d looked into adoption. He was accepted as a potential very quickly, five months after the initial inspection. It only took a further two months for him to find a match, or two matches. A set of twins, eight years old, needing a home after their parents had died in a car accident.
Wilbur and Technoblade had been easy to love, even easier to adapt into his household. There were ups and downs, as all parents have, but Phil had loved them with everything he had. He thought life had been complete, until his twins asked if they would ever have a sibling when they were just thirteen.
It took a year for them to find a ten-year-old Thomas Simons, Tommy. He’d been in the system since he was six after his mother abandoned him, and it was clear that the boy remembered it. Loud and brash, never very fond of Phil to begin with, Tommy took a while to warm up to them. It didn’t stop Phil from loving him, or Wil and Techno from spoiling him rotten.
At thirty-five, Phil had to explain to his two nineteen-year-old sons that he wasn’t sure if they’d ever find Tommy. That the leads on his case had gone cold, after six months of searching. Had to watch them buy their first proper suits, so they could have a funeral for their baby brother, who had only just turned fifteen.
‘Phil—’
‘No, Sam. My son is at peace,’ Phil insists, fingers curled so tightly around the phone that he fears the screen might split.
In the background, Phil can hear noise from Sam’s end of the call. People talking, voices that imply Sam’s either on shift at the local department, or just finished and is on route to find his dinner. Phil knows his patterns well, considering they’ve known each other since school.
‘He was found during a raid on a drug-bust in Essempi. Puffy went to collect him personally, and have him transferred to our department.’
What is he supposed to say to that? He can barely think, let alone work out why his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth.
‘I’m going to come and pick you up, and we’ll go together to see him,’ Sam adds, tone incredibly soft. The same tone he used when he had to explain to Phil that the likelihood of ever seeing Tommy again was practically zero.
‘Alive?’ Phil croaks out, cradling the phone to his ear as he stares at the ceiling.
Sam breathes out heavily. ‘Alive. He’s… he’s in Manburg hospital, but he’s stable and conscious.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Just put some shoes on, Phil. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Somehow, he does as he’s told. He climbs out of bed, and puts on a jacket that had been hanging on the back of the door to his bedroom. The corridor is dark, so he flicks a light on as he walks down it, briefly pausing to stare into the open bathroom and catching sight of his reflection.
Reaching the staircase, he spares a look for the corridor opposite him, the one that leads to the boys’ rooms. All three of them are empty, now. Techno and Wil only come home during the holidays, despite living in the same city, and Tommy… Tommy was dead. Tommy’s room was locked, forever preserved as the fifteen-year-old left it.
He descends the stairs.
Sam pulls up thirteen minutes after the call ended, unlocking the front door with the spare key and stepping in. If he thinks that it’s strange that Phil’s sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, struggling to tie his own laces, he doesn’t say anything.
He just comes to kneel at his side, batting away his trembling hands and taking over.
‘It’s okay, Phil. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.’
He’s brought his work-car, which implies he was on shift when he got the call about Tommy. Phil slides into the passenger seat, attempting to put his seatbelt on until Sam leans over and does it for him, before they’re off.
It’s silent. Sam’s hands grip the wheel so tightly that his knuckles pale, and Phil hasn’t been able to keep his foot from bouncing.
‘Hospital?’ he repeats, just like he’d said on the phone.
Sam keeps his eyes on the road. ‘Puffy’s got the full report, but he had some injuries that needed treating. He… he’s not spoken since we picked him up, not verbally. Puffy’s using sign language.’
‘Tommy doesn’t know sign language,’ Phil says, dumbly. ‘Technoblade does, though.’ He’s not sure why he adds the second part, but Sam nods along like it isn’t a random statement.
‘He must have learned it.’
The hospital is relatively quiet for a Tuesday evening, Phil thinks. They pull up outside the front, next to a second car that Phil presumes is Puffy’s, before they head into the main entrance. Sam leads him to the elevator, and they head up a floor.
Phil follows. It’s like he’s not really there; the entire world feels ready to fall out from under him. Even as they come to a stop outside a room, it takes Phil a second to realise that there are two women standing by the door.
The first is Puffy. She’s in full uniform, her white hair loose around her shoulders and bags under her eyes. The second is a doctor, who looks just as sleep-deprived as Puffy. Probably for a different reason, though.
‘Feathers,’ Puffy greets, the childhood nickname sounding awfully affectionate as she opens her arms to him.
It’s nothing but a numb embrace, startling him out of the cloud in his mind.
‘Are you okay?’ she questions, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
Phil blinks.
‘Mr Craft, I’m Doctor Rosales,’ the other woman interrupts, smiling gently. ‘I’m in charge of Tommy’s recovery. I’m sure you’re anxious to see your son, so we can talk more later.’
Puffy thanks her, and the woman walks off down the corridor, leaving Phil to stare at Puffy.
‘Has Sam told you that Tommy doesn’t talk?’
Phil nods.
Her brow creases, expression sympathetic. ‘I’m fluent in sign language, so I’ll do my best to translate anything Tommy says.’
Phil exhales.
When he doesn’t say anything, Puffy hesitantly turns back to the door. She opens it gently, head poking around to stare at Phil’s son. ‘Your dad is here, Tommy.’
The door opens, and for the first time in two years, Phil gets to see his youngest.
Tommy’s eyes are the first thing that catches his attention. They’d always been a brilliant shade of sky-blue, almost electric. Expressive in ways that Phil adored, because it meant he could always tell what Tommy was thinking by gazing right into them.
Now, they’re dulled. Grey and bleak, although there’s a spark of something when he meets Phil’s eye.
He’s older. The baby fat that clung to his cheeks has vanished, and the braces that were fitted on Tommy’s thirteenth birthday are gone. Stubble lines his jaw, rough and scrappy, and his hair is longer. Tangled and messy, too dark to be clean. A hospital gown sits on a form entirely too thin to be healthy.
Blotches of colour stain visible skin. Purples and blacks around one eye, along with a slice of red over the bridge of his nose. A white mark on his jawline, and another over his left eyebrow. His lip is split, swollen and nasty. Bare arms are marked with the same colours as his eye, along with yellows and greens that Phil can’t look away from. A cannula sits in the crease of his elbow, with a long tube hooked up to a bag of whatever fluids are currently being pumped into him.
‘Tommy,’ Phil blurts, before he can stop himself. The numbness, the daze of travelling here, crashes down the moment his youngest is back in his gaze. ‘Tommy. Tommy, Tommy.’
His youngest looks up at him with tears forming in his eyes, before shaky hands form a word that Puffy speaks, ‘Dad.’
He repeats it, just like Phil is repeating Tommy’s name, and the older is helpless to ignore the demands.
He makes it to the edge of the bed, reaching out before he can stop himself. Tommy flinches, body curling in on himself like he anticipates a strike. Then, just as Phil is about to pull back from touching him, his hands reach out.
It’s the only contact he’s allowed, two frail hands to clasp between his own, but it’s enough. He gasps at the warmth of the skin against his, the roughness as his fingers seek out the boy’s wrist and press down lightly over his pulse.
When he feels the heartbeat under his fingertips, he bursts into tears. It’s ugly, messy noises falling from his lips as silent ones fall from the boy in front, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.
Tommy’s head falls forward, bashing into his shoulder and tucking right under his chin, and Phil turns his lips to the boy’s curls.
‘Tommy, baby, oh my god. I’ve got you, I swear I’ve got you, you’re alright,’ Phil promises, fragile things that he vows he won’t break ever again.
Tommy hiccups a sound in the back of his throat, before his nose is pressing against Phil’s collarbone. Tears stain his neck, but he’s not protesting.
It takes an age before Tommy pulls back. He refuses to look directly at Phil, and instead swipes at his eyes like he’s embarrassed that he’s crying. Tommy always had a thing about openly showing he was upset, but Phil can’t help but think that the circumstances have changed.
‘I missed you,’ Phil murmurs, unable to let go of the boy’s hands. Tommy tugs at them, and reluctantly he releases them, only to realise Tommy’s signing again.
‘He said you better have missed him, because nobody can replace someone so… Tommy, stop signing the word poggers,’ Puffy says with a laugh, but Phil hears the emotion in her tone.
Phil laughs. He can’t help it, because it’s such a Tommy thing to do. He leans in again, refusing to acknowledge the stab in his heart when his son flinches, and kisses the boy’s forehead. ‘My boy, my son. I did miss you, so fucking much,’ Phil whispers, scanning the injuries he can see.
Tommy nods, teeth biting his lip like he’s nervous, before he glances to Puffy.
‘No,’ Puffy awkwardly says, ‘I haven’t told him yet, and the doctor—’
‘Told me what?’ Phil cuts in, looking between them. He wished he’d spent more time listening to the lessons Techno taught him about sign language because it’s so frustrating to not be able to understand the movements.
‘Phil—’ Puffy begins, but Tommy moves first.
He grips the edge of the blanket and yanks it back, revealing his feet.
Foot.
Tommy’s missing a foot.
Tommy… Tommy’s missing a limb. Just above the ankle joint.
His heart stops.
‘It’s cool, right?’ Puffy translates, though her voice is rough.
Phil swallows.
Tommy snorts, nudging him gently. Phil forces his eyes away from the missing limb to stare back at his son, who looks suddenly unsure.
‘Tommy,’ Phil says, trying to process the fact that he’s spent eighteen months not looking for his son. Eighteen months where his boy was clearly being hurt.
Eighteen months where he lost a foot.
‘Doctor Rosales has already got the prosthetic team working on a replacement,’ Puffy tells him quietly.
His son is still quietly awaiting a reaction, a reaction that Phil can’t give. He’s afraid that if he speaks, he’ll burst into tears again, or give in to the panic attack that’s threatening to take over.
‘He’s asking where the twins are,’ Puffy adds, as Tommy’s hands begin to move again.
Phil steels his nerve, reaching cautiously to take Tommy’s hands back in his own. ‘They’re at University. Once we… once I know you’re safe, and you don’t mind me leaving for a minute, I’ll drive over and get them. They… they’ve missed you so much.’
Tommy’s eyes go starry, like he hadn’t ever anticipated being able to reunite with his older siblings.
Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe, whatever had happened, Tommy thought it was the end of his life.
Phil certainly thought it had been.
‘I can drive you back to your house if you want, let you get changed properly and then pick the boys up?’
‘I’m not leaving Tommy alone,’ Phil counters straight away, only then remembering that Sam’s also hovering in the doorway.
‘He won’t be,’ Sam says, ‘Schlatt’s on his way over. He’s on duty for the day-shift, so that Puffy and I can catch up on some sleep. There’ll always be an officer here, Phil.’
Schlatt. Phil’s best friend, and Tommy’s sort-of Uncle. It helped that he was the father of Tommy’s best friends, Tubbo and Ranboo.
Tommy signs something again, after freeing his hands from Phil’s grip.
Puffy chuckles, ‘Yeah, kiddo. Uncle Schlatt’s on his way over.’
A croaky hum comes from Tommy’s throat, and Phil drinks in the sound like a starving man.
Then, almost hesitantly, Tommy yawns. He tries to hide it, but it’s clear that he’s tired, and Phil’s lips tug into a smile. ‘You can go to sleep, mate. I’ll be right here when you wake up,’ Phil promises, knowing he’ll be able to keep it this time.
Tommy glances from him, to Puffy and Sam, then back again.
‘Promise?’
Phil’s heart breaks, just a little. ‘I promise.’
Tommy sinks back onto the bed, tugging the blanket over the missing foot and pulling it up slightly, before he shuffles down under the sheet. His eyes scan the room one last time, lingering on Phil for a while, before he reaches for a button at the side of his bed.
‘Pain relief,’ Puffy quietly tells Phil, who watches the way it hits Tommy’s system. His pupils dilate, before he slumps effortlessly, eyes flickering shut after a brief moment.
The steady beep of his vitals is the only thing that stops Phil’s panic that he’s somehow just… passed away.
‘C’mon, Phil, let’s get the twins.’