Chapter Text
It’s a sleepy morning in the Craft household.
The birds have barely begun to stir in their nests, the sun just beginning to crest over the horizon through the darkened clouds, golden light spilling in through rain-speckled windows. It’s cool outside, a steady drizzle with a cloudy grey sky, streetlights still illuminating the shadowed street—but inside, it’s warm. The house is quiet, save for the gentle clatter of pots and pans, and the creak of old wood beneath bare feet as its inhabitants finally wake, getting ready for the last workday of the week—a sleepy Friday morning, the last one before the weekend.
Technoblade has decided to make this morning special for the youngest member of the household. His hands are steady as he works, cooking with careful, practiced ease.
The butter sizzles softly in the pan, smooth batter pooling on top, quickly beginning to bubble as the sweet aroma fills the air. Technoblade hums, his tongue between his teeth as he carefully tests the edges with his spatula. The fluffy pancake pulls easily away, revealing warm, golden brown beneath, dotted with flecks of cinnamon. Behind him, he hears the soft clatter of Phil gathering the dishes—setting them out across the kitchen table, carefully and precisely arranged in the way they always are. He knows it’s Phil by the telltale stagger in the rhythm of his steps, the limp that’s never gone away. He turns and catches his partner’s eye with a slight twitch of his lips, and Phil grins right back, joining rowdily into the familiar war march with his own bright whistle.
Kristin, pouring drinks, laughs, leaning across a chair to press a feather-light kiss to Phil’s cheek.
“Tommy, do you want chocolate chips?” Technoblade asks as he catches the sound of thundering feet down the steps. It seems their treasure has finally awoken from his slumber—likely by Kristin, who had come down the stairs only moments ago, her hair still messy and her wings stretching out wide behind her. He carefully adds the finished pancake to the stack and moves to pour another, already sprinkling in the morsels before he even hears the chirp of agreement. It’s followed by a backpack thudding to the floor, and scampering feet hurrying past him to the table. He turns just in time to catch an armful of blonde curls and gangly limbs, hoisting the elementary schooler up as he laughs and squirms.
“Get off of me!” he shrieks, pushing clumsily at Technoblade’s snout. “I’m a big man, I don’t want your gross kisses!”
Technoblade pointedly ignores him, pressing his cold snout to Tommy’s cheek and laughing as he shrieks indignantly, little legs kicking.
“Stop it!” the boy cries between giggles, his nose scrunching as he wriggles and squirms in Technoblade’s gentle grasp. “Papa—stop it! Mum, make him stop!”
Kristin hums contemplatively.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly, dark eyes cutting over toward Technoblade with a teasing twinkle. “Why don’t you ask Dad?”
“Dad!” Tommy shrieks, and instantly, there’s a soft patter of bare feet as Phil swoops in, scooping Tommy up and out of Technoblade’s arms. They’re both laughing as Phil balances the boy against his hip. He’s getting far too big to be carried around like this—by the man with a bad leg, no less—but Phil has never been one to deny Tommy anything. He waltzes dramatically over to Kristin, his wings furling around them and holding his wife and son close, Kristin peppering kisses all over Tommy’s face while Phil just laughs, head tipped back and cheeks flushed a soft pink. Technoblade watches his family fondly for a few moments, relishing the peaceful morning, before turning back to the pan to finish preparing breakfast. It’s soothing. He’s always loved cooking—and while pancakes aren’t the most elaborate thing, they make his family happy.
Kristin likes them plain—butter on top with a light drizzle of syrup. Tommy likes them sugary-sweet, with chocolate chips and sprinkles and whipped cream and whatever else he can scrounge up in the cabinets. Phil likes them with fruit—fresh blueberries and strawberries chopped on top or mixed into the batter. Technoblade himself has always been fond of a swirl of cinnamon mixed in. He goes through the familiar motions, stacking each plate high with the treats, and loses himself in the simple, peaceful domesticity of it all, happy to love and be loved in turn.
No more wars. No more nightmares. Just a cozy home in the suburbs, and a warm meal, and a family that loves him.
“Coffee?” Phil asks a few minutes later, bumping up against Technoblade’s arm and lingering there, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. Technoblade hums, leaning down to press his forehead carefully to the shorter man’s, carefully stealing away the cup of fresh coffee, black, just like he likes it. Phil smiles softly, standing on his tip-toes to return the gesture. Technoblade pulls away only to take a sip, breathing in the gods-sent aroma and practically purring as he gulps down his first taste.
“Phil,” he says after a moment. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Phil laughs at that, loud and raucous.
“You only like me for my coffee,” he bemoans playfully, dancing expertly out of the way of Technoblade’s boney elbow. Technoblade snorts, watching as his friend retreats to Tommy’s side, only turning his back when he’s sure the bird is a safe distance away. He doesn’t want any surprise attacks in retaliation for Tommy—Phil’s fingers are notoriously cold in the mornings. He likes to bother Kristin and Technoblade whenever he can, pressing his freezing fingers to their faces and laughing when they squawk and shriek.
Bastard.
Luckily, it seems Phil isn’t gunning to be tossed out into the rain today. A smart choice. When he turns, though, he’s greeted by the sight of a stack of pancakes that’s considerably shorter than he remembers.
“Phil.”
“Mmm?”
He turns to find Phil already stuffing his cheeks with pancakes, Tommy nibbling on a little one next to him—neither of them even bothering to use silverware. They both point accusingly at each other, and behind them, Kristin cackles from behind her own mouthful.
“Bruhhh,” Technoblade grumbles. “Traitors. All of you.”
Phil flips him the bird.
Tommy mirrors him, and Phil cheers.
“Uh-uh. No. Nope.” Technoblade turns off the stove, whirling around with his arms folded. The cheering goes abruptly silent, Phil having the decency to look abashed as the piglin stalks up to the table. “You’re not gonna go copying Dad anymore—especially not at school. He’s a bad influence.” He turns toward Phil, who blinks up at him with round puppy-dog eyes, the picture of innocence. He merely raises a brow. “What’re you gonna do when they start calling home because he’s swearin’ at the teachers?”
“I’ll say, ‘that’s my fucking boy!’” Phil crows, clapping his hands together.
Technoblade is less impressed.
“And then you’ll have to deal with talkin’ to the teachers, and explaining to them why your nine-year-old son thinks it’s okay to disrupt class.” Technoblade’s words are serious, but his tone is light and joking, fond as he takes a seat beside them, setting the rest of the food down. Phil looks unfazed, so Technoblade sighs, folding his hands. “…Which means you have to go to meetings. With the principal. And his teachers. And you have to play nice.”
That gets a reaction. Phil’s expression sours, lips twisting into a pout and feathers prickling and fluffing behind him.
“...Fine,” he eventually says, though the spark in his eyes still glimmers. He leans conspiratorially over to Tommy over a mouthful of fluffy pancakes, and whatever he whispers into the kid’s ear, it makes his face light up, nodding with eager agreement. They shake on it, and fall into amicable silence while Technoblade watches on, decidedly concerned. Phil and Tommy agreeing on something spells almost certain trouble, and the odds are good they’ve got it out for Technoblade, one way or another. Still, he smiles, and instead chooses to enjoy the comfortable silence that’s fallen over the dining room table. It’s quiet, save for the gentle clatter of silverware and the occasional soft murmur to “pass the syrup, please, Techno”. Kristin’s hands are warm as they brush against his, her eyes still sleepy, her makeup not yet done, and Technoblade’s chest flickers with fondness, a comfort he can’t put to words enveloping him. He watches Phil reach for her hand, carefully intertwining their fingers so that their rings rest against one another, and there’s love and adoration in his eyes as he presses gentle kisses to her knuckles, one after the other. It’s enough to make Tommy fake a gag, retching dramatically in his seat, but the lovebirds pay him no heed, lost in their own little world.
Technoblade’s never felt love like that. He doesn’t feel romance, has no desire to pursue marriage or exchange kisses over morning coffee. But seeing them—seeing his family so devoted, so passionate for one another, their affection never faltering even through hardship…
They make him believe in it.
“Jealous, Techno?” Phil asks, and Technoblade snorts into his coffee. “Awww, mate, don’t worry. There’s plenty of love to go around.”
“Gods, please, no.”
Kristin takes this as a challenge, apparently, and leans over to place an overexaggerated kiss on his cheek. Technoblade rolls his eyes and huffs, shoving her playfully away. She laughs brightly, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she hides her smile behind her own mug. It’s a good thing she’s not wearing lipstick, because he’s spent a half hour trying to scrub that stuff off of his face before, and Tommy always takes every opportunity to harass him about it.
“Gross,” Tommy says, with a wrinkle of his nose. Phil is quick to pounce, mussing up his hair with one hand.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he teases.
“No, I won’t! Kisses are gross. Tubbo told me girls have cooties.”
“I thought you were going to have five wives?”
“Ten!” Tommy holds up both hands.
“How are you going to have ten wives if you don’t kiss them?” Kristin asks, and Tommy goes contemplatively silent, his nose still scrunched. “You have to kiss to get married.”
“Not if I change the rules!” Tommy declares, puffing up his chest. “We can hold hands instead! Can’t get cooties from holding hands.”
“...Does that mean you’ll hold my hand when we cross the street?” Kristin’s smile widens deviously. The two dissolve into a playful argument, Tommy’s cheeks flushing scarlet as he tries to insist that he “is a big man, thank you,” and that he doesn’t need his mom to hold his hand anymore. Technoblade knows, though, that he’ll cave in an instant the next time they go on a walk, and Kristin will have her way.
Tommy’s always been a momma’s boy.
The pancakes are warm on Technoblade’s tongue, light and fluffy, the cinnamon a pleasant tingle on his taste buds. They’re such a simple meal—quick and easy to make—and yet they’re such a comfort, full of fond memories with every bite. He remembers the first time their patchwork family had them—the evening Tommy first came to live with them, little more than a raggedy blanket, a stuffed bear, and a single change of clothes to his name. He’d been so little then—so tiny and fragile and timid, and when they’d asked him what he wanted to eat for his first meal—anything in the world…
Pancakes. He’d wanted pancakes.
They’d had pancakes for dinner that night. And the next morning, too. Any time he’d wanted, until he’d finally grown sick of them and decided to try new things—quickly realizing they’d give him the world if he asked for it. Slowly, they’d earned their son’s trust, and he’d blossomed into something bright and blinding—golden as the afternoon sunlight—golden as treasure.
Treasure. Their treasure.
“Ready for school, kiddo?” he asks after a moment of silence, and watches as the kid visibly straightens, the last traces of sleepiness vanishing from his eyes in an instant.
“Yeah!” Tommy chirps right back. “Tubbo and I are gonna build a fort during recess out by the trees! It’s gonna be the biggest and coolest fort ever! Much better than Ranboo’s.” He spits the name with surprising venom for a nine-year-old, folding his arms crossly. Kristin laughs, her head tipping back as she clutches a hand to her mouth.
“Heh?” Technoblade cocks his head. “Who’s Ranboo?”
“The new kid,” Kristin explains. “He’s one of mine, I got to observe him in class yesterday.” Her eye gets that little twinkle, like it always does when she’s up to no good. “He and Tubbo really hit it off—I think our little treasure is jealous.”
“I’m not jealous!” Tommy splutters indignantly. His bright red cheeks say otherwise.
“Tommy,” Technoblade says gently. “Why don’t you try being friends with Ranboo? All three of you could be friends, y’know. Doesn’t have to be just you ‘n Tubbo.”
“But what if Ranboo becomes his best friend?” Tommy sounds angry, but Technoblade knows that deep down, he’s scared. “What if he forgets about me?” Luckily for him, he’s got three parents who are experts at balancing relationships.
“He won’t, Tommy,” Phil says, and his smile is soft, the earlier sharpness and teasing gone as he rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. “He could never forget about someone as special as you. Besides, you two are inseparable little menaces, you are. Practically joined at the fucking hip! I’d like to see the world try and separate you clingy shits for more than a day.”
Tommy’s smile returns at that.
“Besides, you scared of makin’ new friends or something?” Technoblade challenges, knowing exactly what sort of reaction he’ll get.
“I’m not scared! I’m a big man, I don’t get scared.” Tommy pushes himself out of his seat, leaving his plate abandoned on the table. “I’ll show you! Me ‘n Ranboob are gonna be best friends, just you wait!” His grin is determined, his blue eyes twinkling as he bounds up the stairs, forgetting to even excuse himself. Technoblade leaves it be, too busy suppressing a chuckle as he turns to Phil and Kristin, giving a little shrug.
“Mate? Maybe—maybe don’t call him that?” Phil calls after him, and they get no response as the bathroom door slams shut with a little too much force. “...Christ.”
“‘S what you get,” Technoblade deadpans, setting about clearing the table. Phil makes a disgruntled noise of protest before apparently realizing the truth in Technoblade’s words, and he gets up to help him. Before long, Phil is elbows-deep in bubbling dish soap while Technoblade dries, and Kristin has ventured back up the stairs to get ready for work. She has to leave before Phil—a consequence of working at a school, with lessons and evaluations to plan.
She’s not a teacher, though, but a speech therapist, and a damn good one at that. She’d worked briefly in the hospitals before settling on the school system, preferring to work with children than other adults. As such, she’s got a sharp tongue and a crude sense of humor—but she’s got a gentle heart, too, and boundless compassion that she shares with her kids every day. She loves her job, and that’s clear every day that she comes home beaming—exhausted and stressed from working with stubborn parents but happy, and the joy she finds from her work is contagious. Technoblade envies her, in a way, for being able to find something she’s so passionate about—something she’s willing to spend so much of her life devoting her time and effort to.
He’s never been one for work—at least, not in the traditional sense. While Phil and Kristin leave each morning to go to their shifts, he stays home, cleaning and gardening and cooking and working on his novel until his fingers ache and his hands are worn and calloused with burns and dirt. One day, he’ll finish his story—one day he’ll see it lining the shelves of every bookstore, his name praised in the papers for his work. For now, though, he’s content to pour his heart into every page, and to step away to walk Tommy home from school every evening, and to welcome Phil and Kristin home with a hot meal and a fond embrace. He’s happy keeping the home in running order—tending to Tommy when he has to stay home sick, trying new recipes and going on walks in the warm afternoon sun. Kristin and Phil make more than enough to support their little family, and so Technoblade is content to simply be content.
Warm water splatters against his cheek. Bubbles, too. He looks up to see Phil grinning, his head tilted curiously as he blinks up at him.
“You back with me, Sleeping Beauty?” he asks. Technoblade growls playfully, flicking the damp towel against Phil’s cheek. His partner squawks, trying to dance away, but the piglin seizes him around the waist and tugs him close. They dissolve into laughter and splashing, and soon enough the two of them are soaked, and the dishes half-finished as they chuckle and wheeze and struggle to catch their breath. Phil leans heavily against Technoblade, wing half-curled around him and his cheeks flushed pink, water dripping from sopping wet strands of blonde as he glares up at the taller man. Technoblade snorts, taking in his friend’s rumpled appearance.
“You fuck,” Phil hisses from behind a grin, his hair tangled and messy and water rolling down his cheeks and hanging off of his eyelashes. “How am I meant to go to work like this?”
“I’m sure the museum wouldn’t mind,” he jokes. “Besides, isn’t this how you always look?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Phil snaps lightheartedly, snatching another towel as he struggles to dry himself. “Gods, gonna half to blow-dry my hair all over again.” Technoblade hums, just watching for a moment before gently nudging Phil away with his hip, moving to finish washing the dishes himself. He plunges his hands into the warm, soapy water and nods toward the stairs.
“Go ahead,” he says with a smile, and Phil visibly softens. “Go get ready, you grumpy old man. Can’t have you showing up to work looking like a drowned rat. I’ll finish up here.”
The playful atmosphere dissipates, replaced by something much gentler. It’s moments like these that Technoblade savors—the times where they can relax and have fun, and the times where he can do something small to make his family’s lives a little easier. He’d do it again and again, if only to get to see them smile a little longer.
“Thanks, Techno,” Phil says, bumping their shoulders gently together.
“‘Course,” he answers, and watches as Phil begins to move toward the stairs. “You have to do the dishes tonight, though.”
“Oh, you—” He doesn’t hear the rest, returning to humming his little tune as Phil vanishes upstairs.
And then it’s just him. He works quietly and diligently, and soon enough the dishes sit polished in the drying rack, and he wipes the floor and counter dry of their shenanigans. He leans against the counter with a content sigh, cradling a fresh cup of coffee in his hands and watching the rain patter softly down against the pavement outside, pooling along the sidewalk and reflecting the pale grey sky. It’s one of those mornings where he wishes they could all just stay home—curl up together on the sofa and watch a movie, or put on their rainboots and splash in the puddles until they’re all shivering and sodden.
He misses his family every time they leave, but it just makes the moment they come home even better.
He checks the clock. There are five minutes left until Kristin and Tommy need to be out the door. He can hear them squabbling upstairs—Tommy likely putting up a fight about the outfit he’s chosen for the day. If he could, the kid would wear that same damned t-shirt every day of his life, but Kristin is having none of it. It’s bad enough that he wears his blue coat to school almost every day, regardless of the weather outside.
Oh well. They have to pick and choose their battles with a kid as stubborn as Tommy. He smirks, and moves to take another sip of his coffee.
That’s when the phone rings.
Vibrating loudly against the kitchen countertop, the familiar ringtone blares out. He shoots it a death glare, remaining motionless for a few moments, daring it to stop so he can simply enjoy his quiet morning. But it doesn’t, and so, begrudgingly, he moves to pick it up, squinting at the unfamiliar number on the screen.
“Better not be a scam,” he mutters, setting his mug down.
He answers.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Is this, uh—Mr. Blade?”
“Just Techno is fine,” he answers. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Oh, good! I’m calling on behalf of Saint Francis.”
Technoblade’s brow quirks.
The foster agency.
“You’re one of Tommy Soot’s legal guardians, yes?”
“Tommy Craft,” he corrects. Tommy had asked to change it last year. He still remembers the blinding smile on Kristin’s face, and the tears in Phil’s eyes. Phil never cries. He’d teased him about it for months after.
“Right.” The woman’s voice sounds oddly solemn. “Are you aware that Tommy still has a living relative?”
Technoblade goes still.
“A brother, right?” he asks slowly. They’d tried to find Tommy’s brother after adopting him, to no avail. He’d been somewhere in the foster system, surely, but the staff had been no help at all—hiding behind confidentiality laws and refusing to help them find the boy. They’d wanted to give Tommy some sort of closure, even if he barely remembered anything about his brother. Hell, they hadn’t even gotten a name— Tommy little more than a toddler when they’d met him, and largely nonverbal.
“Yes. His name is Wilbur. Wilbur Soot.”
“Wilbur.” Technoblade tries the name on his tongue. It sounds… right, somehow. “And why are you calling about him?” He’s got a sinking suspicion in his gut, as well as a poorly contained flicker of excitement, but he needs to hear it for himself. Behind him, he catches the click of heels down the staircase, and turns to catch a glimpse of Kristin, dressed and ready for work, her keys in one hand. He holds up a finger, silencing her, and her smile drops. She moves to stand beside him, listening closely.
“Well, sir… It’s just that…” The woman hums. “How do I phrase this…”
Kristin’s lips thin into a tight white line. She’s heard that tone before. They both have.
“We’ve been having trouble placing him in a foster home. When we found out that you had adopted his brother, and that your name was still on the viable list of potential foster homes…”
“You want us to foster Wilbur,” Technoblade finishes for her.
“...Yes.”
Kristin and Technoblade share a long look. Phil, still tying up his hair into a neat ponytail as he steps into the room, freezes, glancing between them. His smile twists into a frown, his brows furrowing. Kristin turns to him, mouthing something Technoblade doesn’t quite catch, and Phil’s expression becomes even more solemn. The woman on the phone continues.
“We understand that it’s short notice. There are also several concerns about his behavior that should be mentioned, but…” The woman’s voice is taut with stress and something sadder, and Technoblade feels something in his heart start to ache. “Nothing is working. It’s hard to place a teenager, and he hasn’t had a stable home since he first joined the system. He’s been through at least twelve different families, and with all that instability…”
Phil steps up beside them, and reaches for their free hands, intertwining his fingers with theirs and squeezing tight. They all share a long look, and slowly, nod, a silent understanding passing between them.
“We’ll take him.” Technoblade’s voice comes out surprisingly strong.
The rest of the conversation passes in a daze. Details are passed along, and several important documents are emailed to them. At some point, Kristin steps aside to call off from work, and Phil does the same, leaving Technoblade to frantically jot down notes. He’ll be arriving this evening—short notice was a hell of an understatement—and he’s got a long history of lashing out, both physically and verbally. He’s thirteen—in eighth grade—and despite his keen mind and extensive vocabulary, his academics are slipping. He’s temperamental and slow to trust, and he’s got a laundry list of other complaints from his past families—but Technoblade tunes those out, gritting his teeth and taking a steadying breath. Instead, he calmly asks for the file to be sent to his email, mutters a brief goodbye to the agent, and sinks down in a chair with his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” Phil breathes beside him, hand resting on Technoblade’s knee.
From behind him, her chin propped on her husband’s head, Kristin nods her agreement.
“What did we just get ourselves into?” Technoblade asks numbly.
“What we wanted from the start,” Kristin answers, but there are worry lines etched into her face, her wings held stiffly behind her. “We always wanted to find him, we were so upset when we couldn’t. Tommy was so upset…”
“Well, we found him,” Phil says, his voice stuttering with a breathy laugh. “Holy shit, we actually found him.”
“Wilbur,” Technoblade murmurs. “Thirteen—gods, a teenager…”
“Oh, we are so fucked,” Phil snorts, his chuckle bordering on hysterical, his fingers white-knuckled where they rest, clenched. “What the hell are we thinking?” Technoblade takes his hand back into his, and Kristin leans in close, and together, the three hold each other and exhale a deep, trembling sigh—one of both distress and relief.
“We couldn’t just leave him,” Kristin says softly, and Technoblade nods in agreement.
“...We’ll figure it out. He’s Tommy’s brother, for gods sakes. We did the right thing.”
“I hope so,” Phil says, sounding far more scared than Technoblade’s heard in a long time. He squeezes Phil’s hand gently, and hates the way his friend’s fingers tremble in his. Phil’s never adjusted well to sudden change—preferring the stability of their peaceful lives. He’s worried for Tommy, too—Technoblade can see it in his eyes, in the way they dart to the stairs and back. “What if—gods, I don’t know…”
“Phil…”
“What if we screw things up? Gods, Tommy is so fucking happy now. What if—what if this ruins that?”
“We’ll figure it out together, Phil,” Kristin assures him. “The way Tommy has always talked about him—how much he’s dreamed of seeing him… even if it’s hard, we can’t take this away from him. Even if things get messy.”
Phil takes a deep breath.
“…You’re right.”
“Hey.” Technoblade carefully tilts Phil’s face toward him, bumping their foreheads gently together. “It’s okay to worry. I’m worried too—this is big, and unexpected, and gods know it’s going to be hard. But it’s gonna be okay.” Phil nods slowly, and beside him, Kristin leans in, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. “We’ve got each other. We’ve always gotten through stuff together. This’ll be no exception, you’ll see.”
Another nod. A twitch of a smile.
“Besides—how hard can one teenager possibly be?”
Kristin makes a choked, scandalized noise beside him.
“Techno! Have you ever met a middle schooler?”
Phil bursts into laughter.
“Like I said. We’re fucked.”
It’s then that they hear a soft noise behind them—then that they hear a backpack thud to the floor, followed by an unusually quiet, confused voice calling out.
“Mom? Dad? Papa?” Tommy says, hovering in the doorway. “…What’s going on? We’re gonna be late for school.”
“Oh, treasure,” Kristin hums, beckoning him over. He seems to sense the strange mood in the air, for once complying with ease, fitting easily into their waiting arms. Phil’s wing moves to curl around the four of them, warm and soft and endlessly gentle. Tommy, confused and clearly a little scared, burrows close into Kristin’s chest, head tucked beneath his mother’s chin.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s happening?” he asks after a long few moments, and Technoblade tenses. Gods, where do they even begin? Luckily, Kristin seems willing to take the initiative, her hands resting on his shoulders, forcing him to hold her gaze. In that moment, Technoblade knows there’s no going back—knows it in the way Tommy’s eyes light up, in the way Phil’s hand squeezes his tight and the way the sun peeks through the clouds once more, casting his family in a curtain of pale gold.
“Tommy,” Kristin says. “…Do you remember your brother?”