Work Text:
Step one: measurements.
Fundy is ignoring how fucking awkward this entire situation is, and instead focuses on the tape measure in his hands and the inky black feathers under his fingers. He’s careful not to touch the scarred parts of the wing too roughly, gentle in his poking and prodding as he writes down the length and width of the wings in his notebook. Phil sits on a stool in the center of the living room, his wings stretched out entirely for Fundy to examine. There’s barely enough room within the house for this, truth be told, but they weren’t about to go outside into the snowstorm for this. Wilbur sits on the couch, barely paying attention to the two of them as he writes away in his own book, quill scratching the surface, gently.
“The damage is pretty uneven, your right one looks like it’ll need less than the other.” Fundy peers up at Phil. “I’m thinking… if I can, we can mechanize a prosthetic so that it moves in certain ways depending on how you move the rest of your wing. If--if that makes sense? I don’t really know how complicated flying is.”
Phil frowns, slightly, examining the notes Fundy’s scribbled down. “We won’t know until we try it, I suppose.”
“Okay.” Fundy straightens up. “I’m… gonna need more space to work. Do you think we could start building a workshop, up here? Would that be okay?”
“Talk to Techno,” Phil and Wilbur say at the same time--it makes Phil laugh and Wilbur sink down into the couch with a snort.
“You guys are so weird,” Fundy mutters, mostly to himself, but nods and bounds down the hall.
Step one and a half: build an entire workshop, apparently.
It’s simple enough, really--it goes far faster than Fundy expects it to. Tommy and Phil help him put most of it together, with a bit of input from Techno and Wilbur who mostly just sit on the sidelines. Wilbur complains about the cold. Ranboo shows up about halfway through the venture and pitches in.
It’s a few solid days spent fooling around and setting up foundations and support beams, building up strong, sturdy stone brick and spruce walls. Tommy starts a snowball fight that derails construction on the second day. They finish it on the third.
They build a fairly nice blacksmithing area. There’s a large forge and plenty of materials and tools to work with, and Fundy is excited just looking at the new workspace.
He’s gonna make so much cool shit, mark his words.
Step two: make cool shit, but mostly Phil’s new wings.
This, he finds, is more difficult than he expects it to be.
It’s late one night when Tommy and Fundy sort of stumble into each other in the hallway, Tommy headed for the kitchen and Fundy just sort of… walking. They stand there, silent, staring at each other for a few seconds longer than what could be considered normal, before Tommy just shoulders past with a grunt. Fundy trails after him, thoughtlessly.
“Can’t sleep?” He asks, careful not to prod too much. Tommy moves across the dark kitchen and picks up a golden apple from the bowl on the counter.
“Not really,” Tommy says, not meeting his eyes.
They’re quiet for a bit longer as Tommy gets himself settled. It’s nearly pitch-black, and although Fundy can see pretty well, he knows Tommy probably can’t see for shit. He moves about the kitchen like it’s easier than breathing, though, and Fundy wonders how many late night escapades into the darkness have taught him the exact layout of this entire cabin.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Tommy’s sat on the table, legs crossed, a bite taken out of the sweet-smelling fruit.
Fundy sits himself down in a kitchen chair. “Sure.”
“I think,” he says, the golden apple resting in the palm of his hand, “I’m still a little scared of Wilbur.”
There’s a moment of quiet. They stare at each other, before Tommy breaks his gaze and taps his free hand against the table, nervously. There are a dozen different questions Fundy could ask--why is he thinking about this, did he have a nightmare, why is he telling Fundy, of all people. Instead, he breathes out, slow and mostly steady.
“I’ve also got a secret,” Fundy says, finally. “I am, too.”
Tommy perks up. Their shared sigh of relief is enough to make Fundy laugh, a bit--Tommy snorts into his apple as he takes another bite and very pointedly ignores the way Fundy’s giggles turn semi-hysterical. They’re both fraying at the edges, tonight, but Fundy hasn’t felt this… this sort of companionship, this relatability in a while. This reliability. So few words have been said, but they have confided in each other, here in the dark. They have told each other things they have told just about nobody else, in a few simple words.
“That’s fucked,” Tommy says, softly.
Fundy hums his agreement. They sit there in the dark and quiet for a few moments more.
“He’s trying to be better,” Tommy continues. Fundy shrugs.
“We don’t have to forgive him just yet.”
Tommy ponders that, briefly, staring out the window. He nods, eventually, and knocks his shoulder against Fundy’s as he stands up.
“We should go back to bed.” He glances down at the golden apple, frowning. “... I don’t really want to finish this.”
Fundy snorts. “Why’d you take it, then?”
“I was hungry, dumbass.”
He snatches it from Tommy’s hands, dancing out of reach despite Tommy’s little what the fuck, man. “It’s mine now. Go back to sleep, Wil would murder me if he knew I kept you up.”
“You didn’t keep me up, technically, I kept me up,” Tommy argues, but he’s already halfway towards the door.
“Night, Tommy.”
He pauses in the doorway. Gives a little salute and a tiny smile, before disappearing down into the basement.
Fundy, stood in the kitchen, takes a bite of golden apple, and attributes the warmth in his chest to that, instead.
He can recall, with greater clarity than he expects, the last real conversation he has with her.
They’re seated on the beach--back before the docks, before the walls, before L’manburg, really. Fundy’s got his toes buried in the sand and she’s standing ankle-deep in the water, bare feet curling into the seaweed and the mud. Her skirt flutters about her waist, makes it just past the knees before it begins to become tattered and torn. There is a cloak about her shoulders, soft and black, one that Fundy now associates with blood and ash and his father’s descent into paranoia and smoke and not the gentle, sweet tones of his mother’s voice.
(That is another thing he will never forgive Wilbur for, the way he has tainted so many memories.)
Not mother by blood, not really, but Sally is the closest thing he’s ever had. She stands there in the water, smiling at him, all soft and sad, red curls fallen over her shoulders and out of her braids.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, quietly. “It’s not worth the risk.”
“It is to me,” he says. It is to Wilbur.
He doesn’t need to say it for Sally to know that he means it. “You don’t have to do everything Wil does.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
She looks… frustrated. That is not a rare occurrence, but there is a rawer sort of sadness to it, something almost akin to dread in her eyes as she gazes at him. Fundy stares back--he will not be swayed by her stern demeanor, no matter how nervous it makes him. Sally sighs, softly, and looks back out over the ocean.
“I’m going to go, Fundy.”
And that is it, isn’t it? That is the core of the issue, is that everyone goes, at one point or another. Wilbur tried to settle, and look where that got him?
Maybe Fundy ought to follow in his mother’s footsteps. Settling never works out for people like them. He sees it in Wilbur, too, that wanderlust, that need to walk until his feet hurt and see the stars and what lie beyond them. It’s a wonderful feeling, and it is what tore Sally away, in the end, the need to move.
Fundy doesn’t seem to need to move, the way they do. He wonders what that says about him.
“I want you to come with me.”
He says no, in the end. He chooses to stay and fight.
Sally can’t stop him. But the disappointment is almost enough.
It starts out innocent enough. Tommy weasels his way into the workshop when Fundy and Phil are working--Fundy doing more than Phil is, really, but his input is required to ensure that this will actually allow Phil to use the things. Tommy asks questions and follows them up with more, and the curiosity is… welcome, but a bit distracting.
At least, it’s welcome until he begins asking why, over and over and over.
“Because… that’s how fire works…?” Fundy glances over at Phil, bemused.
“Yeah,” Tommy says, “but why?”
“You,” Phil says, sounding exhausted, “are a horrible child.”
Tommy, seated on the workbench, just lets out a bark of laughter. It sounds a bit like Wilbur’s.
“You love me,” he says, teasing. Phil just sighs, burying his face in his arms.
“I wish I didn’t.”
Tommy lets out a triumphant little ha! and elbows Fundy in the side. “Y’hear that? He said he loves me.”
Fundy just snorts. Phil groans, louder this time, wings coming up to cover his head. That teases more of a laugh out of him, and Fundy just raises his eyebrows with a grin as he continues his work. He’s almost done stitching the enchantment runes into the leather.
“C’mon, Phil, we all know you’re a softie at heart.”
“I am the Angel of Death,” Phil says, muffled into his arms and under his feathers, “and I am feared by the greatest warriors all across the earth.”
Tommy pats his back, just between the wings. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, bud.”
“Phil,” Fundy says, “how does this look?”
It’s a rough prototype, really, leather and lightweight metal pulled together, braces that will support the wing and replace the… missing bits. Fundy hasn’t had the chance to experiment with clockwork so much--it’s exciting, really, seeing such a thing come together.
“If I’m being totally honest,” Phil says, “aesthetically, it looks like shit.”
“I was aiming for functionality.” Fundy wrinkles his nose. “We’ll make it pretty later. I still need to collect feathers for it, too.”
“Oh. That’s fine, then.”
“Do you wanna try putting it on?” Fundy stretches, leaning back a bit as his spine pops.
Phil hums as he gets to his feet. “Sure.”
It takes a little while, mostly just because Fundy wants to explain how all the parts work and how to properly put the whole thing on. It’s not a one-man task, unfortunately--at least not yet. If he can streamline the design a bit and make it less… unwieldy, maybe Phil will be able to handle the entire thing on his own at some point. For now, though, they work together, and eventually, the brace is on.
Phil extends his wings experimentally. The supports move with it, the faintest clicking noise coming from the joints of the thing. It’s not pretty, really, but… it looks whole, and that seems to satisfy Phil.
“Okay. Good.” Fundy grins. “I need to change some things, but then we can maybe try it outside, and see if you can get off the ground?”
His eyes feel warmer, when they meet Fundy’s. Phil grins, pulling his wings in close to his back, then extending them again. He’s got one hand planted on the table as if to help stabilize him, but he looks… happier than he has in weeks, truth be told.
“Sounds good to me.”
Tommy cuts in again, after being quiet for so long. “Fundy,” he says, “you think you could make an actual full set of wings?”
Fundy tilts his head to peer around Phil’s wings as he begins helping take off the brace. “With more magic, maybe. Full prosthetic wings seem like they might be more difficult than like… a brace.”
“But you could, yeah?”
That earns a soft snort. Fundy reaches out to pat Tommy’s shoulder. “Once this project’s done with, we’ll make you some wings.”
Tommy grins, wide and satisfied.
“Hell yeah,” he says, and Fundy decides that it’s a promise.
“What’s it feel like?” Fundy asks, one day. “Dying, I mean.”
Wilbur stills in the snow, glances back at him with his brows furrowed. It is not a topic they address often, a sort of unspoken agreement that they will not discuss the white and silver in Wilbur’s hair, or the aches and pains he gets some days, remnants of a stab wound that never truly got the chance to heal.
“You’ve felt it before,” he says, a little more gruffly than Fundy expects.
They keep walking, leaving footprints in the snow. Wilbur’s boots, Fundy’s paws, two unique enough shapes in their own right, treading side by side. It’s supposed to snow again--Phil said as much, earlier, and everyone trusts Phil when it comes to the weather. The footprints will be washed away, and they will only be left with the memory of this walk. And Fundy wants the both of them to remember it, so he cements it in his mind the only way he knows how.
“Not the way you did.” Fundy’s tail brushes against the snow, and he pulls it up and away with a grimace. “I’ve always got that… knowledge, that--that weight, y’know? Like, I know I’m not all-the-way gone, yet.”
Wilbur hums, a noncommittal noise. Fundy can’t help it--he pouts, a bit.
“Wil,” he says, “please?”
They walk in silence for a few moments more. Wilbur doesn’t look towards him, just clenches his jaw.
“Does it hurt?” Fundy asks, finally, and that is the core of the question, of his fear, put out in the open for all to see.
A pause. But then:
“A bit,” Wilbur says. “But then it doesn’t, not as much.”
Snowflakes begin to drift downwards, slowly, a gentle thing. It’s cold, but not in the way Ghostbur was, and Wilbur tips his head back and squints up at the clouds and there is life in his eyes.
“It’s all dark, but impossibly dark, an absence of everything. You see the stars, and then nothing, and then everything. And it’s just void, and it’s quiet, and… you just stay as you are, and watch how things change around you.” He reaches for Fundy’s hand. Their fingers tangle together, Wilbur’s hand trembling, the slightest bit.
“And it’s lonely,” he says, softly. “So, impossibly lonely.”
“And now?” Fundy asks, gentle in the way he pokes and prods at wounds that would like to be left alone, but cannot be.
Wilbur looks up.
“Less so,” he says, and that is enough for the both of them.
It’s the middle of the night, and Techno is eating in the workshop.
He’s seated by the fire, blanket pulled about his shoulders like a cloak, one of the biscuits Wilbur helped him make earlier in one hand. It’s not warm, anymore, but it’s still soft as if it only just came out of the oven. Fundy is doing his best to ignore the way he’s getting crumbs on the benches.
They’re just sort of… existing, right now. In the same space.
If Fundy’s being totally honest, it’s kind of weird. Or maybe he’s just reading it that way. It always feels awkward, around Techno--more so now that he’s just sitting in silence, watching Fundy work.
Considering he was part of an effort to… execute him, a few weeks back.
… yeah, this is all kind of weird.
He continues threading in the feathers. The skeleton of the thing is sitting splayed out on the bench, the enchantment runes having been scratched on. He needs to properly carve them out and polish them off, but he’s taking a break to work on the feathers. At some point, he begins explaining the whole thing to Techno--it just… it seems important, that he should know all of this.
He explains how the padding should slide comfortably underneath the wing and nestle against the remains in a way that will still allow for free, painless movement. Phil’s weight and any strain should be handled by the brace. There’s magic threaded throughout the whole thing, to strengthen it and allow it to move at Phil’s command as if it were just… part of his wing. It should be near-impossible to break, once completed.
It’s probably one of the coolest things Fundy’s ever made, he thinks. He says as much. Techno hums his agreement.
“Thanks,” he says, gruffly, “for helping Phil.”
Fundy pauses in his work, looking up at Technoblade.
“It’s the least I can do.”
Another moment of quiet. Fundy sighs, softly. “... I’m sorry, for… what that’s worth. I know you aren’t… exactly happy about me being here.”
Techno huffs. “You make Wilbur and Tommy happy. And you’re useful. More than Tommy is, at least.”
Fundy snorts, cutting his thread. He begins hooking the leather and feathers onto the brace, again. Techno watches, mildly, eyes half-lidded in the warmth of the fireplace. He looks tired--Fundy probably looks just as worn out, really, but the two of them are persistent as they blink past the bleariness.
Techno takes another bite of his biscuit, before breaking the remaining bit in half. Fundy continues working, pausing to take half of the roll from Techno’s outstretched hand.
It’s a silent sort of truce. An agreement to end their hostility towards each other. Techno’s shoulders relax, Fundy’s tail swishes lazily back and forth.
They’re safe here, with each other, against all odds and the history that defines so much of them.
“Has Tommy talked to you about Tubbo?” Techno asks, out of nowhere. Fundy pauses, glancing up at him.
“No?”
He remembers Tubbo’s frightened face, the confused questions and the fury, the way he’d shouted at them before Dream and Sam had pulled him away. Tubbo is… an explosion, one with a long and slow-burning fuse. Fundy wonders how much longer it’ll be before that prison burns down and Tubbo claws his way out of the ashes.
Judging by the way Techno’s eyes are almost glowing in the firelight, and the predatory slope to his shoulders as he leans forward, Fundy figures it won’t be much longer.
“He wants to break him out. Will you help us?”
It is a tall order.
Go against Dream and L’manburg and Sam and… really, the greater good, just to help this ragtag little family he’s begun to feel like he belongs in.
“Of course.”
It isn’t even really a question.
Fundy can’t find the words to say, standing here staring at Dream. The reality of it all sets in, and his blood runs cold as he eyes the netherite axe hanging from his belt, gleaming with enchantment. Dream’s arms are crossed, though, his hands nowhere near the weaponry that adorns him. He is not aggressive, but he is not soft and kind and everything Fundy loves, either.
“What?” He finally says, because he can’t think of anything else. This has to be some sick joke.
This can’t be happening again.
He can’t be alone again.
“We’re done, Fundy,” Dream says, voice all quiet. “It’s over, we’re through, all of this is over.”
“I thought--I--why?”
Dream smiles. His eyes obscured, Fundy can’t tell if it’s sad, or not.
“All is fair in love and war.”
Fundy closes his eyes as Dream walks away.
It happened again, is all he can think, I’m alone again.
He doesn’t return to L’manburg until nightfall.
(Fundy bolts awake with his heart pounding in his chest. He hates this dream. He hates how badly he wants to return to that night. At least that night, all he’d had to be upset about was his childhood sweetheart leaving him. At least he hadn’t known, then, what was to come.
He misses it so badly it hurts.)
Fundy has learned many things about his father and his brothers, in his time at Technoblade’s cabin.
The first thing (that had honestly come as a bit of a shock) was that they are not, in fact, actually brothers. For all of Wilbur’s taunting and teasing and the way Tommy calls Phil dad every once in a while, Wilbur and Phil are the only ones with blood relations. Tommy and Wilbur throw the word sibling around more than Techno ever does, and Techno always treats Phil as more of an old friend than a father, and Fundy is honestly just confused by the whole mess.
Found family is weird. It’s nontraditional and confusing and one of Fundy’s new favorite things, he’s discovered.
Techno and Wilbur are a calmer sort of chaos than Tommy, who only ever serves to rile them up or reign Wilbur in. It’s still chaos, really, because Wilbur and Techno are the sort of smart people that, when together, cancel each other’s brain cells out. It’s kind of endearing, and mostly just funny.
Today--or tonight, rather--they’re seated in the living room by the fireplace. Wilbur is sprawled out on the couch with his guitar and a bowl of dried fruit, snacking away in between his little composing sessions. Techno is seated on the floor with his back against the couch, books and papers spread out in front of him, and Fundy is seated across from him.
Tonight, the two have offered to teach Fundy everything they know about the Blood God.
“We don’t say her name,” Wilbur says, voice all dark and dramatic.
“He doesn’t say her name,” Techno says, sounding far less worried about the whole thing. “It’s Caedis. Her name is Caedis.”
Wilbur huffs. “You’re gonna get yourself smited one day.”
“Smote.”
“Whatever.”
Fundy snorts, stifles it as he leans on his hand. Techno taps the page in front of him with a careful hand, images of the god(dess?) scribbled across it. One thing is consistent throughout--hands or claws stained red with blood. It’s almost… creepy, truth be told.
Then again, a deity of blood and survival is bound to be terrifying.
“It’s sort of a family curse, the whole… voices thing,” Techno says, gruffly. “Started out as just me n’ Phil, then Wilbur picked it up from us, then I think Tommy picked it up from Wilbur. I’m not surprised you hear ‘em sometimes too.”
“It only started recently,” Fundy mumbles, drawing his knees close to his chest.
Wilbur hums sympathetically. “It’s scary, mate. I get it. She’s not as interested in us, though.”
Techno tosses his head, almost pridefully. “I’m her favorite.”
Fundy decides that commenting on how being a goddess of violence’s favorite mortal is most likely not a good thing is a bit of a bad idea, if only because he assumes that the goddess is both watching them right now, or Techno will get bitter about it. Fundy doesn’t really want to get struck down by a god, thank you very much. Or struck down by Technoblade, for that matter.
He’d just kind of like to keep his two lives, thanks.
“Either way, I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry too much about her.” Wilbur sits up a bit more, setting his bowl on the floor as he leans forward. “It’s really just a matter of keeping away from her… holy sites, I guess, and not snapping and murdering a bunch of people.”
Fundy thinks of blood and burning and tearing his claws through flesh, scraping them against porcelain, teeth bared in a bloodstained snarl as he took a wing between his jaws--
He shivers. “I think we’re kinda late on the snapping part.”
Wilbur sort of sinks down beside him on the floor, taking his hands. There’s a quiet sort of seriousness in his eyes, one that Fundy hasn’t seen in a while.
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He rubs a thumb across the back of his hand. “You’re gonna be fine, Fundy.”
Techno nods. Fundy finds he can breathe a little easier, at the reassurance.
“Okay,” he whispers.
There’s a few moments of quiet, Wilbur smiling gently and squeezing his hand, before Techno carries right back on into the tangent he’d been on.
“She values tradition, mostly, doesn’t like too much change--s’why she resides over violence, that’s a domain that stays the same no matter what. It’s said she was somethin’ else before, but nobody really knows what it was. Survival, maybe, I’m not sure…”
Fundy leans back, into his father’s embrace, and listens. It’s peaceful, and he feels protected and safe and like nothing can touch him, here.
He’s drifted off before he even realizes it.
“Can’t believe you’re boring enough he fell asleep,” Wilbur teases, softly.
Techno snorts, swats at the back of Wilbur’s head. He laughs, gently, wrinkles his nose at Techno. They settle in right there on the floor.
Phil finds them there, still sleeping in a pile, in the morning.
The excited tension in the air is palpable--it feels like one could cut it with a knife, the lot of them are so worked up.
Phil stands a few meters from the edge of the cliff, flexing his wings as he stares out over the jagged stone. The braces are fit snugly against the base of his wings, and open and close with the rest of the limbs. They almost blend in, almost look as though they’re really a part of his wings, thanks to the feathers being the same inky dark color--they aren’t, and they never will be a real part of them, but it is something.
Wilbur is reigning Tommy in, one hand on his arm, and Techno stands beside them as Fundy does one last check, makes sure it’s all secure. They’re far from the tundra, today, away from bad weather and more dangerous flying conditions. A few fruit trees scatter the plains below them.
Fundy finally steps back, and gives him the all-clear.
“Lookin’ good,” Techno says. Phil just grins.
“Good luck!” Tommy looks delighted, more excited than the rest of them combined. Phil gives an experimental flap of his wings.
Then, he tips over the edge of the cliff and soars.
It’s not perfect. He lists to the right, a bit, but he’s gliding out across the plains and he lets out a whoop! that carries back up the cliff to the rest of them. Tommy and Wilbur let out a cheer and Fundy grins, tail swishing back and forth triumphantly as the lot of them watch Phil do a bit of a loop, landing in the grass down below. He idles by one of the trees before launching himself back into the air--it’s a bit of a rough take-off, and he grimaces as he touches back down on the cliff beside him, but he’s breathless and smiling and laughing as he drops one of the pears into Fundy’s hands, and Fundy gets his first proper hug from Phil, wings wrapped all the way around him, before Wilbur and Tommy weasel their way in and drag Techno into it too.
There are adjustments to be made, upgrades to be thought of, but for now, Phil is smiling. All of them are, and that is enough.
It has been an incredibly long day, and existing in the same room as TommyInnit is the last thing Fundy would like to do.
He’s spent about twelve hours in the workshop alone, today, making small adjustments to the wing braces, beginning to plan a prototype set of mechanical wings. Whether or not they’ll work, who’s to say--but he’s going to try it, consequences from Dream be damned. He’s missed getting to experiment, like this, back before the SMP started laying down such harsh rules, before he got trapped in a government with more important duties.
He missed the early days, when Wilbur and Sally would teach him magic and he would teach himself engineering and weave the two together.
All that to say, he’s having fun, and he doesn’t exactly want to go back into the house, but he’s realized he hasn’t eaten in hours and his stomach is complaining. So he wipes soot from his brow (and only really smears it in his fur) and drops his apron and goggles on the bench and marches through the snow back to the cabin.
Convenient timing, it seems, as dinner is in the works.
“Fundy!” Wilbur brushes past, ruffling his hair. “Set the table, will you? Five plates.”
Fundy blinks. “Is someone visiting?”
Wilbur pauses, staring at him with his eyebrows raised. His tone is teasing when he next speaks. “... if you didn’t want to eat with us so badly, you could’ve just said so.”
Oh.
Fundy’s smart. He really is. He promises he is, in fact, he’s one of the smartest people on this server.
He stutters out a reply that he doesn’t even really remember by the time he’s setting the plates out, and Tommy sweeps in like a thunderstorm to bother Wil about something, and then Techno is dragged into the argument and Fundy thinks it’s the most annoying thing in the world when they’re still going by the time they’re all seated at the table.
Fundy also thinks that he wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.