Work Text:
The smudge of pink on the ground is like a single flower among a trampled field.
Though really, the fledgling looks trampled through too. Phil can tell before approaching any closer; limbs askew and feathers a mess. Crushed up flower, right into the dirt.
Phil finds himself looking absently around the area, though it’s really for naught. There’s no one around and he shouldn’t have expected there to be. The tree above him is towering and huge, likely built up well enough for a few fledglings to learn to toddle on. But certainly abandoned now.
Like the fledgling on the ground.
Their wings are obviously small, even if they weren’t bent even smaller. Their whole body is. Phil wouldn’t think that they were old enough to even try flying, let alone travel somewhere warmer with the other migrating species. The coming winter has come too soon. They must be a runt.
Bound to happen then. For most avians. Sad but. Inevitable.
Phil clicks, molars grinding painfully. He forces his feet forward anyway, not letting fickle impulses overwhelm him. Something within him forces him forwards. The same thing that very much doesn’t want to see.
Elytrians don’t do the “give them a push to see if they can fly” thing. Apparently, they're the weird ones for that. It makes sense. Elytrians live longer than other avians. Kids are more… precious. He supposes if waiting for one kid to mature enough to fly would mean half a dozen more freezing to death, taking the chance that a couple might not be ready makes sense.
It doesn't make sense to Phil. But he can pretend that it does. He supposes.
Pink coloration on avians is quite rare, but not unheard of. A basic songbird hybrid, then. Elytrians are always plain colors, better to blend in and not be seen.
Streaks of red and brown muddy the bright color. Phil frowns.
Then, the thing shifts.
“Oh, shit. Oh my Gods.”
Crouching down, Phil reaches out for the fledgling, stuttering slightly. Obviously they're hurt, they were pushed out of a giant tree. And smacked into the ground unimpeded. But they're also still alive, but who knows for how long! And also that’s probably why they could be injured literally anywhere and Phil has no idea what to do with that.
Can’t just leave them there.
Carefully, supporting their head, Phil flips them over onto their side.
The kid is… Obviously a kid. All the chubby cheeks that Tommy and Wilbur have, though not quite chubby enough. The fledgling is too small. Definitely a little runt, he never had a chance, even if he somehow did fly with those itty bitty wings. The feathers on those things are so fluffy that they're more white than pink. Aside from the dark blood. It’s smudged around his face too, crusting around his nose, though still fresh enough to drip at the new elevation.
And, the movement or the eyes on him, something, the fledgling’s eyelids flicker. Phil grabs his chin, holding the weight of his head.
The fledgling’s eyes, when he pries them open, are dazed and out of focus. But pale blue. The same color as an elytrian's fledgling.
Carefully, Phil leans forward and presses the fledgling’s wings in, before picking him up. A pained noise curls out of him, weak and hollow. Though as Phil holds him to his chest, the pain or the shock, he starts chirping loud, piercing peeps. The sort of noise that scared babies make to call out to their mothers.
Phil coos back, wanting to rub the kid’s head, but holding back. Best not to shift him any further.
It takes a few seconds of the soothing noises to get the small thing to stop fighting and cringing in pain, but obviously he’s exhausted. Freezing cold and bones overly loose. Left in the dirt to die.
Phil covers his anger with vindication.
Their loss.
—
“Where’s he gone now?” Phil mutters to himself.
The nest before him is ruffled, a few stray feathers sticking to it. This time, the wicks of color across the pale canvas is from pink feathers, not blood. Or not much. But a certain fledgling is distinctly missing.
For a moment, Phil glances at the large windows throughout the room, showcasing the treetops around them. The fresh air and open space is important for most avians to not feel stressed and stifled. Elytrians especially. He really didn’t think the fledgling was well off enough to even try throwing himself out of one if he decided to follow some sort of small bird instinct though. Would he? Now Phil’s nearly regretting it.
The fledgling is stubborn though, Phil soothes himself. Already, he’s curled himself into the corners of the breezy room, shivering outside the blankets, and about fallen down the ladder to the rest of the house in attempts to flee and hide.
Even broken bones can’t stop Techno. Phil's chest is equally proud and exasperated.
“Techno, where did you go?” He calls out, careful not to raise his voice too much.
Turning, he hops down from the loft, bypassing the ladder altogether. His clawed feet clack against the wood. The wooden house spans a few trees, reaching lower and higher at different parts. Plenty of little hiding spots, unfortunately. Or perhaps fortunately. Better that Techno closes himself inside somewhere than running off into the forest, still bundled up in bandages. He doesn't have many more bones left to break.
That doesn’t really give him an idea of where to start looking… Is what Phil would have said if he didn’t find a hissy little elytrian and sad songbird in the past who were equally discordant about being here. Alone and displeased to be made not that. Fledglings are funny. They warmed up soon enough though, Phil isn’t worried.
He beelines to Tommy and Wilbur’s oldest hiding spots, peeking into closets and under raised beds. The tiniest sound of nails scratching floorboards makes him pause before smirking.
Phil trills imploringly, but firm.
An obedient chirp answers him, echoing out from behind the boxes of dried goods.
Not exactly well hidden, but closed in and defensible. The poor thing must be really stressed to want walls on all sides.
“Tommy,” Wilbur hisses, sounding offended. A tiny slap follows, Tommy shouting “Hey!”
“Here we go,” Phil mumbles, rounding the box of flour with his hand on his hip.
Tommy is in the act of retaliating to Wilbur’s attack, though it’s not super successful. The older boy has more height on him, which is about all that matters when deciding which scrabbling sibling wins. In a few years, maybe Tommy’s elytrian roots will give him the edge.
A thwump sounds out as Tommy is shoved onto the ground. Not yet.
“The fuck are you two doing?” Phil asks.
At the same time, he tries to peer around the two. He can make out pink, shoved back into the corner and nearly shaking. Or very probably actually shaking. The fighting boys, larger than Techno by a not unsignificant amount, probably isn't helping him relax. Though, he's far less frightened of the fellow children than he is of Phil. It makes sense, but hurts his heart.
Phil keeps his wings tucked close to his back. It can only do so much to fight the instinctual fear of elytrians in small bird species.
When Wilbur and Tommy don’t cease their squabbling, Phil clicks at them, scolding. It makes the two pout and break apart, mostly. But it also makes Techno shake more. He tries to hide under his wings, before chirping at the pain it brings. Then he slaps his hand over his mouth, like that can take it back. A mess of raw nerves and newborn instincts.
“Gonna answer my question now?” Phil asks.
“What question?” Tommy asks blatantly.
Phil snorts. “What are you doing?”
“Oh. The fledgling ran away,” Tommy says, even more blatant. And pointing at Techno.
The poor thing tries to puff up bigger under the attention. It fails, and also makes him cringe in pain. Adorable and sad. Sadorable.
“Tommy,” Wilbur scolds again. He rolls his eyes, like being a teenager makes him so above it. And yet he’s crouched on the floor too. “We were just talking to him.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure. Why don’t you stop wrestling in his lap and let me make sure he hasn’t torn off his splints,” Phil says.
A bit of hesitation goes through the two fledglings as they’re waved away. And although it’s probably just curiosity at this point, Phil thinks it’s a good sign. Avians might not take to adopted family members very well, or arguably siblings in general for a lot of species, but a bit of bonding time does the trick. And making sure that they don't have to fight over food or anything. Can’t get between a baby and their worm.
Though feeding tiny songbirds is hardly difficult. Phil doesn’t understand how anyone could let a little thing get so thin, not like he'd even need a lot. He grits his teeth until he can smile. Close mouthed. No terrifying the fledgling any further.
“Hey mate, feeling alright?” Phil asks.
The answer is very obviously no. All wrapped up in bandages, like a poor cat that’s lost a fight with the curtains. It’s a pathetic sight, though the little guy does have some sharp little claws and teeth too. He tries to keep a hostile look on his face towards Phil, but it’s not very successful.
“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” Phil asks.
“They said—” Techno starts to say, voice crackling from disuse as he cuts himself off.
“Tommy and Wilbur? What did they say?” Phil asks, half afraid.
Techno grabs his broken ribs, arms bandaged and splinted tight, but still a bit too misshapen. His eyelids droop despite the sharpness. Exhaustion, pain, and the touch of potion Phil gave him.
“I want to go south and find my mom,” Techno mumbles. It’s easily caught with Phil’s hearing.
He turns his gut reaction clicking into a coo. Still, the fledgling curls around his ribs further. Bruised and splitting apart. The bandages that cover open wounds instead of just keeping his insides together are starting to soak red.
“That’s not possible,” Phil says simply.
“But—”
Phil can tell the exact second where the small space the fledgling has shoved himself into turns from secure to stifling. There’s nowhere for him to escape to, and he can’t even see any of the windows letting in the sky and breeze from here. His breath hiccups and his fingers reach for his bound wings. Those big blue eyes widen further, pupils mismatched but shrinking.
Louder, Phil makes a soothing noise, warbling around the edges. Heavy handed for a normal songbird, shown in how Techno droops against the wall. He’s still trying to keep his spine up, but as well as it’s held up against the fall, it is bruised and sloping. All of him drifts down slightly, like the bird call is a heavy blanket.
“It’s not safe out there. The winters are cold and you have to fly all day. Your wings aren’t ready for that,” Phil says.
He moves closer, setting his palm upon the fledgling’s forehead. The skin is that strange mixture of firm and soft that comes with contusions. The bruises are messy, a whole slew of colors. They leave Phil’s chest firm against the sadness on Techno’s face.
“You’re safe right here,” Phil says.
He gives in and crouches, extending his wings around the trembling boy. The huge, pitch dark wings obviously force terror up in Techno through the pacifying sounds. But as he gets pressed to Phil’s chest, the rumbling from the bird noises sink through his skull and turns him to putty. All the more like something fragile trussed up by black feathers. It's easy to keep warbling lulling noises.
The slightly bellicose edges of the fledgling only make Phil more endeared to him. Techno will be strong one day, but not for a good long while. Even Wilbur and Tommy, who weren’t runts, are far from big enough to go out into the wide cruel world. The tiny trampled fledgling has a long, long way to go. And he needs to be tucked into a nest until then.
Phil cradles him in his arms and carries him back to the nest, careful to be as gentle as wouldn’t even crease a petal.
Better, among the blankets and pillows. The tiredness of the fledgling is appropriate here, and it’s only natural for him to settle down, even if overly droopy. Phil snickers as Techno pulls a blanket half over his face. Perhaps the breeze and light from the windows is too much. After falling, the sky likely isn’t too comforting. Not seeing the expanse of blue sets an itch into Phil’s wings, but the urge to make the nest comfortable for the disgruntled sparling. He quickly pulls the curtains closed before sitting beside the boy in the blankets, chirping quietly.
Reluctantly, Techno pokes his teary eyed face out of the blankets. Phil sings a couple soothing notes, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Just a little, the pink avian leans into it. It makes Phil smile.
“Let me see where you’re bleeding,” Phil says.
Techno’s obviously reluctant, broken limbs tucked as close to his chest as they’re able to be. As helpful and instinctual as pressing fingers to an open, oozing cut, after the damage is already done. A facsimile of protection.
Gingerly, Phil picks up Techno's hands and unwinds them from his chest, slow and supporting.
Though it takes no strength to unfurl his limbs, they truly require a dusting touch. His arms are mostly held together by bandages and splints, having taken the brunt of the fall. It likely saved his head and abdomen from a harsher impact, but the limbs were a mess. And are only slightly better after Phil’s care to them. The tiniest amount of pressure could probably undo the careful realignment of all the complex internal workings.
With the curved tips of his talons, Phil picks away the bandages over the stitches. The bones had broken the skin, leaving behind deep cuts after he set them. The sutures have begun to weep from the movements in Techno's little escape attempt.
“You need to rest more, fledgling. Let your wounds heal,” Phil scolds lightly.
Techno flinches, which jerks his arms down by the loose, recently dislocated shoulders. Obviously painful, but his mouth stays firmly shut. Tiny pained sounds still vibrate out of his throat against his best effort.
It's different from both Tommy and Wilbur when Phil took them in. They were both quite put off by the whole ordeal, but loud and demanding. Like a fledgling should be, Phil thinks. Perhaps it’s a runt thing, to be so quiet. Or something about his past guardian.
Phil hums instead of letting out the displeased, angry noises that he wants too.
It’s already becoming routine to wipe away the blood and layer new bandages down without pressing on the reddened wounds. They don’t look infected, or at least not badly enough that it should become an issue, as long as they’re regularly cleaned. The tiniest of rattling noises leave Techno, tight in his larynx. Phil coos in response like it was a proper pained call.
Techno’s free hand brushes against Phil’s wings, the dark feathers still half wrapped around him in protection. Absently, his fingers fiddle with the feathers. It’s a tad too scratchy, Phil can tell that he’s stressed into compulsion. He'll have to make sure the fledgling doesn't start plucking at his own. He's has enough sore spots on him already.
But Phil simply coos and pets the exposed parts of his pale pink wings for now, paying special attention to every feather as he starts straightening them out. They’re still a mess and impossible to fully fix up when the wings are bandaged and braced, but he does what he can. They're covered in dust and dirt and traces of blood, far too many bent quills.
A couple of minutes is all it takes for Techno to calm again, ending up splayed practically half in Phil’s lap.
Some of the disrepair of Techno’s wings seems old enough that Phil knows he couldn’t have been preened enough for a fledgling. Counter-intuitive if anyone ever wanted the runt to grow enough. Perhaps he was given up on before it began. He makes sure there’s not an exposed feather that doesn’t get rubbed clean and straight. The smallest of stuttery coos from Techno try to respond to him preening, obviously not on purpose, but adorable all the same.
Tiny flakes of dried blood sprinkle the blankets. Phil brushes it away before moving on to Techno’s hair.
It’s tangled, dirty, and half matted to his head with old blood. Similarly, some of the lack of care seems chronic. Which is a shame, because the locks are strong and long beneath the soaking of blood. Very likely, Techno smacked his head into the ground enough to get some kind of concussion, alongside splitting open his skin. Hopefully that accounts for some of his confusion and fleeing. Once he has a bit more of his senses and strength about him, it’ll be more difficult to keep him here if he doesn’t want to be.
Phil will figure something out if it comes to that, but he’d rather not upset any small amounts of trust building between them. Unconsciously, Techno’s fingers curl back up into Phil’s dark wings. This time, it feels like unconscious comfort seeking.
He starts by picking away the knots and clumps of blood from the fledgling’s hair. The first touch that brushes the back of Techno’s neck makes him tense, but it’s gone before it starts. Then, he sinks into Phil's side further.
“Whenever you’re hungry, cold, or scared, I will take care of it for you,” Phil says quietly, systematically stripping the hair clean and straight. It’s an even paler pink than it looked at first glance. It needs more sunlight, more care. “You’re safe here.”
Even if the fledgling is too far towards sleep to hear, Phil whispers the words honestly. Hopefully if he says them enough, they’ll sink in.
Though, he’s surprised when a slight sniffle leaves Techno. His fingers hold on tighter and he snuffles closer. Phil pets behind his ears, across his tender scalp.
“Or when you’re lonely too. No more being alone, we’re your family now,” Phil says, cupping Techno’s temples. “True family, who will never leave you.”
A hiccup grabs Techno’s thin shoulders. Phil can tell that the words hurt him. Pushing on his horrid shattered wings and even worsely bruised heart. It might be instinct for most avians to leave a useless runt behind, but that same feeling doesn’t exist within the children. They’re only programmed to cling and love, like they’re normal.
Already, Phil thinks that Techno is better than normal. He’ll take a while to heal, a while longer to grow up. He might always need some help.
All the care of weaving silk, Phil braids Techno’s hair down his back.
He can hear Tommy and Wilbur, apparently having chased each other closer again. They’re laughing though, loud before shushing each other. Trying to be considerate, in a clumsy way.
Phil whistles, quietly imploring them to come closer. Their noises pause, before the familiar tip taps pad closer. In that awkward kid way, he can tell that they already care about the little fledgling too. He smiles, chest feeling full.
Delicate feathers and delicate hair, Phil pets them lighter than air. Pink isn’t a strategic color to survive out in the cold or go unseen by predators. So much bigger than the little songbird, the whole world is. The color is pretty and unique, though, laid on gauze white. And the flegdling doesn’t need to be worried about the hair on his head being touched by any unkind hands anymore.
A blessing, to hold something so fragile within his hands. Especially when it snuggles in instead of being trampled.