Archive of Our Own

The mac and cheese is burning.

In theory, Tommy probably should’ve known that this was going to happen. In some other timeline—one that is very much not this one—he’d go as far as to call himself a cheese connoisseur, or whatever word it was that Techno told him about. 

Not today, though, which is a shame because he is hungry. 

It probably wouldn’t be that bad to eat. Sure, the cheese won’t stick to the noodles, and sure, the pasta is freezing cold despite it having been boiling two minutes beforehand, but it’s whatever. Tommy can manage. 

Slowly, he eases up another spoonful of the mac and cheese, only to shudder when it barely even passes behind his mouth. God, that’s awful. 

Tommy’s shoulders slump, entire body feeling the weight that comes after failing at something he'd thought would be easy. What’s that emotion called? (Wilbur once joked that it was dubbed ‘being a sore loser’. Tommy had rebuttaled with ‘you would know’, which shut him thankfully shut him up and earned Tommy a snort from Techno).

Huffing, Tommy drops his spoon back into the bowl and retreats to the other side of the kitchen where he’d left the empty macaroni and cheese box. 

As far as he knows, this type of thing is something that’s relatively easy to make, too—or at least, that’s what Gordon Ramsey and Giada make it look like—but for some reason, he simply can’t understand it. It's as though the wiring in his brain looks at the instructions and goes 'oh yeah, no, this doesn't make an ounce of sense'. 

Tommy fumbles with the macaroni and cheese box for a moment, a permanent frown settled on his face.

The directions are pretty clear, words that he should understand and that should be nailing into his brain at the moment, but for some reason he just doesn’t. 

Where he even went wrong with the mac and cheese, he hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue. Was it because he took it off the stove too quickly or because he’d added the cheese a bit too late? Was that it? 

Tommy runs a hand down his face, sighing. He should know this shit by now. He’s nearly seventeen, he should know how to make boxed mac and cheese of all things. It’s almost funny because he can very well make broccoli casserole—that shit was easy— but mac and cheese? From the box? Nah. 

For a few moments, Tommy stares at the oven and contemplates whether or not he should try and cook it again. There’s another box in the pantry, but would it be worth it just to end up overcooking another one? (Or was it undercooked? See, this is shit that those YouTube cooking influencers would manually unsubscribe you from their channels for not knowing).

It takes longer than it should’ve for Tommy to make his decision. Quickly, he tosses the empty box into the trash can and instead retreats to the refrigerator. 

He’s already looked through it like four times but who would it kill to look a fifth time? Sure, he remembers reading somewhere that repeating something twice is anxiety, but a third time is insanity, but he isn’t so sure how being insane ties in with being hungry. The internet’s just stupid.

A good fifteen minutes pass as Tommy pours over his options in the fridge—which are very limited to a variety of half-full condiments, spoiled milk, cottage cheese, and containers of month-old leftovers—before swinging the door back shut. 

Now technically, he could watch a YouTube video on how to make boxed mac and cheese, but wouldn’t that make him the lowest of the low? That’s just natural knowledge to have, right? A person comes out of the womb knowing, “Oh, yeah, you want me to make that? Pfft, of course I can make that, what do you think I am, an amateur?”

(Tommy could definitely kick that baby, though. He knows that he could.)

There is one other option rather than a video or scavenging the very empty cabinets for something to eat. Tommy could call Phil.

Sure, the man’s probably at work—fucking video game developer—but he would drop everything for Tommy. That’s not an assumption, just a truth. 

Once, Tommy had called him while he was at work to tell him that he’d seen a documentary on the television with one of his and Phil’s “inside joke” comedians as the voice-over and the guy had actually listened. Crazy stuff.

And sure, later when Tommy realised that Phil was actually at work during the time he called, he'd apologised profusely, but it never ended with any consequences. In fact, Phil said that he was glad Tommy had called because his job got a bit stressful at times.

That was the weird thing about it, though. If Tommy had tried calling his actual dad, not someone that his brain had clarified his father figure a year ago, then he’d be phoning in his last will and rights because holy shit, he’d be fucked.

Maybe it's different, though, given that his father’s an attorney and his pseudo father is merely a video game developer.

So, Tommy has yet another back and forth crisis with himself. To call Phil, or to not call Phil? The pros and cons are on about the same exact scale here—there is just about no tipping to either side. 

He blows air out of his cheeks, settling his elbows down onto the kitchen countertop. His phone is sitting only a few inches away. In theory, it wouldn’t be that hard to pick it up, scroll the teenest bit through his contacts, and press ‘Call’ on Phil’s. It wouldn’t be. 

Yet, here he is, continuing to have this sort of internal panic over the mere thought of pressing one singular button to call this guy. 

Last time you called him while he was at work, he said it was fine, Tommy thinks, pressing his thumbs against the bone above his eyebrow and staring at the dark screen of his phone. He said you could call him anytime. No matter what. Emergency or not. 

Tommy isn’t sure how much of that had been a bit and how much of it hadn’t been. Not knowing that alone is enough to send him into a microscopic but completely awful internal panic because what if Phil had been joking or something? 

If Tommy is to call him and he’s like ‘Hey, mate, why the fuck are you calling me?’ Tommy’s just gonna hang up on the spot and deal with the consequences later. 

Not that he wants to deal with the aftermath at all, but… fuck it. He’s gonna bother him. If shit goes sideways, he can just pretend that he scraped his knee or something and ask Phil how to put antiseptic on it properly. At least then he could say ‘Oh yeah, sorry, just needed to know that so I don’t bleed everywhere, big man’ and hang up.

Yeah. This is a great plan. 

Tommy grabs his phone warily, clicking it on and maneuvering to his contacts list. He barely has to scroll even once before he finds Phil’s. It’s never a hard contact to find, with full bolded letters screaming ‘First name, Philza, Last name, of the Craft’ at him. 

If that wasn’t enough, Phil’s contact picture sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of colour-coded contacts Tommy has in his phone. (Really, Phil and his family are the only ones in Tommy’s contacts that actually have their contacts set as a photo if you exclude Tubbo and Ranboo. Those last two are a given, though, of course).

Phil’s contact photo is of the man glaring at the camera with a party hat stuck on his head, a kid’s birthday cake with sparklers in it sat in front of him. Wilbur had taken it at Phil’s birthday dinner and then immediately sent it to Tommy because it had been his idea to get a birthday cake ordered to the table with the whole… sing-along thing and whatnot. (He had been there sitting squeezed between Wilbur and Techno, but he’d been laughing too hard to take a photo himself.)

There’s a few moments where Tommy just stands and stares at the contact photo, pressing his lips into a line. His thumb is hovering over the ‘Call’ button, but he can’t find the strength to press it.

Tommy breathes in and breathes out. He makes sure that his thumb is still over the button, squeezes his eyes shut, and presses it. Without even opening them, he puts his phone up to his ear. It rings a few times in his ear—and he’s almost ready to just hang up—and then it stops.

“Hey, Tommy!” Phil calls over the phone, his voice scratchy against the receiver. “What’s up, mate? Are you alright?”

Tommy lets out an awkward laugh, already feeling the anxiety double to about ten times worse. He should’ve just eaten those month old leftovers. Food poisoning would have been better than this. 

“Heyyyy, Phil,” he drawls the man’s name out, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Are you, uhm— do you happen to be busy right now?”

“Mmm, not really,” there’s a clattering in the background that makes Tommy jump a bit. "Why? Do you need something?”

Lord, this is harder than it seems. 

“I’m just…” Tommy takes a breath, shutting his eyes again. “You’re sure that you’re not busy? Because I can call another time—”

This time, it’s Phil who chuckles. It’s light and airy, which makes Tommy’s shoulders relax just the tiniest bit. 

“Yeah, I’m sure, Tommy,” he confirms. There’s the scratching of something against the phone, and Tommy holds back a laugh. It has to be his beard. What a loser. “Now, what’s up? Are you hurt or anything? I’m assuming you don’t need urgent care because you would’ve called 999 or your parents before me, yeah? ”

No, probably not, Tommy thinks in mild amusement. I don’t know what counts as urgent and what doesn’t count as urgent. 

His parents didn’t seem to know that, either, his mind tacks on bitterly. 

Instead of saying that though, he just nods. “Yeah, yeah. It’s nothing bad, or— or an emergency, or anything. That’s why I asked if you were busy, because if you are, then I can figure it out by myself. It’s not a big deal.”

Phil hums, “No, it’s always a big deal, even if it isn’t an emergency. I always enjoy catching a break from the office job. So, tell me... what’s going on, kiddo?” 

Kiddo. 

Tommy swallows the mirth in his throat and walks towards the pantry, putting his hand on the last box of mac and cheese. 

He pauses though, tapping his finger lightly against the box. In a quiet, almost nervous-like voice, he asks, “You’re positive?”

“I’m positive.” Phil confirms with something warm in his tone. 

Tommy nods, coughing a little awkwardly. 

“I, uhm… do you know how to cook mac and cheese? I think I'm doing it wrong, even though the instructions are pretty clear on the box...” he trails off, pursing his lips together. 

There’s a pause on the other line. The longer it takes for Phil to respond, the more Tommy’s throat feels like it’s going to close in on itself. 

When Phil does speak, it isn’t words, but laughter. It doesn’t sound condescending, but Tommy takes it like that anyways. 

“Right then,” he mumbles, listening to Phil’s laughter. He closes the pantry door. Leftovers it is. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Phil. I’ll let you get back to your… whatever it is that you do.”

Almost immediately, the laughter dies down. Phil is quick to cough it away and respond, “Hey, hey— don’t go anywhere, Tommy, I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”

Tommy purses his lips, feeling the waves of embarrassment wash over his shoulders. 

“Why were you surprised?” he grumbles, leaning against the cabinets and glaring at his refrigerator as though it’s offended him personally. “It’s perfectly fuckin’ normal to not know how to make macaroni and cheese, Phil.”

“I know, I know,” Phil exhales over the phone. He sounds slightly sheepish when he adds on, “I didn’t mean it like that, kiddo, I promise. What I meant was that I’m surprised nobody’s taught you how to make it yet. I mean, hell, you can make fantastic casserole and homemade pudding.”

If possible, the embarrassment coiling up Tommy’s chest only becomes worse. He shrinks in on himself even though there’s nobody around to see him. Underneath it, he feels a prick of pride at being complimented on his other forms of cooking, but it does little to outweigh the shame he feels for being unable to make mac and cheese.

Honestly, it's not that deep. He has a feeling that he's blowing this whole thing out of proportion a bit because hey, it's just boxed mac and cheese, it's not the end of the world, but  it sort of feels like it is in a way. A very weird way. Lord, he needs to stop hanging out with Wilbur and Techno during his free time. 

Tubbo would probably laugh at him for being so concerned about one, calling Phil about this sort of thing, and two, being so worked up about being unable to cook boxed mac and cheese.  

“It’s my fault,” Tommy mutters, tapping his nail against his phone case. “I should’ve asked to learn it sooner, especially since I’m home alone most of the time now.”

There’s another decently long pause before Phil responds. His voice is different this time; strained, almost concerned. 

“It’s not your fault,” he placates, tone softening. It feels like there’s something he wants to add to it, but he hums sharply, quickly changing the subject. “Here, grab your box and I’ll teach you how to prepare it. If you’re gonna learn, let’s make it today. Have you got your pot of water ready yet?”

Tommy blinks a few times, looking over at the sink. His first failed attempt is still buried in soapy water, the remnants of cheese and undercooked—or was it overcooked?—noodles stuck to the sides of the pan. 

“Uhm…” he walks over to the cabinet where he’s memorised the pans being located. 

He squeezes the phone to his ear with his shoulder, using both hands to rifle through the far too many pans they’ve got in the cabinet. He grimaces every time he accidentally moves one too quickly and they bang loudly against one another. 

Out of the cabinet, he pulls out another pot that looks decently similar to the one he’d used for the first attempt and sets it on top of the counter. 

“Yep,” he finishes finally, exhaling. 

He can hear Phil laughing again over the phone, but he can make out the fond amusement in it this time.

“Alright, and your stove’s on?”

Tommy glances warily at the stove, which he had actually forgotten to turn off. It’s probably a good thing Phil had agreed to this, otherwise the house might be toast. 

“Yep,” he pops the ‘p’, turning to look at the pot sitting on the counter instead.

“Okay. This will be the first and not last time today that I’m going to tell you not to listen to the instructions on your box.” Tommy raises an eyebrow. As though he can see the strange look on Tommy’s face, Phil quickly adds on, “Don’t worry, though, it’s for good reason. Trust the process.” 

Pursing his lips, Tommy gives a simple “Alright.”

There’s the squeaking of a chair in the background. Tommy has to resist the urge to tease Phil about it being the sound of his knees because he’s old. In truth, the man’s work chair is just incredibly annoying. Tommy sat in it once when Phil picked him up from school instead of Techno or Wilbur. As irritating as the squeaks are, it is relatively comfortable. 

“Take your pot over to the sink and fill it up. Don’t read the insurrections for this one, because they’ll tell you otherwise,” Phil instructs. “Make sure to fill it up to about halfway. Don’t overfill it, though, otherwise it’ll probably boil over and onto the stove and then there really will be an emergency that requires 999.”

Tommy laughs a bit lightly. Instead of pressing his phone awkwardly to his ear like he’d tried to do last time he had to use both of his hands, he puts Phil on speaker. 

It takes a few moments for him to fill up the pot to around the measurement Phil had told him about. It’s a bit awkward just standing there by the sink, watching a pot fill with water and listening to the ambient noise of Phil tapping on his keyboard every now and then. 

“Okay, I’ve got…” Tommy hefts the pot upwards, even though Phil can’t see him. “I’ve got the pot full.”

“Great!” Phil praises, his voice crackling over the phone. Tommy smiles a little to himself, setting the pot down on the stove. “You’ve set it down already, right?”

“I did,” Tommy nods, reaching towards the silverware drawer for a big spoon to stir with. “Now I wait for it to boil, right?”

Phil clicks his tongue. “This is another time I’m gonna tell you to ignore the instructions, actually. Instead of waiting for it to boil right away, go ahead and pour those noodles in. It’ll make them cook a bit faster in the long run.”

That’s a bit nerve wracking, Tommy thinks, staring at the box of macaroni and bagged cheese sitting on the countertop. What if they burn or overcook because I put them in too early?

“They won’t, trust me.” Phil comments over the phone, making Tommy flinch at the suddenness. 

He hadn’t even realised that he’d said that out loud. Maybe Techno hadn’t been lying when he’d told Tommy he talks to himself a lot.  

“I’ve cooked boxed mac and cheese this way for decades, Tommy,” Phil continues to reassure, making Tommy snort a little. He’s already preparing a ‘God, you’re old’ comment at the back of his head, but it dissipates the moment the man adds on, “It’ll turn out great, Toms. I promise.”

Tommy smiles to himself a little bit. 

“Thanks, Phil,” he mutters, reaching out to grab the box of mac and cheese. 

He rips the package open, setting down the bag of cheese on the countertop before pouring the macaroni into the steadily warming water. It’s a bit abnormal to do—really, he’s only ever seen people put noodles in after the pot’s boiling—but he trusts Phil. 

After he’s added the noodles, he takes a step back from the pot and grins. Expectantly, he turns his attention towards his phone, as though it’s Phil himself standing beside him. (It is a bit of a disappointment that Phil isn’t actually here, but he shoves that down).

“The noodles are in,” he announces proudly, crossing his arms. “Now all I have to do is wait”—he glances at the box for a moment to check how long he’s supposed to let them cook—“Eight to nine minutes, right?”

“You’ve got it,” Phil’s words are intertwined with a grin. “Oh, right, shit— I forgot to tell you. Have you got any good butter in your fridge?”

Slightly taken aback, Tommy frowns. Already drifting towards the fridge to check for any containers of butter, he questions out loud, “Butter?”

“Yep. It’s not exactly essential, but adding a small bit of butter to your noodles will help keep them from sticking to the sides of the pot. ” 

Tommy’s nose wrinkles, eyes flitting at everything he’s got in his fridge. He already has a feeling that he hasn’t got any butter, but it’s worth it to double check anyways. 

When he doesn’t find any, his shoulders droop a little. Dammit. 

“I haven’t got any,” he shouts to his phone. “Sorry, Phil.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry, kid,” Phil’s response comes. He doesn’t sound upset in the slightest—not even bordering the disappointment that Tommy had been sure he’d hear a smidge of. “ Nothing to worry about, alright? That only means you’ll want to sit by the pot and stir it every here and there more than you would’ve had to. No biggie.”

“Okay,” Tommy exhales. He lifts himself up onto the countertop, sitting beside the pot and swinging his legs out a bit. “Do I start stirring now, or when it begins to boil?”

“Hmmm,” Phil hums a little. Tommy can almost see the man tapping his chin. He tended to do that whenever he was thinking something over, to the point where Wilbur and Techno would imitate it whenever Tommy looked over at them. “You can stir it whenever you want, really. I don’t have much tips on stirring it other than to try and aim for using a longer spoon so you don’t burn yourself with boiling water.”

Tommy nods slowly. He hits the back of his heel against the cabinet underneath his legs, making a loud thunk noise. 

There’s a shuffling from Phil’s end of the phone and then the man says, “Do you know the proper way to strain the noodles and put the cheese on them, or would you like me to walk you through it?”

Tommy kicks his feet out again a little, feeling that curl of embarrassment perk back up. 

He probably should know that, just like how he should know how to make boxed mac and cheese, but he doesn’t. During his first trial run, he’d used an old strainer to pour them into before changing it over to a porcelain bowl to put the cheese on.

It could just be his brain but Tommy has a feeling that is not, in fact, how to do it.

“I don’t,” he admits quietly, tapping his fingertips against the countertop. 

Rather than laughing, Phil says, “That’s alright, I’ll teach you how. Honestly, it’d be much better if we were doing this in person so I could show you how, but unfortunately I’m stuck programming video games.”

Tommy scoffs. He says that as if it’s not the coolest job to exist. 

“I heard that.” Phil comments in a dramatic tone. There’s a beat before he adds, “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you while it’s boiling, or do you wanna call me when it’s finished so I can tell you then?”

Tommy gnaws on his inner cheek, kicking the cabinet again with a thunk. 

“Can you stay on the phone?” 

He can hear Phil’s smile in his words again.

“Of course.”

A loud bang! nearly sends Tommy slamming into the dishwasher.

He looks up from where he’s sat on the ground, rifling through a spice rack to glare up at Phil, who’s standing on the other side of the kitchen. 

The man gives him a sheepish grin, lifting a glass pan in the air he’d just retrieved from one of the cabinets. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t broken it already.  “Sorry, mate. I’m a bit clumsy in my old age.”

Tommy snorts, shutting the spice rack. God, these people are rich. He’d never seen a spice rack that came implemented into a kitchen counter before he’d visited Phil’s house for the first time. 

Today would mark the fifteenth or so time that he’s come over to Phil’s place. It had sort of happened more on a whim than anything, with Phil calling him up earlier this morning to ask if he was able to come over. Tommy, who had expected another family movie day of some sort, was instead greeted with a grinning Phil and the bright idea to make macaroni and cheese. 

It would just be him and Phil as well, to have what the man dubbed a "father and son bonding day"—which only made Tommy choke on his spit—as everyone else was out running errands. 

Although he's sure he's been counting, Tommy has a feeling that he’s been over to Phil's way more than just fifteen times from how well he knows the place. Every floorboard that creaks, where the silverware drawer is, Phil's favourite mug, etc.

He supposes that he can’t exactly count the three different instances when he’d called Wilbur awkwardly at one in the morning begging him to come pick him up, but they could count if he thought about it seriously. (He really did hate thinking about those times, though).

As embarrassing as it is to call for even the smallest of things during the work day, making a phone call that wakes someone up during the night sometimes feels worse. Wilbur, however, never seemed to sleep. His twin brother didn’t, either, thus ensuing the both of them promising Tommy that he can call either of them anytime for anything. 

The only times that Tommy had called them at that time was when he was… not alright. They’d pick him up, drive him around, and bring him back home. Not to his home—which was usually empty when this occurred—but their home.

Phil would welcome him with open arms, Kristin would make hot chocolate, and the twins would bicker about what movie to watch. None of them asked questions, even when they so clearly wanted to. 

Tommy appreciated that. He didn’t really like explaining that his parents sometimes went MIA out of nowhere for their jobs. It was just one of those things. 

“At least you’re admitting it now,” Tommy comments, standing up and practically hopping on his heels over to where Phil is. “Soon enough, you’ll be asking to move into a retirement home.”

Phil rolls his eyes, setting the glass pan down onto the countertop. He reaches out for the tub of butter he’d had Tommy take out of the fridge before they even began anything else, uncapping the lid. 

Tommy’s eyebrows furrow at it, suddenly forgetting that he was about to bully Phil for being old. 

“What’s with the… pan?” he pokes it warily, as though suddenly hyper-aware that there’s something they’re cooking with that he could possibly break. No, not possibly—almost definitely. “I thought boxed mac and cheese was made on the stove.”

Phil’s face morphs into a grin as he spreads a little bit of butter onto his knife. Tommy doesn’t like the way his grin is matching the very mischievous gleam in his eye. 

“We’re not making boxed mac and cheese,” Phil says finally, grabbing a paper towel and depositing the butter onto it from his knife. He hands it to Tommy. “Here, oil the pan with this.”

Tommy’s nose wrinkles, setting the napkin down onto the pan. It’s a little weird using butter to oil a pan rather than PAM spray, but whatever. Phil is weird.

“What’re we making, then?” 

Phil hums, ruffling Tommy’s hair kindly as he walks past him. The boy swats at his hands half heartedly, face twisted into a disgruntled expression. 

“Today, we’re making the real deal.” he responds, shooting Tommy another strange look before opening the pantry door. 

“The— what?” Tommy grimaces, tossing the butter-napkin into the trash can once he’s finished oiling the pan. He turns to watch Phil rummage through the pantry whilst doing his best to flatten his curls back down with his non-buttery hand. “What’s the ‘real deal’? Isn’t the real deal just… boxed mac and cheese? I mean, that’s what Gordon Ramsey cooks, innit? I’ve seen that grilled cheese of his.”

As though Tommy has just said something abnormally hilarious, Phil bursts into laughter. It’s his loud kind, the one where he claps his hands together (and almost hits his head on one of the shelves in the pantry. Deserved, honestly).

“No, Toms,” Phil begins once he’s recovered, patting his chest and coughing. Tommy narrows his eyes. Old man needs to get his lungs checked. “The real deal is with regular noodles from the store, melted cheese, milk, and Ritz crackers. Also, I’m pretty sure Gordon Ramsey would die on the spot if you insisted he made boxed macaroni and cheese.”

Tommy huffs in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You don’t know that.” he grumbles more to himself than to anyone else.

He watches as Phil disappears back into the pantry—through giving him a look of amusement—and allows this to process in his mind.

He’d known what Phil, of course. Apparently not every restaurant used boxed mac and cheese when a child orders it, even though Tommy had been almost one hundred percent sure that they did.

Almost. Not entirely. He’s not dumb. 

Phil re-emerges from the pantry for a moment, startling Tommy out of his very important train of thought. 

“Hey, I almost forgot to ask,” he leans out from behind the door, eyes trained on Tommy. “Do you have a favourite type of pasta?”

Tommy frowns, “A favourite type of pasta? Aren’t they all the same?”

There’s that amused look again. 

It’s a bit patronising, isn’t it? Fucking rich people. Tommy should throw a pan at him. That would show him. 

“Not quite. Here, let me show you.” Phil lifts a finger and disappears behind the pantry door again. 

Two seconds later, he reappears with his arms full of different sized boxes. Tommy stares at him as he crosses the kitchen and drops the boxes onto the kitchen counter. 

“See?” Phil motions to the different boxes. “I’ve got angel hair, which is mine and Techno’s favourite. It probably won’t do very well with what we plan on making so, ha, maybe not that one. Oooh, but I’ve got the classic elbow pasta that’s normally used for mac and cheese, and also the little shells that you like so much. Oh— and Wilbur’s favourite, bow tie pasta.”

Tommy snorts, picking up the box containing Wilbur’s favourite. 

“That sounds like him. What a fuckin’ prick,” he shakes his head, tossing the box back onto the countertop. “Of course his favourite’s shaped like a fucking bow tie.”

He breathes out harshly, tossing the box back onto the countertop and reaching for the shells. “Just because of that fact, we’re going to not use those. I’m not gonna give Wil something he’d like.”

Phil’s grin widens, both fond and amused. 

“He’ll be very upset.” he muses dramatically, pulling the other boxes into his arms to take them back to the pantry. 

Tommy rolls his eyes in unconcern, peeling back the tab on the box of macaroni noodles. 

“That’s an L for him, then,” he mutters, setting the opened box aside to wait for Phil’s next instructions. An idea pops into his head and he looks back at the pantry expectantly, “Wait, does Wilbur happen to have… I don’t know… a least favourite pasta noodle? No reason, haha, I’m just curious.”

When Phil returns from the pantry, he’s got a knowing look on his face. It doesn’t stop him from smirking mischievously, though.

“Now that you mention it,” he fishes into his pocket for his phone, eyes glittering. “He does have one.”

That certainly piques Tommy's interest. 

“What is it?”

Phil’s smirk doesn’t fade away. Rather, he lifts his phone to his ear, gives Tommy a look, and clears his throat.

“Hey, Kristin,” he greets into the phone, “Are you still at the market?”

A pause, and he hums. “Yeah, yeah, I was only hoping to add something small to the list. Grab me about… hmm, four boxes of the Marvel character-shaped noodles.”

Realisation dawns on Tommy and he grins something wide and sharp. Ohoho, Phil is evil. He is incredibly evil, just like him. 

“Thanks, Kristin. I’ll see you when I get home.” Phil hangs up the phone, giving Tommy a triumphant look. “It’s been done.”

“See, Phil, this is why we get along so well,” Tommy begins, voice lilting and arms crossing over his chest pridefully. “You and I, we’re on the same wavelength. The same level, if you will.”

Phil snorts, walking back over to where Tommy’s standing by the stove. 

“I guess you’re right. We are pretty much on the same level, although I think you're about... hmm, twenty years down the line.” he reaches out to ruffle the boy’s hair again, earning an indignant squawk. “We can’t exactly do much until Kristin gets home with the other noodles, so how about we prepare the rest of the ingredients?”

“Can we also play Heads Up?” Tommy asks excitedly. It had become a funny tradition for him and Phil to do whenever they were bored or waiting on something to happen. Rather than stand around and make idle chit-chat, they would guess what the other one was with a game of charades. 

Kristin really liked playing as well when she wasn’t focused on other mobile games. Techno and Wil sometimes joined in if they were bored enough, although Wilbur usually had to drag Techno into the mix. Typically, though, it was only Tommy and Phil.

Phil smiles kindly at him, glancing over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the fridge. 

“Of course, Toms. It’s our thing, remember?”

Their thing. Tommy warms significantly at that. He’d said it like they were family, as though they’d come up with this tradition in the earlier years of Tommy being his son. 

For some reason though, as Phil brings over the rest of the supplies from the fridge and begins to show Tommy when and where they should be used, it feels right. 

——

“Why don’t you try a bite?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, staring at the concoction of melted cheese, cooked noodles, and crumbled Ritz crackers. He isn’t entirely sure if this is going to taste good or not, even though he is completely confident in his own—and Phil’s—cooking abilities. 

“It’s not poisonous?” he questions on impulse, shooting a look at Phil. The man raises an eyebrow at him. 

“When we were making it, did you happen to slip in poison when I wasn’t looking?” 

“No, I just…” Tommy shrugs dully, facing the mac and cheese again. “I’m not used to making this sort of stuff. Not really, anyways.”

At this, Phil softens. He reaches out to pat Tommy’s back gently. 

“That’s alright, kiddo,” he reassures, giving him that classic Phil smile. “Here, how about this? We take a bite together and if neither of us like it, we can make mac and cheese on the stove instead. Like normal.”

To add onto his point, Phil points at the half box leftover of Marvel character-shaped noodles that they hadn’t used.

“We can make it with that and angel hair if we need to. Sound good?”

Tommy nods. Really, he isn’t that worried about the mac and cheese tasting awful. He already knows that it won’t, but he’s still mildly nervous that he won’t like it. 

He watches cautiously as Phil takes two forks from the silverware drawer. He hands one to Tommy and turns, already scooping some of the macaroni onto his fork.

Once Tommy scoops some onto his own fork as well, Phil gives him a smile. “Ready?”

Tommy nods once, lifting the fork to his mouth. Surprisingly, the mac and cheese is good. Much better than the one made on the stove, which is both a good and a bad thing.

For one, he’s glad that they don’t have to resort to making stove mac and cheese with the leftovers of Wil’s least favourite pasta (as much as Techno would also find that amusing), but he’s also a bit pissed about it. Boxed mac and cheese is never going to taste the same again. 

As though reading his thoughts, Phil turns towards him, eyes sparkling. “You liked it, huh?”

“Yeah, it was really good,” Tommy admits, already reaching into the pan to steal another bite before Techno and Wil come home. “Only because we made it though. You and I, Phil, the dynamic duo—father and son, if you will.”

“Oh yeah?” Phil’s tone is bright. 

Tommy nods, swallowing the embarrassment he can feel piling up his throat at essentially saying he thinks of Phil as a father figure. That was already a well-known bit. Plus, Phil had called their cooking today a 'father and son bonding experience', so it made sense. 

“Yeah,” Tommy confirms, putting another bite of the mac and cheese into his mouth. Quickly, he redirects the conversation. “How long until they get home? I want to eat all of this now.”

Phil glances at his watch—it’s the one Tommy had helped Techno pick out for him on his birthday—and hums.

“Should be any minute now,” he lowers his arm, shooting Tommy a grin. (Honestly, Tommy begins to think, does this guy ever stop smiling?) “Why? Are you hungry now?”

Shit. As per usual, Phil had seen right through him. 

“Maybe a tad,” Tommy taps the handle of his fork against the countertop. The sound of metal against granite is a bit entertaining. “I can wait, though. I don’t want to be rude.”

“You won’t be,” Phil retreats to one of the cabinets with the pans in it, fishing around for the lid to this one. “I promise. Techno and Wil wouldn’t be mad at you for eating early. Besides, I’m pretty sure Kristin’s hungry as well, if you want to fetch her so you’re not eating alone.”

Tommy’s heart lifts a fraction. “She is?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Phil shoots a smile over his shoulder, head tilting towards the staircase just outside the kitchen. “Go see. When you’re done eating, we can play Heads Up again as well.”

That certainly gets Tommy’s attention. He’s out of the kitchen in a flash, practically tripping up the stairs in his haste to ask Kristin to eat with him. 

It’s definitely not because he’d be lonely and slightly awkward eating by himself. Totally not. Rather, it’s because Kristin is the one who’s hungry. For sure. 

——

Tommy, Phil and—surprisingly—Kristin are in the midst of a Heads Up match when Techno and Wilbur walk in through the front door. 

“Tommy!” Wil calls with a grin, hanging up his coat on the rack beside the door. Beside him, Techno sends Tommy a very slight smile in greeting. “I didn’t expect to see you here, king. How’s it going?”

“Phil and I made mac and cheese,” Tommy responds immediately, pointing at the pan on the stove. Then, he turns slightly sheepish. “I, uh, already ate a plate because I was hungry. Sorry I didn't wait.”

Strangely enough, Techno waves his hand at him dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I used to do that all the time when Phil and Wil would get home late from his slam meets. Kristin used to make this really good roast beef stew. I couldn’t resist.”

To Tommy’s right, Kristin laughs. “I remember that. Still your favourite food that I cook, huh?”

Techno nods, retreating behind Wilbur in line to grab a plate of the mac and cheese. (It kind of looks like he’s on the edge of starting a fight for first in line, but is too exhausted to try.)

Tommy relaxes into his seat a little, feeling strangely warmed by this acceptance. 

Back at home, he wouldn’t be allowed to eat at all before his parents got home, even if he was the one making dinner. Simply having a snack sometimes earned him strange looks from them. 

It’s different when he’s with the Greenes. They’re always so laid back with everything, uncaring about eating dinner late or early. Tommy can’t quite comprehend whether or not that’s a good thing compared to his own family. 

Wilbur’s shriek interrupts his thought process and Tommy flinches, eyes widening. It only takes a few milliseconds before it sinks in as to why the man is yelling. 

Tommy and Phil share a smug look when Wilbur turns to glare at them all. Behind him, Techno’s hiding his cough laughs into his fist.

“Why the hell is the Hulk in my pasta?” 

“What?” Tommy snickers a bit, hand pressed to his mouth at the sheer look on Wilbur’s face. “You don’t like it? Phil said it was your favourite.”

Wilbur’s eyes snap to Phil’s, who raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“Sorry, mate. Guess you’re stuck with it now unless you want me to make you some on the stove.”

If possible, Wilbur’s expression becomes aghast. Tommy has to choke down his traditional oh God, rich people joke. 

“I’m fine with this.” he mutters, elbowing Techno in the side when the man mutters something about Wil being a Marvel super fan. 

Tommy turns to Phil, who reaches over to pat his shoulder. 

“See, Toms?” he murmurs under his breath, keeping a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “They don’t mind.”

Tommy smiles. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” Phil scoots a bit in his chair so that he can card his hand through Tommy’s hair. “I meant what I said last week, Toms. If you ever need anything, no matter what it is, don’t hesitate to call. I promise you, I’ll never be mad.”

He pauses, eyebrows pulling together a bit. “But, sometimes I am busy and can’t answer the phone. In that case, just call Kristin, Techno, or Wil. I’m being serious when I say they won’t care in the slightest. They’d love to hear from you.”

Tommy’s smile wavers a bit. As much as it sounds correct—he already knows that Kristin would be over the moon to get a call from him—he’s not too sure how he can convince his brain of that. 

“How do you know?” Tommy blurts out, keeping his voice down. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Techno and Wilbur bickering about one of the other having too much mac and cheese on their plates. 

“Because they talk about you all the time,” Phil responds simply, as though that’s the easiest thing to say in the world. At the look of disbelief on Tommy’s face, he adds, “No, really, they do. I do, too. You’re a great kid, Tommy.”

Tommy blinks, unsure of what to say. He lets out a slightly shaky “Oh” that gets Phil looking at him sadly.

Without warning, Phil twists in his chair and pulls Tommy into his arms. It’s a bit awkward, considering that they’re sitting at a dining room table, but they make it work. 

Tommy leans his head onto Phil’s shoulder, counting his breaths. He’s not exactly crying, but he sure does feel like he might if the man continues to say the shit he’s saying. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t. 

They both sit there in silence, the background ambience of Wilbur and Techno walking into the living room and Kristin asking how their days were filling the air. 

Tommy doesn’t acknowledge them, and they don’t seem to acknowledge Phil and Tommy, either. 

A few times, Tommy can feel the two glance over at them, a silent question hanging in the air, but nothing is verbalised. 

Even though it is slightly embarrassing—only slightly—Tommy leans further into the hug, face buried into Phil’s shoulder. If he could, he’d probably stay right here for as long as he possibly could. 

“You’re alright,” he hears Phil whisper into his ear, one hand rubbing circles into his back. “We’re here for you.”

For once, Tommy believes him without hesitation.

"Thank you for the best father-son day I've ever had." he responds weakly.

Phil chuckles quietly, carding his hand through the boy's hair a bit. 

"Anytime, Tommy. I had a fun time teaching you how to make the real deal macaroni and cheese." Phil's voice lowers a bit more, to where Tommy wouldn't be able to hear him if he wasn't speaking directly into his ear. "Maybe next time, Kristin'll teach you how to make her roast beef stew. I know Techno would like that."

Tommy snorts, "And we leave Wilbur without anything again?"

To this, Phil shrugs. "I wouldn't say that. He does happen to love those apple turnovers you make." 

To himself, Tommy smiles. 

"Maybe. It’d be a bit funnier if he just suffered, though."

"Pfft," Phil shakes his head, letting go of Tommy and pulling away. "Next time, then. We’ll see."

Tommy nods, "Next time."

He does his best not to sound too excited about the idea of cooking with Phil again, but the man hums fondly like he can hear it.