hay loft [ philbur ]

kitchen gun

discord here - https://discord.com/invite/FHAsBZ6raF

It's nine pm.

The apartment door clicks, slams shut, it echoes loudly in the empty hall. Urgent steps scurry down the staircase, rushing out the lobby door and down the slippery sidewalk. Frigid fingers tuck itself into pockets, searching for some sort of warmth as the winter air pierces his skin. There's a light drizzle overhead, eyes ticking off the streets towards his destination like a gps.

Once he's near the Jubilee Line railroads, he dips into a back alleyway, papers and twigs crunching underneath his feet. One of the trash bins lower down falls over, and the detective is quick to draw out his gun pointing it right at the garbage. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out the figure in the growing storm overhead.

"Hello?" He calls out, slowly stepping towards the wall so his back isn't exposed to any danger. He knew he should've called Technoblade to cover his six, but it's not like he would've wanted to see -

"Hi, Phil." A smooth voice replies, as a man pushes himself off the ground from beside the trash. He swayed a little as he staggered onto his feet, using the wall behind him to keep him upright. Wicked eyes looked at him through shaggy, unkempt hair, as a malicious smile grew on his face.

Phil only sighed, seeing right through the big bad wolf act this man had seemed to take a liking to. He was clearly hurt, from the way he was clutching his stomach, to how his smile began to falter the longer he tried to keep it on, to the way he was blinking abnormally. He leaned onto his right shoe because god-knows-where his left shoe had fallen off.

"Wilbur Soot, what did you do to yourself now?" He questions, tucking his gun away.

Wilbur lets out a raspy laugh that quickly turns into a coughing fit - the sound of blood splattering onto the floor just a bit louder, a bit thicker than the rain falling above - Phil watching it with a grim expression. He won't help him, not yet. The taller man wipes it away with his sleeve, the back of his head knocking against the brick wall as he looks towards the sky.

"Wilbur." Phil states. Wilbur tilts his head, as if there was something interesting about the dull grey pouring out tiny water droplets above him. A hand flies upward, grinning at the way Phil flinches in fear from the corner of his eye, flexing and unflexing his fingers.

"Just drank a bit much with a few... ex-associates of mine. That's all ." He slurs out the last part, letting his eyes flutter close as he slowly slips down the wall.

"For fucks sake mate -" Phil grabs Will by the armpits, slowly lowering him to the ground. He crouches down, cupping his face gently and waits for Wilbur to look at him. When he doesn't, he lightly slaps him awake, those dull yet sinful eyes looking at him with twisted glee. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two." Wilbur states.

"How badly did they drug you? I'm not even holding up anything." Phil examines his face, noticing a bruised jaw line and busted lip. His hands aren't any better, chipped nails with a thick layer of dirt underneath them and a colorful discolor running along his knuckles.

"Whoops." Wilbur giggles. Phil lifts up his shirt to inspect his stomach, a distant look on his face as he sees the plethora of injuries covering it. His fingers lightly trace over his ribs, being able to count every last one, wondering when last Wilbur had a decent meal. He presses down on the long, jagged scar he made that's in the middle of his chest and Wilbur sharply inhales, fucking pouting at him. "You did that on purpose!"