Phil, for his part, is entirely put together; his clothes are clean if slightly askew from flight, a shiny silver double-chained pocket watch adorning his waistcoat and as many molting feathers combed out of his wings as he could manage. When Hawk appears looking like he just came out of a depression hibernation (which Phil is deeply familiar with), his brows raise in mild surprise, but not much else. At least he's taking it in stride.

"Take your time!" he calls up after him, and sits down on his front stairs with a sigh of effort to watch the street.