Pre-canon. (They're, like, five? Ish.) Speculation on a headcanon that Ferb has a scar on his cheek based on a detail shown during the song You're Going Down.
Warnings: Blood and injury.
Sometimes, the reward of inventing wasn't the finished project but the feeling of accomplishment that came with it.
In this case, that meant making a dull, plastic helicopter fly using only parts recycled from old, broken toys.
Phineas picked it up from where it had landed and began to spin the blades again. It was easy enough to get them back up to speed with a few flicks of a finger. He gave Ferb a grin before tossing it into the air. The main rotor blades kept it up, drifting on the air currents in the room.
There was no way to control its flying pattern. Ferb didn't doubt they could figure out how to, but lack of necessary parts kept them from trying. Their newest babysitter wasn't so quick to sign off on any clipboard shoved under her nose, and the deliverymen refused to allow two boys to do it. Even if they could explain what they needed the parts for in words the men felt the need to look up in a dictionary. Possibly they believed they were simply parroting back words they'd heard their parents use. It didn't help that Phineas' enunciation could use some work. He didn't blame him. Those longer words were rather difficult to pronounce around a missing tooth. Perhaps he should bring up the idea of using layman's terms instead.
The helicopter fell to the floor. Phineas wasted no time in scooping it up and bringing the blades up to speed once more, but he didn't let go of it as his eyes met Ferb's. "Sorry, did you want a turn?"
Ferb blinked. He could wait.
Apparently, the message was lost in translation as the souped-up toy was suddenly trusted towards him.
This would have been a non-issue had the blades not still been spinning since they were the movement had it slipping out of Phineas grip.
The next moment wasn't clear to him as his next thoughts were 'ow' and 'hurts.'
Or they may have been spoken because Phineas was staring at him in wide-eyed horror.
He didn't remember raising his hand to his face or even touching it, but the red smear it came away wasn't helping his thoughts any.
"Mom!"
The shrike would have made Ferb wince if he wasn't so consumed by the sight of his own blood. He barely registered that she was there until his head was being turned by a large, gentle hand on his face, and the blood was out of his sight.
She was picking him up, questioning what had happened.
Phineas was rambling about the helicopter, it being an accident, and he hadn't thought the blades were that sharp or strong. It became obvious he was crying when they reached the bathroom and his voice cracked as he asked if Ferb was going to die.
"He's not going to die."
There were twin breaths of relief at that.
Mum set him down on the closed toilet to dig out the first aid kit. Phineas hovered in the doorway, worry and guilt warring on his face. Later, when he wasn't bleeding and hurting, and tears weren't slipping down his face, he'd have to make sure Phineas knew he didn't blame him.
It was just an accident.
