Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy realized that maybe bringing a bleeding supervillain into his apartment at three in the morning was a terrible idea a little too late.

Oh, well. Not that he could do anything about it now that the Blade was watching him (or at least, he thought he was, it was hard to tell with the guy’s big boar skull covering half of his face).

Tommy distracted himself from making any sort of eye contact with the villain, moving calmly around his kitchen, dousing a bloodied washcloth into the sink basin.

He’d already gone through the second most difficult step of dealing with the Blade; the guy letting him get close enough to clean the wound. It was on the Blade’s side, right underneath his ribs, and when Tommy lifted up the man’s black dress shirt he’d received a low growl before being allowed to examine the wound completely.

The next thing, though…

“I’m gonna need to do stitches,” Tommy says, turning to give Blade a look. The man shifted a bit, but nodded vaguely.

Tommy hopped up onto his countertop, Blade turning to look at him again (his head tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing him), and Tommy shot him a glower before opening his cupboard and pulling out a tin first aid kit he kept at the very top.

He ignores the aching feeling in his back, biting the inside of his cheek as he hops down off of the countertop, hoping that the Blade doesn’t notice the grimace making its way across his features.

Tommy brings the kit down and, paired with a freshly cleaned washcloth and bowl of water, he makes his way over to the sofa, setting both items onto the ground. It’s times like this where he wished he had a coffee table to make this sort of stuff more accessible, but oh well.

He’s learned to adapt.

Opening the first aid kit, Tommy took out the needle and thread, which he somehow used more frequently than he should. It’s been a while since he’s given someone (usually himself) stitches, but he knew that he’d grown so accustomed to it that it should just be second nature at this point.

Leaning forwards, he glanced up at the Blade, who inclined his head once, giving Tommy the permission to start sewing up his side.

It took a while, Tommy sticking his tongue between his teeth and furrowing his eyebrows together so he could properly weave the needle through flesh, until he’d finished and leaned back, his back hurting from staying forwards on his knees for so long.

“You should be alright to walk,” Tommy says, grabbing the kit and bowl containing the cloth, “You are the Blade, after all. Everyone knows that healing quickly is basically your thing.”

There’s a rustle of clothing, and the Blade stands once Tommy’s turned his back and gone back into the kitchen.

“Why did you save me?” the Blade asks, or rather blurts out. It feels like a question he’d been meaning to ask the whole time.

Tommy turns, glaring at him.

“That’s a pretty stupid question,” he responds, even though it really isn’t. He knows it’s a normal thing to ask, especially in this sort of case. It’s not everyday you have a civilian saving a local top ranked supervillain.

The Blade recognizes this, too, tilting his head to the left while he examines the boy in front of him, before Tommy sighs.

“It’s not a big deal, the Blade,” Tommy responds truthfully with a shrug. He’s so nonchalant about it that Blade frowns, despite knowing the boy can’t see his face.

“Civilians don’t like villains,” Blade says matter-of-factly, and Tommy groans.

They always say that.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, I’ve never been a big fan of the whole ‘hero, villain hierarchy’ ideal,” Tommy admits, waving his hand, “Sure, it’s great and all that heroes save people, but they’re all so full of themselves that they spend more time worrying about if people are going to see them doing the good deed rather than actually caring about if the person’s alright. As for villains, sure, they’re wrong’uns, but I’ve seen the way you fight, Blade. You don’t like it when people get hurt, and always make sure someone’s okay if they end up in your crossfire.”

He sighs a bit before continuing, rubbing the back of his neck as if easing off a phantom pain, “You’re a ‘merciless killer’, they say, because that’s what they want the world to think in order to cover up for the actual good things you’ve done. The media doesn’t listen to villains who have a soft spot. They all only care about the stupid heroes who have stolen the limelight for years.”

The Blade doesn’t respond, shoulders unraveling a little bit, swaying on his feet. Tommy scoffs at the man being practically speechless.

Then again, most people are when Tommy goes off on these random tangents. He’s never understood it.

Maybe it just has to do with his stunning charisma.

“You watch me fight?” Blade asks suddenly, and Tommy’s nails dig into his palms. Fuck.

(Truthfully, he watched quite a few villains fight. They were… interesting to watch).

“Uh, a bit,” Tommy admits nervously, averting his eyes. He’s screwed. “Nothing weird, obviously, it’s just… fascinating, the way you fight. I guess. Don’t take it the wrong way, or I’ll clart you.”

The Blade huffs, and if Tommy had known any better, he’d take it as one of laughter.

The man walks forwards a bit, so that he’s standing right in front of Tommy. The latter gulps, taking in just how much the guy practically towers over him.

He can see why people take one look at this guy and immediately run in the opposite direction.

This height is unrealistic, really.

“What’s your name, kid?” the Blade wonders, voice genuine despite maintaining the monotone.

Tommy shifts on his feet, really debating about if he wants to tell this guy his name or not. On one hand, it’d probably not be a great thing for a number one ranked supervillain to know his name. On the other hand… does he really give a shit?

“Tommy,” The boy responds, focused on holding his ground and glaring up at the man, despite how his hand shakes under his sweater sleeve.

There’s a pause, and the man tilts his head again. It almost seems like he’s smiling, Tommy thinks to himself, but he wouldn’t be able to tell with the black mask covering the lower half of the Blade’s face (the part uncovered by the iconic skull helmet).

“Stay safe out there, Tommy,” the Blade says, reaching out to pat the boy’s head before whirling around, blood red cape trailing behind him as he heads for the front door. “Oh, and, uh, I’ll be contactin’ you soon.”

At Tommy’s confused (and vaguely fearful expression), Techno adds, “I do owe you, after all.”

With a final click of the door closing and the scent of rust hitting Tommy in the face like a mallet, the Blade’s gone.

And Tommy realizes all at once just how fucked he really is.

Glancing at his severely cracked phone with a grimace, he’s got about four hours until his first shift the next day.

What a great way to spend his evening.

It should be fine, though. He’s used to four hours of sleep.

———

“It’s your destiny to fall, Theseus.” the voice says, the same one that haunts his dreams every night.

“I don’t fall,” he replies despite the way his voice trembles and breaks.

“We’ll see about that,” the voice croons, and then there’s a palm against his chest, and—

———

When Tommy wakes to a loud ringing noise coming from his battered phone - laying on the ground upside down from where it had undoubtedly dropped out of Tommy’s hand the night before - and a severe migraine, he figures that he might as well just have died last night in his living room.

He also realizes that it is, in fact, not fine. He is completely exhausted.

Oh, well, is all he can really think, scowling upon realization he’d quite literally fallen asleep on the same sofa he had cleaned and stitched up a top ranking supervillain on.

Wonderful.

Almost as wonderful as the fact he had actually helped (and now had a token favour from) a legitimate supervillain.

Not that it mattered, really.

He already had his views pretty set in stone with the whole hero and villain thing.

Pretentious, the lot of them.

With careful ease, Tommy rolled off of the sofa, taking drawls of deep breaths before peeling off the now sticky shirt he’d fallen asleep in.

Nightmares sucked, especially ones about that incident in particular (even though really that’s the only nightmares he had nowadays), but he’d long since learned to get over them.

Quickly, Tommy changes into a pair of non-sweaty clothing specifically for his two part-time jobs before all but dashing out of his flat, pulling at his shoe laces all the while.

The old bookstore he worked at for his first shift - Eldritch Wings, it was called - was just one hop and a train ride away from Tommy’s flat. It wasn’t too far, but far enough where a walk would probably invoke Tommy getting jumped (not that the Underground was any safer, but at least it was watched by security cameras).

Luckily for him, barely anyone from his district rode the train this early in the morning- anyone who did was usually just people like him, on their way to work, antsy and tapping their feet while glancing at their watch, or parents taking their children to school. (Tommy made sure to avert his eyes from the latter, hating the way his chest would pang longingly at the thought of parents).

It was the late night train rides Tommy had to worry about.

Everyone knew that “anytime after eight pm” was considered the “Villain’s Hour” (or witching hour, vampire hour, etc. it all depended on who you asked, really).

Tommy, honestly, didn’t give a flying fuck about what hour of the day it was. He knew what kind of people were out there and definitely knew how to fight them.

(Years of training helped that, a reminder of something that was never meant to be).

Even so, the night rides were dangerous, and Tommy always made sure he was wary of his surroundings at all times, even when he was busy immersed in a comic book (that he’d bought from the bookstore he worked at, even though he was more than certain Philza, the owner, would’ve just given it to him for free).

When he enters the bookstore - a ten or so minute walk from the Underground - he’s filled with the overwhelmingly familiar scent of old books, freshly made tea (and espresso, to his interest), and deep, dark wood. The bell jingles as he walks inside, and his shoulders relax ever so slightly at not being outside anymore.

“Hey, Tommy,” Karl, his coworker, calls from one of the bookshelves, grinning.

“Ayup,” Tommy responds quickly, shooting the guy a short smile. He’s always appreciated Karl— the guy’s funny and likes to talk about comic books with him a lot. Normally, Tommy hates any sort of literature (he can’t get his mind to focus on anything with too many words), but Karl always makes them seem so interesting, especially the ones based on time travel or the “alternate reality” theories.

(The guy also never hovers, unlike his coworker for his next job. He appreciates Karl a lot, honestly. It makes him feel less like a charity case).

Tommy takes his spot behind the register, slumping down onto the counter. This is probably his third (or fourth?) job working as a cashier. His other part-time job at a café (ironic, isn’t it?) involves him being a cashier as well.

Maybe it’s just his calling card, handling money and all.

Something particularly good about Eldritch Wings — the hours at the bookstore pass by quickly.

You’d think that with how little interest people normally have in books that the place would be empty, but strangely, it’s a rarity for Karl and Tommy to be the only people in the store.

Since it’s quite small, there aren’t a bunch of people crowded into the place, but that doesn’t change that there is still quite the amount of people.

It’s irritating but also exciting (bigger crowd = bigger paycheck, in Tommy’s eyes).

At half past two, Tommy is slumped against the counter, fiddling with a ballpoint pen, the sounds of people quietly talking slowly lulling him to sleep. It’s nice, hearing people other than himself talk— almost comforting, in a weird sort of way.

(He always had kept the television on at night back in the Hero’s Penthouse, the dull buzz of people laughing or speaking quietly over the box quickly comforting him into a comfortable rest. It sucked that he couldn’t afford anything like that anymore, but at least he was… safe?)

“Hello,” a melodic voice says, snapping him out of his thoughts and making him jump nearly five feet into the air.

He glares up at the speaker, his gaze only narrowing when he realizes he recognizes this guy.

He should, anyway. It’s hard to forget someone who practically looms over you and dresses like a nineteenth century poet.

“I know you,” Tommy blurts out, and the stranger(?)’s eyes lighten a little bit.

“I’m a regular at Nook’s,” the man explains, and Tommy grimaces. Oh, right. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers this guy a bit. He’s the one always acting weird and emo in the corner.

Isn’t he?

Or is that someone else?

Fucking hell, this migraine sucks.

It isn’t hard to recognize that this guy’s not exactly a “regular”, either.

(At least, not for Tommy’s shift, he isn’t.)

“Okay,” Tommy shrugs, turning back to lean down onto the desk.

A moment passes, and he groans.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, making his tone sound sarcastically sweet, glancing up at the man who seems all too amused with this situation.

“That’s pretty shit customer service,” the poet dude points out and Tommy rolls his eyes.

Prick.

“Go complain to my boss about it or something, you tory,” Tommy mutters, almost immediately regretting it. Honestly, it would suck if he lost this job— it’s a good source of income, and he gets access to the books for an hour or so (if he finishes his job early).

Not that it matters, though — Tommy’s boss is rarely around. The guy is either holed up in his study all day or out on business runs or whatever.

In fact, Tommy’s only met Philza three times: once when he first applied and got accepted, once when he’d been given a free comic book out of nowhere, and another time when the guy literally came bolting through the bookstore to beat the shit out of some random person who had tried to talk lippy to Karl.

It was single handedly the coolest thing Tommy has ever seen.

(No, he didn’t idolize his boss. Shut up).

To his surprise, though, the poet dude just starts laughing at the insult, albeit glaring at Tommy (with no real venom behind it).

“I’m not a fucking tory, you child,” he hisses, and Tommy can feel a slight shiver go up his spine, despite how he knows the man’s clearly joking.

“Sounds like something a tory would say,” Tommy quips, holding a finger up to point at the guy, who bristles. “Also, not a child.”

“I- well- you are a child, I can see it.”

“I’m eighteen, dickhead.”

(Not entirely true— Tommy’s sixteenth birthday was a couple months away, but he’d say anything to keep a steady flow of income going).

The man hums, scrutinizing him as though he doesn’t believe him, but it’s replaced with annoyance quickly.

“Whatever you say, gremlin,” the man taps his fingers against the desk rhythmically. Tommy really is too tired for this shit.

“So, can I help you?” Tommy repeats, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his tone anymore.

“What’s your name?”

Tommy grimaces.

“I don’t see how that’s important? Kinda stalkerish of you, big man.”

“I’m just curious,” The poet dude holds his hands up, despite grinning a little. He eventually relents, after seeing Tommy’s unimpressed expression. “Fine, alright— have you got any good copies of Greek mythology?”

Tommy blinks.

“Really? Greek mythology?” he whistles, glancing up at the ceiling as he thinks about a strangely large amount of titles relating to that genre. Again, he isn’t fond of reading per se, but it’s easy to memorize book titles after stacking them on shelves for a while. “I would’ve taken you for a poet kinda person. Shakespeare and stuff.”

“It’s for my brother,” The man waves his hand, despite the small smile tugging at his lips from Tommy’s words, “But, no, uh, I don’t really read much. I prefer looking at music scores, or listening to audio books.”

Tommy perks up at this.

“Really? I’m the same way,” Tommy comments, and the guy smiles at him fondly.

“You like music scores?”

“Uh, well,” Tommy laughs nervously. He’d never actually seen a music score before, nor learned any kind of instrument. “I meant listening to audio books.”

“Oh,” The man nods, his face falling a little, “Have you got a favourite book, then?”

Tommy frowns a bit as he gets up from behind the counter, walking towards the many bookshelves, “Not really, actually.”

“That’s a surprise, since you work in a bookstore and all,” The man comments, following Tommy close behind, hands pushed into the pockets of his enormous brown trench coat (that somehow fits him perfectly, the tall wanker). “Can I ask your name now?”

“No,” Tommy responds simply, frowning up at the large bookshelf in front of him, eyes narrowed as he searches each of them for the right title.

“Aw, don’t trust me?” The man teases, voice lilting as he leans back against the bookshelf behind him.

Tommy rolls his eyes.

“No, you’re just a dickhead,” Tommy hums, reaching out to pull the iron ladder across the bookshelves towards the book that had caught his eye. He begins scaling it, ignoring the wounded noise the (not?) poet man lets out.

Tommy hums under his breath to himself, reaching out to grab the book labeled The Iliad, grasping it by the spine and turning to face the stranger over his shoulder.

“Catch,” Tommy deadpans before dropping the book into the guy’s hands. He relishes the shocked expression crossing the man’s face briefly, snickering when it’s closely replaced with irritation.

“You’re such a child,” The poet man grumbles, staring at the book in his hands as Tommy slides down the ladder with ease, chuckling still.

(He tries to not grimace when practically his whole body aches from the action).

“I literally already told you that I was eighteen, asshat,” Tommy comments brightly, patting the tall man on the shoulder.

(He’s decided he must hold a grudge upon anyone who makes him stand on the tips of his toes in order to pat their shoulder).

“Somehow I doubt that,” The poet man narrows his eyes suspiciously, taking in Tommy’s stature.

Tommy just scoffs, heading towards another bookshelf, motioning to it with his hand,

“Did you need anything else?”

“Unless you’ve got white Monster Energy stored underneath the front desk, no.”

“Yikes,” Tommy grimaces, looking up at the man, blue eyes meeting a very strangely familiar brown. “You’re so emo.”

He snaps his fingers together suddenly, as if having an epiphany, “I can refer you to a therapist if you’d like.”

(Not that Tommy goes to therapy. He just happens to know someone).

“I hate therapy.”

“No shit,” Tommy exhales, eyebrows raised as he takes his spot behind the counter again. “That’ll be £10 pounds, by the way.”

———

“You are in debt to a child?” Wilbur squawks, eyes wide as his twin brother slumps down onto the sofa, grunting a bit.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Techno responds, ever so blasé.

“Technoblade, you literally almost died last night and then come home this morning to tell me that a literal teenager saved your life out of purely the goodness of their heart and you tell me not to be surprised?” Wilbur all but shrieks.

Techno wonders how the neighbors haven’t alerted the police yet.

Then again, Wilbur has these fits often. He’s got a flair for the dramatic.

“I would’ve told you last night, but you were asleep,” Techno sighs, “Plus, you were already gone by the time I woke up this morning. And, to be fair, I didn’t ‘almost die’. Technoblade never dies.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t here because I went book shopping,” Wilbur seethes, rustling through the plastic bag tossed over his arm, pulling out the novel he’d gotten from the absolute gremlin kid behind the register. He tosses it at Techno, who catches it easily, examining the cover with great interest.

“You went book shopping?” Techno snorts despite the way he looks fondly over the cover of the novel.

“Yes, I did,” Wilbur crosses his arms proudly. He’s decided not to argue with the whole ‘Technoblade never dies’ motto. Smart of him.

“What for? You hate reading.”

“That’s not true! I enjoy reading some books!”

“If some books are just NatGeo Wild magazines, then sure.”

Wilbur glares at him for a moment before snatching the book out of his hands, “Fine, then, if you’re gonna be a bitch, I’m tossing this out the window.”

“Nooo, how could you,” Techno drawls, expression blank.

“I fucking hate you,” Wilbur mutters, pausing for a moment before tossing the book back at his brother, “and for the record, I went there because I was worried for my dear brother and thought I’d get you something instead of sitting by your bed all morning in a frenzy.”

“Thanks, Wil,” Techno huffs, and it’s genuine.

Wilbur relaxes a bit.

“No problem,” he responds, “Even if I did have to deal with an absolute gremlin child just to get it.”

Techno snorts.

“They were that bad?”

“Horrendous. I’m never going back there.”

———

“You’re late,” Niki comments kindly from behind the cafe counter, slipping the apron off from around her neck.

She sends a smile in Tommy’s direction, patting the boy’s curls as he passes by.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tommy sighs, pulling the baking apron over his head, hands dragging down his face miserably. He had been last to lock up at Eldritch Wings after Karl had left early for a date or something. “You can head out now for your break, Niki, I’ve got it.”

Niki hums in response, her face looking almost sympathetic as she walks towards the back room.

“Make sure you actually take a break at some point, okay?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at him. “You look exhausted, Tommy.”

“I’m not a baby, Niki, I’ll be okay,” Tommy responds with a shrug, before clearing his throat, “But, uhm. Thanks for the concern or something.”

Niki flashes him another smile. It’s brighter than the previous ones.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she says, and then pauses again, sighing almost like a big sister would before scolding their younger brother, “And for the love of Prime, please try not to get into any more arguments, okay?”

“No promises,” Tommy muses, leaning against the baking counter as the bell jingles when Niki exits, laughing lightly at him.

He slumps even further after she has left, his breath leaving with a fail swoop. The night shift is so boring. Nine pm until two-thirty am or so of mostly just standing around. Nothing interesting happens this late, but Tommy doesn’t mind it.

It’s better than having a night shift rush (which happens a couple times a week or so, making Tommy all but collapse once he gets back to his flat).

The steady flow of customers enters - Tommy instantly recognizes the few regulars, tossing only a few of them the ghost of a smile.

Around twelve am, he’s wiping down a diner table when the bell jingles again, and he glances up.

“How can I—”

His words die in his mouth and his eyes narrow at the recognizable brown styled curls falling over a face, long trenchcoat flowing around his ankles.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tommy mumbles under his breath, turning back to wipe the table down more aggressively.

He can’t avoid it forever, though, eventually slinking over behind the counter to glare dangerously at the man from the bookstore, who looks equally as bewildered to see him.

“What can I get for you?” Tommy asks, taking on a sweet, lilted tone.

“You—” The man begins, spluttering a bit.

“Me,” Tommy repeats boredly, slamming his hand on the counter. “So are you gonna order or just stare at me like I’ve grown three heads?”

The man glowers and then relents after a few moments, “Fine. Get me two black americanos. No sugar or milk.”

Tommy grimaces, grabbing two styrofoam cups and a Sharpie. He isn’t surprised— the guy’s totally the type to order just two black coffees and then dip. “Name?”

The man straightens, “Wilbur.”

“Understandable,” Tommy hums, and the man - Wilbur? - frowns.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Tommy shrugs, smirking to himself as he writes Dickhead on the cups.

“Well,” Wilbur scoffs, sounding strangely affronted, “Since you know my name now, don’t you think I deserve to know yours?”

“Nope,” Tommy says, popping the ‘p’.

“Fine, then I guess I’ll just have to think of a name for you,” Wilbur leans against the front counter, squinting at Tommy.

Tommy grimaces, turning from the coffee maker, “Please don’t.”

Wilbur hums, head tilted, “Alright, why don’t you give me a name then so I don’t have to just call you ‘gremlin child’?”

How many times do I have to tell you I’m eighteen for you to believe it, Tommy thinks to himself bitterly.

“Just call me…” Tommy scrunches up his nose, clicking his tongue as he puts a lid on Wilbur’s coffee cup before making the second, “Biggest man you’ve ever met, amazing, awesome, and handsome. Or, like, Big T or something.”

“That’s… a mouthful,” Wilbur makes a face, and then something smug changes in his expression that makes Tommy shift uncomfortably.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Tommy puts the coffee cup on the counter in front of Wilbur, turning back to the maker to pull the second one from it.

“Oh, no reason,” Wilbur says in a sing-songy voice, Tommy grimacing all the while putting a lid on the second coffee. “Timmy.”

The fuck?

“Who the fuck is Timmy?”

Wilbur blinks.

“Not that one then,” he says, looking slightly crestfallen.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘Big T’,” Wilbur comments, taking a swig of his coffee, before he grins mischievously at Tommy. “That means your name starts with a T.”

“How do you know that?” Tommy bristles, setting the second coffee down in front of Wilbur rather aggressively. “What if- you know, what if that’s just my last name? Or just my nickname?”

“Hmm,” Wilbur shrugs, looking at the second cup and noticing the name on the side with a dip in his smug smile, “I’ll take my chances.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, running a hand through his curls.

“Why did you write Dickhead on my cup?” Wilbur whines, twisting so the name Tommy had Sharpied on is visible.

“Why are you getting a black coffee at this ungodly hour?” Tommy rebuttals with a smirk. “Also, because it’s true. You are a dickhead.”

“I usually come in the mornings, actually,” Wilbur admits, looking slightly sheepish. He’s decided to ignore the end of Tommy’s sentence, probably for his own good. “My brother’s the one who drinks coffee this late.”

“I figured you did,” Tommy responds with a slight hum.

He frowns a bit, though.

He’s seen Wilbur in here before, he knows he has, but he can’t remember when. Maybe it was one time before he left for Niki’s shift?

Not that it matters, really.

“Do you work two part-time jobs?” Wilbur frowns at him, the question coming out of nowhere.

The guy keeps asking dumbass questions.

Tommy just wants him to take his two black coffees and leave.

“Obviously.”

“Isn’t that a little… much for a kid?”

“Fucking hell— I’ve told you, like, three times that I’m eighteen, get it into your head, bitch.”

Wilbur just hums, seemingly unfazed.

“Why doesn’t your boss make you guys wear name tags?” he comments, eyes flitting down to Tommy’s apron where a name tag would normally be.

“He does, actually,” Tommy grins at him, turning away so he can begin cleaning the coffee machine, jaw clenching slightly when his back aches in response, “I just don’t wear them because I’m too cool for one.”

Wilbur scoffs behind him, “I should’ve guessed you would say that.”

“Yeah, you probably should have. Now can you please leave? I’ve got shit to do.”

“You didn’t give me a drink carrier,” Wilbur complains, his tone akin to a whine.

Tommy turns to grin sweetly at him, “Suffer, then.”

Chapter Text

It’s cold.

The only thing he can hear is the wind whipping through his ears and the sound of someone screaming.

It’s dark.

He’s really cold.

———

Tommy’s back hurts.

He should be used to it by now, the aching pains that echo through his spine. He’d never admit that he feels it - only being able to tell from an outside source each time the boy grimaces - but with a clenched fist and bared teeth, he pushes through it.

“You’ve got that look again,” Tubbo comments from the other side of the room where he’s splayed out on the sofa upside down, head tilted as he looks curiously at Tommy.

“What look?”

“Is it your back?” Tubbo ignores his question, frowning a bit with sympathy.

Tommy clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t need anyone’s fuckin’ sympathy, thank you very much.

“My back’s fine, Tubbo, quit worrying,” he sighs, rubbing his face a bit. It’s Sunday: one out of three days he has off from work. He probably should be spending it doing this normal teenagers do, but honestly?

His body still aches horribly and he would probably keel over and just shrink into the floor if he were to do anything strenuous like going to the park.

Tubbo, luckily, is very adaptive in these situations.

While the kid is highly active and would probably drag Tommy outside if he wanted to (he could, honestly), Tubbo’s also pretty understanding when it comes to having just a “shit and exhausted day.”

Tommy’s known Tubbo for a while — not too long, but long enough for him to have a simple understanding of how the guy works.

“Should I call Boo?” Tubbo hums, slinking down the sofa so that his arms hang over his head, face slowly turning red from hanging upside down so much.

Tommy’s nose shrivels at the thought.

Ranboo, Tubbo’s roommate, is probably one of the most annoyingly endearing people on the planet.

If there’s one person that Tommy would rather murder than see, it would probably be that guy.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Tubbo sighs loudly, falling the rest of the way off the sofa so he’s crumpled in a way that his torso is on the ground but his legs remain in the air, feet touching the back cushion of the couch, “But, look, Tommy, I know this is probably not gonna get into your head because it’s coming from me and you’re stubborn as shit, but you gotta start taking more breaks. These jobs are gonna kill you, you know.”

No, I'll probably be dead before it gets the chance, Tommy thinks bitterly.

“I might,” is all he says instead, knowing full well that he probably won’t.

Work keeps him on his feet, keeps the bills paid, keeps him laying low and his mind off of reality.

Tubbo just hums again, clearly not believing him but deciding that arguing is futile.

“Do you wanna go get ice cream or something, then?” he asks.

“I probably don’t have the money for that—”

“I’m paying, dickhead,” Tubbo scoffs, as if that was plainly obvious.

Tommy blinks.

“What? Why? If this is some weird thing to get me into your debt, I really don’t want to touch even the mere idea of that with a ten meter stick—”

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with that,” Tubbo waves him off, getting to his feet and stumbling a bit, catching himself on the drywall with a mischievous grin that makes Tommy shift uncomfortably. “Just me being a kind, loving friend as always.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, and- and when you try to get me involved with one of your weird shitty schemes, I’m gonna remind you that you said that.”

Tubbo just grins.

———

Wilbur slumps down onto the sofa beside his twin, groaning dramatically and tossing his head back against the cushion.

“Technoooo,” he drawls, sounding utterly defeated, “I need your help with something.”

“No,” Techno responds immediately, eyes not even flicking up from the book he’s reading.

“Pleaseeee?” Wilbur pleads.

“No. Ask Phil if you want someone dead this time.”

“I don’t want someone dead, you idiot,” Wilbur hisses, snapping his head up to glare at Techno, who shrugs.

“That’s what you normally come to me about, don’t blame me for assumin’.”

“Yeah, well, this time is serious, uhm, real world shit,” Wilbur grins at his wording, as if it made perfect sense.

Techno glances up from his book just to deadpan him.

“By ‘real word shit,’ do you mean just normal civilian things?”

Wilbur snaps his fingers enthusiastically, “Yes! That. That’s what I meant.”

“Then no. I’m not interested.”

Wilbur deflates, “But you haven’t even heard what it is I need help with yet.”

“As soon as you confirmed it was weird civilian stuff, I lost interest.”

“It’s not my fault you’re only interested when it’s stuff about hybrids or villains and heroes,” Wilbur sniffs, turning his head.

“Wil, everyone in this entire family is a supervillain hybrid. Obviously I’d be more focused on that genre of things than whatever is goin’ on in what you call the ‘real world’.”

Wilbur sighs, defeated.

“Fine, then will you at least listen to what I’ve got to say?”

Techno hums in affirmation.

That’s the good thing about the guy; even if he couldn’t care less about what you’re saying, he’s a great listener.

“So, basically, I met this child at a bookstore and he’s kind of funny,” Wilbur begins, “You know, the old one that dad runs down the street just for fun or something?”

Techno rolls his eyes, “Yes, Wil, I’m aware of Eldritch Wings.”

“Right, so, there’s this kid that works there that’s pretty funny, but also the bane of my existence. I absolutely despise him, and I thought that would be the last I saw of him, but he also works at Nook’s for the late night shift.”

“So?”

“So…” Wilbur trails off, blinking.

Techno sighs.

“Wil, please do not get attached to some random child.”

“I’m not getting attached!”

“Then why did you just make me listen to your random babblings about some kid I’ve never met and that you’ve only met, like, twice?”

“That’s the thing, though! I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know where,” Wilbur frowns a bit now, thinking hard. “It’s like seeing an actor in a movie that looks sort of familiar but you can’t quite place what movie you’ve seen them in before.”

“The difference here is you can look up their name,” Techno chimes in.

Wilbur snaps his fingers, “That's another thing! He wouldn’t give me his name.”

Techno hums, looking up at Wilbur, shutting his book closed, “You said he works at Eldritch Wings?”

“Yeah?”

Techno’s got a ghost of a smile on his face when he stands up, patting Wilbur on the shoulder lightly.

“Why don’t you just ask Phil for his name, then? Pretty sure he just happens to know who owns the place.”

Wilbur blinks as realization dawns on him.

“Idiot.”

“Fuck you.”

———

Tommy might just die.

Tubbo, obviously, wants him dead.

“Tubbo, you’re a lifesaver and the best person to ever exist,” Tommy says, eyes wide as he examines the ice cream on the table in front of him.

It’s mint chocolate chip with rainbow sprinkles.

“Thanks, big man,” Tubbo says sincerely, grinning from across the table where he’s eating some weird ice cream named after a high ranked hero Tommy can’t recall the name of. “I hope it helps a bit with the pains and all that.”

“Yeah, it’s subsiding a bit,” Tommy lies, sending a smile in Tubbo’s direction.

The pain never really leaves, no matter how much medication he takes.

(He gets a decent flow of supply from Quackity, who always gives him these stupid ass sympathetic looks whenever he delivers them like Tommy’s some charity case. It’s all so patronizing it makes Tommy want to punch someone).

“That’s good,” Tubbo hums, now eyeing Tommy’s hair, “Maybe after ice cream I can help with your hair or something?”

He motions towards Tommy’s curls, who gasps and recoils, clutching the front of his bangs, “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Tommy, your red tips are fading and your hair has grown out to the point where you could probably tie it back into a ponytail.”

“They are not! And ponytails are poggers so fuck off.”

“They’re turning pink because someone is always being a bitch about Ranboo coming over and won’t let me, who is perfectly capable of dying your hair, even touch it.”

Tommy makes a face, arms crossed.

It had become a routine with the three - dying their hair every time they hang out.

Something like a tradition, if you will.

Tubbo always got the blonde tips (that made Tommy laugh), and Ranboo always kept up with the strange… dual-toned hair or whatever the fuck he called it.

Tommy, of course, picked the most poggers of hair dye. Red tips.

“No. Never. Only Ranboo’s allowed to dye my hair. I don’t trust you holding scissors or a bottle of dye at all, Tubso,” Tommy recalls, earning a groan from Tubbo. He then frowns, “And don’t call me a bitch, bitch boy.”

Tubbo’s smile slips off his face a bit, almost like a pout.

“Well- no, okay, look-” Tommy begins, laughing nervously. “It’s just, you know—”

It’s scary when Tubbo gets like this.

“You said you didn’t want me to invite Ranboo earlier! You never want him over, it’s just like I was saying! This is why your fucking hair dye never stays!”

“I didn’t, I didn’t want Ranboo over, you’re right! I just want to hang out with you, big man! No need to be so clingy about it, though.”

Tubbo huffs, clearly knowing that this is a losing argument.

Before Tommy can continue with his rambling, (mostly about how much of a bitch Ranboo is and how Tubbo is cooler, but not as cool as Tommy himself obviously), Tubbo’s phone rings.

He glances at the contact name, then worriedly at Tommy, as if debating if he should pick up the call or not around him.

Tommy just stares at him, eyebrow raised.

“Gimme a minute, Toms,” Tubbo says, rising out of his chair in front of the ice cream parlor and walking a bit down the sidewalk, hand pressed over his mouth, “To what do I owe the pleasure, boss man…!”

Weird, is all Tommy thinks, shrugging.

Maybe he’s talking to Ranboo about random platonic marriage things.

Hopefully divorce!

At least Tommy can eat his free ice cream in peace (and maybe sneak a bite from Tubbo’s while he’s gone).

“Touch my ice cream and you’re dead!” Tubbo squawks over his shoulder, Tommy flinching in response.

Okay, maybe not.

….

Tommy will, decidedly, take his chances.

He positions his hand over the ice cream, smirking a little, when his own phone rings.

The classic Able Sisters ringtone on full blast.

He drops his spoon onto the linoleum table with a clatter, shooting a middle finger at anyone who’s giving him weird looks before picking up the phone.

With one look at the contact name, he almost hangs up.

He almost sends the fucker right to voice mail.

But, well. He’d have hell to pay later.

Tommy decides that he is too tired for this shit and presses answer.

“Heyyy, Jack,” he grits out into the phone, his tone faux enthusiastic. He drags a hand down his face.

“Tommy!” Jack’s smug voice comes through the line. “Hey man, how are ya, are you busy right now?”

“I’m always busy, you fucker.”

“Yeah, well, put a pause on it, alright? I’ve got to leave work early today and need you to take my shift.”

Tommy’s nose wrinkles immediately. No way in hell is he doing that.

“Why me? I thought Niki was on call for daytime shifts this weekend?”

“She was, but she’s occupied right now.”

“The fuck? I’m occupied right now, too.”

“Do you want me to get Sam involved?”

Fuck’s sake.

Tommy clenches his jaw, eyes flicking over to Tubbo, who is still talking to someone on the phone animatedly.

“No, it’s- it’s fine,” Tommy grumbles. “Just- just give me like thirty minutes and I’ll be there.”

“Great! Knew I could count on you, champ.”

“If you call me champ again, I’ll smash your bald head like an egg.”

Jack just laughs and then the line goes dead.

Asshole.

———

Tommy sulks into Nook’s twenty minutes later, slouched over and glaring daggers in Jack’s direction, who slips off his apron the second Tommy was even in sight of the bakery.

“Good to see you could make it,” he grins at Tommy.

“Fuck you.”

“Aw, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

“I’ll kill you,” Tommy plasters on a sweet smile, clapping his hands together, “I’ll literally end you right here and now. No more Jack Manifold. Bye bye, bald boy.”

Jack snorts, “Whatever you say.”

With a slap on the back (that sends Tommy almost to his knees), Jack exits the front doors of the bakery, leaving Tommy with both the afternoon and (most likely) the evening shift all in one.

He grumbles insults under his breath, thinking back to what Tubbo had said when he’d told him the news.

On one hand, he looked vaguely sympathetic (they both knew Tommy rarely got any “off days” from his two jobs), but he also looked a bit relieved at the news, claiming that he also had somewhere to be.

Fuck all of them and their “places to be”.

Tommy exhales, leaning against the front counter of the bakery.

Jack was lucky it was a slow day — if it wasn’t, Tommy probably would track him down and murder him.

Maybe sic Tubbo on him or something.

“You alright kid?” a voice asks behind him and Tommy shrieks, hands slapping the counter in front of him, whirling around.

Sam frowns, head tilted— he’s wearing his normal clothes and an apron covered in flour. His brown hair (with green tips that Tommy has compared his own red ones to a couple of times) is even dusted lightly in the faux snow.

“Fucking hell, man!” Tommy laughs shakily, a hand pressed to his chest as he inhales deeply. He can smell the freshly baked bread in the back room. “You can’t just scare someone like that! What the hell?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam chuckles a bit, holding his hands up, “I was just making sure you were alright. I felt bad that Jack called you in on such short notice.”

“Yeah, he threatened to get you involved.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, amused, “That’s what got you to rush here?”

“I thought that if you were here that maybe you’d have brought Fran,” Tommy admits, turning back around so he can face the front of the store, chin resting in the middle of his hands.

“Not today I didn’t,” Sam responds, patting Tommy gently on the forearm sympathetically, “I’ll make sure to remember next time for you, though, kiddo.”

“Thanks,” Tommy mutters, ears burning.

Sam’s one of the only people that has ever called him kiddo. It’s nice, he thinks. Maybe.

“I’ll be in the back if you need any extra help, alright?” Sam gives him a kind smile, “Don’t be afraid to ask. I don’t bite.”

“Yeah, yeah, go do old man shit,” Tommy waves him off.

He should be fine, really.

If there isn’t a big rush this late in the afternoon, then there probably won’t be one at all.

———

Tommy should’ve known this sort of thing would happen.

It’s really just his luck, too.

Wilbur grins at him from the other side of the counter. He looks a bit different today: he’s wearing a beanie that practically smushes his mop of curls to death and his regular circular glasses (that scream english major) have been replaced for ones with a red tint.

He looks ridiculous.

“You look ridiculous,” Tommy states just so he knows too.

“Gee, thanks,” Wilbur huffs, “And here I thought we were starting to get along.”

“I’ve only spoken to you twice. What gave you that idea?”

“Just an epiphany I had,” Wilbur shrugs, and then he frowns a bit, “Do you normally work at this time on the weekends?”

“I was called in,” Tommy grits through his teeth, eyes narrowing, “Do you want your same two black coffees?”

“Make it three,” Wilbur’s smile only grows when Tommy’s eye twitches, “Sucks to hear you were called in, though. I hate when that happens.”

“You have a job?” Tommy snorts at the very thought. He must be a super fun person to deal with if he works in customer services. It takes half of Tommy’s strength to not laugh at the picture of this tall lanky motherfucker trying to keep his cool while people yell at him for doing something wrong.

“Yep!” Wilbur responds rather enthusiastically, sounding unfazed to Tommy’s sarcasm.

Tommy decides to ignore him in order to make his coffee. It’s strangely weird how chipper the guy is. Out of character, if you will.

And to think Tommy was having such a nice day before Jack Manifold and this fucker decided to ruin it. Saddening.

“It’s pretty empty in here,” Wilbur clicks his tongue, glancing around at the empty tables, eyeing the only one that has a regular sitting in it? fast asleep against the wall.

Oh, they’re doing conversation still?

“That’s what happens on Sundays. Everyone’s out doing Prime knows what. Food places are empty and shit.”

“So why are you stuck in here?”

Way to rub it in, prick.

“I already told you I was called in,” Tommy seethes, scrawling Fuckface on the coffee cup before placing it on the countertop, “If it were my choice, I’d be out clubbing and getting all the women to flock to me. No need to be such a tory and rub it in my face.”

Wilbur cackles, “You have women that flock to you?”

“It’s true, you know. It’s just- It’s just my charm and extreme handsomeness.”

“You’re- you’re a child, though. An itty bitty man.”

“I resent that, I am actually tall,” Tommy starts up immediately, scrawling another insult on the second coffee cup, “I’m like, six foot three, you know? I’m gigantic. I could probably squash you with my hand, if you think about it. Plus, not a child.”

“Six foot three?” Wilbur barks out a laugh — it’s one full of warmth and something genuine. It shouldn’t make a curl of pride appear in Tommy’s chest, really. “You— that's a joke, right? You’re joking?”

“No, I’m not fuckin’ joking,” Tommy glares at him, slamming the third coffee cup down, “I’m dead serious. Completely serious. Can't you see it in my eyes?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment, squinting his brown eyes at him.

(At least, Tommy thinks they’re brown. It’s hard to tell with his stupid glasses).

The guy even leans down so that him and Tommy are almost eye level, before grinning, “No. Nah. You’re like… five foot nine at maximum.”

“Get the hell out of my shop.”

“You can’t just keep kicking me out when I’m right!”

“Yes, I can, and you aren’t right, you’re completely wrong,” Tommy smiles at him, tilting his head, “I can actually just get my manager and have him throw you out if I wanted to.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, “Holy shit, fine. That won’t be necessary, I’ll just be on my way with my three cups of black coffee.”

Tommy makes a face at the mention of the wretched coffee.

“You know if you drink that all at once it might kill you,” he suggests. He’s so great, giving this advice to his mortal enemy.

As with most things, he regrets it almost immediately.

“Aww, do you care about me? Are you worried about my health? That’s so sweet of you, Tommy,” Wilbur’s smirk is a mixture of victory laced with pure ire.

Wait.

Hold up.

Backtrack.

What the fuck.

“How the- what the fuck- how do you know my name?” Tommy hisses. He can feel his instincts telling him to run, to bolt, to leave town and never come back (like he should’ve six months ago), but he remains standing his ground.

“I have my resources,” Wilbur shrugs ominously, balancing the three coffee cups in his arms. “Those resources being Philza.”

Fucking hell.

Tommy relaxes immediately, exhaling.

“What the— that’s so fucking grim, man, you can’t just say that kind of shit!” Tommy points at him accusingly. Wilbur just laughs at him hysterically.

“Sorry, man.”

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

“I actually hate you. I hate you and your fucking dumb hair. Leave and never come back.”

Wilbur gasps, “How dare you? I’ll complain, you know, and have you fired.”

Tommy smiles sweetly again, “Die.”

Wilbur snorts.

Tommy really can’t seem to grasp how the guy finds this all amusing.

“Alright, gremlin, I’m leaving, holy shit,” Wilbur readjusts the coffee cups in his arms for a couple seconds, and his eyebrows furrow. “So, uh, could you possibly give me a—”

“Go away.”

“Alright.”

———

Wilbur’s grin is triumphant when he returns to the rooftop, arms full of coffee that look dangerously close to spilling.

“Wil, mate,” Phil frowns, walking forwards to carefully remove one of the cups from the man’s arms, “Where the fuck have you been? Tech and I have been trying to call you for like, twenty minutes.”

Wilbur shrugs, “I was busy.”

“He was probably talkin’ to that kid he’s got this weird obsession with,” Techno pipes up, walking across the rooftop while absentmindedly trying to dust blood off of the front of his outfit.

Phil sighs, taking a small sip of his coffee.

“I don’t have obsessions!”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Why is this coffee black?” Phil says suddenly, making a face. “You know my coffee order is with a lot of milk and sugar.”

Wilbur grins dangerously, “I wanted to see the look of despair on Tommy’s face when I ordered three black coffees instead of two.”

Phil’s wonders if he should retire early.

Chapter Text

Tommy wakes up rather abruptly at four am to a loud knock at his front door.

He just about falls off of his sofa when he hears it, stumbling through the darkness of his apartment and all but throwing the front door open, blearily blinking up at the large guy looming over him.

Forgive him for not looking through the door’s peephole for once in his life.

He’s only had, like, two hours of sleep.

(Blame late night shifts and almost getting mugged in an alleyway for that one).

“Fuck do you wan’?” he slurs out to the figure, which he can’t seem to make out.

His mind’s still all wavery n shit, like he’s in a dream.

The guy in front of him is tall, way too tall, and is wearing some sort of… cape? Plus a mask? And… is that a crown?

Tommy puts two and two together when he realizes that the “mask” is actually a boar skull and just about dies right there on the front doorstep.

“Holy fucking shit,” Tommy states eloquently, now fully awake as if someone had tossed a bucket of water onto him.

The man scoffs a bit, “Forget about me already?”

“Oh piss off, man. It’s like, four am. You just woke me up, you prick.”

The Blade freezes a bit, seeming to gaze over his bed head and wrinkled clothes, “Oh. Uh… sorry.”

Yikes.

“You really need to freshen up on your apologizing skills, Blade,” Tommy tells him.

“You’re the second person to say that,” the man mutters. “Also, you’re not wearing normal sleep clothes, so it was difficult to tell.”

Oh, right. Tommy had nearly forgotten that the second he’d gotten home he all but passed out on his face without bothering to change.

Oops.

“Why the fuck are you at my house, big man?” Tommy splutters in order to change the subject.

It works, to his surprise.

“Looks like an apartment to me,” the Blade hums.
“And I’m here because I have a debt to repay, remember? I’m here to discuss it with you.”

Smartass.

“Yeah, well, fuck your debt. I don’t need anything.”

The Blade tilts his head dangerously.

Tommy’s not scared.

Not at all.

“Really? There’s absolutely nothing you want?” The Blade muses, his tone edging on shocked (if that’s possible. The guy rarely sounds anything more than monotoned).

Tommy narrows his eyes at him for a moment.

The Blade probably won’t leave him alone about this whole “debt” thing.

If there’s anyone in his little villain cult or club or frat thing (Tommy couldn’t care less about what it was, really) that honoured the whole “repaying debt thing”, it was the Blade.

(Archangel was a close second, but the Blade made it clear he’d repay his debts ten-fold on multiple occasions. It was horrifying, and Tommy would rather not actually have a debt from the guy).

If he’s being honest with himself, Tommy’s a little too tired for this right now.

But…

The Blade won’t give this up, clearly.

So…

Tommy’s eyes land on the large iconic deep obsidian and red laced sword on the Blade’s hip and he grins a little.

“I want you to give me sword fighting lessons.” he decides.

The Blade’s silent for a moment, taking this in.

The wind blows a little and Tommy gets a whiff of something metallic.

Gross.

“Sword fighting lessons?” the man repeats.

“Yep! Just like one or two, I don’t give a shit. Anything to get you off my back about this whole creepy n’ ominous blood debt thing. Sounds sorta like a cult, you know, if you ask me. Don’t wanna get involved in that shit, big man, I have standards, you know—”

“Alright, alright,” Blade cuts off his rambling, holding up a hand with a sigh. “I’ll give you sword lessons.”

Holy shit.

That’s so poggers.

Wait- no. This guy’s literally a convicted supervillain.

But he can also fight.

(Tommy could use some fighting from the Blade specifically, if he really thinks about it).

“Great, sounds like a poggers deal,” Tommy grins at him again.

“Poggers? Really?” The Blade repeats, almost sounding like he’s amused.

“Don’t judge my vocabulary,” Tommy snaps, glaring at him now, “Now could you do me a favour and leave so I can actually get more than two hours of sleep?”

The villain regards him for a moment, then exhales a bit.

“…Alright. Bye, Tommy.”

“Bye, The Blade.”

The door shuts, and Tommy slinks to the ground.

Holy fucking shit.

He’s in so much trouble.

But…

Sword training pog.

———

“Toms, kid,” Sam ruffles the boy’s hair gently, a frown of concern on his face. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

Tommy looks up from where he’s playing with Fran, who was twirling in circles at his feet in the back room of the café. Sam is watching him with concerned eyes, head tilted slightly.

It’s hard to lie to the guy.

He’s way too nice.

He gives off that tired but somehow functioning parental vibe.

It’s a bit weird.

“I did, I did, I got like, six hours,” Tommy smiles weakly through the lie, before adding, “Don’t get all- all dad mode on me.”

Sam grins at him widely, “‘Dad mode’?” he repeats.

Tommy realizes his mistake, immediately beginning to back track, laughing nervously, “No, no, no aha— sorry, uh— look, alright, I didn’t mean it— fucking hell, I should get back to work.”

Cursing under his breath and with burning ears, Tommy gets up from the fold-up chair in the break room and exits, Fran hassling at his heels.

He can hear Sam’s warm chuckling as he walks back out into the main room.

Tommy has decided he’s gonna pretend that never happened and also, potentially, gaslight Sam until he thinks it was all a dream or something.

It’s late out, as per usual. The clock that ticks ominously on the wall behind Tommy reads half past eleven.

There aren't many customers in the café tonight besides Hannah, one of Tommy’s regulars, who is animatedly chatting with someone on the other side of the booth from her that Tommy can’t quite recognize.

(Tommy has decided that he couldn’t give a shit to learn their name, if he’s being honest).

Fran sniffs at his feet a little as Tommy makes himself a cup of water. He knows that Sam wouldn’t care if he made himself a coffee or something, but Tommy really doesn’t need caffeine.

(He’s never had it before, but he somehow just knows he wouldn’t need it).

The door opens, letting in a gust of hot air that makes Tommy cringe, and a familiar face walks in.

Fran barks for a moment, shooting out from beside Tommy to sniff the newcomer, recoiling with a growl at the recognition of what kind of hybrid it is.

Oh, hell.

“Tommy Innit!” Charlie Slimecicle chirps, a big enthusiastic smile plastered on his green translucent face. He glances down at Fran and gasps, waving and cooing at the dog patronizingly.

Fran backs off, slumping down at Tommy’s feet again, growling a bit under her breath yet shaking a bit in fear.

It’s a little funny, honestly, how terrified she is.

Charlie wouldn’t hurt a fly.

His boss, however…

“Eyup, Slime,” Tommy exhales, leaning against the counter so that he can bend down and scratch behind Fran’s ear, “Are you here for pastries or something?”

(He knows that Charlie wouldn’t come around here if he wanted something sweet).

“Nope! Just checking on Tommy Innit from Nook’s Bakery!” Charlie beams at him, before adding, “Oh, and Quackity wanted me to make sure that you were healthy!”

Of course he did.

“Well you can tell him I’m just fine,” Tommy grits through his teeth.

The last thing he wants or needs is that guy sniffing around here.

Sure, he provided good medication (and safety when need be), but Quackity was a handful.

He mostly cared about Primes more than anything and it only made Tommy feel worse about his situation.

Walking into Quackity’s domain felt like walking into a tyrant king’s palace in some ways.

(Plus, the guy could be extremely protective over certain stuff).

“Oh! Okay!” Charlie frowns a bit, thinking, before his eyes light up behind his glasses at something he’d forgotten to say, “He also mentioned that he’d like to come visit you soon, I think!”

Great!

That’s literally the last thing that Tommy wants!

Especially now with The Blade training him to sword fight. He didn’t know what it was with the two, but Quackity always had this… weird feud with the guy. Tommy never cared too much to ask about it.

“Did he say when?” Tommy asks weakly, rubbing. a hand down his face.

Maybe he can convince the villain to reschedule their whole… training session.

(Not that the fucker had given him any intel to when the actual training would be or where, which was strangely irritating. Not everyone has a bendable schedule, dickhead).

“In three weeks or so,” Charlie says, walking up closer to the counter so he can peer down at Fran some more.

“Great,” Tommy grumbles, standing up straight. Fran growls more now that Tommy isn’t rubbing her ear. “Tell him I said thanks for the heads up and the, uh, check in, but I’m absolutely fucking fine. I’m at the epitome of my health, if you will.”

“I believe you because I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Tommy Innit,” Charlie smiles at him way too kindly.

“Yeah, yep,” Tommy responds with a grimace.

He’s very uncomfortable.

“Goodbye then, Tommy Innit! See you soon!” Charlie sends him a wave, then glances down behind the back of the counter, “Bye, Fran puppy! Bye bye!”

With a final enthusiastic smile in Tommy’s direction, the hybrid exits the café.

Fran fully calms down now that Charlie isn’t around, leaning against Tommy’s leg with a soft exhale.

Tommy, however, is far from calm.

He might have to clean that fucking sofa after all.

———

“So…” Tubbo exhales, gazing at the sofa with a frown, taking in the strange bloodstain near the right arm rest. “You called Ranboo and I over here to… help you clean your sofa?”

“No, dumbass, I called you two over to help me re-dye my hair,” Tommy seethes, pointing at his own curls. He almost looks defeated at the words as he says them. “You’re the one who said I needed it redyed or something.”

(Not entirely true. He also would like help cleaning the sofa. Not that he needs it, he just doesn’t want to do it himself).

Ranboo, who had been lingering awkwardly in the kitchen, watching the scene from afar, steps into the living room.

He’s got a bowl and a bottle of hair dye in his hands, head tilted the way it is constantly. Tommy wonders if his neck hurts from doing that before being reminded that his back hurts from constantly walking with what Karl once jokingly called “Mickey Mouse posture”.

(If only that were the only reason).

“So, uhm…” Ranboo glances at Tommy, and then at the plush carpet worriedly, “Let’s… dye?”

“Do not say any fucking puns under my roof. If you do, I'll have to stab you.”

“Please don’t do that, actually, I uhm, wouldn’t enjoy being stabbed.”

“We will see about that,” Tommy says ominously.

Ranboo gulps, glancing at Tubbo, who is rather distracted with picking at the paint on his nails. He had just painted them black and yellow.

“Uhm… alright then,” Ranboo chuckles nervously, taking a seat on the floor criss-cross style. It’s a bit awkward with his lanky legs, but he manages, “Can you come closer so I can actually dye your hair, please?”

“Only if Tubbo lets me watch a movie on his phone,” Tommy decides as he sits on the floor, looking expectantly at his friend.

“You have a perfectly good phone, Tommy,” Tubbo hums absentmindedly.

“But it’s all old and cracked! It’s so annoying trying to watch my Tube videos about guns when there’s cracks in the way,” Tommy whines. “Can I pleasseeee use yours?”

“Your videos about what?—”

“No.”

Tommy frowns with a pout, glancing at Ranboo, who had still been trying to process what the kid had said.

He even tries putting on the classic puppy dog eyes that (usually) work.

Ranboo stares at him for a few minutes before sighing in utter defeat, fishing into his pocket and tossing his phone in Tommy’s direction.

Success!

“Don’t watch any horror movies, please. It’ll mess with my Netflix algorithm.”

“No promises.”

———

Tommy stares at himself in the mirror, lightly touching the newly dyed red tips in his hair.

Tubbo and Ranboo had just left - despite insisting they stayed for a sleepover - and he had all but bolted for the restroom to check over his newly styled hair.

His hair’s growing quite long, he realizes with a bit of a flutter as he gazes at the cracked mirror in front of him.

It’s nice having long hair, he thinks.

Bangs that fall into his eyes and hair that curls up right under his ears, just barely long enough for him to pull back onto a ponytail.

There’s something so completely different about having long hair compared to when he had been forced to crop it short that makes him feel… free, in a way.

Maybe it’s a good day today.

His back doesn’t hurt too much, Tubbo can no longer bully him for having pink tips, and he did watch a horror movie on Ranboo’s phone despite the man’s protests.

Plus, he had successfully cleaned his sofa… even though the cushion was still wet and he’d probably have to sleep on the floor again anyways.

It’s a good day, he decides.

Hopefully it’ll stay that way.

———

Techno hums as he enters the living room, pulling his boar mask off and placing it on a shelf near the television.

Wilbur, who is sat with his legs taking up the whole sofa, glances up at him, before snickering.

He pulls the earbuds out of his left ear to comment, “Have fun with the kid you’re indebted to?”

“Move your legs,” Techno says simply, poking at Wilbur’s legs with a huff.

“Make me.”

Techno stares at him.

Wilbur relents immediately, moving his legs so that Techno can sit down, leaning his head back against the cushions.

“Phil around?” Techno wonders, hands working through his tangled hair to pull out knots.

“Hmm, I think he’s closing up the bookshop right now,” Wilbur hums simply. “Why?”

“Eh, just need his advice on something.”

“Oooh, advice? I’m good at advice.”

“No offense, Wil, but you are the last person I’d go to for advice.”

Wilbur gasps dramatically, “How dare you?”

“How dare I,” Techno repeats in a monotone, then frowns, “Wait, Phil’s closing up the bookstore? The one that child you’re attached to works at?”

“Don’t say that like I’ve fucking adopted him, Blade.”

“You basically have at this point. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you leaving early in the mornings to check in on him.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, moving his legs so they’re sprawled over Techno’s lap, who immediately shoves them off.

“Brother dearest,” he says with a sickly tone, “My legs hurt from patrol tonight, which you left early to go take care of a stupid debt with a dumb child. Can I please rest them properly?”

“No.”

“Do you enjoy seeing me suffer?” Wilbur whines, tossing his head back against the sofa armrest again.

“As your older brother, yes. I find it very amusing.”

Wilbur huffs, turning his head a bit.

It’s silent for a little, and Techno relishes the few seconds of pure silence he gets.

“You know, I think you should meet him,” Wilbur says suddenly.

“Who? The kid you’re obsessed with?”

“Yeah, obviously. And quit saying that, I don’t have obsessions, what’s wrong with you?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Techno muses, dodging the last question easily.

“I dunno,” Wilbur responds, and it sounds honest. He shifts uncomfortably on the sofa for a moment, before continuing, “He kinda reminds me of you sometimes, actually.”

“I remind you of an annoying child?”

“I said sometimes.”

“Real kind of you, Wil. Can’t believe my own brother is insulting me like this. So terrible.”

“You know what? That’s the last straw,”Wilbur states proudly. “I’ve decided that I am now going to become a problem.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m going to force you to socialize at some point this week whether you like it or not.”

“No.”

“You can’t stop me.”

Techno turns to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“We both know that I could stop you,” he says bluntly, before adding, “And I already have to socialize this week, so you can’t make me do anything I already have to, nerd.”

Wilbur raises his eyebrows curiously, “Oh?”

“Yeah. The kid I’m in debt to wants me to give him sword fightin’ lessons.”

Wilbur lets out a bark of a laugh, nearly doubling over, “What? Seriously? That’s what the kid picked? Sword fighting?”

“I was a bit shocked as well,” Techno mutters genuinely. “It seemed like a last resort when he picked it, too. That’s what caught me so off guard.”

Usually, people relish getting debts from people like “The Blade”; it’s not unusual for him to catch people trying to somehow play out a way for them to get him to owe them something.

More than once, Techno’s found that something to be an assassination request.

He’s never gotten one for sword training, much less has he gotten such hesitance for someone to use their debt.

Every time he’s been in someone’s debt, they already seem to know exactly what they want from him in return and when they want it.

Tommy wanted nothing at first, and then he wanted something so simple that it kind of felt… weird, almost, to accept it.

Sword fighting came extremely easy to Techno — it wasn’t as though he couldn’t teach Tommy how to do it, but moreso that it felt too easy.

(Very unlike the blood he’s shed from the others he’s served).

Techno huffs a bit, turning away from Wilbur now, who still seems to be laughing a bit at the shock.

Tommy’s definitely a special one, he’ll give him that.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks and this fucking ass keeps coming into the bookstore in the mornings, striding in like he owns the place or something.

He’s always smirking too, as if he knows that the second Tommy sees him, the kid literally slumps over his desk in defeat.

It’s agitating.

Why can't Wilbur just leave him alone?

It’s not like the guy enjoys his presence or anything, either.

(He makes that abundantly clear with all the insults and shit).

Tommy hates this guy.

He decided that quite a while ago, actually.

But…

Even so…

It’s been a bit… nice for Tommy to have Wilbur following him around the bookstore.

The guy tells him stories about literally anything that comes to his mind, from the long grocery list of reasons he hates anteaters to the annoyances he has at his own job (those are the ones that make Tommy double over laughing), to stuff much more… humble. Things about his brother and his father, about the songs he’s writing, about the places he’s been and places he plans on going to.

One of the main things Wilbur enjoys going on tangents about is the “many places he wants to go” as soon as he can escape Manberg (he has made it apparent just how much he hates this city. Tommy agrees with him wholeheartedly).

It’s almost comforting in a kind of strange way to have someone talking to him while he’s working. A gentle reminder that he isn’t alone (even though he knows he is).

Even if he does hate the guy, his voice is nice to listen to.

He wonders sometimes (never out loud) what it would be like to hear Wilbur sing.

Despite coming to the bookstore nearly everyday, Wilbur doesn’t really come to the café in the evenings like he routinely does with the bookstore, but when he does happen to visit, it’s a very “out of the blue” experience.

Tommy’s just decided to grit his teeth and deal with it in the mornings.

(It’s not as annoying as he wishes he could admit, obviously).

When the front door to the store jingles around nine am, Tommy peeks out from behind a bookshelf, groaning when he sees the familiar mop of brown curls bouncing through the door.

It’s a little different this time, though.

This time, there’s another person with him — someone that is actually a bit taller than the guy (how that's even physically possible, Tommy could never know).

The new guy has pink hair pulled back into a long ponytail and a pair of rectangular glasses perched on his nose.

Unlike Wilbur, this person’s clothing is a bit more… casual.

If you could call it that.

While Wilbur’s the fuckin’ weirdo with his big poet like sleeved shirts, the new person’s are more pirate-esque. The pair look like a strange pirate(?) and bard duo you’d see on someone’s D&D board.

Not that a pirate is a kind of character you could have in D&D.

“Tommy!” Wilbur calls enthusiastically, grinning at where he sees Tommy peering around the bookshelf, waving a little so that the small circlet of gold on his wrist flashes in the sunlight peering in through the overheard windows.

“Wilbur,” Tommy grumbles, coming out from behind the bookshelf and eyeing the man’s friend that is now staring at him as if he were a ghost, “Who’s this bitch?”

“This is my brother!” Wilbur beams as he motions to the man, who still is staring right through Tommy. “He’s the one that’s really into Greek mythology and all that.”

“I can recall,” Tommy grimaces.

He really doesn’t like how tall this guy is, or the fact that he’s looking at him like that.

Wilbur nudges his brother, “His name’s Techno. He doesn’t talk much.”

Despite himself, Tommy snorts, “Techno? That’s a weird fucking name.”

The man finally moves - shifting uncomfortably, if you could call that moving - and blinks at Tommy. Wilbur, however, chuckles a bit at Tommy’s comment, nudging his brother again with his elbow.

“Hullo,” Techno says, then is silent for a second before continuing, “Do uh, do you have any… book recommendations?”

“I don’t read.”

“Oh.”

This is… incredibly awkward.

“Well, Toms, I would like a new book, if you could help me out?” Wilbur smiles a bit nervously, obviously a bit uncomfortable with the tense vibe. If the guy can even get uncomfortable.

“Sure,” Tommy motions with his head towards a different array of bookshelves, “Uhm… what is it you’re looking for exactly?”

“A new magazine maybe- or, or, even better, the full picture detailed book of Hamilton the musical—”

“Where do you keep your books on war?” Techno interrupts.

What an odd question.

Tommy frowns at him.

“Uh… over in the history section, I guess?” he motions with his hand to another section of bookshelves, “It depends on what kind of war you’re looking for.”

“Which is your favourite?”

Tommy frowns. It was a good question, honestly. While he didn’t read, he did listen to some Audiobooks.

“Uhm… maybe the early ages of the L’Manberg war, or even the War of the Realms? I think those two are pretty interesting,” Tommy shrugs.

Techno nods accordingly. He looks pretty pleased with Tommy’s answers, but more so looks completely focused on just getting out of there as quickly as possible.

Tommy doesn’t blame him.

If he had a brother like Wilbur, he would want to leave as quickly as possible, too.

“Sorry about him,” Wilbur pats Tommy’s shoulder sympathetically, watching Techno quickly walk in the opposite direction, “He hates socializing.”

“No fucking shit,” Tommy turns back to the bookshelves, pulls the silver stepladder down the shelves, “Why did he come with you if he hates talking to people so much?”

Wilbur pauses for a moment.

“He was worried about me,” he admits, and the answer is almost sheepish.

Tommy actually laughs at that.

“Worried? About you? You’re like, six foot four and could probably kill a man,” he glances over his shoulder, grimacing suddenly, “That isn’t a compliment, by the way, so don’t take it as one. I could still take you in a fight so don’t- don’t get any ideas.”

Wilbur grins strangely at him all the same.

Weirdo.

“I’m six foot five, by the way,” he corrects as Tommy scales the ladder, looking over the magazine titles.

“Sounds like you’re just in denial,” Tommy hums, smiling to himself as he sees the perfect magazine title. It’s just a bit out of reach, though.

“What? What do you mean, I’m ‘in denial’?” Wilbur splutters.

Tommy snorts as he leans forwards a little, holding onto the ladder and reaching for the magazine.

“I mean, you’re going through the five stages of grief, big man. The first stage is always denial, and it kinda seems that’s what it’s like when anyone brings up the topic of your height.”

“I’m not- I’m not fucking grieving!”

“If you say so,” Tommy hums sweetly, and the magazine is just a little bit in his reach—

“Tommy, be careful—”

His shoe slips, and he grabs the back of the magazine just as his hand that’s holding onto the ladder gives way, and he’s falling again.

He’s plummeting, and the feeling’s all too familiar.

…

.

.

He’s been here before, hasn’t he?

———

Fingertips reach for the edge of a building.

Pleas escape from his mouth.

.

.

.

But nobody came.

———

“… Tommy? Kid? Can you hear me?”

There’s someone unfamiliar talking to him.

No… wait.

He knows that voice.

“Holy fuck, Techno- Techno, I thought- fucking hell,” a different voice says, sounding out of breath and extremely worried.

Tommy definitely knows that voice.

“Wil?” Tommy grumbles, opening his eyes blearily.

He doesn’t even remember closing them in the first place.

He can feel something warm pressed against his right ear and a… heartbeat?

How bright it is in the store is another thing Tommy notices.

He can see the bookshelves towering over him, the small dust particles floating through the air against the sunlight shining in through the windows high above his head.

And then he can see a face peering down at him.

“Holy shit, Tommy,” Wilbur breathes, gazing down at him, eyes wide with worry in a way that Tommy hadn’t seen before. “Are you alright?”

Tommy blinks, and then reality hits him.

He’s being held.

But not by Wilbur.

He glances upwards more and flinches when he sees Wilbur’s brother looking at him curiously, expression remaining strangely blank despite the weird look in his red eyes behind rectangular framed glasses.

(No, not red— they’re brown, but… something about them almost resembles a blood colour that makes Tommy incredibly uncomfortable).

Something glints in the light and Tommy’s eyes catch notice of a small green emerald dangling from one of the man’s ears. He hadn’t noticed it before - it was probably covered by the guy’s pink hair.

…What the hell?

Tommy wriggles in the man’s arms, immediately being placed down on his feet.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why- why were you holding me?” He accuses the man automatically, voice wavering, pointing at him. His back hurts again. Quite bad, actually. For fuck’s sake.

It was just starting to feel a bit better, too.

Techno raises an eyebrow, almost mockingly, “You’re the one who fell off the ladder, kid. I caught you.”

Oh.

“Okay, well, I would’ve been fine even if you hadn’t caught me,” Tommy glares at him, and the man scoffs a bit. “I’m TommyInnit, the truly incredible- uhm, fantastic and extremely elusive man that never dies or gets hurt.”

Nobody says anything for a second and Tommy gulps a bit, rubbing his neck anxiously, fingers dragging across the marking hidden beneath his collared shirt and sweater.

“How did you even get over here so quickly?” Tommy mutters.

“I ran,” Techno says simply. So blasé, as if the dude wasn’t halfway across the bookstore.

… Then again, Eldritch Wings isn’t exactly big in width, but rather in height. The place was probably four stories tall and the shape of a cylinder. Tommy always thought it was funny looking, much like a penis.

His eyes flick over to Wilbur, who is staring at him intensely, seemingly amused with Techno’s actions but too distracted with watching Tommy to question them.

“Tommy, are you sure you’re okay?” Wilbur asks suddenly, tone rather stressed, and he genuinely looks concerned. “It’s… I haven’t… did you pass out or something?”

That doesn’t make Tommy feel appreciated. Not at all.

“No, Wil, I’m dying,” Tommy deadpans. Wilbur’s eyes widen for a second until Tommy quickly adds, “I’m joking, holy shit. I’m fine, man. I don’t think I passed out, just slipped. I’m accident prone, as my good pal Tubbo frequently reminds me.”

He takes a breath then adds, with a frown, “Quit bein’ such a fuckin’ mother hen.”

Wilbur wilts a little, but seems relieved all the same.

“Well… if you’re sure.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, then glances down at his hands with a frown, remembering the reason he’d fallen in the first place,“Wait, where’s the magazine I got you?”

“You mean this one?” Techno holds the magazine up, frowning at it a bit, and then snorts when he reads the cover, “The Look into an Anteater’s Life, huh? It’s a NatGeo Wild magazine, too. Wilbur, this must be yours.”

Wilbur’s face falls and his head snaps in Tommy’s direction, eyes narrowing.

“You- fucking-” the man stalks over and ruffles Tommy’s hair angrily, as if he’s trying to mess with it, and the boy squawks, shoving him off.

“Don’t mess with my hair, you dick! I just got it redone!”

“I noticed, it looks nice now that it isn’t so pink—”

“Is that an indirect insult?” Techno frowns.

“Yep!” Wilbur grins, popping the ‘p’, before reaching out towards the magazine in his brother’s hands, “Now give me my magazine, you bitch.”

Techno holds the magazine out of reach, smirking a bit as he turns to Tommy,

“Tommy, you are my new favourite person because of this.” Techno decides, motioning with his head towards the magazine. Tommy raises his eyebrows.

“Really?” he asks, then blinks a bit, clearing his throat, “I mean— that doesn’t come as a shock to me. I’m everyone’s favourite person. It just comes with knowing me, of course.”

Techno’s nose shrivels and he tosses the magazine at his brother, nearly hitting Wilbur in the face, “Nevermind. I revoke what I said.”

“No, no no no, you can’t take it back now,” Tommy grins at him sharply.

“Too bad, I’m taking it back.”

———

Tommy sits down beside Karl in the break room, sighing and putting his forehead down onto the table. It had been a couple hours since he had fallen off the ladder and his back really hurt.

His ankle hurts, too.

That was probably a given, though, considering he spent most of the night before trying not to break up a fight he’d seen in the alleyway.

The amount of violence in his part of the district was honestly overwhelming at this point.

Maybe he should make that “hobby” of his less of a hobby and more of a… second job.

He’d hate to be back in the limelight, though.

Phil enters the break room and Tommy immediately straightens his back upon seeing him, raising an eyebrow.

The man’s blonde hair is pulled back into a simple, green ribboned ponytail. He looks purely content with everything, a small smile on his face when he glances at something Karl’s watching on his phone, before turning to Tommy. There’s a med kit in his right hand.

“Hey, mate,” he says kindly and Tommy startles at being addressed by his boss, who is literally never around. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess,” Tommy shrugs.

Phil frowns.

“Are you sure? I’d hate for you to get hurt while working on the job,” he says, taking a seat beside Tommy and clasping his hands together calmly, placing the medkit on the ground beside his chair.

Oh. So that’s why he’s worried.

Tommy should’ve expected that kinda thing at this point.

“I’m not gonna sue you if that’s what you’re wondering about, Mr. Phil,” Tommy mutters, leaning back in his chair and averting his eyes to the ground, “I don’t have the money for a lawyer and uh, I’m actually not hurt at all, so there’s no need for that med kit you brought in.”

Phil snorts.

It’s so random and the complete opposite of the reaction Tommy had been expecting that the boy looks up immediately, eyebrows raised.

“Did you call me Mr. Phil?” he asks, eyes crinkling in the corners when he smiles, head tilted. Tommy can see a tiny emerald dangling from his right ear. It looks… vaguely familiar.

But that’s not exactly what he should be focusing on right now.

“Yes? That’s your name?” he frowns.

“Yeah, I know, but—” Phil chuckles, putting his hand over his mouth, his eyes giving away his gleeful smile, “Nobody really calls me Mr. Phil. It’s usually just… Phil or Craft or something.”

“Your last name is Craft?” Tommy repeats, vaguely bewildered.

Karl giggles from across the table about something, but when Tommy glances at him, the man’s completely invested in his phone.

Huh.

Phil chuckles some more, “Yes, Tommy, my surname is Craft. You make me feel so old when you call me ‘Mr. Phil’, mate.”

The man sighs, adding whilst rubbing between his eyes, “I’m glad my sons aren’t around, they’d never let me live this down.”

Now this is news.

Probably even bigger news than Phil not wanting to be addressed formally.

“You have children?” Tommy gawks.

It’s hard to picture this guy having kids.

He’s definitely got that fatherly vibe and all (similar to Sam), but he’s also the one of the scariest normal dudes Tommy knows. It’s gotta be the carefree smile. Or maybe it’s that one time he saw the guy beat some random person’s ass into the ground for making fun of Karl.

Either way, the guy is kinda lowkey terrifying.

Not that Tommy’s scared of him. He isn’t scared of anything.

To his surprise, Phil laughs again. The guy laughs a lot.

“Yeah, I know, strange, isn't it?” Phil sighs a bit, leaning his chin on his hand and looking at Tommy carefully, something strange that Tommy can’t name reflected in his eyes. “They aren’t actually my children, before you ask. Not biologically, at least. I adopted my eldest when he was only a couple years of age, and then was gifted my second child from the gods.”

As if that makes any sense, Tommy wants to say, frowning. He probably shouldn’t ask anymore questions.

“Why would a god gift you a child?” he blurts out, then mentally kicking himself afterwards for asking such a question. He back tracks, “Oh, uh, sorry, Mr. Phil, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything—”

“No, no, you didn’t offend, don’t worry,” Phil smiles at him, and it’s genuine. “It’s a good question, really. I’m not exactly sure why She gifted me a child, but I am forever grateful.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. Phil doesn’t seem to give any inference that he’s going to give anymore information on the topic, so he changes it.

“I really don’t need that medkit, Mr.- uh- Phil, so don’t bother worrying about that or anything,” Tommy says, eyeing the kit on the ground again, then looking up at Phil, who just sighs. He looks fond, for some reason.

“If you say so, Tommy,” he hums, picking up the medkit and standing from the chair, dusting off the bottom of his workshirt, “Don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything, though, okay? I know I’m not around much, but I won’t bite or get angry at you if you knock on my office door.”

Tommy nods even as he mentally notes not to do that.

“Thanks, Phil.”

Phil smiles at him again kindly, giving him and Karl a nod before exiting the room, taking the med kit with him.

Tommy relaxes into his chair as soon as the man’s gone. Maybe he should take a quick nap before he has to leave for Nook’s.

Karl giggles from the other side of the table again. Tommy moves his head up at it, frowning at where Karl’s snickering behind his hand, staring at his phone.

He’s been doing that this entire time.

“What are you gigglechamping about over there, Karl Jacobs?” Tommy muses, eyeing the man. Then he adds jokingly, “It’s very- it’s very baby of you.”

Karl’s laughs only enunciate with Tommy’s choice of words.

“Just looking at this video circulating about one of the top ranking heroes,” Karl responds between giggles, putting his phone on the table and moving it forwards in Tommy’s direction.

Tommy frowns, picking up the phone and clenching his jaw.

The video’s of Hypnos, the third top ranked hero, collapsing in the middle of a battle (is that the Archangel he’s fighting…? No— focus on the heroes). The action is completely uncoordinated, and unexpected, as if it wasn’t something the hero had planned.

(Tommy can see how it’s entertaining to those who don’t know about the guy’s special enhancement).

Grimacing, Tommy goes to hand the phone back to Karl, when a familiar flick of green appears on the screen, an arm wrapping around Hypnos and a familiar shouting come from Arsonist.

The Dee Team, otherwise known as three of the best heroes that Manberg has ever had the luck of inhabiting behind its cracked walls that reach the clouds.

He should’ve expected that they would be all together in this video.

Tommy can feel his muscles tense up at the sights and sounds of yelling and (was that an explosion?), Arsonist shouting in Morpheus’ direction as he helps the man pick up Hypnos from the ground, whose head lolls off to the side.

Tommy can see Archangel floating off of the ground a little with his massive black wings, preparing to strike — and Tommy turns his head away.

“Hilarious,” he mutters distractedly to Karl, pushing the phone back in the man’s direction and getting up, “I’m gonna head off now. Be seeing you, big man.”

Karl watches him carefully, then shoots him a strange smile, but there’s something soft in his eyes, “Okie-doke. Bye bye, Tommy. Be careful out there, alright?”

His numerous watches and bangles make a ringing and clanging noise when he waves enthusiastically. Tommy normally would take a minute to look at the lights glinting off of the multiple coloured amounts of jewelry Karl wears but today he just leaves.

“I’m always careful.”

———

Sam isn’t a father.

At least, not biologically.

He’s always wanted a child, though, someone to care for and to raise alongside him, to teach his skills in baking to and watch grow up.

It had been a dream of his ever since he had seen all the children in Manberg (albeit there weren’t as many as there used to be) playing with their fathers on the playgrounds or coming into his bakery and asking for sweets.

Instead of getting a child, though, Sam adopted a puppy he’d seen in the window of a pet store down the street - ran by some demon hybrid named Bad, whom he had meant a couple times before and found extremely entertaining.

He had gotten Fran just in time, too. The pet store went out of business only a couple weeks afterwards and there became yet another empty store on the streets of Manberg.

When Tommy first stumbled into his bakery, form sagged and sweater much too big, eye bags too prominent, Sam wasn’t sure what to do.

He had never really taken care of a child besides the ones he’d babysat before as a kid himself.

When he hired Tommy, he knew the kid was lying when he said he was eighteen years old. It was obvious with the baby fat still in his cheeks, the braces on his teeth that looked as though they’d gone a long time since being tightened.

But it didn’t matter to Sam — the kid was clearly on his own and carrying a lot of baggage on his shoulders, secrets weighing him down so that he walked with a strange posture. He even looked small, even though Sam knew he was pretty tall for his age (whatever that age may be).

He never asked Tommy about it much. The kid was brash and easily irritated. He was the type to keep secrets to himself and not want any sort of sympathy, even though every ruffle of his hair or pat on the shoulder made Tommy practically melt.

It was concerning, the amount of times Tommy would come into work with fresh new bruises on his cheeks or his nose, or with the same outfit he had worn the day before. It was plainly obvious that Tommy didn’t have much money, nor did he have much help in the way of it.

Sam promised himself the day that he saw Tommy stagger into the bakery, looking as though he’d seen a ghost and with a new fresh wound hidden underneath his curls, that he would do anything for him.

He’d protect him.

Whatever the cost.

Chapter Text

Techno sits stiffly down in the living room, staring at the carpet, putting his hands together as he tries to collect his thoughts about what the hell just happened.

Wilbur stretches as he walks into the room after Techno, yawning greatly - the two had spent quite a while at the bookstore chatting with Tommy and seeing the kid just fall off of that ladder had sent them both into hyperdrive.

Techno’s twin slumps down onto the sofa beside him, leaning his head back against the arm rest and closing his eyes.

Techno, however, remains sitting stiffly.

The… the kid that he’d seen. Wilbur’s kid, apparently… was the same fucking one as he had taken a literal blood debt (more like oath) from as a supervillain. The same one who had stitched him up that night even though (technically) he would’ve been fine without it.

The same kid who admitted that he watches him fight, just for the hell of it. The one who literally said that he “did not give a shit” about heroes nor villains, that he just wanted to live his life or something.

Techno was… beyond bewildered.

“Hey man, y’alright?” Wilbur mutters, sounding groggy already, lifting his head up and pushing his curls out of his eyes to frown at his twin, who is staring intently at the carpeted flooring as though he might kill it.

“That was Tommy?” Techno asks, as if trying to decide if what he’d just gone through was reality or not. Then he emphasizes, “Your Tommy?”

Wilbur blinks a bit, frown deepening at his words.

“Yeah? Obviously? Tech, man, are you feeling okay?” then he sighs, leaning his head back again, “If you haven’t had any water yet today, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

Normally, Techno would’ve snorted at the thought of Wilbur thinking he could kick his ass, but…

That kid…

The one that had looked so tiny in the bookstore, so afraid and yet brash, with golden curls that so heavily resembled his own father’s…

Was that really the same one whom he’d gotten a rather hesitant blood debt from?

The one who wanted him to teach him how to sword fight for no apparent reason? Just for the hell of it?

(Techno worried about the underlying reasons that there could be for Tommy wanting to learn how to sword fight, then pushed it away. There was no reason for him to worry. There was a ton of Tommys out there… right? A ton of them that had the blonde curls like gold, a ton with the same splay of freckles, a ton with the same blue eyes).

(…Right?)

Realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and he turns his head in Wilbur’s direction, who is softly humming to himself. Carelessly.

“Hey, Wil?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that kid I told you about?”

Wilbur snorts, “The one who was so hesitant upon receiving a debt from the Blood God himself?”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Obviously. Why?”

Techno hums, feeling suddenly nervous.

“That, uh. That was Tommy.”

There’s a moment of silence.

…

“What????”

———

The alleyway is cold.

Tommy wraps himself up tighter in one of the sweaters he’s worn nearly everyday. It’s a crimson thing, a little lighter than the tips of his hair. Despite his height, it hangs loosely around him.

To make matters worse, it’s raining.

It had started to sprinkle before he even left the café, before turning into a full downpour by the time he’d finally gotten Sam to stop checking on me, man, I’m fine, it’s just a scratch, chill out.

He’s walked home in a rainstorm before.

He should be fine, really.

This is nothing.

————

It was, actually, something.

When Tommy gets home, he all but collapses onto the sofa, wrapped in the wet sweater and shivering, trying to take in as much warmth that the sofa can possess (which isn’t, unfortunately, much).

He doesn’t really have much energy left, honestly, but with what little he can muster, he pulls off the sticky wet sweater and tosses it across the room with a huff, sniffling a bit.

Stuffing his face into the cushion of the sofa (and trying to blatantly ignore the lingering scent of lemon and citrus from when Tubbo and Ranboo had helped him clean it), Tommy drifts off to sleep.

———

As per usual, Tommy… isn’t feeling too poggers.

(Not that he would ever admit that, of course.)

He woke up to his stomach hurting like he had just been punched, his head throbbing, and a stopped up nose.

(It felt like January 23rd all over again).

The medication that Sam had given him the day before for his head wound had worn off by now (after he had told the guy that he’d be taking a couple days off of work to “rest”, when in reality it was to prepare himself for his visitor).

Sam had gotten really worried after seeing the scratch underneath his curls, fussing over it with a wet washcloth and putting a small green coloured (like his hair, Tommy had realized) plaster over it, before patting Tommy’s shoulder with a gentle smile.

It was nice, being fussed over. Even if Tommy was a big man that could definitely take care of himself… he wasn’t exactly complaining about being cared for.

(If you could call what Sam had done… caring? Tommy didn’t know, really. Nobody had ever cared for him like that… well. Someone had, and he knew that they loved him once, but not anymore. It hurt his head to think about so he tossed it away).

Tommy decides to take his mind off of the throbbing in his head to pace anxiously around his flat, a hand coursing through his hair and another rubbing the back of his neck.

He’s layered himself in as much clothing as possible — two sweaters and a pair of pants much too big for him that he has to roll up over his battered red trainers. It’s really hot in his flat without any air conditioning, but he’s decided he would rather suffer than have any more questions directed his way from fucking Quackity.

(He didn’t feel hot, anyways. If he was being honest, he felt cold).

Not that he had a problem with the guy — it’s more the opposite. He wants to have a problem with him. It’s a bit hard to, though, with just how much of a lovable person he is (well, not exactly loveable — the word ‘love’ is pretty much foreign on Tommy’s tongue).

Tommy checks his phone; he’d gotten the heads up text from Charlie at like six this morning, reminding him that it had been three weeks since his rather eventful visit to Nook’s.

(It was another thing Tommy had documented mentally to ask Quackity about - how the fuck he knew what jobs Tommy had. It was stalkerish and honestly? Kinda weirdchamp of him).

Sighing, Tommy decides that he probably needs to calm down and perches atop the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone’s home screen so that he can be moving somehow without actually walking around.

His ankle still feels a bit off since falling off that ladder several hours ago. As if to make things worse, he had gone outside for once in his life just a couple days before now (not just to go to work, shockingly) and had nearly gotten into the middle of a fucking battle between two people he didn’t recognize.

Manberg was so overwhelming.

Out of all the places he had to be, why here? There was barely anywhere to hide away at, which was annoying as it was, and it seemed to be quite… overcrowded in terms of the fucking superheroes and supervillains crowd or whatever.

Tommy’s just glad that he only has to deal with one of those bastards for a couple days or so until the blood debt is gone.

Speaking of said blood debt… he hadn’t actually seen the Blade in a while.

Ever since he’d asked the Blade for the sword fighting lessons, the guy has practically gone MIA. Not that this was a bad thing, just kinda awkward when he thinks back to how sure he had been that the Blade was one of the few villains that was adamant about holding up his side of debts.

Oh, well. He didn’t really give a shit about sword fighting that much anyways (especially if it included training with one of the supervillains that were a part of the underground Syndicate. That was some cult shit he didn’t want to touch with a two meter stick, much less get involved with).

Tommy just sighs, shutting his phone off and rubbing a hand down his face, sniffling a bit. He couldn’t afford getting a head cold right now. Not with what was coming for him later that evening.

(He had so many things he needed to take care of and worry about, but today…)

At least all he has to worry about for today and the next is Quackity’s random and worried-induced inspection of his life in addition to the strange little “meetings” the two have every so often, accompanied by Charlie.

(Maybe he should include his current health situation in his current short list of things to worry about — aka hopefully not passing out right in front of Quackity).

Yep. He should be just fine.

So long as he doesn’t sneeze.

And then there’s a loud crashing noise and Tommy just about falls off of his countertop.

His luck really does suck ass.

———

Phil sits in his office, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the desk, scrolling through his phone.

It’s a nice day.

The door bursts open, both Techno and Wilbur walking in at once.

Nevermind.

“Phil, Phil,” Wilbur seethes, walking up to Phil’s desk and slamming his hands down on it. The man always has a flair for the dramatic. “Where is Tommy? Is he okay? Why hasn’t he come into work today? Is he sick?”

Phil blinks.

Oh hell. What did he do now?

“Why are you asking…?” he begins wearily.

Wilbur motions accusingly at Techno, looking like he might just pass out, “This fucker right here just laid on me the information that the child he took a fucking blood debt from is the same Tommy that I’ve been visiting!”

Oh. Well, that explains a lot.

“Really?” Phil muses, looking in Techno’s direction, who just nods, looking vaguely guilty of some heinous crime.

(Honestly, the guy’s a supervillain. If there’s anything he should feel guilty about, this isn’t it).

“Wilbur,” Phil reaches his hands out, eyebrows raised, intent on now trying to soothe his youngest son, “Chill out, mate. Tommy called me earlier to let me know he’d be taking today and tomorrow off. He didn’t give me any reasoning and I didn’t ask. He’s allowed to have two days off in the five months that he’s worked here.”

(Hell, Tommy’s granted a week off as holiday, he’s just never decided to take it).

“He’s worked here for five months?” Wilbur hisses, looking extremely perplexed.

“He hasn’t taken a day off for five months?” Techno wonders, tone teetering between impressed and concerned.

Oh, boy.

Phil’s dug himself quite a hole here.

Ever since Tommy had fallen off the ladder earlier that morning (or? passed out? it has never really been confirmed what had happened), it had become utterly apparent how much more protective Wilbur had become of the kid.

And now that Techno had realized this was the same child that had taken up a blood debt with him… all hell was gonna break loose. Phil could feel it. He could see it, actually, in both of his son’s eyes.

(It would, admittedly, be kinda funny to see how distressed Tommy would get when both the twins would come daily from here forth to bother him. Although, even he couldn’t hide the underlying excitement he had that he could actually talk to someone; now being able to talk to two people? Phil felt a bit fond at the thought of Tommy getting that excited).

“That’s- no, I mean, he only works a half shift in the mornings and then has weekends off, so he does get days off,” Phil backpedals, holding his hands up at the accusing looks from both of his sons, “What I was trying to imply is that he’s never asked for two days out of the work week off or anything. I think Karl’s even mentioned to me he came in with a head cold once.”

Wilbur frowns a bit at this news, even as his shoulders relax a bit. Techno, however, still seems a little between views.

“Well, maybe I should check on him,” Wilbur hums, glancing at Techno expectantly, who just raises an eyebrow. “If he’s not feeling well, I could bring him some soup…? He doesn’t eat enough, that much is apparent…”

Techno sighs, scratching the back of his neck a bit.

“I’ll check on him later tonight,” Techno states, giving Wilbur a look, the man’s face drooping a little that he won’t be the one that gets to do it, “I do have a blood debt to fulfill, after all.”

———

Tommy scrambles off the ground, wincing a bit at the ache in his body (it had been a while since he’d eaten anything - usually his food came from Sam, who practically forced it into him whenever he got to Nook’s, but since he was taking two days off, that meant a shortage in eating. Not that he wasn’t used to it).

He quickly maneuvers around the kitchen, frowning at the back window right beside his sofa and the glass that has now accumulated right under the feet of a rather recognizable villain.

“What the fuck?!” Tommy seethes, rushing over to stand in front of the villain and glance between the guy who’s plucking glass off of his suit and the now broken window, “What— what the fuck’s wrong with you? You— can't you just take the front door like a normal fucking person?”

Tommy motions wildly with his arms at the front door, and the Blade shrugs.

Tommy sniffles a bit, rubbing his nose with the sweater he’d pulled off the floor from earlier (the wet one from the night before remains crumbled up against the corner wall).

“There were people standing there already and I didn’t want them to get suspicious,” he says nonchalantly, then glances around the apartment, as if seeing it for the first time.

(Then again, he had seen it last time when it was pitch black with only the light on in the kitchen to serve as some sort of light source).

“Fucking— okay. Okay. Fine,” Tommy runs his hands down his face, trying to keep his cool despite the fact that he quite literally doesn’t have the money to fix the window (and that he can feel a sneeze coming on), “Look, alright, I don’t know what it is with you and coming at the stupidest times possible, but can’t you at least get a decent schedule? It’s like, six pm, bitch. Last time you came at four in the morning. Where’s the consistency?”

“You… do you want me to come at four in the morning?” The Blade asks, sounding vaguely confused,

“No, just— holy shit, you’re so weird,” Tommy runs his hands anxiously through his hair, and then freezes when he hears a knock at the front door.

Fuck.

Quackity’s here at the wrong fucking time.

As per usual, Tommy’s luck is just in the gutter at this point.

To make matters worse, Tommy sneezes.

Then on top of that, there’s a loud shing! sound and Tommy realizes with a start (and a poorly disguised flinch) that the Blade has literally unsheathed his sword.

(His super awesome, super shiny, but also super deadly sword made of obsidian. Tommy almost stops to admire the thing because it’s right there, right in front of him, but he forces himself back to reality).

“Woah, woah, woah,” Tommy holds his hands up, laughing nervously and backing a step away from the villain,“No need to get out your sword, big man. Chill out.”

“Chilling out” is probably what Tommy should be doing.

He is far from it, as per usual.

“Look, uh— you’ve gotta leave, alright? You’ve gotta get the fuck out and come back in like— I don’t know, a week or something—” Tommy begins to push against The Blade’s armour chest plate, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver the man back out the window. He sniffles a bit, taking his hand away to brush up against the bottom of his nose again, “Move, bitch!”

“Tommy,” the Blade puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, bending down so that Tommy’s basically peering into the empty eye sockets of the boar skull atop his head. His tone takes on something almost… scary. Like he’s ready to tear someone apart. That’s kinda awkward. “Are you in danger?”

Tommy glares at him, pushing his hands against the man’s armour with more force to try and mask the way they shake, “No, I’m not in fuckin’ danger, I’m just- I’m just busy right now, alright? Now get the fuck out!”

The Blade doesn’t seem to really believe him but relents, letting go of Tommy’s shoulders as there’s another knock at the door.

The villain pauses to stare at the door, looking all menacing as the sun sets behind him out the broken window, his shadow large against the carpeted flooring.

Fucking hell.

“Ignore it,” Tommy hisses at the man, pushing him towards the window again, going as far as to kneel down and use his back legs to push the villain (even though it doesn’t do much and he’s slowly feeling more and more lightheaded. He probably should’ve eaten something), “And when you come back, you’re helping me fix that fucking window.”

“Am I now?” The Blade says, sounding vaguely amused.

“Yes, you are, because you fucking broke it,” Tommy responds, letting go of the Blade as the man begins to maneuver out of the window.

The former’s breaths coming out heavy now as he leans heavily against the wall beside the window, glaring down the villain, “Now leave before I” - Tommy pauses to sneeze, then continues - “before I clart you.”

The Blade huffs, sounding vaguely amused again, “Alright, kid, I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

There’s another knock at the door and Tommy’s heart rate speeds up a tad. This guy really needs to get the fuck out faster.

“Get— hurry the fuck up!” Tommy hisses, and with a final push, The Blade is out of the window, dropping down onto the iron fire exit with a clang.

He glances up at Tommy, who flips him off. Even though he can’t see it, Tommy’s almost certain the man snorted at his action before disappearing off into the alleyway.

With a final glance to make sure the guy’s gone, Tommy rushes off in the direction of his front door, pulling it open just as Charlie is raising his hand in the air to knock again.

Frozen in place, Charlie beams, “Tommy Innit!”

Tommy, however, glares in the direction of the person standing next to Charlie. The man beside the hybrid wears a three piece expensive suit with little poker pieces for buttons, black hair stashed underneath a beanie that’s probably glued to his head.

Paired with the rest of the get-up is a giant grin that shows off his gold tooth.

“Tommyyyy!” Quackity begins, holding his bejeweled hands out, as if going in for a hug, “How’s my favourite customer doing?”

Tommy’s eyes narrow further and he grits out, “I’m fine.”

(He holds back another sneeze).

“Are you sure? Slime mentioned that you looked like you were in pain when he visited Nook’s,” Quackity hums, frowning a bit as he glances at Tommy’s sleeve. He looks strangely concerned, then shrugs, “You know, it’s alright to be hurting. It’s no biggie. I’ve got medication that you can have.”

“Big Q, I genuinely don’t think I can get any more of that shit from you,” Tommy grimaces, leaning against the front doorframe so Quackity can’t try to push past him into the flat. It would be incredibly awkward to explain the glass on the floor. “I’ve got no money as it is.”

“I know,” Quackity’s face softens a bit. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, kid.”

Tommy tilts his head so it also leans against the doorframe. He’s starting to feel a bit dizzier than he was before. Quackity needs to leave.

“I’m fine, asshole,” Tommy mutters, wrapping his sweater around himself a bit more to hide the way his arms shake. “Can you leave now? I’ve got some cleaning up to do and really don’t need you sniffing around my flat.”

Quackity watches him for a second, looking incredibly hesitant, but he sighs. He knows how futile it is to argue with Tommy: the kid’s the only person he can’t seem to win an argument with.

(Despite winning arguments literally being one of his enhancements, Tommy somehow is always resistant. The kid has a strange amount of determination. It’s incredibly annoying in some ways, but also… comforting).

“You need to take care of yourself more, Tomy,” Quackity says, crossing his arms, the jewels on his fingers glinting a bit in the few sun streaks peeking out from behind Tommy as the sun sets, “If you say you’re okay, I won’t bother you. But I still need to discuss something of… importance with you.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow.

“What’s so important that you came here all the way from the other side of Manberg?”

Quackity’s eyes glitter dangerously, and his smile only widens. He looks… terrifying despite being shorter than Tommy.

“You’ll see,” the man says ominously, reaching out to pat Tommy’s shoulder gently. The boy resists a flinch, and Quackity’s eyes soften a fraction. “When’s a good time for me to come back and collect you, so that we can discuss?”

“Collect me?” Tommy repeats, fingers digging into his own arms, crossed protectively over his chest, “What do you mean? I thought you were just gonna visit again. Like you normally do— which, by the way, kinda fuckin’ weirdchamp that you do that, pal.”

“What good’s a visit if I can’t take you to the place I’m so excited about?” Quackity hums, smiling a little. He blatantly ignores Tommy’s last comment, but that isn’t what makes this whole situation a bit… strange.

Next to Quackity, Charlie, who is normally an extremely chatty hybrid, has been strangely quiet this whole time. Out of everything, that’s what is making Tommy uncomfortable.

(To be fair, the guy’s usually a good “comedy relief” type to have around Quackity — cracking strange puns about random things Big Q will say, earning chuckles from Tommy and eye rolls from his boss).

But today he’s silent.

Tommy clenches his jaw.

“Alright, Q,” he mumbles, relieved that the man’s finally leaving without much of an argument (even if that in itself is a red flag), “Uhm…”

Tommy scratches the back of his neck, shifting on his feet, eyes flitting back and forth between hybrid and human (?).

“You can… collect me this weekend, I guess? I… have to get back to work tomorrow anyways, so… it’d be great if you get me when I have time off or something.”

Quackity nods, humming.

“I understand, I understand,” he sounds a little forlorn, however, about the event being rescheduled. It is a bit obnoxious traveling halfway across Manberg for nothing.

(Tommy wonders why the guy hadn’t just called him on his cell - before remembering that Quackity preferred setting up his meetings in person, whether that included sending his slime hybrid or himself).

(Quackity was eccentric, but Tommy had to give the guy credit. He had been one of the few to save him from dying, after all).

After exchanging goodbyes and shutting the door, Tommy rounds back into his flat and stumbles over to the kitchen counter, grabbing onto it with a white-knuckled grip.

He feels… incredibly nauseated.

His head hasn’t stopped throbbing and he can feel another sneeze coming on that he doesn’t even try to mask.

…..

A quick nap wouldn’t hurt, right?

He’s out before he can even think twice.

———

“So, brother dearest,” Wilbur claps his hands together, coming down the hallway with an excited glimmer in his eye. He had shown up the second Techno had walked inside the penthouse without even a second thought. “How was the little gremlin child doing? Is he feeling well? Do I need to come over there and make sure he’s—”

Wilbur pauses at the weird look on Techno’s face once the man removes his skull mask and crown.

“What’s that look for?”

Techno’s quiet for a second, then hums, “I think Tommy’s sick.”

Wilbur blinks, and then— “Well why the hell didn’t you call me, you idiot?! I would’ve been over there in like five minutes with some soup or something- I don’t actually even know where Tommy lives, now that I’m thinking about it—”

“Wil,” Techno interrupts, tone taking on something serious so that Wilbur actually pauses.

Then, Techno has one of those moments where he debates with his own head. (Or the voices in it, if you will).

On one hand, he wants to tell Wilbur about the unexpected visitor Tommy had, but on the other hand, that would only invoke a worse (and more protective) action from the guy who’s practically already adopted Tommy as his younger brother.

Techno distantly remembers something Wilbur had said to him during a fight a couple months ago, when he’d been near death and Wilbur had done everything in his last bit of energy to save him: “I’d bleed myself dry for family.”

While Techno would make fun of him for his theatre kid-esque lingo now, at the time it had been a bit endearing (and slightly terrifying because that was probably gonna come true if Phil had not come along and invoked death upon their enemies).

So, with an exhale, Techno glances at the kitchen, where undoubtedly Phil is making dinner.

“We should talk to Phil about this before anything,” he mutters, and Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow a bit. He looks like he wants to disagree, but he doesn’t get the chance to when Phil peeks his head around the wall.

“Did you say my name, mate?” he asks, smiling in Techno’s direction. He’s holding a bowl of something. “Good to see you’re back, Techno, how was training with Tommy?”

“That’s what I was gonna ask you about,” Techno hums, glancing warningly at Wilbur, who had opened his mouth to interject. “Uhm… when I went there the kid… didn’t look to great. He was pale and sneezing and stuff.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, then glances at Wilbur, before sighing, as though he already knows where this is going.

“Before you just burst into his house, Wil,” he narrows his eyes sternly in the man’s direction who appears to sink in on himself in a pout, “I think you should give him a call, if you have his number. See if he’d want to hang out or something. If you just randomly showed up on his doorstep, he’d probably get suspicious.”

Then Phil adds, “Plus, you’d just scare the poor thing off.”

Techno looks at Wilbur expectantly, who just sighs.

“Alright, alright,” the man pulls his phone out, scrolling through his contacts, then adding when seeing Techno’s frown, “I got his number from his friend, Tubbo, before you ask. Fucking gremlin wouldn’t give it to me himself.”

Of course he did.

Wilbur holds the phone up to his ear, frowning a bit when it goes straight to voicemail.

“He does have a phone, right?” he asks, glancing at Techno, who is feeling as though he just might have to spill the beans about the situation he’d walked in on.

“Maybe it’s dead…?” Techno supplies.

He hates being in these situations.

Wilbur, who is always pretty damn good at catching lies (especially coming from Techno), narrows his eyes at him.

“Tech, is there anything you may be forgetting to tell me about?”

Ah, hell.

He really hates peer pressure situations and the look that Wilbur’s giving him right now?

Uncomfortable.

Techno decides he has no choice.

Sorry, Tommy.

Chapter Text

Tommy is incredibly cold.

His bones feel like lead and his head won’t move from off the ground.

His eyes feel like they’re stuck closed permanently, so he just lets himself lay wherever he is, shivering a bit.

The feeling passes, after what feels like hours, and he can distantly hear a banging on the door, someone speaking, and then he flinches a little when the door bursts open.

He doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes but he can feel someone walking in and he can feel their eyes on him.

Tommy’s face scrunches up a bit uncomfortably and he sniffles. He can hear someone making soft noises at him, trying desperately to be comforting, but he can’t seem to find the energy to reply.

Then, there’s warmth, and it’s all so overwhelming and nice that Tommy lets himself drift off to sleep again.

(Maybe if he’s quiet, they won’t hurt him.)

———

“This is where Tommy lives?” Wilbur says the second they exit Techno’s definitely very expensive and sleek sports car, and the man’s nose wrinkles at the sight of the worn down four story apartment complex in front of him.

“Don’t look so surprised, Wil,” Techno nudges him lightly. “He barely makes any money with the two minimum wage jobs he has. Did you expect a castle or something?”

“No, obviously not, but I definitely didn’t expect…” Wilbur trails off, grimacing at one of the neighbors who had walked out of their house, slamming the door shut so loudly it echoes against the cold and empty walls. “…This.”

Techno shrugs a bit, jostling the heavy black coat he’s got draped around himself (“mostly to look cool”, Wilbur had said with narrowed eyes— the two knew full well that Techno never really got cold, even if it was nearing winter).

“We should hurry,” Techno mutters absentmindedly, taking a glance at his phone which reads one am. “Last time I came here at four in the morning, Tommy was mad at me for waking him up.”

Wilbur huffs a bit, walking past Techno with quick-paced strides, his curls ruffled with anxiety. The whole way here, they had been trying to call Tommy, but it kept going to voicemail. Wilbur even tried to text Tubbo to make him call Tommy, but the kid had said that Tommy was probably just moping around or something and forgot to charge his phone.

With that, Wilbur had piled himself into Techno’s super fast sports car (claiming it was quicker than his own), and then Techno had decided to come along too, because he’d rather die than let Wilbur drive like a maniac in his car.

So here they are now, standing outside of Tommy’s apartment, Wilbur nervously knocking on the door and sending death glares back and forth down the hallways, as if daring anyone to ask what he’s doing.

When Wilbur knocks for the third time and nobody answers, he glancing worriedly at Techno with his eyebrows raised a little. He’s got that look to him that screams if he doesn’t open the door right now, I’m going to break his front door.

“Do you think he’s home…?” Wilbur wonders, and Techno huffs.

“Wil, must I remind you that it’s one in the morning?”

Wilbur bites his lower lip and nods, turning to the door and knocking again, this time a lot harder and impatiently.

He pauses and waits.

…

But nobody comes.

Wilbur looks at Techno, “…Do you reckon we should come back later?”

Techno goes to respond when there’s a soft mumbling from the other side of the door.

Wilbur’s expression hardens.

“Change of plans, kick the fucking door down.”

Techno doesn’t have to be asked twice.

Wilbur moves out of his way, watching patiently as Techno moves a little backwards and then rushes forwards, pivoting his shoulder and most of his body weight against the door.

As he expected, the door pops right open, a loud noise echoing through their ears as it does, as if the wood had crumbled underneath Techno’s weight.

Wilbur shoots a glare at him.

“I’ll, uh, fix it later. Along with the window,” Techno reassures awkwardly.

Before Wilbur can quip, the man catches something right over Techno’s shoulder and his eyes widen.

“…Tommy?” Wilbur whispers, pushing past Techno to kneel down beside the boy that’s crumpled on the floor, curled up in a ball, looking smaller than he should. “Tommy, Toms, can you hear me?”

Tommy mutters something under his breath but it’s incoherent. Even so, Wilbur lets out a shaky breath of relief, moving the boy’s bangs out of his eyes delicately.

His hand recoils, though, and he shoots Techno a worried look.

“He- he’s burning up,” Wilbur whispers, fingers gliding across Tommy’s forehead again worriedly. He adds in a bit of an accusing tone, “And he’s got a plaster here… did you notice that earlier?”

“No, Wil, I didn’t touch or look at his forehead earlier,” Techno responds gruffly, sounding strangely frustrated.

Wilbur huffs, moving Tommy’s bangs out of his eyes again and muttering, “We- we can’t just leave him here like this…”

Techno doesn’t respond.

“Tech— he needs to see a doctor, uhm…” Wilbur trails off, clearly not knowing what to do. He looks up at Techno again, eyes full of remorse.

“Let’s just take him to Phil,” Techno responds eventually, averting his eyes. “We can go from there.”

Wilbur lets out a soft exhale before slowly picking the boy up bridal style, his worried expression being replaced with something softer when Tommy’s head lolls to the side into his chest. He resumes his curled up position, face scrunched up as though he’s having a bad dream.

“… hurts…” Tommy murmurs, and his voice is so quiet that only Wilbur hears it.

“It’s alright, Toms,” Wilbur mutters, jostling the boy so he’s got a tighter grip on him, wishing that he could say something more to help him calm down, “You’re alright. I’ve got you now.”

———

For once, Tommy is not cold when he sleeps.

Everything feels warm, as though he’s wrapped in a fluffy, weighted blanket.

He can feel something, like wind, brushing feather light against his bangs, and he curls up tighter into the warmth, afraid that if he lets go that it might leave.

Maybe just this once, he’ll let himself have this.

Just this once.

And Tommy drifts off again, feeling distinctly calmer than he was before.

———

“… he going to be okay?”

Tommy frowns in his sleep.

“… think so… lots of bruises on his arms…”

What?

“Who do you think hurt him?”

Tommy opens his eyes, trying to blearily gaze around wherever the fuck it is he’s at.

He feels like he’s in a dream almost with how blurry everything is and how the edges of his eyes glisten with… tears, or something like it.

He blinks a bit.

“I’m not sure, but Wil, please don’t do anything rash…” a person is talking, but they sound so… distant? And yet so close by? It’s confusing. Tommy doesn’t like it.

Maybe if he just closes his eyes again, he will wake up and be back in his flat, curled up on the sofa (?)… no, he… did he fall asleep on the kitchen floor again?

No… how else would he be so warm?

It didn’t make sense.

What also doesn’t make sense is how incredibly groggy Tommy feels — it’s as if someone had taken all of his energy out of him with some kinda… fuckin’… energy killer or something.

(Distantly, he wishes someone were here, before completely erasing that thought from his head. He doesn’t need anyone. He is perfectly fine taking care of himself, just as he always has).

Tommy blinks again, trying to gain more focus on where it is he could be (a dream, for sure), but decides to just give in to the sleepiness weighing him down like a bunch of bricks.

He lets his eyes slip close…

And then there’s a door creaking open and the sound is so jarring and real that Tommy’s eyes fly open again and he even sits up bolt right. He regrets that decision immediately, his head spinning and his arms shaking as though he’d tried to do pull-ups or something, and he feels cold again.

“Tommy?” a familiar voice says, tone dripping with concern and relief. Tommy cant see them though, even though he wishes he could as something warm takes his face in their hands, and his eyes meet brown ones and—

It clicks.

“Wi’bur?” Tommy mutters groggily, hating how hoarse his voice sounds when it comes out.

The brown eyes in front of him soften and fill with relief and he’s being pulled into something warm and solid, arms wrapping tightly around him (but not too tight to make him feel as though he’s being suffocated).

“Oh fucking hell,” Wilbur whispers into his ear, leaning his cheek into Tommy’s curls as the boy relaxes into his chest, “I thought— fucking hell, Tommy, what the fuck have you been doing to yourself?”

Tommy frowns. His head’s all foggy n’ shit.

“Where…?” Tommy leans out of Wilbur’s arms, slowly trying to drain the grogginess out of his head, pushing against the man’s chest, who easily (but reluctantly) lets go of him, “Where the fuck…?? Who…? Where am I?”

Wilbur sits on the edge of the bed, looking Tommy over carefully, and there’s that weird fucking concern again. If this is a dream, maybe Tommy can make some weird ugly monster come into the room and chuck Wilbur into the wall. That’d be kinda funny.

“You’re in, uhm… my house, Tommy,” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy lets out a laugh— which is more like a cough, actually.

“Why am I dreaming… house?” Tommy murmurs, unable to piece together a full sentence. His head’s spinning again… he really shouldn’t have sat up so quickly. He squints at Wilbur. “You… you’re balding, big man…”

Wilbur blinks, and then the man’s face contorts.

“Must you be a fucking immature little gremlin constantly?” The man cries, putting his face into his hands as Tommy snorts (before the action makes him sneeze), and Wilbur looks back at him again. He looks stuck between too emotions, his expression… is strange. It’s kinda funny. “You should lay back down, Tommy. It’s just prolonging your illness if you stay awake.”

“No, you cant fuckin’— can’t fuckin’ tell me what to do,” Tommy grumbles, shoving at Wilbur’s hand that had appeared to push him back into a sleeping position, “Im a— a big fuckin’ man, bitch, I can do what I want. And I’m not fuckin’ ill, you’re ill.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, “Toms, if you want to feel better, then you’re gonna need some rest—”

“No, fuck you.”

“Alright, you know what? Fine. Don’t get rest. Suffer for all that I care.”

Tommy’s face droops.

He doesn’t mean that, right?

Wilbur averts his eyes immediately, “Don’t give me that look. Stop it. Fuck off.”

“But Willlll,” Tommy whines, “You were- you bullied me, you were so mean—”

Before Wilbur can respond, the door creaks open again, and Tommy flinches so hard he nearly hits the back of the bed’s headrest.

“Calm down, Tommy, it’s just me,” a monotoned voice reassures, and Tommy blinks through the fogginess of his eyes to register the very tall pink haired man walking through the door, closely accompanied by… wait. Is that fucking…

“Phil?” Tommy murmurs. Now he knows this is a dream. There’s no way in hell that Phil would be in the same fucking house as these two mofos.

“Hey, mate,” Phil says gently, shutting the door behind him as he walks in. He’s carrying a strange bottle in his hand.

It looks vaguely familiar…

Tommy blinks and in one moment and the next, there’s gentle fingers brushing the bangs out of his face and there’s those worried brown eyes again.

“Tommy, you alright, bud?” Wilbur asks softly, and Tommy smiles at him, trying to be reassuring but it’s incredibly hard to when you feel like you’ve got one foot in the fuckin’ grave.

(Not that Tommy does, of course. He doesn’t die. He’s too cool for that).

“I am in tip top shape, Wilby,” he responds, patting the man’s face harshly, as if trying to slap him but being a bit too weak for it.

He drops his hand, frowning when he can hear Techno snorting to his right and someone chuckling that sounds distinctly like Phil.

The hell’s so funny?

He glances at Wilbur and—

The guy has completely frozen in place, his fingers poised right above Tommy’s eyebrow, eyes wide and unblinking. Tommy nearly laughs at the thought of the guy looking like someone on a Netflix movie that’s been paused in the middle of a conversation — he hasn’t moved a single inch.

This is a weird fucking dream, Tommy decides.

He turns to Techno, who is sitting right beside him on the bed, leaning against the headrest and watching the scene with a shit eating look in his blood red eyes… no, no, they’re brown, just like Wilbur’s. Not red. Fucking dream brain. (Although red eyes? Incredibly pogchamp).

“Techno,” Tommy says.

Techno looks at him now at being addressed, “Hey, kid.”

Tommy giggles a bit at the look on Techno’s face, “Hi, king.”

Techno raises an eyebrow, an even stranger look crossing his face.

“Uh… hi, Tommy?”

“Hehe… hi, king.”

Techno blinks, glancing from Tommy to the other two in the room, a genuine look of bewilderment on his face.

Wilbur, who has finally broken himself out of a bit of an error 404 moment, lets out a string of snickers.

Tommy doesn’t really know what’s so funny.

“Alright, mate,” Phil interrupts, and Tommy looks in the man’s general direction, blinking the haze out of his eyes again so that he can get a good look at the old man, who is dressed so… casually. It’s hilarious, actually. Tommy hopes that when he wakes up, he can remember Phil being dressed in a black and emerald coloured robe so he can make fun of him. “I’m gonna give you some medicine, alright?”

What?

Wait, wait, no, backtrack.

Fuck that.

“Fuck that,” Tommy announces, shooting Phil a death glare and then sneezing, “You’re not— you’re— that— no. This is my fuckin’ dream and I- I’m not taking any of that vile fucking shit.”

Phil raises an eyebrow curiously, casting a look in Wilbur’s direction, who has a hand over his mouth, as though trying to conceal another laugh. Serves him right, too. Tommy would probably kill anyone who dared to laugh at him.

Probably.

“Tommy, mate, you need medicine so you feel better,” Phil says eventually, taking a step towards the bed. Tommy glares at him.

“I feel just fine, Mr.— Mr. Phil,” Tommy sneezes again (at the perfect time, too, as both Techno and Wilbur have snorted at his choice of names for Phil), “I am— I’m in my prime.”

Tommy emphasizes the word prime with a deepening of his voice. Bad idea. He starts coughing again.

Fuck this dumb dream and it’s ability to let him cough in front of these three idiots. Even in a dreamlike state, he must retain his reputation.

“Sure, mate,” Phil smiles at him and it’s so kind and warming that Tommy feels a wave of emotions crash over him. He doesn’t feel so cold anymore. “But just for, you know, in case purposes, could you please take this medication?”

Tommy considers it.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he decides.

Phil sighs, “Okay… guess you won’t get to watch Netflix then.”

…

Now just wait a damn minute.

“Phil, Phil,” Tommy splutters, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands tiredly so he can glare at Phil, “I- king, king, are you gaslight girl boss gatekeeping me right now?”

Phil blinks.

“Am I what?” the man says, sounding thoroughly confused as Wilbur lets out a string of barking laughs.

Tommy decides to ignore him, as per usual.

“You’re gaslighting me right now and- and I’m not falling for it,” he declares. He’s so cool.

“Tommy, I’m not gaslighting you,” Phil says. He sounds incredibly tired. Tommy knows how he feels.

Maybe.

“Look, mate, if you don’t drink the medicine, no Netflix or ice cream for you.”

…

Touché.

Tommy has decided that Phil wins this one.

But only because he’s so cool.

“Give me the fucking medicine, old man.”

———

Wilbur sits in the chair he’s dragged over from the next room beside Tommy’s bed, his head perched up on his crossed arms and hair covering his eyes as he snores softly.

Tommy’s curled up right beside him on the bed, one of his hands reaching out towards Wilbur, but not by a lot.

Techno stands in the doorway, eyeing Phil who is looking at the scene fondly.

“He’s never gonna let that go, is he?” Phil wonders aloud, undoubtedly thinking of the absolutely hilarious nickname that a half-awake Tommy had called Wilbur.

“Nope, and neither am I,” Techno responds.

Phil just snorts a little, walking out of the doorway, carrying the now empty bottle that he’d brought in. Techno follows, closing the door softly behind him so that the only noise it makes is a tiny click.

Phil’s facial expression changes a bit, shifting to something a bit more worried.

“Techno…” he begins, frowning a bit. “I… do you think that someone could be… could have been hurting him back at home?”

Techno sighs.

He had thought about this already when they’d first brought Tommy home and pulled off two of the layers of sweaters he had on (leaving simply the normal iconic baseball T-shirt underneath). There were a ton of bruises on his arms and plasters wrapping around his wrists… there were even some wrapped around his neck.

The kid looked like he had been through a car accident (or three).

It was… horrifying, honestly.

Wilbur was the most terrified with the discovery — he’s refused to leave Tommy’s side ever since, saying that it made much more sense why the kid wore heavy sweaters even in the summertime and how everytime Wilbur would touch his arm or punch him playfully, Tommy would flinch or recoil.

(The expression on Wilbur’s face was a storm of rage and mourning — he looked like a father who had just lost his son and was now preparing to go on a murderous rampage. It was a bit hilarious how dramatic he was being, but Techno found it hard to disagree with the emotions).

“I don’t know,” Techno admits, scratching the back of his neck, finger tugging at his emerald earring, a nervous habit he had (or tic, as Wilbur had called it once). “I think that he… may be hiding something about… his past but it’s really none of our business.”

Phil gives a sad smile.

“You’re right, it’s not,” he says, even though his tone of voice begs to differ. “We have no choice but to wait out what happens. We can’t force any answers out of him, obviously…”

Techno exhales a bit.

“When he wakes up, though…?”

Phil’s expression darkens a tad.

Obviously, Tommy had no clue about the three being family (supposedly), much less them being legitimate supervillains.

“I don’t think we should tell him that yet,” Phil murmurs.

Techno agrees silently.

Hopefully one day.

———

“You’re being a bitch,” Tommy grumbles sleepily, smacking Wilbur’s hand away from his forehead halfheartedly, turning his head so that he can properly bury his face into the feather pillow.

Wilbur groans in frustration, running his free hand down his face, his right one (holding a wet washcloth over Tommy’s head) still poised in the air.

“Tommy, you’ve got a fucking fever. I’m trying to help you,” Wilbur seethes, touching the boy’s shoulder lightly, grimacing when the kid moves his head a fraction to literally hiss at him.

“This- this is a terrible fucking dream,” Tommy grumbles, turning his head to bury it further into his pillow, as if trying to burrow into it like a fucking raccoon. “Horrible.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes.

“You’re not dreaming, Toms.”

“Mmm, yes, I am,” Tommy hums, moving his face to give Wilbur a prideful expression, “And- and, if I wanted, I could totally pick you up and throw you through that fucking wall.”

Wilbur raises his eyebrow boredly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, yes. I could,” Tommy sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Wilbur snorts.

“Do it then,” he challenges, crossing his arms.

Tommy blinks at him a little, his blue eyes still
a bit foggy with sleep, then turns away from Wilbur so his back is to him, huffing as he readjusts himself, “No, hmm, I don’t think I will. See, I’ve decided I’m not gonna just to- just to spite you.”

“Of course you are.”

“I am! I am! Don’t take that fucking patronizing tone with me, bitch!” Tommy shrieks… before coughing a bit, curling into himself, like he’s trying to become as small as possible.

Wilbur softens a little.

“Maybe you should go to sleep, Tommy,” he suggests gently.

“Maybe you should be less uglier, Wilbur,” Tommy mocks.

Wilbur should’ve expected that one, honestly.

“Fucking—” Wilbur exhales. He feels like screaming. Out of all the kids that he decided to get attached to, why did it have to be this fucking gremlin?

“You’re an asshole and I hate you,” Wilbur decides.

Tommy gasps, turning his head so he’s looking over his shoulder at Wilbur, “You- you don’t mean that.”

Wilbur narrows his eyes at him.

Tommy’s face morphs into something akin to… puppy dog eyes?

He looks… exactly like a golden retriever puppy.

Or maybe a baby raccoon?

…

It’s strangely endearing.

And irritating.

Wilbur averts his eyes angrily.

“Don’t look at me like that, you stupid child.”

“I’m not a child,” Tommy grumbles.

“Oh really? And I’m not six foot five.”

Tommy hums, shifting a bit again.

“I’ve decided I’m going to sleep and- and that I’m gonna wake up now so I don’t have to hear your stupid voice anymore,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!” Tommy huffs, pulling the covers over his head so that only a few blonde curls poke out, “‘Night, king.”

Wilbur smiles a little, leaning his chin into his palm, watching the boy fully relax.

“Night, Tommy.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur looks uncomfortable as he holds Tommy in his arms in the back seat of Phil’s car, the kid out like a light with his blonde curls smushed up against Wilbur’s shoulder.

(Techno had snapped a photo earlier when Wilbur had first scooped Tommy up because the kid had literally drooled on Wilbur’s favourite jumper and the guy couldn’t have cared less).

(“Attached,” Techno had whispered to Phil while showing him the photo, earning a sharp kick to his ankle from Wilbur).

Even now in the back seat, Wilbur hasn’t let go of Tommy even though Phil’s already told him countless times that he is not adopting a fucking eighteen year old.

(Even though he was starting to doubt more and more by the day that Tommy was actually eighteen, that didn’t change what he knew… for now. Also, he’s fucking exhausted. Two kids is enough to deal with).

Wilbur keeps proving that he won’t let the idea go, though.

He really wants a younger brother.

Too bad for him.

Phil’s too tired for this shit.

“Do we really have to take him back to that… place?” Wilbur whines, wincing at the mere thought of Tommy’s so-called apartment and Phil rolls his eyes.

(Phil clearly hasn’t seen the inside of that hellhole, Wilbur thinks bitterly).

“We couldn’t have just let him stay in our secret base, mate,” Phil responds, a little exasperated but understanding.

If it weren’t so dangerous to have (what he assumes to be) a literal adult in their villain hideout, then he would’ve reconsidered letting Tommy sleep away the fever back in a more comfortable bed.

But… they can’t take many chances.

(Even if he is fond of Tommy, it wasn’t like the kid was… well, a kid or anything. Not just some stray that Phil can adopt, even with how much he feels parental towards him in the bookstore sometimes).

But… family is priority, and especially now that they have most of the fucking heroes on their ass after what happened the month before, safety is key.

Phil would be more laid back about this if it weren’t for the fact that Tommy was so strangely indifferent around villains such as the Blade.

Wilbur whines a little but relents, leaning his head against the car window. He knows this isn’t an argument he wants to get involved with — after all, the whole thing that happened was partially his fault.

They continue driving in silence, and then Wilbur lights up, his head popping up a little to glance out the window, “Phil, Phil- can we stop at the McDonald’s?”

“No.”

“Oh come on, please? I want to leave Tommy some nuggets for him to eat when he wakes up. You saw how he looks, he needs to eat more.”

“We’re not leaving him nuggets, you little shit,” Phil sighs.

“Fine,” Wilbur pouts, leaning back against the window and clutching Tommy tighter, the kid looking completely peaceful in his sleep.

Eventually, Phil pulls the car into the apartment complex that Techno had put into the directory, turning in his seat to give Wilbur a stern look, “Are you going to be able to put him to sleep and actually leave empty handed, or am I gonna have to come up there to make sure you do?”

Wilbur glares at him.

Phil sighs, turning to Techno, who is scrolling mindlessly through Twitter.

“Tech, can you go with him so I can actually get some sleep before I have to go to the open the book shop in…” Phil takes this moment to glance at the clock on his car, grimacing when it reads six am, “… thirty minutes?”

Techno glances at him, before exhaling, shutting his phone off, “Alright.”

“I can do it myself,” Wilbur says, even as he struggles to open the car door while simultaneously holding Tommy with a vice-like grip.

“Sure you can,” Techno hums, exiting the car and then opening Wilbur’s door, earning a sharp glare from his twin before the two stalk off back up the steps of Tommy’s apartment complex.

Wilbur steps into the apartment, making a face at how broken the door is still, making a mental note to chew Techno out about how someone could’ve come in and stolen Tommy’s things, you fucking idiot, before remembering that…

Well, Tommy doesn’t really have things.

Wilbur’s nose shrivels at the thought and at how incredibly… small Tommy’s apartment is.

(He hadn’t gotten a good look at it when he’d come before, a bit too focused on his little brother laying on the floor looking like a ghost).

To an untrained eye, the flat looks bigger because there’s literally no furniture in it to take up space (minus the weird sofa pushed up against the wall), but it’s incredibly tiny.

Wilbur almost takes Tommy and runs back to Phil’s car right then and there.

As he’s thinking of a tenth argument he could possibly use to win Phil over, Techno’s hand lands on his shoulders and the man takes Tommy out of his arms with ease, Wilbur protesting immediately.

“Shut up, Wil, you’re gonna wake him up,” Techno says simply, and it’s enough for Wilbur to close his mouth, eyes narrowing as Techno carefully places Tommy’s crumpled form down onto the sofa.

Boots crunch against broken glass on the carpet, and Techno turns to Wilbur, “I’ve got some cleaning up I have to do before he wakes up. Do you want to help or not?”

Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek nervously.

He really doesn’t like where Techno’s heading with this.

“Sure,” he mutters, albeit reluctantly, and Techno motions with his head for Wilbur to come closer to Tommy.

“I need you to keep him sleeping,” Techno says, eyes boring into Wilbur’s.

Wilbur hesitates, and then nods.

Anything to protect family, he thinks, despite the voice that keeps whispering that Tommy’s family, too.

Techno puts a hand on his shoulder and then stands, moving towards the broken door.

Wilbur bends down beside Tommy, carefully sweeping baby hairs out of his face, and begins to sing.

———

“Please don’t,” he whispers into the open air which bites coldly at his face, a hand reaching out from underneath his cloak, trembling towards the person in front of him. “You promised.”

There’s a blank face of no emotions and Tommy’s whole world crumbles in front of him.

————

It’s become a tradition, Tommy realizes, for
him to wake up absolutely horrified from a nightmare.

He sits bolt upright, arms wrapped around himself, trying to breathe in and out the way that he had been taught as a kid (all those times he’d panic in front of others, all those times he was called names, and he still doesn’t know how to calm himself down properly).

As expected, it doesn’t work too well.

Of course.

So, as per usual, he improvises, stretching his hands out and curling them into the soft cushions of his sofa, into the warm sweater that is wrapped loosely around him, and that’s when it clicks all at once.

He… he doesn’t remember a fucking thing from the night before.

At least, not really.

He can remember bits and pieces - Quackity stopping by, The Blade breaking his fucking window, and whatever that weird dream was about his boss and those two idiots at the bookstore.

But not… much.

The dream he’d had… felt so strangely real, as most of his nightmares do. He’s never really had a dream like that before. Because of what happened, all his dreams are sort of jokes at this point. They start out nice and cozy, like a warm hug or what he thinks someone loving him feels like, before the dream pulls a 180 and becomes a nightmare.

He never has good dreams anymore.

So what the fuck was that?

A chill goes up his spine and he runs his hands up and down his arms, letting out a soft exhale as he tries to get a grip on his surroundings.

He’s in his flat, that much is obvious. He was also sitting on his sofa, fingers digging into the cushions as a sort of anchor to reality, and… well, everything looks normal.

… Right?

So why does it feel so off?

Maybe it’s just the fact Quackity had visited the night before. Everything feels strange for a couple days after that guy visits. Not that Quackity’s a bad presence - it’s actually the opposite. The guy’s funny when he’s not so focused on that weird business regime he’s got going on. He just kinda… gives off that vibe that just sticks with you.

Tommy shudders again and then his phone buzzes. He flinches. He could’ve sworn that it was dead the night before…?

Oh, well. Maybe in his half-awake state of mind, he had put it on the charger. Sounds like something he’d do, honestly.

Grabbing his phone, he nearly drops it again - he can already hear Tubbo scolding him in the back of his mind about the amount of cracks in his phone - because it’s ten in the morning.

Holy shit, he is so late to work.

Karl’s gonna—

Actually, no, Karl won’t really care. He doesn’t mind at all taking care of Tommy’s shift (he’s made that abundantly clear many times when Tommy’s trudged in the store half awake, but Tommy never lets him). Maybe he should stay home and feel better… his head still aches horribly, but his cough is mostly gone.

Which is a bit strange, but hey, his immune system is just cracked or something.

With reluctance, Tommy slides off the sofa, stumbling a bit as he does and balancing himself against the wall before heading into the other room to change into his more “work-fashioned” clothes. He makes sure to add a sweater overtop of it — Eldritch Wings is always freezing.

And he’s more than certain that he’ll have company today — Techno and Wilbur’s stupid asses probably tripping over themselves wondering where he was the day before. It’ll be kinda funny, but mostly irritating.

Before Tommy leaves his apartment, he slips a pocket knife into his pocket. Just in case. You never know what kind of company you can meet in the alleyways at night (and a couple nights before just proved that he should carry a knife around more often).

(Tommy doesn’t happen to notice that his front door no longer makes a soft creaking noise when closed as it has done for the six to seven months he’s lived there).

———

“Tommy, why are you here?” Karl asks with a frown, arms full of a box of books labeled Non-fiction. His multiple layers of bracelets make soft jingling noises when Karl readjusts the box in his arms so he can carry it easier.

“What do you mean?” Tommy responds, blinking a bit as he takes his seat behind the counter at the front of the store, “Oh, uh— right. I’m sorry for being late to work, but for some reason my stupid alarm didn’t go off this morning and I think I had some strange fucking fever dreams last night?”

Tommy sighs, running his hands shakily through his curls, “I dunno, man. I’m sorry if I put you through hell trying to cover my shift.”

Karl beams at him, “No, no, I mean— dude, you’re not supposed to be here. Didn’t you call Phil and say you wanted two days off?”

Tommy blinks.

Oh, right. He had said that.

Huh.

“Oh,” Tommy laughs nervously, running a hand up and down his neck, “Uh, yeah, but hey! Look, alright, I’m here now, and I could use the money so… you don’t have to work too hard now. It’s a win win for the both of us.”

Karl places the box of books on one of the tables near a bookshelf, tilting his head at Tommy, “Dude, you do know that I don’t care about taking care of your shifts, right? It doesn’t bother me. I like spending time here. I get to read books in my free time. It’s like my dream job.”

Karl grins at him again, one of his big toothy grins that seem to take up his whole face and show off his dimples, “Don’t be afraid to take some time off, Tommy. I’ve done it before and usually taking a break can help you feel a lot better, you know? It’s no big deal, man. You could use some more rest. Getting sick is so dog water.”

Tommy stares at him.

What the fuck is he talking about?

It sounds genuine and nice, but Tommy’s head still can’t really compute much right now.

Without noticing the look on Tommy’s face, Karl picks up the box of books again, and then snorts before walking off, “If you do stay, though, can you do me a favour and go pop your head into Phil’s office or something? I think I heard him pacing in there earlier. He seems stressed out. Go make him laugh or something.”

Tommy stares at him some more before sighing.

Karl, as always, has made him feel better by saying the weirdest shit.

He enjoys him for that.

Karl’s great. Karl supremacy, he decides. Fuck everyone else.

(Except maybe Wilbur. He’s cool too. Maybe).

(No, nah. He’s not).

Speaking of that prick, though…

“Hey, Karl, did you uh, happen to see if that lanky nitch and his brother came in yet today?” Tommy asks, a bit reluctantly and out of nowhere. He doesn’t want to seem like he actually cares if they come into the shop to see him or not. Because he doesn’t. Not at all.

Karl, who has set the box of books down again, doesn’t glance his way, “Nope! Not today.”

Tommy nods, then glances towards Phil’s office in the back of the store. He’s never actually been in there long enough for him to know what it’s like in that weird… whatever the fuck he called it?

Nest of some sorts?

Sanctuary, maybe?

Whatever it was to Phil.

Tommy hadn’t even gone in the place for his interview to apply at the bookstore. Instead, he’d had it on the fourth story at this little table near a bay window, sitting rather anxiously in a cushioned chair while Mr. Phil smiled eagerly at him from the other side of the table.

(It’s really pretty up there, actually. It’s probably Tommy’s favourite place to go in all of Eldritch Wings, even if he rarely gets the chance to slip away from work and head up there. You can see over the tops of quite a few buildings from that window. Tommy can only imagine how pretty it is in the wintertime…)

Running his hands down his face, Tommy shoots another look in Karl’s direction, who is now putting the books from in the box on their respective shelves.

Great.

Tommy sighs and walks towards Phil’s office, hands shoved into his pockets. He might as well go see him anyways, right? After all, the boss should know that he is not, in fact, at home.

So why is it so… awkward that he’s gonna go talk to Phil?

He’s spoken to the guy a couple times before.

Is it the fact that he’s so intimidating or…?

Tommy can't really get a grasp on it because Phil isn’t really that intimidating (if you look past that one time).

So, with a final leap of faith, Tommy reaches out and knocks meekly on the big oak door that leads to Phil’s office.

(Or, at least, what he assumes is Phil’s office. Who knows where the guy actually works).

He waits a couple seconds, rocking back and forth on his feet, casting anxious looks over his shoulder (as if trying to telepathically ask Karl for help), when the oak door creaks open, revealing a Phil who wears a rather strained smile.

Then, the man’s fades for a split second upon seeing Tommy, and then it’s back again as if nothing had happened.

The fuck?

“Oh, Tommy,” Phil says, blinking a little, “I thought you were staying home today?”

“Yeah, uh,” Tommy scratches the back of his neck, staring at Phil’s shirt. It’s a deep green collared shirt that makes him look all business-y. “I decided I would come into work today because I.. uh, think I’m feeling a bit better.”

Phil smiles at him warily,“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Tommy, but maybe you should take another day off, just to make sure. Take some medicine, get some rest…”

Tommy frowns.

Huh?

He wants Tommy not to come to work?

That’s…

Oh.

Then it clicks, and realization dawns on Tommy.

“Oh,” Tommy mutters, and Phil’s eyebrows raise before the boy continues, sounding a little choked, “Is… uhm… Mr. Phil, is this your way of telling me that I’m fired or something?”

Phil’s eyes widen a fraction, the man holding his hands up to immediately backpedal, “No, no, that- Tommy, that isn’t the case at all, I’m just worried about you.”

Tommy’s shoulders unravel a bit and a wave of relief washes over him. Okay, so Phil wasn't mad about him taking the previous day off or at the fact he was pretty late to work today…

(Not like he expected him to be, at least).

“Okay,” Tommy exhales, shaking his head.

“Really, Tommy. I am just worried about you, kid.” Phil repeats, sending him a genuine smile full of warmth. It’s like the one Tommy can distantly remember from his strange dream last night.. kind and so… strangely familiar.

Oh, well.

He’s had weird dreams before.

What else is new?

“Why are you so worried for me?” Tommy begins, now taking the teasing route because he doesn’t like how cheesy this got all of a sudden, “Are you- Mr. Phil, I’m not one of your sons, you know, you shouldn’t worry about me.”

A flicker of something strange crosses on Phil’s face, but it’s quickly covered by another smile and a soft chuckle from the man.

“I worry about all my employees, you little shit,” he says with a sigh.

Tommy nods. This is true. Only people who care about their employees would beat the shit out of a customer for them.

“Well, uh, thank you for caring,” Tommy hums, and Phil’s expression softens for a moment, “But don’t get all fuckin’ weird about it or I might just have to put you in a home.”

Phil’s amused expression immediately flattens, “What the fuck are you talking about.”

Tommy grins.

Mission accomplished, he thinks to himself. Karl had said to make him laugh. He never said anything about immediately making him suffer afterwards.

————

The café shift is… incredibly quiet tonight.

Tommy sits behind the counter with his chin in his hand, yawning.

There’s literally nobody in the café. It’s so… odd.

(Not odd enough for Tommy to really give a shit, but still pretty odd).

The again, it does get like this every so often.

Maybe every other week or so, the small wave of customers that come into Tommy’s shop just cease to exist and then it’s just him there, sitting behind the counter and occasionally wiping off tables just to do something.

Just him, the ambience of the ticking clock behind him, and occasionally, the YouTube videos on his phone.

It’s half past one when he realizes that it’s just one of those days where the graveyard shift lives up to its name and decides to close up a tad early. He knows that Sam wouldn’t get mad at him for doing so— he always recommends Tommy close up before two-thirty anyways.

Tommy pulls his sweater tighter around himself as he walks down the alleyway, heading towards his apartment complex. He’s struck with a severe pang of deja vu, suddenly very grateful that it isn’t raining this time. It would suck to have to deal with a fucking cold again.

It is getting a bit more chilly this late at night, though, so Tommy breathes hot air into the palms of his hands and rounds a corner.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

He should’ve known at this time of night - the time of night people call Villain’s Hour for a fucking reason, not just because it sounds cool and scares children into not sneaking out.

He should’ve known that there would literally be villains out tonight doing whatever their little crime hearts desire.

And just Tommy’s luck, too, to look round the corner to see a fucking fight between a top ranking supervillain matched against a pretty top ranking hero (not by a lot but still by quite some range that it makes a shiver go up Tommy’s spine).

To make matters worse, he recognizes that fucking deep navy blue cloak wrapped around the supervillain’s shoulders with the silver linings around the edges and burn marks from where the guy’s destroyed literal buildings with his insane use of bombs.

He recognizes that mask settled over the villain’s face, beautiful but promises of something dark if you were to get too close, much like a vampire or a faerie in all those fairytales Karl’s introduced him to.

Tommy takes a careful step back away from the scene and curses every god that he can think of.

Fighting it out on the other side of the alleyway is none other than the Bard himself and… if Tommy’s memory serves him correctly… that other person is presumably Mimic.

Mimic’s not even a fucking hero, though.

… Right?

Tommy can't really remember… there’s a vague recollection of the guy being some sort of weird vigilante type thing?

Fucking hell.

Why him?

Why is it always him that has to see these fucking assholes decking it out?

Then again…

It’s fun watching the fight, but from this close, it’s practically a death wish.

…

Eh, it’s fine.

Tommy Innit never dies.

With that in mind, Tommy maneuvers so he’s a little more hidden behind the corner of the alleyway, eyes narrowed as he watches the Bard’s movements for a minute.

He’s gotta admit… the guy’s a good fighter.

(Not as good as the other members of his three-membered cult, but… he’s alright. Maybe).

After a couple hisses from the Bard and a couple shouts from Mimic, Tommy decides that he might as well get the hell out of here while he still can.

He turns, trying to walk quickly away from the fight, when something whizzes past his ear that he can only presume is a knife.

He turns as quickly as he can, instincts flared, and catches a glimpse of a card lying on the pavement beside his shoe.

And then he sees Mimic crumple to the ground and he acts purely on what his brain tells him to do.

Get the fuck out of there.

Someone shouts at him but it’s too late and Tommy runs like hell, his hood pulled over his head, trainers slapping loudly against the pavement and echoing through the alleyways.

He just needs to make it to the Underground. There’s bright lights down there that never go out so he can actually see what the fuck’s going on instead of potentially fighting blindly for his life.

(For once, he’s glad that he remembered to bring that pocket knife this morning).

Tommy can hear someone curse loudly behind him but he ignores it, rounding a corner and pushing himself to run faster despite the way his chest and back are practically erupting in pain.

Maybe he should’ve just taken the day off like Phil had suggested.

———

“Fuck,” Wilbur hisses, watching the figure retreating into the shadows, running his hands through his hair.

That’s not fucking good.

For all Wilbur knows, that could be a fuckin’ hero in disguise or something going off to fetch one of the higher ranks, and Wilbur really doesn’t want to deal with those pricks right now.

“We’ll finish this later,” Wilbur hisses at the vigilante who now lays crumpled on the ground in a bloody heap, a gentle threat that lingers like a promise.

(While Mimic isn’t quite dead yet, he’s on the edge of it).

Wilbur disappears into the shadows, enjoying the frustrated movements of the vigilante who he’s sworn as his enemy, the man shouting after him in anger.

(Wilbur holds back a petty laugh, wanting to return to the fight and finish it finally, after months of fighting…)

But,

Wilbur’s got some other business to attend to.

He’s gotta find that guy.

Leave no witnesses, as Phil always says.

Chapter Text

The turns and twists of the alleyway seem to be endless as Tommy runs through them, coughing into the darkness and trying to keep his head down low as he turns corners, navigating himself through the maze of buildings.

It almost feels like trying to run through the fucking Labyrinth with how many corners he feels himself skidding on his trainers to, hand clutching his throat as he tries to catch his breath in the fog-plagued air.

Luckily for him, Tommy knows this part of the city by heart. He could probably draw a decently accurate map of it with his eyes closed if you asked him to.

(With the amount of times he’s had to run like this through it, you’d expect him to by now).

By the time he makes it down the steps and into the Underground, Tommy’s nearly gasping for air, his trainers making loud echoing noises against the empty and blank walls that practically laugh at him, at his oncoming demise.

When he leans against one of them, trying to catch his breath, it feels almost like the suffocating walls of the Underground are watching him, judging his every moment. (This is why he prefers to just walk home instead.)

He knows better, though, than to just stop here at the entrance of the Underground to merely catch his breath. He shouldn’t stop at all, even if he can hardly breath — it’s one of the basic rules of society when there’s a fucking supervillain chasing after you.

Then again…

He probably should’ve known better from the fucking start. Watching villains fight is one of the most risky things you can do (depending on which villain it is, obviously).

If it had been one of the lesser known villains - like Liege, who Tommy actually hadn’t seen on the streets in a long time - it wouldn’t have been such a big deal.

However… he was watching a member of the fucking Syndicate fight. That in itself could get him in some deep shit with the cult-like thing that the Syndicate was.

(He’s usually more careful when watching the Blade or Archangel fight — the two get so involved with their enhancements that normally sensing another person’s presence doesn’t come as easily as it does to the Bard).

However… seeing a member of the Syndicate potentially kill someone in cold blood?

That was on a different level of not good.

The kind of level that usually results in him ending up six feet beneath the fucking dirt.

Tommy curses under his breath, heaving a bit— and then he tenses up when he hears someone coming from above.

Fuck.

He’d barely had the chance to catch his breath.

Quickly, Tommy pulls his hood back up over his hair and makes a mad run for it, twisting around the corners of the Underground, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, desperately pleading under his breath with what energy he has left that he can make it onto the train.

He can hear someone far behind him (but close enough). There’s someone hissing, almost as if in his ear, and he rounds another corner. He knows the layout of the Underground better than he does the layout of the city itself.

(As much as Tommy hates it down here, he’s found himself in more than a few sticky situations where he’s ended up having to memorize most of the Underground’s layout in order to survive).

As he turns the corner, he nearly cries out in relief because there’s the train, in it’s spectacular glory, waiting for him. He just hopes that it leaves before the Bard has the chance to board it with him.

As Tommy approaches the train, he stops and glances over his shoulder. Always a bad idea in these situations - the Bard is ganging on him, as to be expected with the man’s terrifying height, trench coat flaring out behind him.

Tommy turns and he bends his knees and jumps with all of his force over the gap between station and train, tucking his knees up into his chest to somersalt onto the train.

As quick as possible, he levels onto his knees, turning to stare wide-eyed at the Bard, who has stopped right at the gap, the train doors closing between the two.

Tommy can’t help the way his heart flutters with relief. He’d made it out alive. He had escaped one of the most notorious fucking villains and he hadn’t fucking died.

Tommy lets himself drop onto the floor of the train, ignoring how possibly dirty it is to catch his breath, the steady rocking of the cart calming his racing heart a little.

For once, he’s glad he had brought his pocket knife, even if he didn’t have to use it.

———

Wilbur stares, completely in shock, as the cloaked figure full on dives into the train’s open doors — before Wilbur can move forward and grab the person’s hoodie, the train doors close and lights flick into darkness.

He can see the figure kneeling down and just barely he can catch the faintest glimpse of a red and white coloured hoodie.

(It’s all he needs to track the fucker down, really).

The train moves with a speed Wilbur would never be able to catch up with and the man lets out another string of curses in anger, hands tangling into the hair underneath his beanie.

He’s so fucked.

It’s normal that you have a witness to one of your crimes. Usually, you want one to send the correct message, but this… it was different.

This sort of witness rarely ever occurs — but when it does happen (especially in such tight corners as that, in such places where you wouldn’t normally expect bystanders), what you’re doing is meant to be secretive.

No witnesses are allowed to just escape with their lives. Wilbur’s known this for years, since the beginning. They’ve never let people who have seen a little too much live unless it was to send a message.

(Wilbur knew a thing or two about sending messages).

Clenching his jaw, Wilbur stands carefully in the Underground, the steam from the train making him cough a little.

He considers his options — if he were Technoblade, he probably would’ve smashed through the fucking train doors and killed the witness right then and there, but he’s not Technoblade and super strength isn’t his enhancement (not that he isn’t strong, just not strong enough to bulldoze through a fucking train car).

If he had been Philza, he would’ve flown through the train tunnels after the cart at a quick enough speed that it wouldn’t result in him ending up hit by a fucking train.

So, in this instance…

Wilbur waits.

———

Tommy collapses onto his front door, coughing and heaving, his arms shaking violently.

When the train had arrived to his section of the district, he had ran all the way from the Underground to his apartment buildings, paranoia and anxiety bubbling up in his throat and making his eyes sting.

He fucking hates this city with its dumb tall walls that seem to silently judge you, hates the Underground with how fucking suffocating it can be, and he especially despises every single hero and villain that ever set foot into Manberg.

Tommy lets out another shuddering cough, curling up on the ground in front of his door, arms wrapped tightly around himself as he chokes on a sob.

It’s stupid, really, for him to be crying like this.

Sure, he almost died, but…

He’s done that before, so why does it bother him so much? Why does it make his skin crawl the way he’d heard the Bard hiss at him, the way that when he’d seen Mimic drop to the ground in an unmoving heap that he knew it was also sealing his fate?

He runs his hands over his face and covers his mouth to conceal the sobs that are threatening to pour out. He can’t cry. He shouldn’t cry.

It would be dumb to cry. He’s gone through this before, he should be used to it, numb to it, even.

(But he’s not.)

At least Tommy’s in his apartment now, though. He’s safe and curled up on the familiar feeling of carpeted flooring that makes his arms itch, he can hear the telltale sounds of street traffic even at this time of night that have always served to soothe him. To remind him he’s not completely alone.

Slowly, Tommy gets up off the ground, his arms and legs shaking violently and threatening to make him topple over again — he grabs a hold of his front door knob and carefully locks it, letting out shaky breaths as he regains his balance.

He’s okay.

He’s okay.

He made it home.

He outran the fucking Bard, the third top ranking supervillain, and made it out alive.

(That was practically unheard of).

Tommy coughs out another sob, running his hands down his face, deciding to forget it.

To look on the better side of things.

(If there is one).

Tommy stumbles over to his sofa, all but collapsing against the rough but comforting cushions, letting out another choked noise.

(Despite everything, he’s home.)

———

Wilbur’s got a dark look on his face when he walks into the penthouse, his right hand fiddling with the beanie he’d removed the second he’d walked in, eyes clouded in thought.

“Hey, Wil,” Phil calls from where he’s perched on the sofa, reading a book. His wings are tucked behind his back, meaning his emerald earring must be tucked away for safekeeping.

When Wilbur doesn’t make any sort of greeting, aggressively whipping his trenchcoat off to put it on a coat hanger, Phil glances up over the top of his book warily. Usually when he’s this quiet after patrol, something happened.

“Wil,” Phil begins cautiously, but Wilbur just shoots him a glare that makes him decide he’d better close his mouth. He hasn’t seen Wilbur this deep in thought in ages.

Wilbur trudges past Phil, heading towards the hallway with a sour expression, “I’ll be in my room. Tell Technoblade that I will be taking patrol tomorrow so he doesn’t need to.”

Phil raises an eyebrow curiously, watching Wilbur walk off with a strange aura to him before exhaling, dragging a hand down his face. He didn’t even get the chance to tell him about the incident that had happened at work today.

Oh, well.

Hopefully he won’t be so frustrated in the morning.

He can tell him then instead.

———

Tommy stumbles through his apartment, leaning his head against the front door. He’d changed out of his clothes from the night before (paranoia lingered on his shoulders about wearing the same thing the Bard had undoubtedly seen him in).

He was starting to worry about his lack of clothing. Not that anyone cared except those he were certain to be just tories with nothing better to do.

Maybe he should call in sick again, Tommy thinks with his forehead still leaning against the door. He had only slept a couple hours last night, waking up around two hours early for work.

If he calls in sick for Eldritch Wings, it would still mean he’d have to go to Nook’s… and honestly, at this rate, he… wouldn’t really mind the company he gets at both jobs. It’s nice to be around Karl and Sam.

(And occasionally the two idiots that never showed up the day before. Tommy wonders if they’re alright before dismissing the thought. He has more important things to think about).

Before Tommy leaves for work, he makes sure to bring his pocket knife.

Just in case.

———

“What the hell do you mean, Tommy came into work yesterday?” Wilbur hisses tiredly from the other side of the breakfast table.

As Phil expected, the guy isn’t as angry as he was the night before. No doubt he’s still pretty agitated, but being tired got the best of him and now he’s just that type of grumpy that Phil thinks is genuinely more hilarious than it is irritating.

“He came into work yesterday,” Phil repeats with a shrug as Techno stumbles into the kitchen, eyes half closed and pink hair tousled before slumping face down onto the table. “Techno, mate, you’re gonna get your hair into the cereal.”

Techno responds, but it’s muffled. Phil stifles a chuckle.

“How can you be so nonchalant about this?” Wilbur asks incredulously, eyes narrowing at Phil. “Do you know something I don’t? Why are you so calm about this situation?”

“He seemed to be feeling better to me,” Phil responds, patting Techno on the shoulder before turning to the kettle on the stove, “Plus, uhm… I’ll have to admit, he did make me feel a bit… better. I was feeling pretty guilty about just… leaving him in his apartment with no recollection of what had happened.”

Wilbur seems to relax at this, but still continues to glare in Phil’s general direction through the remainder of breakfast.

(Obviously, he hasn’t gotten over his grudge that Phil hadn’t just let Tommy stay with them, or maybe he’s just still upset about whatever had happened during patrol the night before).

“Why are you two up so early, anyways?” Phil wonders suddenly, glancing at the clock which reads around forty minutes before he has to open shop. “You both usually sleep in until like eleven.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Wilbur mutters darkly.

Phil should’ve expected that one, really.

“Hmm,” is all Techno says.

“You know we can’t hear you, right?” Wilbur says sweetly, kicking his brother under the table so that the man jolts, lifting his head up to glare at Wilbur.

“Don’ kick me,” Techno grumbles sleepily.

“Don’t kick me,” Wilbur mocks, grinning maliciously.

Normally, Techno would tackle Wilbur from across the table and it would end in a scuffle where Phil is plastering Wilbur’s forehead, but the man just slumps back down onto the table with a huff.

Wilbur snorts, expression amused for a second before it returns to something more dark. Phil can tell he’s overthinking.

“You know, mate, it might help if you just tell me what’s going on,” Phil supplies, sending Wilbur a supportive smile.

Wilbur shoots a dark look his way, one quite uncanny to the one he’d used the night before.

Phil, however, won’t back down that easily.

“Wil, we aren’t going to judge you if something went wrong on your patrol,” Phil says gently, eyeing his son out the corner of his eye as he pours the now prepared tea into a mug, “If it’s got you that riled up, you should probably tell us so we can help. That is what family’s for, after all.”

Wilbur’s jaw clenches at that, but he seems a lot more content, leaning forward and exhaling. Phil takes that as a win.

“I had a witness,” he mutters, running a hand through his sleep ridden curls.

Phil nods. That’s not uncommon.

“I’m assuming that you’re upset because you didn’t take care of them?” Phil asks.

Wilbur just gives him another withering look.

“I’m going to take care of them tonight,” he says, averting his eyes to the table, finger tracing some of the curves in the wood, “Tech, uh… on that note could you do me a favour?”

“No.”

“Techno, please?”

“No.”

“I’ll forge you some more gold…?”

There’s a pause.

“It depends on what it is,” Techno says finally, shifting his head so his cheek rests against his arm on the table.

“I want you to check on Tommy today,” Wilbur says simply. Upon seeing Techno’s flat expression, he adds, “I only mean— for his second job. At Nook’s Bakery. You know the spot.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Think about it,” Wilbur muses, picking at a piece of wood on the table, looking especially smug about something, “You get a late night cup of coffee or two and the ability to annoy a gremlin child. I get to know if my little brother’s okay.”

Techno rolls his eyes, stuffing his face back into his arms.

“Fine. But I’m not coming with you to the bookstore.”

“Fine.”

Phil just shakes his head fondly.

————

Tommy is… off of his game.

He knows that he is the second he’s asked to help stock a shelf with Karl and drops nearly every book he tries to put up because of how hard his hands shake.

Karl keeps glancing at him with concern, bending down to help him pick up any book he drops and sometimes giggling when Tommy scoffs that he’d actually dropped a book — to someone who doesn’t know Tommy, they’d think it rude for Karl to laugh. Tommy, however, thinks it’s kind.

He hates when things get too.. real. If he can at least make Karl laugh, that’s really all that matters.

Tommy exhales as he puts up another book that he’d this time dropped onto his shoe and Karl giggles a bit, cracking a joke about how he’s worked there for like six months and has never been this shit at putting books away.

Tommy gasps — not in offense, but because Karl swore.

How dare he?

“Karl, that’s not very baby of you,” Tommy says, his tone high in mockery of the people he’d seen walk into the bookstore that one time, commenting on how ‘baby’ they thought Karl was.

The man bursts into fits of laughter, covering his mouth with his sweater sleeve, “How terrible. How can I possibly be baby again, Tommy Innit?”

“You simply don’t,” Tommy states proudly, crossing his arms.

Karl goes to quip but is interrupted when the bell above the front entrance jingles.

Tommy and Karl simultaneously peer around the corner of the bookshelf and Tommy feels a rush of warmth pass through him when he sees the familiar figure of Wilbur Soot enter.

Karl takes this opportunity to snort, patting Tommy on the shoulder before returning to stocking the books.

“Wilbur fucking Soot,” Tommy says, crossing his arms when the man finally lays eyes on him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes.

Maybe it’s just because of how exhausted he is, but Tommy swears that Wilbur’s a little… off today.

(Then again, maybe he is too).

“Hey, Tommy,” Wilbur says, his tone warm as ever when he reaches out to ruffle Tommy’s hair, the kid swatting at his hand a little more half-heartedly than usual. “Feeling better?”

Tommy frowns.

Did Wilbur know about that somehow?

“What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.

“I asked Phil where you were a couple days ago,” Wilbur hums, gazing around the bookstore as if looking for someone that wasn’t there, “He said you called in sick.”

Oh.

“Ah, yeah, just a bit of a head cold, you know how it is,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s glad that Karl had made him feel a bit better before Wilbur came. He… really wouldn’t enjoy it if Wilbur saw him… breakdown or anything.

Wilbur smiles at him, “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Toms.”

Tommy just nods.

If only he knew.

Tommy resorts back to his spot behind the counter (Karl had given him a wave when he’d tried to return to stocking books with him that basically said I’m fine go sit down idiot). Wilbur follows close behind, as he always does, leaning against the counter.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, now frowning.

“Fuck kinda question is that? I already said I was feeling better, prick,” Tommy mutters, slumping down to put his chin in his hand.

Wilbur watches him carefully, as though he doesn’t believe him, before he sighs, relenting.

“If you say so, Toms.”

There’s an awkward pause.

Tommy takes this opportunity to change the subject.

“So where’s your weird brother?” he asks.

Wilbur snorts.

“I pissed him off this morning so he didn’t come today.”

“What? Fuck did you do?” Tommy asks, interest piqued. Wilbur’s brother seemed like the kinda guy you didn’t want to mess with literally ever.

(Tommy could take him though. Probably).

Wilbur, though, just shrugs, something glinting smug in his eye, “I kicked him.”

Tommy barks out a laugh, “You what? You kicked that mofo?”

Wilbur grins now, looking a bit more relaxed than he had before. It makes Tommy’s shoulders feel slightly less… tense.

“I did,” Wilbur says proudly. “Right in the shins, too.”

Tommy sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Damn, Wilbur, you really told him,” Tommy jokes, Wilbur rolling his eyes and reaching out to punch him teasingly in the arm.

“Shut up, gremlin.”

“Say, Wil?” Tommy hums, looking at the man, who now meets his eyes. “Do you want to go to the park at some point to bully children?”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow.

“You… want to go to a park… to bully children?” Wilbur repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment before responding,

“I’m in. When do we go?”

“Give me a time and date and I’ll be there,” Tommy responds.

Wilbur smiles in return, but it fades a little.

“I would say today, but… I’m a bit busy for the remainder of the day.”

Tommy’s face falls a little.

“That’s alright, big man,” he reassures, reaching out to pat Wilbur’s shoulder. “We can always postpone for some other time.”

Wilbur gives him a genuine look, something warm and … whatever that emotion is that Tommy can’t quite name.

“Thanks, Toms.”

————

Tommy all but falls apart when he walks into Nook’s later and Fran is there to greet him in the back room, running circles around his feet and even jumping up to lick his face when he bends down to scratch behind her ears.

“Quit licking me, you weirdo,” Tommy says, trying to put on a disgusted tone even as he laughs every time the dog licks his face again.

“She missed you,” Sam says from where he sits on the other side of the room, looking over paperwork.

Probably taxes, Tommy realizes. Classic old man shit. Him and Phil would probably get along well.

“Of course she did,” Tommy responds despite the way he feels a burning in his eyes. Just a little.

(Even if it was just Fran, a dog, who missed him, at least it was someone. Or something).

Sam hums, glancing up from his paperwork as Tommy stands up straight, trying to step over Fran as he prepares for his second job.

“You feeling alright, kiddo?” Sam asks, and Tommy doesn’t even dare glance the man’s way because he knows if he even sees an ounce of sympathy (or care) in Sam’s expression, he just might break.

“Yep! I’m at the peak of my health, Sam, do not worry for me,” Tommy responds with his back turned, putting on a faux enthusiastic tone before heading out into the café.

Just a couple more hours to go and then he can go home. Just a few more hours.

————

“Why are you here?” Tommy asks in irritation, glaring at Wilbur’s recognizable twin, who looks just as much like he doesn’t want to be here as Tommy feels.

“Just want a coffee,” Techno says simply.

“It— what the fuck is wrong with you and your brother?” Tommy whispers in disgust. “It’s fucking twelve in the morning. What the hell do you need caffeine for?”

“Sleep is for the weak.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow.

Fair, but…

Also stupid.

“I’ve decided I do not like you.” Tommy states.

Techno huffs.

“Wilbur was right, this is shit customer service.”

“Your face is shit customer service,” Tommy quips. He has the best comebacks. Then he frowns and adds, “Speaking of that emo fuck, where is he?”

“Out,” is all Techno says.

“Wow. So descriptive,” Tommy mutters.

“I’ll tell him you missed him, if you want,” Tecno says, the corner of his lip twitching.

“You’re evil and I hate you,” Tommy decides, “I don’t fucking miss that bitch. I hate him. I want him gone and six feet under. Him and his stupid fucking glasses and plain black coffee.”

“Hmm, alright,” Techno hums patiently. “Whatever you say, kid.”

Tommy has decided that he is going to poison his coffee.

“Hey kid, I’ll kick Wilbur when I get home if you let me buy you a hot chocolate,” Techno says once Tommy’s turned to begin brewing his coffee.

…

Tommy has decided that he is not going to poison his coffee.

————

“So,” Techno hums from the other side of the booth, staring with a rather intimidating expression at Tommy that makes the kid cross his arms uncomfortably, “How ya feelin’?”

The fuck?

Why do people keep asking him that?

“What the hell? I’m fucking fine,” Tommy seethes, and Techno’s eyebrow raises curiously as the kid seems to go on a full blown rant, “People keep asking me that today and it’s gotten on my fuckin’ nerves. I swear, if one more person asks me how I’m feeling with that patronizing tone, I will start stabbing shit.”

Techno huffs in amusement.

“You’ll start stabbing shit?” he repeats.

“Yes,” Tommy emphasizes aggressively, eyes blazing, “It’s so fucking obnoxious. I’m not a god damn charity case.”

“You’re right, you're not,” Techno responds, taking a sip of his coffee. He had put a couple sugars in it, much to Tommy’s delight (and agitation— why hadn’t he just ordered it that way?)

Tommy slumps in the booth, arms crossed as he gazes out the window. Techno’s glad that Sam had agreed to letting Tommy have a small break to drink hot chocolate — if he’s being honest, the kid looks about ready to fall apart right in front of him.

It’s…. concerning.

But he shouldn’t press for information. Not like Wilbur does. It’s none of his business what Tommy’s going through — if he wants to tell him, he will.

(Wilbur just happens to be a protective and rather possessive bastard when it comes to people he considers family. Techno learned that the hard way).

They sit there for a while, Tommy’s head now slumped against the bakery window, the rest of Nook’s empty at this time of night, Techno sitting normally opposite of Tommy, now scrolling through his phone.

“Techno…?” Tommy begins, almost warily.

“Hmm?”

“Is… Wilbur… still busy or anything?”

“He is,” Techno hums, but now he’s intrigued. “Why?”

Tommy shrugs, “Just, uh… was wondering if he’d be free to walk me home or something. It’s not a big deal, I can definitely walk myself home, I’m a big man and all, it’s nothing like that, I could just use…”

“The company?” Techno supplies, despite the way he has an inkling that it has to be more than that. With the way Tommy’s shoulders have slumped forwards, his eyes darker than usual…

Techno has no choice, really.

He sighs.

Maybe he is becoming soft.

“I’ll walk you home tonight, if you’d like?”

Tommy looks up at him immediately, eyes wide.

“For real?” he says, sounding almost relieved, before he clears his throat, “I mean— thanks. Thank you. I could uh… use some refreshening on some old wars, anyways. Bitch.”

For the first time in a while, Techno smiles.

Chapter Text

It’s nice tonight, Techno thinks.

A little on the colder side than it has been recently, but Techno prefers it.

You’d half expect someone who’s a Piglin hybrid to prefer the warmer weather, but since he already runs at a hotter temperature than normal, he actually prefers quite the opposite.

It’s a strange phenomenon, and one that Wilbur enjoys making fun of him for often.

As he walks down the sidewalk and through the alleyways in the direction of Tommy’s apartment complex, he just talks.

He isn’t used to speaking this much, but ever since they left the café, Tommy’s been practically interrogating him about all the Greek mythology facts he knows (only because he made one simple joke about the myth of Arachne).

Honestly, Techno half expected for Tommy to be the one talking through this entire trip (which is why he was so hesitant at first upon joining), but it was genuinely the opposite.

In fact, Techno was shocked at how incredibly quiet the kid was.

(Every now and then when he’d glance Tommy’s way, who he’d learned was a great listener when it came to things he actually cared about, sometimes Tommy would be glancing around the corners of alleyways, or tapping his fingers against his pant leg in a synchronized motion that Techno recognized too well).

Techno’s suspicions were confirmed when they had to turn down a rather small and dark alleyway in order to get to the next street over and Tommy had all but pressed himself against Techno’s side, eyes wide like a deer’s while he looked around, flinching at every noise.

Despite the questions that threatened to overspill, Techno kept quiet about it for a while, continuing his retelling of the myth of Perseus until they were out of the alleyway and back out into the open night, streetlights and stars guiding their way.

“So,” Techno hums a bit after finishing Perseus’s myth, glancing to his right where Tommy walks almost sheepishly beside him, hands shoved into his pants pockets, “You gonna tell me the real reason that you wanted company to walk you home?”

Tommy tenses a bit, his head tipping down in a way that makes his blonde and red tipped curls kind of fall into his eyes, almost kind of embarrassed at the question.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Techno quickly reassures despite the lingering want to know why Tommy had looked so relieved when Techno had told him that he’d be willing to walk him home.

“No, it’s just…” Tommy chuckles nervously, doing that thing where he rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at Techno, as though vaguely skeptical, “How did you know that there was a real reason than the one I told you?”

Techno raises an eyebrow and quirks a little bit of a smile.

“When you live with someone like Wilbur for long enough, it becomes easier to recognize certain human functions,” Techno explains, looking up at the stars above their heads, absentmindedly naming each constellation he’d memorized one night when he was bored.

(It helps him to talk about things more if he focuses on something other than acknowledging another person’s presence).

Tommy laughs a little at Techno’s comment though, snorting a, “Understandable” before Techno continues,

“It also helps if you aren’t, uh, exactly a social person yourself. It makes it easier to… read people if that’s what you do your whole life instead of genuinely speaking to them.”

Tommy looks at him for a moment before he nods in agreement, humming a little.

Techno hasn’t really told anyone this before — Wilbur, of course, being his brother grew up with that as just general knowledge, along with Phil, but Tommy’s the first person that Techno’s actually admitting this kind of thing to.

Huh.

He ignores the comment Wilbur had made before Techno had left to visit Tommy’s café about him being secretly a big softie.

Gross.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re just a loser,” Tommy grins jokingly at the man, jolting Techno out of his thoughts.

The man rolls his eyes and punches Tommy lightly in the shoulder.

No, he’s not growing soft for this actual child. It was Wilbur’s thing to get attached, not his.

(Unless it was gold. That was something else entirely).

“That’s real nice comin’ from a gremlin like you,” Techno drawls in response.

“What the hell,” Tommy bristles, tugging at his sweater sleeve, “Go back to explaining Greek mythology or something, holy shit. This is- you are just attacking me now.”

Techno smirks, “I've already told you the short and pretty tragic tale of Perseus, and the one about Arachne. What more do you want to hear?”

“Hello? Everything, obviously.”

“Everything? Tommy, that would quite literally take forever.”

Tommy grins suspiciously, “Guess you'll just have to swing by the bookstore more often and tell me about it, dickhead.”

Techno rolls his eyes, dragging a hand down his face.

A part of him is starting to regret walking Tommy home more and more.

“I’m not coming to the bookstore if I don’t absolutely have to, nerd.”

Tommy puts on an almost pouting look and Techno averts his eyes. He knows from what Wilbur’s told him that trying to look away from Tommy’s puppy dog eyes is quite literally futile.

“No, no, nope. I’m not falling for that, so don’t even try it, kid,” Techno drawls, staring dead ahead, even when Tommy relentlessly begins tugging on his shirt sleeve.

“Pleeeeaaseeee?” Tommy pleads, even going as far as to lilt his voice.

“No, holy shit, Tommy, why can’t you just read one of the books about mythology yourself?”

Tommy’s quiet for a second, and it clicks.

“You uh… can't read, can you?” Techno wonders, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. He glances down at Tommy curiously, who is glaring at the ground, tugging on the hem of his jumper a bit more.

“Reading’s for- for pussies,” Tommy grumbles in frustration. “I do the manly thing and listen to audiobooks. That makes me so much cooler than you.”

Techno snorts, rolling his eyes again (man, at this rate he’s going to get them stuck like that), looking away from Tommy again.

“Well, I’m still not gonna read to you. Go download an audiobook or something for it.”

Tommy stops walking altogether at this comment, making a sad noise in his throat. Techno pauses as well and…

He tries glancing down at Tommy for just a single millisecond and— and he just sighs.

He is going soft, isn’t he? He’s going soft for this fucking gremlin that has got Wilbur wrapped around his bandaged finger, for the one that he just so happens to have a blood debt with as his supervillain counterpart.

Fucking hell.

(He decides to blame Wilbur for this inconvenience, as per usual).

“Fine, fine. Alright. If you find a way to get me away from all those people in your dumb bookstore, I’ll come read to you, kid.” Techno says, sounding defeated.

Tommy immediately lights up, grinning so widely you’d think that the entire street would be blinded by it.

“Gee, thanks, king!” he says enthusiastically, dropping his tone down a little, a suspicious smirk of victory on his face.

Techno snorts and reaches out, ruffling the kid’s hair a little.

“No problem, Toms.”

———

Wilbur has looked everywhere.

He’s searched every alleyway, every train cart that he could possibly break into, every dumpster bin and every rooftop that he has seen in a mile radius of where that guy had last been.

And there’s still no sign of them.

Exhaling in frustration, Wilbur runs his hands through his hair, wondering how detrimental it would be to just take his anger out on some random, completely unexpecting hero.

But… no. He really shouldn’t do that.

He isn’t a bad person — none of the Syndicate are.

(At least, that’s what Phil says).

Wilbur likes to think of himself as a good person occasionally, but he knows somewhere deep down that in reality, he… he is kind of a shitty human being.

Kicking a rock aggressively against one of the walls, Wilbur decides to just call it a night.

If the person he saw was smart - which they pretty much proved to be with how quickly they navigated the city, as though they were a villain just like he was - then they wouldn’t come out at night for a long time.

Seething (and just a little bit impressed even if he’d never admit it), Wilbur pulls his phone out and calls up Techno.

————

“Here we are,” Tommy motions with a great gesture to his front door and Techno raises an eyebrow at the apartment they’d just arrived in front of.

“This is where you live?” Techno drawls, (having to put emphasis so that Tommy has no clue he’s been here multiple times).

Tommy bristles immediately, glaring at Techno as though he’d just kicked Tommy’s dog or something.

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?! My apartment is fucking poggers, bro, don’t even try that- that fucking privileged ass stuff on me!” Tommy splutters.

“Privileged?” Techno repeats, aghast. “What makes you say that?”

Tommy deadpans him, pointing at his own ear and then motioning with both hands to Techno’s arms, which are covered in golden bangles.

Oh, Techno thinks. Right.

“You dress like a fucking pirate who just found his most valuable treasure,” Tommy continues with a rather flat tone, a glint of irritation in his eyes. It kinda feels like he’s had this bottled up for a while now. “And not to mention, your stupid twin brother dresses like a fucking— a fucking vampire that writes emo poetry or something!”

Techno lets out a bark of a laugh— oh, if only Tommy knew.

“I guess you’re right, when you put it that way,” Techno hums with a shake of his head, putting his hands into his pants pockets.

Tommy shifts a bit uncomfortably on the doorstep to his apartment suddenly, and Techno frowns.

There’s a slight pause, and the wind whistles past, blowing Tommy’s curls slightly out of his eyes.

“Uhm… Techno,” Tommy begins carefully, and now he really won’t make eye contact, “If I tell you something… can you uh… promise me you won’t tell anyone else?”

Now that’s intriguing.

“Of course,” Techno surprises even himself when he says this almost immediately.

He rarely makes promises for anything — one part of his moral code as a super villain is that he never breaks promises. He considers it to be both immoral and offensive, so he hates making promises (especially ones he knows he can’t keep).

But…

With the way Tommy has been acting all night, hands wringing uncomfortably in front of him, his irrational inability to make eye contact (although that has been a characteristic of Tommy’s that Techno’s noticed for a while), has been all… concerning, really.

Not even to mention the dark circles beneath Tommy’s eyes or the way his hands will start shaking out of nowhere or his incredibly poor posture that Wilbur seemed to frown at the entirety of Tommy’s stay at their penthouse (and at the bookstore beforehand).

“What is it, Tommy?”

The boy clears his throat a bit and then mumbles, as though embarrassed, “The real reason I uh… wanted company tonight is because I got…” Tommy trails off for a second.

Techno’s gaze hardens.

“Did you get jumped?” Techno says, feeling a curl of guilt when Tommy flinches at how venomous the man’s tone is.

Tommy recoils a little, eyes flicking across the ground, before nodding slowly.

Techno huffs, “Don’t be scared, kid, I’m not gonna make fun of you if that’s what you’re worried about… but… is the violence thing… normal in this district for you?”

Tommy rolls his sleeve up a little and begins to fiddle with a bracelet that dangles from his wrist. (It’s a silver thing with a red gemstone that has a design on it of some sorts, one Techno can’t make out in this lighting and one he hadn’t noticed before due to the amount of times Tommy wears long sleeves).

“Not really,” Tommy mumbles, “It… you know how it is, big man, it comes and goes.”

Then he clears his throat and glances up, rolling his shoulders a little as if trying to regain his persona of acting stronger than usual, “But it’s not a big deal so don’t- don’t look at me like that, it’s not, really- alright? Don’t fucking tell anyone, either, or I might have to cut your limbs off.”

Techno relaxes at Tommy’s joke a tad, snorting, “Alright, alright— I won’t tell anyone,” then, his gaze softens a bit, “I did promise, didn’t I?”

Tommy grimaces a little, something dark on his face, “Not everyone keeps their promises, king.”

“Well I do, uh…” Techno blinks, then grimaces a little, before emphasizing, “… king.”

Tommy bursts into laughter, the kind that Wilbur’s described sends everyone around him into a fit of laughter too because of how incredibly happy he sounds.

(Techno’s surprised at how right he is).

“Well, I’m gonna go now,” Tommy motions with his head towards his apartment, a small smile on his face, “Uh… thanks for the chat, Techno.”

“Anytime, Tommy. Goodnight.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and walks into his apartment, shutting the door right into Techno’s face.

What else did he expect, really?

Techno begins to head out in the direction of the Underground - really, it’s obnoxious taking the train but Wilbur had borrowed his car for patrol so he had to walk to the café - when his cell rings.

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Hey, Wil,” Techno says into the phone, walking down the sidewalk towards the Underground. “How’s patrol goin’?”

Wilbur growls on the other side of the phone and Techno snickers a little. Clearly, his brother was still having… issues… capturing that witness of his.

It’s gonna be hilarious making fun of him for that when he gets home later.

“Just tell me how it was at the café,” Wilbur grumbles into the phone angrily.

Techno can hear the sounds of a car starting up… it sounds familiar and an idea clicks in his mind.

“Wow, no asking how I’m doing?” Techno jokes.

“Fuck off.”

“Fine, alright,” Techno hums a little, “I’ll tell you if you come and pick me up in my car.”

Wilbur groans.

“But you’re on the other side of the city, asshole,” the man whines.

“I’ll go with you to the pet store on the way home.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m on my way.”

———

“So, how was my special little brother, since you keep avoiding the question?” Wilbur asks the second Techno slides into the passenger seat of the car, the man shooting him a flat look.

“You just don’t care about me anymore, huh?” Techno says, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” Wilbur says cheerily, flashing a smile that’s all sharp teeth, “Not in the slightest.”

“Wil, dude, do you have your necklace on?”

Wilbur blinks and then mumbles an “oh, right”, pulling down the glove compartment and pulling out the necklace with a green emerald attached, tossing it on and tucking it into his shirt.

His pointed ears shrink and when he turns to grin at Techno, his teeth are back to normal.

“Better?”

“Mhm.”

“Great!” Wilbur pats the steering wheel of the car, “Now tell me about how Tommy was.”

“You’re such a possessive bastard,” Techno grumbles, leaning back in his seat, “Tommy was fine, though. I walked him home.”

“Oh? Why?” Wilbur chuckles, “Did you have to force him to walk with you or something? Wish you’d gotten that on video. He was probably cursing you out and shit.”

Techno pauses.

“No, uh… he asked.”

Wilbur’s silent for a second, expression darkening, “He asked you to walk him home?”

“Yep.”

“… Did he say why?”

The promise Techno had made replays in his head and he hums lowly.

“He did, but I made a promise not to say anything,” he admits.

“What the hell? I’m your brother!”

“With the direction things seem to be going, Tommy’s just as much my brother as you are at this point,” Techno grumbles in irritation, deciding to ignore the soft ‘aww’ that Wilbur makes.

“You are going soft, I fucking knew you would,” Wilbur grins at him before turning back to looking at the road, swerving around a car that he deems to be ‘going to slow for him’, “But really, Techno, since you’re all caring now, this means you should tell me what he said.”

Techno shoots him a withering look, “I made a promise, Wil. I’m not breaking it just because you want to go on a ridiculous and anger-fueled hunting spree.”

Wilbur seethes for a minute, swerving the car into a lot so hard that he sends Techno flying into the car door.

“Fucking— fine,” Wilbur parks the car into the lot aggressively, turning to Techno with a flaming irritation in his eyes, who is still trying to recover from being thrown into the door (and rethinking his life choices of getting into the same car as Wilbur), “But you’re coming inside with me at the pet store, you’re not just sitting in the fucking car like a loser.”

“Do you want to see me suffer or something?”

“Get out of the fucking car.”

————

The second they walk into the pet store, it’s as though Wilbur’s emotions have just switched entirely.

The man immediately runs over to the ‘cats & kittens’ part of the store, cooing and awwing at the cats that come up to the window when he puts his hand against it, each one reaching out to paw at the glass.

He looks ready to burst into tears by the time Techno catches up to him, expression blank.

(Wilbur does this more than twice a month).

“Techno, Techno, look—” Wilbur points at a particular ginger cat that has rolled upside down onto its back, “Look at him. He’s so cute, I need him immediately.”

“Wil, we can’t get a cat,” Techno says, his tone full of someone who really is starting to wish they’d just walked home and gotten on the train instead.

“But look at him—” Wilbur whines, poking the glass, the ginger cat rolling around on its back some more, even opening its mouth and letting out a rather muffled mew.

“Wil, Phil’s allergic to cats,” Techno reminds his brother, pulling Wilbur away from the cats portion of the store while the man makes low noises of frustration, much like a child who didn’t get that toy he wanted at a market would.

“Fine, fine,” Wilbur grumbles, navigating to the fish section with his arm still attached to Techno, there by dragging him right along with him, “Then we will get something that will not kill Phil a couple years earlier than his natural death as an elderly. We will get a fish!”

“Do we have to get a pet?” Techno exhales, looking at the numerous multicoloured fish lined on the walls in different fish tanks. He rubs the spot between his eyes with his fingers, trying to coax an oncoming headache.

He already had to deal with the child, and now this.

“Yes, absolutely we do,” Wilbur says immediately, eyeing a particular goldfish before turning to a betta, “We just have to find the perfect one for Phil—”

“Hello,” a nervous voice says behind them, the two whirling around to eye a rather tall kid with a mask on and brown and blonde… split dyed hair?

(They’ve also got vitiligo, which is very cool).

“Do you need help with finding something?” the employee - Ranboo, Techno reads on his name tag - asks.

They wring their hands together anxiously, glancing over their shoulder behind the counter, as if looking for someone.

“Yes, actually,” Wilbur says, eyeing the kid with a frown (he’s not used to being towered over by anyone other than Techno), “I am in dire need of a good fish that won’t cause suffering to those who are allergic to cats.”

Ranboo blinks, tilting his head, eyebrows pulling together, “I- I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“He just wants a cool looking fish,” Techno says before Wilbur can start talking again and Ranboo nods quickly.

“Oh, okay… okay. I can, uhm, I can do that,” he says, turning to examine the fish tanks on the wall before motioning at one in particular, “We have a lot of uhm… koi fish, if you’d like something cool like that.”

Wilbur hums, looking at the fish before shaking his head.

“I’ll come back to these maybe,” he says, before turning with an ominous look on his face, “But do you have something perhaps more… cute?”

Ranboo frowns a little, thinking, before snapping his fingers, his eyes lighting up a bit.

“Actually, you know what,” the man walks off towards another shelf that holds a variety of tanks, “I think I have just the thing.”

————

“I can’t believe you right now,” Techno murmurs as he and Wilbur walk out of the pet store, both of their arms full — Techno carries two large fish tanks and Wilbur a betta fish in one hand and a fucking yellow and orange axolotl in the other.

“I wonder where Tubbo was tonight,” Wilbur just hums, clearly changing the subject from the real reasoning why he’d bought that axolotl.

Techno rolls his eyes.

He seriously can’t catch a break tonight, can he?

“Probably out on patrol or something,” Techno just says, clearly unbothered by the fact Tubbo wasn’t behind the counter at the pet store as he usually was, “Ranboo seemed like a good kid to me. He helped you find…”

Techno glances at the axolotl again.

“… that.”

Wilbur just shrugs, opening the back seat of the car so that Techno can carefully set both tanks on the floorboard where they won’t crack.

“Yeah, but… I wanted to see how his beehives are doing,” Wilbur says, slinking into the passenger seat (after Techno had shot him a harsh glare when he’d tried to drive again).

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Wil.”

Wilbur huffs, “Keep talking like that and I’ll start calling you Philza 2.0.”

“How terrible that would be.”

Wilbur smacks his arm.

———

Tommy sits on his sofa, his knees pulled to his chest as he gazes out his (still) broken window at the city lights, a cold breeze blowing in every now and then.

It’s nearing wintertime, Tommy realizes with a start and a slight grimace. He fucking hates winter. He isn’t really ready for summertime to end, no matter how much he melts out in the sunlight due to the amount of sweaters he puts on.

He grumbles a little under his breath but… it’s not quite winter yet.

He still has time to possibly go shopping for some more sweaters… maybe even some more work clothes if he has the money after rent… (maybe even a part time job for the weekends if he needs it, which he definitely will).

Tommy’s phone buzzes suddenly, interrupting his train of thought, and he frowns down at the contact name above the message.

His blood runs cold for a couple seconds and he does his best to keep his hand steady as he swipes the message to the right to properly read it.

Quackity: hey tommy. i’m busy this weekend so we will have to postpone your visit until next weekend. sorry about that. looking forward to seeing you though!
:] -Q

Tommy breathes a sigh of relief, running a hand through his hair and laughing a little to himself.

Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Tommy stares blankly at the fish tank Wilbur has set down in front of him, a yellow and orange axolotl swimming around excitedly in it, opening its mouth a little in a gape when Tommy puts his finger against the glass.

“So?” Wilbur asks, anxiously leaning against the counter, not liking the way Tommy’s just been completely silent the entire time, staring wide-eyed at the axolotl, “What uh… what do you think?”

Tommy blinks, almost as though he’s coming out of a dream-like state, and looks up at Wilbur.

“Huh?” he says and Wilbur snorts.

“I asked you what you thought about your axolotl, Toms,” Wilbur repeats with a gentle smile, albeit a bit strained.

Wilbur had been pretty anxious about giving the axolotl to Tommy in the hopes that the kid would like it.

He had specifically chosen this one for him, after all (what with the golden speckles across it and the way it so closely resembled the boy with its blank stare).

Tommy blinks again, looking from Wilbur to the axolotl, then back again, and then his eyes widen a fraction when he sees the axolotl once more, as if viewing it in an entirely new light.

“Wait, wait,” he begins, his voice soft and lilted, like a kid who just got offered a free ice cream, “You… wait. This axolotl is… you… you bought me an axolotl?”

(Normally this interaction would send Wilbur into a fit of laughter because it just goes to show how incredibly strange Tommy is when it comes to accepting gifts, as concerning as that may be, but…)

Wilbur just nods meekly and Tommy positively beams. Wilbur is vaguely reminded of the sunshine that had peered in through the blinds of his windows earlier that morning and an overwhelming feeling of fondness rushes over him.

“What the fuck, Wil?” Tommy squeaks, leaning down to examine the axolotl once more, the most genuine smile on his face, one that shows off a dimple in his right cheek, “You— why— are you being serious with me right now? Is this a joke?”

“No, of course it isn’t,” Wilbur responds, now frowning a little at the thought of playing a joke like that. “Why would I joke about this?”

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, “I dunno, just— wow, man. You fucking bought me an axolotl. I’m… holy shit, Wil.”

Then something must click, because Tommy’s smile fades and is replaced with horror and the boy rounds on Wilbur, “Oh— wait, shit, do you want me to pay you back or something? I, uh…”

Tommy trails off, quickly taking his (rather thin) wallet out of his back pocket and rifling through it, looking rather crestfallen when he looks up at Wilbur again, “I don’t really have the money to pay you back right now, but if I—”

“Tommy, Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts, and now he really can’t hide the concern in his voice, “Toms, I don’t want you to pay me back, man. It’s a gift.”

Tommy blinks at this, as if hearing the word for the first time.

“You…” Tommy frowns, mulling his choice of words over. “You don’t want reimbursement?”

“No, Tommy,” Wilbur rolls his eyes fondly, leaning against the counter again, his chin propped up on his hand, “I don’t want or need reimbursement.”

Wilbur then appears to remember something because he snorts and adds, “You made that last part pretty much apparent when you laid in what you really thought about rich people last night to Techno.”

A chill runs down Tommy’s back and he grimaces, flushing a tad, “He told you about that?”

“Yeah, I asked him where he’d been and he told me that he walked you home and that you made fun of him for looking like a rich pirate,” Wilbur’s grin is smug, “Genius, I tell you. You hit the nail right on the head with that one. I’ve been trying to tell him for years that his fashion sense was so weird…”

Tommy relaxes a little and then decides that he might as well destroy Wilbur’s ego now that he no longer feels like someone doused him in ice.

“Did he tell you what I’d said about you?” Tommy asks, making his tone all blasé, pretending to be distracted by his new best friend and son, the axolotl.

He doesn’t miss the pride he feels when Wilbur’s face falls a tad, the man’s eyebrows furrowing.

“No?? What— what the fuck did you say about me?” the man splutters, poking Tommy in the head so that he can have his full attention again.

“I said that you dressed like a nineteenth century vampire that wrote emo poetry and got no women,” Tommy responds with a sharp smirk, slapping Wilbur’s hand away that had gone to poke him again.

Wilbur’s face falls flat but there’s something that glints with amusement in his eye.

“You fucking child—” he seethes, trying to grab Tommy from the other side of the front counter but failing when Tommy pushes his roller chair backwards, a smirk on his face.

“Be careful, Wil, you might hurt my axolotl and then I’ll have to sue you.”

Wilbur glares at him, “I’ll just take your dumb fish back to the pet store and ask for a refund.”

Tommy gasps because clearly, this is definitely crossing a line.

“You wouldn’t do that,” Tommy whispers.

Wilbur grins.

“I definitely would.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow, “It’d be awfully rude for you to do that just because I made a properly correct statement about the way you dress, prick.”

“I don’t— I don’t fucking dress like a guy who doesn’t get women!” Wilbur seethes, leaning across the desk again with a sharp glare.

“Sounds like you’re in denial again. You’re backpedaling your grief stages, Wil, that isn’t good for your health.”

“Where are you even getting this information?” Wilbur whispers incredulously, one of his eyes twitching when Tommy grins widely.

“Audiobooks.”

————

“So, what did you name your axolotl?” Wilbur asks as he walks Tommy home that night (having shown up totally “accidentally” at Nook’s for a cup of black coffee, waiting practically the whole night for Tommy to shuffle over and sheepishly ask him to walk him home).

Tommy shifts the large tank in his arms that he’d had to keep in the back of Nook’s while he worked (Sam had an especially fun time observing the axolotl and Fran had nearly knocked the thing off the counter if Tommy hadn’t caught it immediately).

“Not sure yet,” Tommy says simply, “I was thinking back to when we were talking about weird poets and vampires and victorian era shit to try and name it but I can't think of anything so I just might go to Plan B.”

Wilbur isn’t sure he wants to hear what Plan B is but he asks anyway.

(As he expected, he didn’t want to know).

“Plan B is to just name him Piss Boy,” Tommy says with a grin that reads I’m definitely gonna use that one.

Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, exhaling.

Is this how Phil feels on a daily occasion? As though he’s going to rip his hair out and grow grey hairs thirty years early? He might just start feeling bad for the guy.

“Please do not name the axolotl I bought you fuckin’ Piss Boy,” Wilbur whines tiredly.

“You can’t tell me what to do, prick.”

“Consider it my reimbursement then,” Wilbur pleads, “Instead of paying me, you just do me this amazing of favour of not naming your axolotl that, holy shit.”

Tommy rolls his eyes.

“Fucking fine, jee-zus. You’re so dramatic. I’ll probably just name it Oswald or something then,” Tommy’s eyes light up as he pieces something together, “Like- like that cool poggers woman from Doctor Who.”

Wilbur snorts, “You’ve seen that show?”

“Obviously? I’d be a wrong’un if I hadn’t, wouldn’t I?”

Wilbur clicks his tongue, smirking, “Techno hasn’t seen it.”

Tommy gasps, “That- that won’t fuckin’ do.”

“He refuses to watch it, Tommy,” Wilbur says as they continue walking down the street, humming a little, “I’ve tried convincing him plenty of times but he won’t listen to me. He’s stubborn as shit.”

Tommy begins giggling at this, moving the tank in his hands a bit as he tries to cover up the fact that he’s laughing.

Wilbur raises an eyebrow at him, “What’s so funny?”

“You- hehe, stubborn as shit. That’s so true.”

Wilbur pauses as he processes the fact that Tommy had told him a literal shit joke and then the man’s nose wrinkles.

“What are you, like, twelve?” he asks in disgust.

“What? What? What’s wrong with a good shit joke?” Tommy frowns at him, “Shit’s my favourite thing to joke and talk about.”

“I fucking hate you. What’s wrong with you?” Wilbur whispers in horror. “You know what? Give Oswald back. I’m taking him.”

Tommy gasps, immediately wrapping his arms tighter around the tank, backing away from Wilbur, “No. You wouldn’t- you can’t. Oswald and I are bound now- we are platonic soulmates, if you will. They are my child. You can’t simply take them. I won’t let you.”

Wilbur makes a face, holding his hands up, “You have fucking issues, man. You can’t be platonic soulmates with a fucking fish.”

“Don’t say that!” Tommy says with a gasp, his arms tightening around the axolotl tank, “You’ll upset Oswald!”

Wilbur squints at the boy, taking in the slight boyish look to his face as if for the first time now, the way his eyes look slightly sparkly, and…

Honestly…

“Are you literally twelve years old?” Wilbur asks genuinely, and slightly worriedly.

“Fuck you, fuck you, I hate you and your stupid receding hairline and your emo outfits,” Tommy hisses. That doesn’t really answer his question. “Go- go fuck off and buy your dumb black coffees elsewhere from now on. I can walk myself home like a big man.”

Wilbur softens at this a little.

“Nah, I don’t think I will,” he says nonchalantly, although he means it. He doesn’t plan on leaving. Not anytime soon.

“Well, guess I’ll just have to kill you then,” Tommy says, so nonchalantly that it startles Wilbur and sends him into a spiel of chuckles, immediately elbowing Tommy in the side as he laughs.

“You couldn’t be able to kill me if you tried,” Wilbur seethes with a sharp grin, tossing an arm around Tommy’s shoulder, the kid immediately squawking in retort, pushing against the man’s arm and trying to get out from underneath it.

“Yes- yes I totally could!” Tommy squeaks out, slapping at Wilbur’s arms while the older man laughs gently.

“Why don’t you kill me this weekend, then?” he teases. “We can go to the park on Saturday or something like you wanted to do before, remember?”

It’s Tommy’s turn to soften this time and he snorts, rolling his eyes despite the warmth he feels that Wilbur actually wants to hang out with him sometime out of work hours.

That Tommy isn’t really just some kid at a bookstore Wilbur chats with because he’s bored but maybe… even a friend?

The thought or mere idea of that makes Tommy feel so overwhelmed that he just glares at Wilbur.

“Okay, fine, I guess I will hang out with you, you clingy bitch,” he grumbles at the man, smacking Wilbur’s again, the guy finally relenting with a final laugh and a ruffle of Tommy’s curls, “Now get your super stinky rich hands off of me you absolute rat bastard.”

————

Tommy is half asleep when the knock at his door has him stumbling off of his sofa and clamoring over to the front of his apartment, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He walks past the tank that Wilbur had helped him set up, which rests on his kitchen counter, Oswald swimming around excitedly upon seeing him, but Tommy’s a little too tired right now to focus on his beloved Oswald.

Upon reaching his front door, Tommy at least has the common sense this time to peek through the hole in the door, groaning in anguish when he sees the familiar looming figure of the fucking Blade standing in front of his apartment.

And his day was going so well, too.

(He should’ve known that it was all a lie).

Tommy pulls the front door open, his form sagging a bit as he glares up at the Blade, “Fuck y’u doin’ here again?”

“Well, since you kicked me out last time I visited because I came in through the window,” The Blade begins with a drawl, “I figured I would come in what you called the ‘normal’ way and at a pretty normal time.”

Normal time, my ass, Tommy thinks to himself as he bitterly glances at the time over the oven which reads 1:03 am. At least it’s a bit better than four, though.

“Speaking of my window,” Tommy slurs, tilting his head back to glare at the still broken window that he’s pinned a very thin blanket over top of, “You still haven’t fixed it, dickhead, even though you said you would.”

“I’ll fix it after the debt is up,” The Blade responds simply with a shrug, his head tilting slowly downwards to look back at Tommy from the broken window.

“Do you just sleep all the time or something?” The Blade muses suddenly, apparently taking in Tommy’s wrinkled clothing and disgruntled state.

“Fuck you,” Tommy responds with a faux sweet tone, flipping the villain off.

The Blade snorts, “So are you gonna invite me in or just postpone our blood debt another couple weeks?”

Tommy stands there for a second, as though processing what the villain had just said before shrugging and moving aside, allowing the Blade to walk into his apartment.

(He had seriously considered making the Blade leave just to spite the guy before remembering that it was going to impact him more negatively than the latter).

“Your apartment seems to shrink every time I visit,” the Blade hums, his head turned particularly in the direction of Tommy’s new pet axolotl, as though minorly intrigued at the creature swimming around enthusiastically.

Tommy’s eyes narrow at him, following his gaze.

“You can insult my apartment all you want but if you lay a fucking finger on Oswald or his tank, I’ll filet you like a fish,” Tommy mutters reverently, trying his best to sound ominous and terrifying but it just comes out as someone still ridden with sleep.

The Blade snorts.

“I’m not going to hurt Oswald,” the man says, twisting the name with his words in a way that sounds mostly amused, “But you do know that I’m here to spar with you, right? I’m not just here to insult your too-small apartment or worrying sleep schedule.”

Tommy nods, rubbing his eyes with his fists, trying to get any sort of lingering sleep out of them.

“I know, bitch, I’m not stupid,” Tommy hums, blinking a little against the bleariness of the apartment around him.

“Do you want to postpone our lesson again?” The Blade asks for what feels like the third time, now sounding truly amused, especially when Tommy glares up at him furiously.

“No, no, we are not fuckin’ postponing our lesson,”
Tommy hisses, and now he looks a little more awake than he had before, a finger pointing accusingly at the Blade, “I want to get this blood debt thing of yours over and done with, off of my plate, and fucking gone so I can just live my life, thank you.”

The Blade raises an eyebrow despite knowing that Tommy won’t be able to see it, but then the man just turns back to the door, which had remained wide open, allowing moonlight to stream through, “Shall we, then?”

Tommy watches the man carefully, taking another long look around his apartment, as if saying his final goodbyes to it.

Then he turns and follows the supervillain out of his apartment, still pretty tired and really unsure about his current life choices.

————

Tommy leans over the side of the tall building, frowning a bit suspiciously down at the dots of lights and the cars that pass by below, a cold breeze making him shiver and his bangs blow away from his face, tickling just above his brow.

Something familiar clicks with him, and he turns away from the edge of the building with a strange feeling bubbling in his throat, tapping his fingers against his thigh to distract himself.

The Blade stands not too far away, bending down beside an old tin box and shifting through it before pulling out two wooden swords — and Tommy immediately turns his nose up.

“Why the hell are we practicing with wooden swords?” he asks, trying his best not to conceal how incredibly disappointed he is with this ordeal.

“Why wouldn’t we?” The Blade drawls, sounding almost bored as he tosses a wooden sword in Tommy’s direction, the boy having to scramble to catch it easily, “It’s universal to use wooden swords when doing a beginner’s level of training in the art of sword fighting.”

Tommy huffs, snorting in irritation at how incredibly pretentious The Blade of all people was sounding. For a man that went around fighting against the heroes (who were just as stuck up as he seemed to be), he sure tends to talk like them sometimes.

(A chill rushes up his spine at who the Blade reminds him of, a distant feeling of an emotion he wishes he no longer had making his hands shake and his fingers grow numb. He tightens his grip on the wooden sword in his hands, trying to fight off the feeling).

The Blade saunters forwards, and Tommy’s first instinct is to flee with how incredibly terrifying the man looks walking towards him, practically looming over him with a height no person should be allowed to have —

— and then it hits Tommy all too suddenly, as if someone reached into his head and flicked on a switch, or finally put together the final piece on a game of Mystery.

Tommy backs away, holding his sword up with shaking arms, because he’d forgotten with how tired he was, how lost in his own mind of holy shit he was going to be taught sword fighting by the Blade and also oh my god I’m going to spar with a literal supervillain, why can’t I just be a normal fucking civilian?, unable to realize the major fucking elephant in the room.

The Blade was a member of the Syndicate — hell, some even called him the founder of the cult of supervillains, despite him always being treated as a member one level beneath the true leader.

The Archangel, with a big hat that overshadowed the upper half of his face and blonde hair that curled underneath his pointed ears.

How could Tommy forget that?

How could he possibly forget that he had been a fucking witness just a couple days ago to one of the other Syndicate members’ murders?

(Not to mention that everyone knew that the Bard was the lucky number three of the trio of Syndicate members, the one who always seemed to wander the night with the rest of his strange, almost family-like supervillains trailing right beside him).

Tommy’s grip grew tighter around the wooden blade more and he backed away from The Blade, who was now walking towards him so quickly, so fast that Tommy wasn’t sure if he’d be able to say goodbye because he was a witness and witnesses had to die in the Syndicate, and the Blade probably knew about it, and—

“Kid,” a voice says calmly, a little too calmly and there’s someone kneeling down right in front of him and he can feel eyes watching him that makes him shift uncomfortably. “Tommy, kid, are you alright?”

“I’m—” Tommy slowly looks up at the Blade, who has completely stopped everything, has even gone as far as putting his own wooden training sword down to kneel in front of Tommy, to ask if he’s alright.

Tommy has a sudden curl of warmth in his chest and a pricking of something strange at the corner of his eyes but he ignores it, averting his eyes to the ground, “I’m sorry.”

The Blade exhales a bit, “Don't apologize.”

Tommy just hums a little in his throat, refusing to look back up at the Blade, because what if this is all a trick, and he’s just being strung along like bait at this point?

It wouldn’t be surprising — not really.

Despite the way Tommy couldn’t give a shit about supervillains or heroes (honestly, both annoyed him to an equal amount), it was a normal thing for someone of either side to just… string a normal, totally harmless citizen along for the fun of it.

(For many supervillains or heroes get bored. Tommy has seen it one too many times).

“Do you want to get back to training?” The Blade wonders, breaking Tommy from his thoughts.

The villain’s tone edges on something genuine that Tommy almost feels like he can say not to, that he can return to his apartment for a little while before he dies, that he can say goodbye to his axoltol who he will surely be gifting back to Wilbur, and fuck, say goodbye to Wilbur as well…

“Yeah,” is all Tommy mutters, hand reaching out to grab the wooden sword he’d dropped when he’d started to freak out, and a cold breeze passes him by (it’s so familiar that Tommy has to dig his fingernails into his palms to ignore it). “Let’s… just get back to sparring.”

————

Techno knows the way someone looks when they’ve been trained.

He can see it in Wilbur, a man of many words and songs that float in your ears and wrap you up in a blanket.

He can see it in Tubbo, a kid forced to be an adult much too quickly, an empty look in gray-resembling eyes and a sharp grin whenever something that interests him is brought up (but anytime else, a blank stare).

He can even see it in himself when he looks into the mirror, crimson eyes boring back at him, a green emerald discarded onto the bathroom sink, lip curled around sharpened teeth.

(A soldier rescued from what could’ve been).

Techno can especially, though, see it in Tommy— the way the kid reacts to certain things, the way his eyes tend to gloss over if something is brought up that resurfaces memories (that shouldn't even be there to begin with), the way the kid walks with a slouch as though trying to hide everything about himself, golden curls spilling into blue eyes.

And Techno can particularly notice it in the way Tommy spars with him.

It doesn’t take sharp eyes to tell that Tommy knows what he’s doing, with every dodge and sharp jab, Techno can see (even with how inexperienced Tommy is still) that the boy has sword fought before.

Which only begs a couple questions, Techno realizes after concluding their first sword fighting lesson and sending Tommy home (trying to ignore how relieved the boy seemed, as though Techno had just stood over him and told him that he would spare his life rather than kill him).

Who had trained him, and were they the reason Tommy was so skittish? Was the person who taught Tommy to act so brash and then pull an entire 180 purely out of fear, were they the same person who’d inflicted the different bandages on Tommy’s arms and neck?

Whatever the answer (whoever the answer, more like), Techno could almost feel the familiarity of a bloodthirsty rage building up in the back of his throat.

…

Wilbur was going to be elated when Techno gets home.

———

Tommy stares out the window over the city back in his apartment, deja vu to the many nights before that he had done this same thing, watching the lights flicker and go out before turning back on over the city.

It’s cold, it’s so cold and Tommy can’t help but think back to the ways had been once before, to the way things ended so quickly, to the reckless nature that he so hated about himself.

…

If he wanted to be able to walk home again, to not have to drag along one of his friends for a feeling of some sort of security (a lifeline, if you will), then Tommy…

He’s going to have to destroy that hoodie, honestly.

It’s the most logical option, obviously, but…

Tommy wouldn’t exactly call himself a hoarder or anything, but he hated getting rid of items, even things such as worthless or simple as the hoodie he’d stuffed into the back of his closet out of paranoia.

It really would be such a waste of a comfortable hoodie to destroy it over the sake of a dumb fucking stuck up supervillain.

Tommy decides to take his chances.

Chapter Text

Tommy’s entire body aches when he wakes up the next morning. He hadn’t trained in a long time and the panic attack he’d had only made it worse, unfortunately.

He’s just grateful that it’s a weekend and that he doesn’t have much to do except lay on the sofa and potentially talk to Oswald.

(He considers calling Tubbo and asking him to come over, but the idea of trying to do something that involves moving too much makes his entire body only feel heavier).

A cold breeze drifts in through the window, billowing against the blanket he’d pinned up above it, and Tommy relaxes into the cushions of his sofa again, arms feeling like lead and a yawn escaping his mouth.

Maybe he can let himself sleep just a little bit longer…

———

It feels like only seconds pass before Tommy’s jolted awake by his phone ringing, the obnoxious sound of a song from a certain video game’s OST echoing in the rather empty apartment.

Drearily, he reaches out and picks his phone up, pressing his ear to the cell without even checking the contact name, muttering, “Hello?”

“Tommy!” an enthusiastic Wilbur says from the other line and Tommy holds back a groan of irritation — before he’s suddenly very awake because when the hell did Wilbur get his number?

“Where did you get this number, shithead?” Tommy grumbles.

“You sound really tired, Toms,” Wilbur hums, tone twinging with concern, “Did you get enough sleep last night? You really should sleep more, it’s good for your health and it’s upsetting to see you with your dark circles at work all the time.”

“You’re avoiding my question, Wil.”

Wilbur sighs.

“Fine. I got it from Phil.”

Tommy makes a face, even though he’s aware that Wilbur can’t see it.

“What? Fuck do you mean, you got it from Phil? He wouldn’t just give away my personal information to some fucking weird emo guy who comes into his bookstore just to chat with his best employee,” Tommy hisses.

“Ah, well…” Wilbur chuckles nervously, sounding quite guilty about something, “You see, uh… Phil’s my father.”

…

“What?”

Wilbur’s suddenly chuckling now, sounding very much amused at the fact he’s just made Tommy feel like he’s in a whole different fucking timeline.

“You’re— are you— what?” Tommy splutters out, really unable to say anything more than that at how bewildered he is. “What fucking timeline is this? Are you shitting me right now, Wilbur Soot? If that’s even your surname, you liar.”

This only makes Wilbur laugh more, much to his irritation.

“Stop fucking laughing, dickhead! Explain yourself!” Tommy hisses into the phone, eyes narrowing, slowly getting to his feet so that he can do what he calls an angry pace around his apartment to collect his thoughts. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No, Tommy, I’m not fucking with you,” Wilbur says between giggles.

“Then prove it, you bastard! Put Phil on the phone right now.”

Wilbur snorts and then there’s the sound of rustling, of someone talking, of another person laughing loudly, and then—

“Hey, mate,” Phil says, sounding just as amused as Wilbur, “So the cat’s outta the bag, huh?”

Tommy does the only reasonable thing.

He hangs up the phone.

————

“This is— this is fucking disgraceful,” Tommy spits out at a Wilbur who stands grinning in his doorway, hands behind his back and rocking from his heels and onto his toes (much like Tommy does), dressed up in the same outfit that makes him look like a fancy vampire. “I can’t believe you didn’t fucking tell me that your father is also my literal boss and then just show up on my doorstep after leaving me, like, fifty missed calls.”

“It was only like ten missed calls, Toms, don’t overex—”

“We are no longer besties. We- we are no longer pseudo-brothers, if you will,” Tommy interrupts, turning his face away from the man with his arms crossed, as though he has just tossed the most offensive comment the guy’s way.

Wilbur’s eyebrow raises at this, and he almost looks sad for a moment, when his expression is much too quickly swapped for something smug that Tommy doesn’t like at all.

“So what you’re saying is,” Wilbur begins, his voice slow and eyes turning up into crescent moons when he smiles all stupid and smug like, leaning down almost eye level with Tommy, “That we were brothers, then?”

Tommy flushes.

He’s been pushed into a corner here.

(He didn’t actually compute saying that out loud until Wilbur had confirmed it).

“Leave my fucking house,” he manages to say between bristles, pointing down the walkway for the man to take the stairs back down to the first floor.

Wilbur frowns and then says with a whine, “But we were gonna go to the park, weren’t we? You said we were so that you could properly kill me or whatever. Are you going back on your promise?”

He does have a point.

Tommy can properly invoke his revenge upon the guy there.

But he didn’t exactly make a promise.

… But, it would be fun to push Wilbur into that pond he’s seen at the park before.

So, Tommy glares at him silently for a couple moments (hating the way Wilbur just patiently waits for his answer), before hissing, “Fine. Wait here.”

Then the door is slammed shut in Wilbur’s face.

———

Wilbur’s in his room when Techno gets home, hunched over his desk that has a mound of scattered papers and fresh parchment atop of it, some papers balled up underneath it by his feet as the man furiously writes something onto a new piece with a quill.

Usually when he’s this immersed in his work (“Songwriting is an art where I must not be disturbed ever. I must concentration with every ounce of my being,” Wilbur had claimed ominously once when Techno had gone in to pull him to patrol), Techno doesn’t even try to talk to him, but…

He’ll probably be interested in what he has to say since it involves Tommy this time.

With a quick shove to the back of Wilbur’s head, Techno gets his attention, his twin brother turning and glaring at him with fire in his eyes.

“What do you want, prick?” he asks — usually he’d be a lot more irritated, but when Techno bothers him, he tends to know it must be something important. Techno wasn’t dumb enough (or cared enough) to disturb Wilbur when he was busy unless it required immediate attention.

“I just got back from my first lesson with Tommy,” Techno says, humming and taking a seat on the edge of Wilbur’s bed, the man immediately frowning (he hates when Techno sits anywhere before changing out of his bloodied villain outfit, but tonight it was simply covered in asphalt from training on the rooftop of an abandoned work building).

“Hmm,” Wilbur just says, a bit uninterested in this, turning away from Techno to continue scratching at the parchment with his quill, “Did he do well?”

“A lot more than I expected,” Techno admits, approval clear in his tone. “He almost seems… trained.”

Wilbur tenses a little, his hand poised over the next word he’d been writing, eyeing his brother out the corner of his eye.

“What are you trying to imply, Technoblade?” Wilbur asks venomously.

“You know exactly what I’m implying, Wil.”

Wilbur’s silent for a moment.

“Do you think he’s a hero, then?” he asks and Techno immediately snorts at the idea.

“Do you seriously think a hero would go out of their way to save someone like me?” Techno drawls and Wilbur’s shoulders relax a little bit. “A vigilante, however…”

Wilbur exhales, dropping his quill to the desk with a clatter, running his hands up and down his face, “Is that all you wanted to tell me? That Tommy could potentially be just some vigilante?”

“Not really,” Techno begins, and Wilbur turns carefully in his chair, looking exhausted, his curls a little messed up from relentlessly dragging a hand through them (picking his brain for lyrical ideas, undoubtedly).

“What else is it, then?”

“When I say the word trained,” Techno hums, flicking a piece of gravel off of his clothing, “I mean that I think he was taught to act the way he does sometimes by someone.”

Techno’s eyes flicker up to Wilbur, the two of them sharing a dangerous look.

“What do you expect to do about it?” Wilbur asks with a sharp tone, eyes twinkling with something that bites.

Techno just shrugs.

If his theory is right, he knows exactly what he will do, and he’s more than certain both Phil and Wilbur will help him do it.

“We shall see.”

———

“You know, Toms, you could’ve been a lot nicer,” Wilbur says, making a pouting face as the two wander through the park after Tommy had changed into a couple more pairs of sweaters. “You didn’t have to slam the door in my face.”

Tommy smirks a little, shrugging.

“Take it as payback for not telling me ahead of time that Phil was literally your dad.”

“Oh come on,” Wilbur frowns, “Is it really that big of a deal?”

“Yes,” Tommy seethes, slapping Wilbur in the ribs, frowning at the man, “It is that big of a deal because Phil is an incredibly big man and one of the most poggers dude alive and also absolutely fucking scary as shit so it’s hard to believe that you of all people come from that guy.”

Wilbur blinks at him, “What the fuck did you even just say?”

Tommy sighs aggressively, the way he does when he’s aggravated.

“Fuckin’— whatever. Forget it, bitch,” he mutters, kicking a rock that’s in the way on the dirt path they walk on. “Lets just keep walking through this stupid park and- and lets also talk about women.”

Eventually, they reach a clearing in the park with nothing but wildflowers dotting the grass and a pond right in the middle, and Tommy rushes from where he’d been rambling by Wilbur’s side (something about how irritating his coworker, Jack, is), right up to the pond.

“Look how pretty it is, Wil,” Tommy says in a hushed tone, full of admiration, kneeling down beside the little pond to poke a lily pad on the surface. “I adore this pond. It’s so lovely and I have decided that I now own it.”

Wilbur, who had followed close behind and now bends down beside Tommy, a fond smile on his face, tilts his head, “You can’t just own a pond, Tommy.”

“I can and I will, because I say so,” Tommy responds in a hum, kneeling forwards a little more to touch a different lilypad with a flower on top of it. “I’ve named it Tom’s Pond.”

“You just named it after yourself?”

“Yeah, got a problem, bitch?”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, deciding not to respond, turning away to also touch one of the lily pads in the water with gentle hands.

The water flutters a bit in the breeze, sunlight sparkling off the surface like stars in a night sky.

“It is pretty lovely,” Wilbur murmurs gently, and Tommy turns to him, that smile on his face that so closely resembles a sunrise.

“It is, innit?”

Wilbur returns the smile, and an idea clicks in his head, suddenly reaching out and grabbing Tommy by the shoulders in his excitement, the boy looking up to frown at him in confusion.

Before Tommy can even say anything, Wilbur blurts out,

“Tommy, would you like to help me make an ecosystem?”

“I- pardon?”

Wilbur just grins wider.

———

“This— this is so fucking grim,” Tommy says with a remorseful look on his face, knees pulled up to his chest, sitting as far away from Wilbur as possible as the man scoops dirt and water into a jar they’d bought at the nearest market possible.

“It’s an ecosystem,” Wilbur says, his voice full of full adoration as he continues to scoop water into the jar.

“It looks more like a jar full of fucking dirt and tadpoles to me,” Tommy responds, shooting the man a deadpanned expression.

“To an ignorant child like you, it would seem that way,” Wilbur jokes, and Tommy’s face scrunchies up.

“What the fuck, man?—”

Suddenly Wilbur gasps and he pulls his hands out of the pond, putting the lid onto the jar and turning excitedly to Tommy, holding out the dirty water towards the boy, grinning in a way that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle.

“Look, Toms! My ecosystem!”

“Your ecosystem,” Tommy repeats, then realization seems to hit him and his face falls, his tone taking on something like a whine, “Wait- wait, Wil, Wil, that- that’s from my fuckin’ pond- Willlllll, that’s from my pond.”

The idea only makes Wilbur smile wider, “Yeah, and now it’s my ecosystem.”

“Nooo, man, that’s from my pond, what’s wrong with you?” Tommy complains, making a pouting face at Wilbur in hopes it would work. “You- you can’t just go around stealing a man’s pond water and creatures, asshole.”

Wilbur, the smart fucker, doesn’t even glance his way or acknowledge his last comment, “Yeah it is your pond, but now we have a shared ecosystem, isn’t that cool?”

“No, no, that is not cool, that is- it’s simply stealing, you prick,” Tommy says in a pout, letting go of his knees to move closer to Wilbur.

Wilbur ignores him again, holding the jar up in front of his eyes, beaming widely as he examines the small creatures inside of it, “I think I’ll name it.”

“No, you cannot name it, that’s my thing!”

Wilbur snorts, now turning to look at Tommy, who has sadly clamored over so that he sits beside Wilbur, curiously (and mournfully) looking at the ecosystem jar.

“Fine, then how about I let you name it, does that sound better?” Wilbur bribes, and Tommy lights up a tad.

“… I can maybe agree to that,” Tommy hums a little, sounding less upset.

“Let’s hear a name, then,” Wilbur says with a grin.

Tommy frowns a little, thinking as he gazes at the jar, moving closer so he can look into it, before reaching out his hands curiously, eyes flicking up to Wilbur, who looks positively and unbelievably fond as he gently sets the jar into Tommy’s hands.

Tommy gazes into it a little more, then his face morphs into an evil little grin and all at once, Tommy places the jar down onto the grass (very gently, mind you), and then tackles Wilbur, pushing him into the pond, the man letting out a loud shriek.

“You fucking—!”

———

Wilbur trudges into his house, Tommy following close behind, coughing profusely with how hard he had been laughing, the two completely drenched in pond water.

Tommy’s arms are wrapped around the ecosystem jar, and he looks like Christmas has come early… while Wilbur looks more like he’d just seen some shit he regrets seeing.

After Tommy had tackled Wilbur into the pond and the two had fought in the water, screaming at each other all the while, Wilbur had practically forced him to come over to his house so that they could both get changed and not catch a cold.

Tommy agreed (but only after Wilbur bribed him with the chance of seeing the almighty Phil Craft outside of work. That was simply something that Tommy could not pass up).

“I fucking hate you,” Wilbur grumbles to Tommy as he leads him up the steps of his fucking mansion (it was actually just a normal, but very expensive penthouse, but the second Tommy walked inside he was floored at how expensive everything looked).

“No, no, you do not,” Tommy chirps in response, his voice slightly wavering at how completely infatuated he is with how the house looks, fingers gingerly skidding across the wall, as though terrified of touching something so opulent.

Wilbur snorts at the way the boy continues to look around, a weird expression on his face, and continues leading him up the steps until they reach a long hallway.

Wilbur motions to a room in particular, “This is one of the bathrooms, you can use it to take a shower. There’s shampoos and shit in there, but it’s Techno’s bathroom specifically, so it’s all of his weird expensive shampoos because he’s ridiculous. I’ll go get you some clothing you can change into.”

Tommy blinks a little, reaching out to touch the handle of the bathroom door that looks like it’s made of silver, then looking up at Wilbur in confusion, “You… what do you mean?”

“What- what do you mean?” Wilbur frowns a little; he was certain he had explained it fairly well.

At seeing Tommy’s face still showing full confusion, Wilbur repeats, “Uh… you can take a shower and wash off the gross pond water and I’ll get you some of my clothes to change into…?”

“Oh,” Tommy repeats and it’s soft, and then the boy clears his throat, returning to his normal tone, “I mean- yeah. I knew that. I’ll uh.. just take a nice warm shower then…”

Tommy opens the door warily, then turns quickly and pushes the ecosystem jar that he’d been hugging to his chest into Wilbur’s hands, “Here.”

Then Tommy quickly goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving a very confused Wilbur in his wake.

———

Tommy isn’t used to warm showers, or really showers at all.

As much as he hates to admit it, the only time he really is able to take even the vaguest of warm showers is when he visits Tubbo and Ranboo’s flat and the two let him use one of their showers (but he always has a limit, because they are no more rich than he is).

The shower is… extremely nice, honestly, and the aching in his body returns tenfold against the warm water, and he feels extremely exhausted out of nowhere, arms wrapping around himself.

He gets out of the shower not too long after washing his hair - with some really nice scented stuff in one of the bathroom holders, something that reminds him of honeysuckle and dandelions and has weirdly never been used.

(He doesn’t dare glance in the mirror, at the bruises staining his skin or the now wet bandages wrapped around his neck down, stopping right above his hipbone that he refuses to change ever. He knows what he looks like, he hates to remind himself of it).

Tommy moves cautiously over to the bathroom door and opens the door slightly, revealing folded clothing sitting right outside the door — an extremely soft jumper and a pair of folded trousers.

Sitting right on top of the clothing is a big pair of turquoise socks with orcas on them that Tommy mentally notes to make fun of Wilbur for later.

None of these clothes are going to fit, he thinks to himself bitterly, but puts them on anyway.

————

Tommy moves down the hallway, his arms wrapped around himself, fingers twisted into the fabric of the jumper that he practically swims in (it floods below his knees and he has to roll the sleeves up — the trousers, or sweatpants, as well bunch up around his ankles and he had to quadruple tie the waist knot to make them stay).

Water drips down his neck from his hair, and a shiver goes up his spine about the troupe of red hair dye dripping red when washed…

Then realizes with a frown that he… he’s in fucking Wilbur’s house. In the shower he had been so immersed in how warm the water was and how nice the never used shampoo smelled, but… he has no clue where the fuck to go now.

So, he does the only thing he can think of and goes downstairs cautiously, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible, and—

“So Wilbur finally dragged you home,” a familiar monotone voice says and Tommy flinches, glancing over the staircase railing to find a rather domestic looking Technoblade watching him with the same blank look on his face.

“Don’t- you can’t just scare me like that, prick,” Tommy responds, narrowing his eyes, “And what the hell do you mean ‘finally?’”

Techno ignores the question, watching Tommy with a careful expression as the boy continues down the steps and stops in front of the man, his nose wrinkling when he has to practically crane his neck up to look at him, just as he has to do with both Wilbur and Ranboo.

It’s fucking annoying.

“You’re too tall,” Tommy decides, voice lilting, “I think you should do something about that.”

“How exactly am I supposed to do something about that, kid?”

“Hmm, I recommend simply shrinking,” Tommy says with a sharp grin, Techno rolling his eyes a bit at that.

Tommy swivels his head around then, looking at all the stuff around, and sniffing a bit before muttering, “Also, uh… I have no idea where the fuck I am, so could you uh… do me a favour and show me the most poggers part of the house?”

Techno hums in accordance, tilting his head to the right a little, motioning for Tommy to follow him.

“Just try not to drip your wet hair everywhere.”

“No promises.”

———

Tommy is in complete awe.

He is positively at full pog right now.

There’s a library in this fucker’s p̶e̶n̶t̶h̶o̶u̶s̶e̶ mansion. And it’s bigger than the one he works at, which he had assumed to be physically impossible.

“Holy fucking shit,” he whispers, unable to think of any other possible words to describe what he feels right now, blue eyes full of stars.

Techno snickers a little, the little heh heh that Tommy had grown so accustomed to, and a big hand reaches out to ruffle his wet curls.

“Ew, I forgot your hair was wet,” Techno then complains, reaching out and wiping his hand on Tommy’s borrowed jumper, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Hey, bitch!” Tommy squawks, slapping Techno’s hand away, eyebrows furrowed, “Don’t just wipe your wet hand on my fucking sweater, prick!”

“Hmm, pretty sure that’s Wilbur’s sweater,” Techno chides, and then he looks mildly amused, muttering something that sounds like ‘possessive bastard’.

Tommy decides to ignore it in order to now look around at the large bookshelves looming over the two of them, to walk over to stand in the sunlight of the big bay window on the other side of the room, shivering in the warmth of the sun pouring onto him, the smell of old books so familiar and so comforting…

“There you two are,” Wilbur’s voice floats into the room, the heavy dark oak door shifting open with a creak when the man walks in, sounding a little exasperated and relieved, “I've been looking for you for ten minutes, Tommy.”

Tommy just hums in response, putting his hand up against the glass of the window, his palm heating up especially as the sun hits it.

“You’re so overprotective,” Techno comments in a hushed tone to Wilbur once the man leans against the wall.

Wilbur huffs a laugh as he watches Tommy with a calm, fond expression, “Says you, Mr. I-Nearly-Killed-Someone-For-No-Reason-Because-Tommy-Showed-Signs-of-Trauma.”

Techno ignores that because Tommy turns at this moment, his smile so genuine that it outshines even the sun floating in through the windows, “This is seriously a part of your fuckin house? This big ass library? This- this is so cool,”

“It really is, isn’t it?” Wilbur hums with a smile in return.

The man had never enjoyed the library this much before today.

Techno has to agree.

————

Tommy sprawls out on the large, extremely comfortable sofa in the living room, laying down on his side as he always does, curling up, “This is so fucking comfortable, what the hell?”

Wilbur, who plops down beside the boy, snickers a little, tossing his arm around the back of the sofa, “You’re not the only one who thinks so. It’s Phil’s favourite place in the house, other than what we call his grandpa chair.”

Tommy shoots up like a rocket at the mention of Phil, eyes suddenly wide, “Holy shit, I forgot- you- oh my Gods. Where is Phil?”

“He’s out at the grocery right now,” Wilbur snorts when Tommy’s face falls a little, quick to reassure, “But he will be back later tonight, if you’d like to stay for a bit longer.”

Tommy frowns, considering this.

On one hand, he kind of wants to go home so that he can relax comfortably in his own home, so that he doesn’t have to watch his tongue or what he says like he does when he’s around others, but on the other hand…

Wilbur’s house is so incredibly warm, and so is his jumper and the borrowed trousers and the extremely warm (but stupid) socks, and then there’s also the opportunity to see Phil and make fun of him.

“Okay,” Tommy says gently, turning to Wilbur who looks positively elated at his answer. “But only until Phil gets home, then I’m leaving, bitch boy.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilbur says, still grinning that stupid, dopey grin of his. “In the meantime, do you want to watch a movie?”

“What… uh, what kinda movie?” Tommy begins warily. He is not liking the mischievous grin on Wilbur’s face at all. For all he knows, this guy watches weird documentaries about animals and is actually interested in them.

Tommy’s short attention span couldn’t last even five minutes of a documentary.

“I was thinking I’d show you one of my favourite movies,” Wilbur said with a shrug, getting up from the sofa and stretching a bit, walking over to the television and bending down to the multiple discs stacked.

“What movie is that…?” Tommy continues, sitting up against the couch, pulling his knees to his chest. “If it’s some dumbass documentary shit, I’m going to absolutely stab you.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes as he pulls a disc out from the dvds, standing up straight and flashing the cover in Tommy’s direction, “We’re watching Spirited Away, not a fucking documentary, you gremlin.”

“Thank fucking God,” Tommy sighs, then he frowns, “Wait, what? Is Spirited Away scary? It sounds scary.”

“Aww, are you scared, Toms?” Wilbur mocks, and Tommy’s face twists up in disgust.

“No, I’m not fuckin’ scared, it was a normal question, idiot,” Tommy hisses defensively.

“Well, to answer your ‘normal’ question, no, it isn’t a horror movie,” Wilbur responds, putting the disc into the DVD player, “It’s a Studio Ghibli film, actually.”

“A what?”

Wilbur spins around, looking dismayed, “You… you don’t know what fucking Studio Ghibli is?”

“No?” Tommy blinks, “Should I??”

“That is even worse than Techno not seeing Doctor Who,” Wilbur says, taking the remote from next to the DVD player and then flopping back down onto the sofa, “If we are gonna be brothers, then you have to watch Studio Ghibli films. I’m going to keep you here until we watch all of them, starting with Spirited Away.”

“What the hell?” Tommy grimaces, despite the warmth in his chest that comes when Wilbur calls them brothers, “You- you can’t just keep me here against my will, bitch.”

Wilbur just hums, pressing play on the movie, “We will see if you even want to leave after you watch this.”

————

Tommy’s wrapped in a blanket (brought into the room by Techno, who had decided to join them in watching Spirited Away, sat in the chair that Wilbur had said was Phil’s grandpa chair) when Phil walks into the house.

It’s nearing the end of the movie and Tommy is so infatuated with the animated movie that he barely moves his eyes from the screen when Phil walks in, arms full of groceries.

Beside him, Wilbur is sprawled out on the sofa, resting back against the cushions with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He looks over when Phil walks in, and Techno leans his head back to watch their father walk inside.

“Hey, Phil,” Techno calls, and now Tommy looks up, eyes wide (despite the way they had been slowly dropping through the movie).

“Holy shit, it’s true,” Tommy hisses, and Phil lets out a string of chuckles, maneuvering around the living room to go into the kitchen with his grocery bags.

“Hi, mate,” Phil says to Tommy as he walks, not even having to look at the TV screen to know what movie’s playing, “I see Wil’s forced you into watching one of his favourite movies.”

“Yes,” Tommy nods feverently, still in shock that Wilbur hadn’t been lying to him about Phil being his literal father.

But… Tommy decides to bookmark this for later.

He has to know what happens next in Spirited Away or he just might die.

————

Tommy’s sniffling a little once the movie’s finished, doing his best to hide it by wrapping the blanket tighter around himself and his head, sipping a little to his curls cover his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the concerned sound coming from both Wilbur and Techno.

“Toms?” Wilbur murmurs, and a hand touches his shoulder gently, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tommy replies, trying to sound aggressive as normal but his voice cracks a little, “It’s just… she… she got back home to her family.”

Oh, Wilbur thinks, and without another thought he’s holding his arms out.

Tommy glances at him and then, with a moment of hesitation, the boy leans all of his weight forwards into Wilbur’s arms, being immediately swept up into the warmth, a chin resting on his curls as he sniffles a little.

It’s pathetic, really, for him to be so vulnerable like this, crying from a dumbass animated movie about such a reason as family.

(He’s never had a family before, at least, not one that ever lasted, and the thought only makes the tears worse).

It’s especially stupid of him to be crying about it in this guy’s arms, a guy who started coming into the bookstore only a month ago and had quickly become someone Tommy considered a friend (a brother, a voice whispered in his mind).

“Shhh,” the man who Tommy had once sworn he despised, a hand running through his curls and another resting against his back all featherlight (because when it had pushed against his back to hold him more protectively, Tommy had winced terribly). “You’re okay, Toms. You’re okay.”

Thank you, Tommy wants to say, but he can’t, because he just might sob more if he does.

Instead, he leans further into the warmth, and lets himself be comforted, for once. Just this once.

————

“So, it’s kinda strange seeing me outside of work, huh?” Phil says from the other side of the dinner table, smiling gently at Tommy, who has stopped crying and now gives Phil a rather strange expression.

“Very strange,” Tommy admits, turning his eyes away to stare at the food Phil had put on his plate — it was something he had never seen before, a concoction of soft bread, almost… like a pie of some sorts?

Do rich people eat dessert before dinner? Tommy thinks, blinking a little at the pie in front of him.

Techno must feel his confusion, because he looks over from where he’s sat beside Tommy (much to Wilbur’s despair, who probably wanted to sit by Tommy, big L for him), “It’s got vegetables and meat inside.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, picking up the fork from the table gingerly (everything in this fucking house is so expensive)poking the pie in front of him.

He stares at it for a moment (unaware of the three amused people watching him while eating the pie themselves), before Tommy suddenly stabs the pie aggressively, looking inside at the vegetables and meat now spilling out onto his plate.

He bends down to look at it closer, but is interrupted by a long string of wheezing laughter from Wilbur.

Tommy glances up from his plate to give Wilbur a death glare, the man clearly looking as though he’d been trying hard to hold back from laughing the entire time.

“Stop laughing, prick!”

Wilbur chokes a little, snorting and ducking underneath the table to conceal his minuted chuckles from Tommy, his curls and hunched over back the only thing visible over the table.

Unamused, Tommy scoops a bit of the strange meat pie onto his fork and gingerly takes a bite.

Holy fuck, that’s amazing, he thinks, his eyes widening before he takes another less wary bite.

Much better than the instant noodles he eats sometimes when he’s got the money for them, or the long since cold bread Sam sneaks to him free of charge sometimes.

“Like it?” Phil asks him, his own voice sounding similar to Wilbur’s, full of amusement.

Tommy nods very ferociously, his mouth full as he tries to say, “Thank you” to Phil.

Techno huffs from next to him and Phil just smiles, his eyes wrinkling in the corners much like Wilbur’s own.

(Tommy can see how the guy is really Wilbur’s father now with the way he smiles).

————

After dinner, the three return to the sofa, now accompanied by Phil Craft himself, who reclaims his seat in his grandpa chair, forcing a disgruntled Techno to sit down on the sofa.

“What are we watching next?” Tommy asks, bordering on enthusiastic as he looks with wide eyes at Wilbur, grins at the eagerness in the boy’s tone.

“I say we watch something that’s actually good this time.” Techno drawls, making Wilbur have to reach over Tommy to smack his brother fiercely in the arm.

“We’re binging Studio Ghibli because Tommy hasn’t seen it and because I said so,” Wilbur announces, sounding very much like a tory.

Techno narrows his eyes a little and goes to smack Wilbur back, but Phil interjects with a sharp cough.

“Boys,” Phil warns from his comfortable position on the chair, but his tone doesn’t show any form of irritation or anger, only fondness.

(Tommy can’t really understand how this entire fucking family can be so incredibly… whatever the fuck that feeling was. Fondness. It’s something Tommy can’t perceive, really).

“Fine, but can it be my favourite Ghibli movie this time?” Techno huffs.

“No, we are not showing the child Princess Mononoke yet,” Wilbur tsk’s, standing and flicking through the various DVDs, pulling another one out. “I say we watch Howl’s Moving Castle instead. I have a feeling he will like Calcifer.”

“How does a castle move?” Tommy pipes up, wrapping the blanket around himself again, feeling a lot more tired than he had before. The food Phil had fed him made him incredibly exhausted. Maybe he drugged it.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Wilbur flashes him a grin, putting the DVD into the player.

As soon as the guy - Howl, Tommy presumed - comes on screen, Tommy frowns a little.

“That guy dresses like Wilbur,” he announces, yawning a little afterwards.

“Is that a compliment?” Wilbur asks, sounding conflicted.

“No, it just means that you look like a stupid rich tory.”

Phil bursts into laughter, and Wilbur’s face falls.

“What the fuck—”

“Take that, nerd.”

————

There’s a heavy weight on Wilbur’s side, and the man turns with a frown, immediately softening when he sees Tommy leaning into his arm, golden and red curls pressed up against his shoulder, mouth hanging open a little.

(Other than that, Tommy looks… so peaceful, much alike to what Wilbur remembered from when he’d stayed at the house when sick. There is no longer a wrinkle between his eyebrows, no longer a constant scowl on his face).

Wilbur coos softly, looking up from Tommy and at his twin, who is watching the two with what someone who doesn’t know him wouldn’t perceive as a fond expression.

(Wilbur, of course, knows better).

“He’s drooling on you,” Techno mutters simply, refusing to say anything even remotely sappy.

Wilbur just hums, uncaring, slowly slipping an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, careful not to wake him up.

Tommy moves closer in his sleep, his face buried right below Wilbur’s chin, an arm limply thrown around the man’s chest, humming in contentment.

“He really does look like a child, doesn’t he?” Phil muses from his chair, looking a mixture between fond as well and a little concerned.

“He is a child,” Wilbur responds simply, carding his fingers through Tommy’s hair so carefully, like a pianist would when performing a symphony.

“He doesn’t look eighteen,” Phil admits, sounding on the edge of horror, but not quite convinced.

“I don’t think he is eighteen,” Techno says from where he eyes Tommy.

“It’s hard to fake legal documents, Techno.” Phil says, although he still doesn’t sound entirely sure himself.

Techno doesn’t respond, eyes turning back to the TV.

“Not impossible, though.”

Wilbur, who had been ignoring the entirety of the conversation, now looks up at Phil, “Should I wake him up?”

He sounds incredibly reluctant about doing so.

Phil gives him a look.

“He’ll probably want to go home and sleep in his own bed, Wil.” Phil responds. His tone is full of fond exasperation.

“He doesn’t have a bed,” Techno pipes up, Wilbur and Phil now looking at him. “He sleeps on the sofa in the main room of his apartment.”

“He sleeps on that thing?” Wilbur hisses, looking completely disgusted. “How- how is he not falling apart?”

“It could account for how bad his posture is,” Phil comments, his own tone horrified as he stares at Tommy, looking like a very worried father.

“Phil, please can we let him stay? Just one night?” Wilbur pleads, making a pouting face.

“At least try waking him up once, just to see if he’d rather leave,” Techno pipes up now, watching Wilbur carefully.

The man huffs, but relents, looking down at Tommy to shake his shoulder lightly.

“Toms, Tommy, hey— wake up, buddy,” Wilbur says gently, shaking Tommy’s shoulder again until the boy stirs, lifting his head up a little bit keeping his eyes shut.

“Wh’ y’u wan’?” he slurs quietly, fisting his hand into the collar of Wilbur’s shirt, who seems completely thrilled about this situation. Black mail material, really.

“Come on, Toms, you gotta get up,” Wilbur murmurs again, despite the clear hesitance in his voice.

“No,” Tommy mutters, pressing further into Wilbur’s arms, “Sleep… nice. Warm.”

Wilbur shoots Phil a look that screams can I keep him? and the man sighs, dragging a hand down his face and standing up.

“I’ll go set the guest room up, then,” Phil hums, sending a very small smile in his son’s direction before heading down the hallway.

“You’re such a sap,” Techno says to Wilbur immediately, watching his twin smile down at (with where this was going) their new brother.

“Shut up, Techno, you’re just jealous he didn't lean on you.”

“No, I’m not. I wouldn’t want that gremlin droolin’ on me,” Techno responds with a grimace.

“Sure, sure.”

Phil returns shortly after, peeking his head around the corner to signal for Wilbur to follow.

The man slowly stands, gathering Tommy up into his arms. The kid shifts against him so that his head is leaning against Wilbur’s chest, curls smushed into the fabric and his face hidden away into Wilbur’s cow-patterned jumper.

Techno follows not too far behind, having shut the television off.

Upon entering the small guest bedroom, Wilbur notices that the ecosystem that he’d collected earlier that day with Tommy has been deposited on the bedside table (he had left it by accident in his bedroom).

He smiles softly at it before carefully setting Tommy down onto the soft bed, tucking the boy in and pulling the sheets up to the kid’s chin.

(He had a hard time trying to unlatch the kid’s hand from how tightly it was holding onto his sweater, but he managed… with Techno’s help).

After he’s tucked in, Tommy curls up on his side and blearily opens his eyes a little, murmuring a little “Ay’p, Wilby” before letting them flutter close again.

Techno snickers from the doorway right behind Wilbur, but the man stands stick still, and he’s glitching all over again, trying to process the nickname that the gremlin gave him.

Wilbur reaches out, slowly running a hand through Tommy’s curls, and the boy leans into it heavily, a small smile on his face in his sleep while Wilbur continues to card his fingers through the boy’s hair.

(Through his brother’s hair, a voice reminds him in a way that sounds protective. He tries to ignore it).

“Let’s leave him be, Wil,” Phil says gently, putting a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder and steering him out of the guest bedroom, the man’s face falling in a bit of a pout, “With what Techno told me about the sofa he uses as a bed, the poor kid probably needs his sleep, anyways.”

Wilbur can’t disagree with that.

Chapter Text

When Tommy wakes up, it is to something extremely comfortable and warm, a feeling that on its own is completely alien to him.

He almost doesn’t want to open his eyes to the sight of his familiar and unforgiving apartment, to let himself sink further into the embrace of a warm mattress and pillows, to snuggle back underneath the blanket thrown over him and allow himself to succumb back to sleep, but…

Sunlight shines into his eyes when he rolls over, just barely but enough for him to realize he’s probably slept too long, and he opens his eyes just a tad to look at the pale curtains hanging over windows in the bedroom he had nearly forgotten staying in.

And then everything clicks and Tommy sits bolt upright, eyes wide as he runs his fingers over the soft comforter that had been pulled up to his chin, head craning around the room he doesn’t recognize, catching sight of a familiar jar of dirt and water sitting on the bedside table.

He calms, but only a little, as he’s reminded that he’s in Wilbur’s house and must’ve accidentally fallen asleep the night before (he flushes with embarrassment at this; he hates falling asleep around others. It makes him feel vulnerable).

Getting up slowly from the bed, Tommy makes his way through the bedroom (his limbs don't ache like they did the day before, and he feels well rested for the first time in years, but that comes with a lingering exhaustion from having slept so long that weighs his shoulders down, but he thinks that it’s a good tired instead of a bad one).

Creeping out into the hallway, he realizes how strangely silent the penthouse is. Normally he wakes up to cars honking, neighbours yelling, something crashing or a weird banging noise, but there’s nothing except for the birds chirping outside the large window that basks him in a gentle light through the crack in the curtains.

Tommy goes closer, pulling the blinds back a little, his breath nearly being taken away at the trees entangling branches and coloured flowers weaving through the wood just outside the window, almost as though an orchard is growing against the penthouse (mansion, he reminds himself).

A black bird flutters into Tommy’s view, landing elegantly on a branch and then looking up at the boy from the tree, head tilted as if silently curious about Tommy’s actions, it’s beady eye watching the boy carefully.

Tommy smiles a little and carefully puts his hand up to the glass of the window, just as he had yesterday in the large library, and the bird flutters closer, landing on the windowsill just on the other side of the glass, ruffling its feathers and not taking its eyes off of Tommy.

It’s beautiful, and Tommy tries to recall if he accidentally died the night before or something and now he’s finally able to breathe, until there’s a gentle clamoring up the steps that shatters his peaceful moment.

“Oh,” Techno says, standing at the top of the stairs, looking at Tommy with a blank expression. He’s wearing sweatpants and a nightshirt, and Tommy has to resist the urge to laugh because normally the man is so dressed up, and it’s pretty funny seeing him in something so domestic as that. “You’re up.”

“Nice sweatpants,” Tommy smirks, Techno huffing a little.

“You’re literally wearing Wilbur’s clothes,” Techno comments, the corner of his mouth twitching when Tommy’s face falls, “You have no say in this matter.”

“Well- you-” Tommy splutters, but Techno interrupts him.

“Phil’s made crepes. You gonna come eat some or just continue to bully me at this ungodly hour?”

Tommy narrows his eyes at the man.

(He’s never had crepes before, but he doesn’t want to say that).

“Let’s just go downstairs, prick.”

————

The second Tommy reaches the kitchen, he halts in the doorway, eyes wide as he examines the pure amount of food on the countertop.

There are plates of fruit (varying from strawberries, blueberries, and bananas), jars of peanut butter, honey, and some strange brown jar Tommy’s never seen before, a plate full of eggs mixed with cheese and sausage, and finally a tin cylindrical thing that looks a little bit like a large version of the salt shakers in Nook’s.

“What the fuck is this?” Tommy whispers reverently, glancing from Techno (who has taken a seat at the kitchen table), to Wilbur, who is standing beside Phil at the sink, watching Tommy look over everything with some strange smug smirk on his face.

“It’s the stuff for the crepes, mate,” Phil pipes up, smiling warmly at Tommy from where he’s washing a mug off in the sink.

“The… the what?” Tommy repeats, tilting his head a little, and the cat’s let out of the bag immediately, Wilbur looking like he’s personally offended.

“Have you never had a crepe before?” Wilbur asks, raising an eyebrow and walking over to Tommy to shove a porcelain plate in his hands.

Tommy glares at him (but is more focused on holding the plate in his hands with a death grip so he doesn’t accidentally drop and smash it), “No, I haven’t had a fucking crepe, do I look like a rich person to you? Prick. Don’t have to go rubbing it in, you privileged bitch.”

Wilbur snorts, rolling his eyes and putting his hands on Tommy’s shoulders, leading him around the kitchen and positioning him right in front of a press pan that almost… looks like a strange waffle maker? Or maybe that panini maker that Quackity had in his old apartment?

(Tommy is suddenly starving — Quackity usually makes the best paninis).

“I’ll help you make it, then!” Wilbur says enthusiastically, reaching over Tommy to grab a rubber bowl full of what looks like pancake mix, pouring it into the presser and then pulling the lid down.

Tommy watches, interest piqued for no reason, as Wilbur waits for a few moments and then opens the lid, gently pulling the very flat pancake from the presser and sliding it onto Tommy’s plate.

He then leads Tommy back through the kitchen towards where the plates full of food start, guiding him through each thing and helping him put it onto the crepe itself.

Tommy had tried to smear the strange brown stuff onto the crepe by himself (after Wilbur nearly had a breakdown when Tommy said he didn’t know what it was and said he ‘had to try it’), but nearly tore a hole into the fragile pancake type thing.

So really, Wilbur ended up making the damn thing, teasing Tommy the entire time as if he were a tiny baby man or just a small child.

(Tommy ended up elbowing him harshly in the side and doing the rest himself, nearly dumping the entirety of the salt shaker onto his food after Wilbur said it was ‘powdered sugar’ or whatever).

In the end, Tommy’s got a plate full of cheesey eggs mixed with sausage, a crepe full of bananas and the strange Nutella stuff, and even a slice of fucking toast that Wilbur said he had to eat or else.

(Ominous dickhead).

Sitting next to Techno, Tommy picks up a fork and pokes at his food again, glancing up only when Phil and Wilbur take their seats at the table as well.

He averts his eyes and takes a piece of the crepe off with his fork, plopping it into his mouth and…

Holy shit, that’s good.

Just like the night before, Tommy nearly chokes at how quickly he eats breakfast, ignoring the sounds of laughter and chuckles coming from all sides of the table.

“Wilbur, what was that stuff?” Tommy asks once his plate is clean, looking at Wilbur curiously, who is finishing up his portion of eggs.

He doesn’t have to elaborate on what he means because Wilbur’s got this smug look on his face that says he knows exactly what Tommy was inferring to.

“Nutella,” Wilbur responds simply, and Tommy’s face falls.

“I ate something named after nuts?”

————

It’s when Tommy’s sitting on the counter in the kitchen (trying to avoid asking Phil if he wants help washing dishes for the tenth time, because he’s already been denied the times before that), when Techno walks in, leaning against the doorway.

“Are you ready to go home, kid?” Techno asks, watching Tommy with careful eyes and…

A feeling of dread enters the pit of Tommy’s stomach, and he looks away from Techno, clenching his jaw.

Of course, he wants to go home. Back to his small apartment with nothing but a sofa and a broken window (that the fucking Blade still hasn’t fixed, damn him), back to the place where his beloved Oswald is…

But he also… doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to go back to a place with empty walls, that smells of mildew and wakes him up at ungodly hours in the morning to someone shouting or traffic, with doors that creak in a way that almost feels like they’re making fun of him, with a cracked mirror that he can’t bear to look in…

He’d rather stay here, where everything feels warm all the time and the sunlight actually lights up every corridor and everything looks so vibrant and not so gray, and he actually feels (even if just a little bit) wanted. A place where he isn’t alone, a place where he can smile and not feel like it’s forced.

But he has to go home, and he knows he does, because while it would be nice to stay here another night, he knows he isn’t welcome, and he knows they would hate him if they looked at him for a little too long, that they’d toss him to the wolves the second they realized who (or what) he is.

So Tommy smiles up at Techno meekly and mumbles, “I’m ready when you are, big man.”

————

Tommy slinks against the back seat of Techno’s sports car, his arms wrapped around himself.

Phil had done his laundry for him, washed and dried his wet clothes that smelled of pond water, and he was able to change back into them before he left (reluctantly handing a pair of folded clothes, the orca socks on top, back to Wilbur, who looked just as hesitant to take them back).

He nuzzles into the hood of his own jumper, and realizes with a nice feeling that echoes through his body that it doesn’t smell like him in the slightest, but rather like what he smelt echoing throughout the entire Craft household; something he couldn’t name, a little bit floral, but also clean.

(It smelled like his hair, too, and the very thought nearly brought Tommy to tears).

When the car pulls to a stop, Tommy trudges out of the door (making sure he opens it with his hand in his sleeve so that he doesn’t dirty it with fingerprints), Wilbur and Techno following close behind as he reluctantly walks up the steps of his four-story, multi-apartment complex.

(It looked more like an American motel, if you asked Tommy).

When Tommy reaches his front door and shakily pulls his keys from his pocket, he turns and smiles up at the men that watch him with saddened expressions, as though they don’t want him to leave, either.

(The very sight nearly has Tommy in tears so he quickly snorts and turns away, refusing to look back at them).

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Tommy grumbles, pushing his key into the lock and twisting it until there’s a soft click. “I, uhm… really enjoyed the Ghibli movies.”

“You’re welcome back anytime,” Wilbur says with a sweet tone that promises nothing but the truth.

“You can come back whenever you want, kid,” Techno adds on to solidify the promise.

Tommy smiles a little to himself and opens his apartment door, “Well, uhm… thanks. I guess. I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Bye Tommy,” Techno says, and Tommy can hear the man pause before walking away, footsteps echoing against the walls.

Tommy can almost feel the tears coming but he forces himself to turn around when Wilbur whispers for him to, voice nearly as gentle as his eyes when he sees Tommy turn with his nose all shriveled, holding back tears.

(If Wilbur notices, he doesn’t say anything).

“What’re you still doing here, prick?” Tommy asks, narrowing his eyes a little.

“Oh, uh,” Wilbur glances down, and then pulls something from behind his back; a jar of water and dirt and tiny little animals swimming around in it, along with a plate wrapped in tinfoil. “I just wanted to give this to you.”

Tommy stares at both items, before backing up and motioning for Wilbur to come inside silently, the man smiling gratefully before stepping into the apartment, immediately setting the plate of food down onto the counter before pushing the jar into Tommy’s hands.

“You were upset I stole your pond water,” Wilbur begins, and he sounds almost embarrassed about something, “But I’ve decided just to give it back to you. So you could have your pond with you at all times or something, without having to actually visit it.”

Tommy stares down at the jar in his hands, an overwhelming feeling pouring over him, and he has to make Wilbur leave his apartment before he does genuinely start sobbing.

“Leave,” Tommy whispers, sounding choked, and Wilbur’s face falls a little, slinking out the door.

Tommy follows close behind and grabs the man by his sweater sleeve, making him halt in the doorway, before shoving the jar right back into Wilbur’s arms, as if they had been playing hot potato with it the whole time.

“It’s yours, Wil,” he mutters, watching the tiny figures swirl around in the water, “I want you to have it… think of it like, uhm, I’m paying you back for the axolotl or something.”

There’s a second of silence, and then Tommy mumbles, “And uh, I named it Pogtopia… so if you’re gonna keep it, you have to call it that, or uh, I’ll clart you to death.”

He doesn’t see it, but he can definitely hear the big smile in Wilbur’s voice as the man says, “Thank you, Tommy.”

And then the door shuts, and he’s gone.

————

Tommy has to hold himself back from calling out into the empty space of his apartment, “Hey, I’m home!” and get a response that’s just as eager as his is, to see someone peek their head out from around the corner with a smile plastered on their face because Tommy’s here and he’s back home, but…

Nobody comes.

The apartment is the same as the way he’d left it; Oswald swims around in his tank (he takes the opportunity to feed him now), his sofa is still the same beaten up old thing it always has been, and there is no feeling of someone else in this place.

(Plus the new addition of whatever was in that plate with tinfoil atop).

There’s just… him.

(Something yearns to go back to Wilbur’s house, to be back around people who seem to care about him, to be in a house that doesn’t feel so empty and claustrophobic at the same time…)

(But he ignores it, because why shouldn’t he, when he knows that everyone that he ever cares about ends up just leaving anyways?)

If nothing else, at least Oswald will stay.

Chapter Text

It’s so cold.

The snow was pretty today.

At least that’s the last thing Tommy will know before he dies.

————

“You’re here early,” Phil says with a chuckle, keys jangling as he unlocks the front door to the bookstore, looking at Tommy curiously out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, well,” Tommy mumbles, wrapping his arms around himself tightly, hands shifting up and down them to warm himself up a little. “I like getting up early, what can I say?”

“Not many young people do,” Phil says with a hum, smirking when Tommy snorts at that comment, following the man into the bookstore once he’s got the door opened.

“That’s not true, you’re just making shit up ‘cuz you’re old,” Tommy mutters tiredly, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a little as he walks into the bookstore, a rush of warm air combatting the cold that he’d been standing in for a while outside.

“I’m not that old, though?” Phil says, sounding exasperated but amused, putting his keys into his pockets and flicking the lights on. It sounds more like a question, in Tommy’s humble opinion. “I’m only thirty-six, holy shit.”

“Yikes, you don’t think that’s old?” Tommy sucks in air through his teeth, before it’s staunched by a yawn.

He settles down into his chair at the front desk, plopping his chin into his hands, forcing down yet another yawn, “I worry for what will happen when your children have to put you in a fuckin’ home some day and you’ll still be thinking thirty-six isn’t old as shit.”

Phil bursts into laughter, the kind where it’s all high pitched and makes even Tommy smile despite being incredibly exhausted.

(Maybe he missed Phil, maybe he didn’t… all he knew was how incredibly lonely that tiny apartment could get without anyone around. It was something he hadn’t quite realized much until recently).

“You little shit,” Phil says, shaking his head and patting Tommy’s shoulder lightly, heading towards his office at the back of the store, “I can clearly see how you get along with my boys so well.”

Tommy huffs, yawning once again.

“I wouldn’t exactly say we ‘get along’,” he grumbles, more to himself, turning his head to look out the big window beside the front desk, watching the world slowly light up, the sky turning a delicate orange from blue.

Tommy’s always liked watching the sunrise, how the delicate light blue of the sky slowly switches to pinks and oranges and then an even brighter blue once the sun had fully risen.

There’s a creak of a door and then Phil’s walking back over towards him, carrying two mugs in his hands.

Tommy frowns at him, squinting at the mugs; one is decorated with a painted sunflower on the side and the other has a tiny stuffed bear with a ribbon around its neck.

Tommy makes a face at the steam coming up from the mugs, watching as Phil sets the sunflower coffee mug on the counter right in front of him, smiling kindly.

“You’re giving me caffeine?” Tommy asks in disbelief, poking the coffee mug warily, as if it were some sort of trap.

“What? Haven’t you had coffee before?” Phil chuckles a little, taking a sip of his own coffee, “Wil told me you work at a café for your other part time job, don't you get free coffee there or something?”

Tommy snorts a little at the thought, carefully taking the coffee mug in his hands, shivering a little at the warmth against the palms of his hands.

The very thought of Sam letting him drink caffeine was pretty hilarious; he’s certain the man would get gray hairs at the very idea of Tommy even a few inches away from a caffeinated drink.

Tommy decides that he will drink this coffee just to spite him. Not for any other reason, of course.

“What kind of business would it be if it gave you free coffee?” Tommy hums in response, looking at the coffee in his mug, swirling the light coloured liquid around a bit.

At least Phil knew not to give him fucking black coffee. He’d probably have to quit his job if that were the case.

“I used to work at a café, back before I bought this place,” Phil says, leaning against the counter now, the two of them watching the sun spilling in through the large windows as it comes up from the horizon.

Tommy resists the urge to laugh at the way Phil phrases it as if trying to say ‘Back in my day’ in a less old person way.

“My boss let me have free pastries, not just coffee,” Phil adds, and Tommy rolls his eyes.

“Lucky you,” Tommy grimaces a little at Phil, making his tone as patronizing as possible, before gingerly taking a sip of his coffee.

Phil grins at the expression on the boy’s face.

“It’s good, right?” he asks, looking eager for Tommy’s reply.

“Fuck you,” Tommy responds sweetly, taking another sip of the coffee. Damn Phil and his ability to make good fucking coffee and food.

Phil snorts, and then there’s silence, the two watching the sunrise through the glass windows peacefully, and Tommy feels… if nothing else, a little bit more calm than he had earlier that morning.

“Where do you go for lunch breaks?” Phil asks suddenly, breaking the silence, and Tommy frowns at the man for what feels like the hundredth time that morning.

He’s too tired to have conversations like this, honestly.

“That’s kind of a weirdchamp question, big man,” he responds.

“I didn’t mean it to be,” Phil reassures with a slight grin, particularly at the usage of the word ‘weirdchamp’, “I just haven’t been around the shop much as of late and wasn’t sure if you actually even left for your lunch breaks.”

Tommy narrows his eyes a little, resisting the urge to yell at the man and call him out on his absolute bullshit.

It is true; he didn’t usually leave for lunch breaks the way Karl tended to do. Normally he just ate later at Nook’s when Sam forced him to eat at least an apple or something (if that counted for what Phil had mentioned early about the “free items privilege” coming with working at a bakery, Tommy had no idea).

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Phil says smugly, and before Tommy can even rebuttal, he continues, “So, I was thinking then… how would you like to go on a lunch break with me instead?”

“What?” Tommy’s eyes widen in interest; Phil, his boss, the guy whose house is probably the largest in all of Manberg, wants to treat him to lunch? Is he still fucking dreaming? What timeline is this? “You want to treat me to lunch? Seriously?”

Phil snickers a little, “Yes, I do, Tommy. Why are you acting so surprised?”

“It’s not normal for someone to treat their employees to lunch, dumbass,” Tommy states simply, taking another swig of the coffee. He makes a mental note to ask Phil for more coffee tomorrow, then deletes it. He shouldn’t ask for too much, really.

(Phil already did enough for him by allowing him to sleep at his fucking house of all things — the memory of probably eating too much of Phil’s food makes a pool of guilt gnaw at his already empty stomach and he decides to just shelf it off for later, as he has been doing with many things recently).

“You’re not just ‘some employee’, Tommy,” Phil says, gazing fondly at the boy, “I don’t normally let just some random employee stay the night at my house, you know.”

When Tommy doesn't respond to that, Phil adds, “Wil and Tech might come to lunch too, if you’d like that.”

“Ew, why would you invite them?” Tommy quips immediately, raising his eyebrows as he takes another long drink from his coffee, and Phil chuckles again.

The guy laughs a lot — it’s something Tommy’s beginning to realize (not that he minds, really. He likes making people laugh).

“Fine, then, they aren’t invited,” Phil reassures with a sharp grin, setting his mug on the counter. “It’ll just be you and me, kiddo. If that’s alright with you.”

Tommy freezes a little, staring at the liquid in his mug. That’s… another person who has started to call him “kiddo”.

Not that it bothers him or anything.

“Just you and me, then,” Tommy says with a tiny smile, refusing to look up at Phil, wrapping his hands around his mug again, despite how cold the glass is now that he’s drank most of the contents.

————

Wilbur flops down on the sofa, groaning a bit with his hair ruffled.

“I can’t believe those fucking heroes,” he whines, rolling over onto his back and glaring at the ceiling, tapping the plaster pressed over the bridge of his nose with a flicker of sadness on his face, “Always coming out of fucking nowhere.”

Techno snorts, shutting the novel in his hands and turning to his brother, flicking him in the forehead, “Must you take up the whole sofa, Wilbur?”

“Don’t you have any sympathy for me, brother mine?” Wilbur complains, frowning when Techno goes to flick him again, batting the man’s hands away from his hairline angrily. “Stop fucking flicking me.”

“Nope,” Techno’s grin is sharp, “You always rephrase that when you come home all hurt from patrol, knowing full well what my answer will be each time.”

“Yeah, yeah, go on and hide how soft you really are, Techno,” Wilbur tilts his head back to smirk at his brother, who just raises an elegant eyebrow at him. “You and I both know full well about what you did to that fucking dick Morpheus when he cut my face up a couple months ago.”

“What I did?” Techno snorts, rolling his eyes, “You’re the one who blew up the whole building, you arsonist.”

“Hey, can't blame me for wanting to hide the evidence,” Wilbur hums, but his tone is dark at the memory, and he tilts his head forwards again so he can stare at the ceiling. “Do you think Phil would let us get glow in the dark stars for the living room?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna order them off of Amazon,” Wilbur decides, and Techno just decides not to respond to that. At this point, his brother’s just talking to himself.

They sit in silence for a couple moments, and then Wilbur shuffles a little uncomfortably, murmuring, “Do you ever think about… them?”

“About who, Wil?”

“You know exactly who I’m referring to.”

Techno exhales a little, opening the novel again, forcibly trying to escape this conversation topic as best as he can, tucking a piece of pink hair behind his pointed ear.

(How it remains even slightly pointed despite him wearing the suppressor, he will never understand; Wilbur’s always thought it to be pretty cool).

“Not really, no,” Techno admits, even though it’s only partially a lie. If he does think about it, it really isn’t by his own accord.

(The voices are rarely ever quiet when he isn’t wearing the suppressor, which is why he wears it every chance he gets).

Wilbur just hums, twirling one of the curls in front of his face around a finger absentmindedly, and there’s silence around the room again despite the random song that Wilbur continues to hum and the gentle turning of paper pages from Techno.

It’s interrupted a little too soon when Wilbur’s phone rings and the man flinches a little, glaring at the contact name as if it personally wronged him.

“Hey, Phil,” Wilbur says coolly, leaning back down into the sofa cushions, picking at a thread on his sweater, before smiling a little. “The gremlin wants to go to lunch with us, you say?”

Techno rolls his eyes. He can practically hear the prideful fucking glee in Wilbur’s voice, the pretentious prick.

“Well tell him we will be there,” Wilbur says, a sharp grin on his face. Techno makes a mental note to remind him of the emerald necklace before he leaves to have lunch with Tommy.

(He tunes out the ‘we’ part in particular. No way in hell he’s going socializing again when that child stayed at their house a couple days ago).

Wilbur shuts his phone off and then tilts his head up to look at Techno again, who peeks at him from around his book, frowning at the weird expression on his face.

Then it clicks and Techno’s frown deepens.

“No,” Techno says immediately, looking back down at his book. He already made his decision on this.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you’re goin’ to ask, Wil, and the answer is still no.”

“You’re such a killjoy,” Wilbur complains, “Won’t you come with? I’m sure that Tommy would like to see you.”

“How is that supposed to make me want to go?”

“I dunno,” Wilbur hums, feigning ignorance, “Maybe he wants to hear some more about… I don’t know… Greek mythology…? Perhaps you could tell him a fun little story about fuckin’… Aracnhid or whatever her name is.”

“Arachne,” Techno corrects.

Wilbur grins at him.

Techno glares right back.

Touché.

————

Tommy settles down in the booth at the diner, slinking up against the window that displays a pretty good view of the main plaza in Manberg (a place he actively tries to avoid), pulling his sweater more tightly around himself and wishing he’d worn a hoodie.

(If he had, he’d be able to pull his hoodie up and hide his face from people that he really would rather not see at the moment).

Phil takes a seat on the other side of Tommy, setting down his green and white bucket hat on the table and retying his hair into a tiny ponytail with that green ribbon Tommy’s grown so accustomed to seeing.

“Why did you choose this fucking diner?” Tommy mumbles, glaring at Phil out of the corner of his eye, who looks up from where he’d been brushing his fingers through his ponytail again.

There’s a lingering ‘out of all places’, but it goes unsaid.

“Why? Don’t like ‘old people’ diners?” Phil jokes, and Tommy rolls his eyes.

“Obviously,” Tommy hisses, even though he sinks a bit into the booth, putting his chin in his hand and glaring out the window. At least he’s fortunate in one way — he knows that someone on the outside of the diner can’t see inside.

(That doesn’t mean that the people who walk in can’t see him, though).

They sit in mostly silence (filled with the buzzing sound of people talking in the background and plates clattering in the kitchen).

His few moments of solace are only interrupted when someone plops on the seat next to him, causing Tommy to flinch so hard that he hits his head on the window he was leaning up against.

Tommy turns to send a seething glare at the perpetrator, and it only worsens when he sees who it was.

“What the fuck?!” He hisses at Wilbur, who is beaming at him with sparkling eyes and laughing as Tommy pushes himself further up against the window to get as far away from the man as he can, “Do you fucking- do you live and breathe to scare the shit out of me, you asshole?”

“Yes,” Wilbur states simply, grin only widening more when Tommy smacks him in the arm.

“What’re you even doing here, anyways, you tory?” Tommy grumbles, turning to glower at Phil, who is purposely chatting with Techno to avoid Tommy’s glare. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

(He had remembered quite the opposite, actually).

Techno, who had sit uncomfortably across from Tommy (taking Phil’s spot, the asshole), also actively avoids the boy’s gaze.

“Phil called and said that you wanted to have lunch with us,” Wilbur says with a smirk, reaching out to ruffle Tommy’s hair, making the boy slap his hands away aggressively. “That just makes me wonder if you missed me, Toms.”

Then Wilbur coos, and suddenly he’s reaching out, “Aww, Tommyyy, did you miss your older brother Wilbur?”

Tommy’s going to stab him.

He was going to order a steak or something just so he could stab Wilbur with the knife it came with.

“No, no, no, I did not fucking miss you, I just saw you two days ago, you fucking dick,” Tommy seethes, despite the way his heart lifts a little when Wilbur snorts and leans back against the back cushion. “Don’t put words in my mouth, you bitch, I never missed you. I don’t miss anyone, everyone always misses me.”

(If he was being honest, he definitely had missed them all — for the past couple of days since coming back home, he had felt sort of… empty. As though he were missing something. But he’d rather die than admit this to them of all people).

“Aww, Tommy, I know you missed me, you can admit it, you know,” Wilbur jokes, poking Tommy in the forehead.

“Don’t fuckin’ poke me, you prick!”

“Not until you admit that you missed me!”

“I didn’t miss you, holy shit!”

Wilbur makes a pouting expression, wrapping an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulling him close to his side so he can ruffle the boy’s curls easier, who begins hissing at Wilbur like a feral raccoon.

“Let go of me, you fucking clingy bitch,” Tommy grumbles out, trying to duck down and leave Wilbur’s grasp, before whining and turning to Phil, who is watching the scene with his hand covering his mouth, “Phhhilllll, please make your fucking spawn let go of me before I suffocate and die!”

Phil snorts, looking at the two fondly, “Wil, please don’t harm my best working employee.”

“Yeah, Wil, you— wait, I'm your best working employee—?”

“That’s not fair,” Wilbur complains despite letting go of Tommy (but keeping his arm stretched across the back of the booth). His face falls a tad, “Tommy has way too much power over Phil. This is horrible. His dad instincts can’t seem to ever shut off.”

“That’s nice comin’ from you,” Techno chimes in gruffly, earning a sharp look from Wilbur.

“Fuck all of you,” Tommy says, before turning to his boss, his voice lilting a tad, “Except Phil, for he has saved me and proved himself to be the biggest man. He also complimented me, which just makes him superior.”

“Aw, thanks, mate,” Phil smiles at him kindly, despite the way Wilbur makes a sad noise beside Tommy.

“Am I no longer the favourite?” Wilbur complains, wrapping his arms around Tommy, who just sinks into them with a deadpan look to his face.

He’s given up on trying to escape Wilbur’s clingy clutches at this point.

“You were never the favourite,” Tommy tells him flatly, resisting the urge to smirk when Wilbur gasps in offense.

“Ha, L,” Techno speaks up from the other side of the booth.

“Fuck off, Techno.”

“You’re the one who forced me here, Wil.”