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Michael is safe. Finally, Michael is safe, and Tubbo has him tucked safely away in his arms despite how he whines and complains about the chill trailing along his armor.
Ranboo’s armor, that is. Not his. The straps are too loose, no matter how tight he forces them, and the boots make it hard to walk without stomping and leaves deep imprints in the snow. He wears it anyway, because with it he feels less angry and feels far more…
He feels.
He doesn’t know. But he knows that when he’s angry, it upsets Michael. And he doesn’t want to upset Michael, not ever but especially not now when his clothes are messy and wet at the edges, when his fur is dirty and dusty and the bristles on his cheeks are clumped from what must have been ages of crying.
So Tubbo wears too big armor, lowers his anger from a boil to a simmer to nothing, and hums a tune meant for two as he sets Michael down in their new ‘home.’ Anything for his boy.
He can’t say Technoblade’s helping . The hoglin hasn’t been awful, to be fair, he hasn’t threatened or really yelled or even gotten too close and he even apologized. He apologized! After Tubbo told him too, but it’s more than he thought he’d ever get, more than he was expecting from much of anyone who had helped him.
Eret had too, of course, but Eret… she was different. It was an entire other set of emotions that Tubbo had neither the time nor want to unpack.
He’d get to it.
He had so much to grieve already.
But Technoblade? Technoblade was simpler. They had never really been friends, it was just business. Business was simple. Business was straight forward. Tubbo liked business. He liked simple “I’m sorries” and clean move ons, cutting his life into perfect chunks of befores and afters, the slide of the knife that carefully separated twining feeling from fact and-
“ -shit!”
And, apparently, the slide of the knife directly into his thumb! Great. Now there’s blood on Michael’s apple slices. Fuck.
Tubbo sticks his thumb into his mouth like a baby- it’s nothing that he hasn’t tasted before- and glares down at the metal like it’s down something to him personally. Can he blame it? Most everyone has now. Eventually he’s going to run out of blame, right? Eventually it has to run him dry, he doesn’t want his son to remember him as an angry person, as a violent person, and maybe that was selfish.
God, it was selfish.
He noticed his hand was trembling, so he let the knife clatter down to the cutting board and swept what apple chunks he’d made into one of Michael’s pretty painted bowls. He’d be satisfied with only a few, he was a good kid. A good, selfless kid. A good kid who didn’t deserve a father like him.
He deserved Ranboo.
There it was.
Michael deserved Ranboo. Michael deserved a smiling, sweet-voiced dad with gentle, soft hands, not him, not his scratch and rough palms and he deserved, he deserved a dad that could give him whatever he wanted! Not Tubbo. Not Tubbo, destined to die. Not Tubbo, just a pawn to be knocked off the board no matter how hard it tried to cross and become something more .
“Michael,” he called, his voice hardly a whisper even to himself, “Michael, I got your apples.”
Who was he kidding? No, really, who was he kidding. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t raise Michael himself. Michael didn’t even like Technoblade, and sure, he liked Phil and loved Tommy but neither of those two were exactly good fathers and Tommy had so much more to worry about, and he couldn’t make an orphan of his son-
Something clattered.
“Uh, Tubbo? I th-”
And there was a crossbow bolt in the wall.
(And if Tubbo had aimed just four inches lower, it would’ve gone straight into Technoblade’s skull.)
He just stares at it, for a moment- they both do- before it clicks, and he shoves the apples onto the counter. The bolt is just a shove-hop away, and sure, there’s a brand new hole in Ranboo’s wall! It’s not like the guy will care . He’s not going to be seeing it.
Haha. Funny joke.
And, bolt in hand, he turns his half-hearted glare to Technoblade with a click of his tongue. “Where was my warning, bossman? Almost killed you, didn’t I?” He wouldn’t have. Probably. Maybe. He doesn’t control the crossbow bolt. He’s merely its shooty vessel.
“Bruh. I come here to check on you n’ your guy n’ you try to shoot me.” Techno shakes plaster crumbs from his head with a chuff. Tubbo’s seen Michael do the same thing with water droplets after baths, to keep them from dripping down his ears and over the exposed bits of bone. It feels like a cringe thing to think about The Technoblade. Hey, he’s cringe, but he’s free!
“I was hardly trying to shoot you, I reckon,” he counters, putting the dusty bolt next to the knife. Michael’s still waiting for his apples. The armor straps are digging into his shoulders. “If I was trying, I think I would have.”
“Uh huh.” Technoblade doesn’t really argue as much as nod and move on. “Wait, you, uh- you got a lil’ somethin’ there.” He gestures, a quick jolting motion as Tubbo grabs the bowl and cups it between his hands. It’s a little cold. His brain feels cold.
“Where?”
“Hand.”
He looks down, and- oh, yeah. He cut a little deeper than he thought, because there’s blood drip-dropping onto the floor, smearing beneath his shoes and across the side of the bowl. That’s great! That’s awesome. Now he has to mop! And Michael’s never going to get his apples, he can’t even get his damn kid a couple apple slices-
“I’ll, uh- I’ll clean it up.” Technoblade’s voice cuts through some sort of smog, sending air rattling through his chest. “I gotta upgrade my cleaning stats anyway, can’t be unbalanced.” The laugh that comes next is stilted, clearly forced, but despite how he tries Tubbo just can’t force himself to refuse. A-heming, he clears his throat.
“Do you know how to use a mop?”
“Are you asking if I- Do I look like a guy who’s never cleaned?”
His mouth lets slip a snorty laugh in lieu of an answer, no matter how many bite-back sentences form in his head. To show his point, he brings up a hand, squinting at it overdramatically as he pinches his thumb and pointer finger close together. Closer.
“Heh- I’m not cringe, man! I can use a mop-”
Until they touch.
“Bruh.”
It’s not that funny.
No, it really isn’t that funny- It’s not funny at all, but he’s giggling anyway, high and reedy until Technoblade starts along with him and it dissolves into laughter, blood dripping on his feet, huffing little wheezes that make him feel like his lungs are emptying themselves out.
They are both so tired, and revenge feels so good and so bad all at the same time, and his chest hurts, but he is laughing. Tubbo is laughing, with the man that killed him and his country and it does not feel as bitter as it once did.
Is that healing?
He’s not sure.
The laughter trails off, slowly, with little hiccups and stutters. He runs Michael’s apples under water, he bandages his hand, Techno gets the mop, and Michael snorts disapprovingly at the sight of Technoblade as he always does.
He can’t say Technoblade’s helping, really. Not for lack of trying, but his armor still makes Tubbo’s hands do an annoying little twitch, and seeing him with a crossbow turns his throat into a desert. There’s still some animalistic part of him that’s still scared . Something- someone- unscarred, tucked into the lines of an ill-fitted suit, horns hardly poking through his hair.
He’s different now. Michael settles into his lap with a little chuff, apples in hoof, and he tucks his arms around his son like a barrier to the world. Technoblade isn’t a faceless terror as much as just a man.
And hearing the man straightening up his kitchen, helping- trying to help, not for just Ranboo but for him- he feels something untense in his shoulders. And he feels...
Tubbo feels fine. He feels just fine.