Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Stop fightin’ me.”

“It huuurts,” Tommy whines, squirming where he sits on his knees on the living room floor. The man sitting cross-legged behind him grunts exasperatedly, an instinctual piglin-headed reply. 

“It would hurt a lot less if you quit movin’ around.” Techno runs searching fingers through Tommy’s feathers again, and Tommy shudders with the feeling of spiders along his spine, his wings twitching under Techno’s touch. 

“Sto—Stop.” He barely finds his voice, shivering and shying away from Techno. “Ow.”

“Your pain tolerance is somethin’ else.” Techno tuts in annoyance. “The sooner you listen, the sooner it’ll be over.”

Tommy makes a miserable whimper, but it’s lost on Techno, who continues to preen him like it’s any regular old day. The problem is, it’s not any regular old day. He’s sore. 

For weeks now, Tommy has been staying up past his Technoblade Assigned Bedtime to go searching underground for diamonds and fly them out miles away to Schlatt, who has been asking him to hand over practically every gem he digs out of the ground. Tommy just started working under him a few weeks ago, in exchange for various favors for his family, like extra food and supplies, but it’s already grueling. Without enough sleep to restore his health, he’s slowly worsening his condition, chipping away pieces of himself bit by bit—he can feel it in the way his wings groan in protest these days every time he leaves them in one position for too long. But he's in too deep now to quit while he's ahead. He's providing for his family, and that's good. Tommy's doing something good. 

Techno rifles through his feathers, dragging him back to the present, and Tommy swallows hard, wincing as another lance of pain travels through his wings. They also groan in protest when Techno jostles them too hard. He leans away from Techno’s grasp, and his mentor pauses, chuffing curiously. Tommy’s drawn back to his grasp at the sound, but the damage is done. 

“What’s wrong?” Techno asks him—accuses him, practically, leaving no room for denial. Tommy feels him staring at his back. “Do I need to get Phil?”

Quickly, Tommy whips his head around to look up at him owlishly. “No,” he says, “it’s fine, Techno. I—I don’t need Phil, I just—” he tapers off and shakes his head. “You’re doing it right. Just hurry up and get it over with.” 

And something shifts in Techno’s gaze. “Still sore from that fall the other day?” he questions, and Tommy ducks his head, wide eyes guilty. He doesn’t even remember what fall Techno is talking about anymore.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Techno surveys the scene and then stands, pulling Tommy up with him by the arms and surveying the mess of molted feathers they’ve left all over the middle of his living room. Evidently, he decides that's a problem for the future, because he nods sideways, directing Tommy gently towards the steps. “C'mon, let’s go upstairs.” 

So they do; Techno guides him up the stairs, opens the bedroom door for him and shows him where to sit, right on the edge of the bed. Tommy shuffles along with an ache following him the entire time, dropping down onto the soft woolen bedding. Techno approaches him and gestures with his hands, famously lacking in the wings department. “Spread ’em out, runt.”

“Hey,” says Tommy, but he does, and winces. “Oww.” Techno frowns, peers over him. 

“That isn’t normal,” he says, fingers pressing into Tommy’s joints, in a way where he can ignore it at first but soon the pooling pain is too strong and he’s—

“Ack!” Tommy flutters out of his grip on instinct, a mess of shed wings and discomfort, an inability to hold himself together. He cries out in pain and scrambles back against the wall. 

Techno’s eyes darken. “Tommy,” he says, and Tommy’s wings fold over his own shoulders, shielding himself habitually, pressing close against his body in a way that hurts. He peeks over the edges. 

“What?” he tries, and it comes out meek.

Techno fixes him with a look. “This is long-term damage, Tommy,” he says, and fuck, Tommy was doing so well at hiding it—until now. 

He sucks in a breath. “I’ve… been… flyingatnight,” he hurries out, much to his guardian’s chagrin. 

“What?” 

Tommy works up the courage to spit it out again. “I’ve been flying at—”

“I heard you the first time,” Techno interjects. “What I wanna know is why.” 

“Well,” Tommy tries, and falters, unable to produce a good cover story. His wings ache something fierce, but the rest of him stings with the fear that Schlatt will do something, threaten him some way, if he rats. If he doesn’t comply. 

Technoblade is pressing, however, and way too good at knowing when he's hiding something. “Tommy,” he chastises. “Phil’s already warned you once about overexertin’ yourself. What could you possibly be doin’ up there to cause this?” He waits for an answer Tommy is too afraid to give. “Look at me,” Techno says, and Tommy does. Techno says, seriously, “You have torn ligaments.” 

Tommy’s eyes flash. Torn? He didn’t expect that, although when he drags a wing closer to himself to feel the pain anew with a fresh awareness, that starts to make a lot of sense. Tommy hisses despite himself, and Techno stops him with a hand against his feathers. 

“So if you don’t want me to go get Phil, you’d better tell me what happened.” Techno’s gaze is patient, but it’s stern. He’s only as patient as Tommy deserves. If Tommy doesn't tell the truth, that patience runs out quickly. Techno doesn't like being strung along.

Tommy chews his lip. He sits there against the wall for a second, gaze low. Birds chirp past the windowpane behind him, and Tommy is distinctly aware of himself taking up too much space, existing too comfortably in Techno’s room. Of how much trouble he’s going to get himself in. 

It’s a long moment before he answers, his voice small, “Schlatt.”

Techno seemingly has to work around his own stunned silence to get any words out. “Schlatt?” Tommy can practically see him jumping to the wrong conclusions. “What do you mean, Schlatt—”

“He asked me to fly him over some diamonds ’cause I owed him and he needed ’em for building something but—well, then—he ended up needing more than he thought so I was just helping him out a little but it was supposed to be a surprise for everyone I think and I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody,” Tommy blurts, and then slaps a hand over his mouth. 

Now that it’s all out there, Techno sits on it for a moment, one brow raised. He beckons Tommy forward silently, and Tommy sits up sheepishly, his wings cascading down, abandoning their tensely defensive position. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Let me get this straight,” Techno replies, instead of an acknowledgement, starting to sift through Tommy’s feathers again, this time more gingerly. “Schlatt was makin’ you fly out to his base with a buncha extra weight every night after we went to sleep—” Tommy only nods— “to help him with some secret surprise, or whatever his cover story was for robbin’ you blind.”

Oh. 

Tommy feels really stupid, suddenly. 

“No, it’s not—”

“Sit still,” says Techno, firmly, but without malice. Tommy stills and lets him return to his work, threading hands through his feathers to knock out the loose ones. Every little pull hurts. Techno chuckles dryly. “Believe me, kid, it's Schlatt you're dealin' with. I guarantee that’s what happened.”

“He didn’t rob me,” argues Tommy indignantly—because Schlatt is his idol after all, and that would be humiliating, to be swindled by one’s idol— “he asked, nicely—” 

“At the very least, he coerced you into doin’ his dirty work. Sounds just like him,” Techno snorts. “Here.” He’s handing Tommy something, easing down beside him on the bed to start pressing little circles into Tommy’s sore wings. Tommy shivers and takes the glass bottle dutifully. 

“What’s this?”

“Good for you,” Techno replies, all smart-like. Tommy rolls his eyes. Before he can complain, Techno adds, “Just a healin’ potion.”

Tommy brightens at that—he likes the way these taste. “Thanks, Blade,” he says, uncorking it and sipping at it as Techno’s magic hands work weeks of stress out of his wings. The potion works its way through him warmly, and Tommy sighs with contentment. He glances guiltily over at Techno, debating, but the words seem to spill out of his mouth before he can stop them: “Sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

“Just as long as you stop lettin’ him run your pockets,” Techno scolds, and Tommy grins, sharp as ever. 

“Fine by me. Big men never get scammed.” 

“Lesson one of many,” Techno drawls sarcastically, and then waves a hand. “Lay down. You’re gonna need to stretch these out and stay off ’em for a coupl’a days—” He frowns down at Tommy, who is shimmying down onto his stomach and peering up at Techno with one eye. “Phil’ll have better advice, when he gets home. How’s the potion workin’?” 

“I feel way less like shit,” Tommy admits, “but please don’t tell Phil." Techno just huffs. 

“That’s not much of a measure.” 

“I feel better,” Tommy amends, "oh Great And Also Mighty Blade." There's plenty of mischief in his voice—he knows Techno will take what he can get. But Tommy doesn't want Phil to know. “Please?” 

“I’ll think about it. Hold still.” 

For the next thirty minutes, Tommy dozes in and out of consciousness to Techno’s hands knitting at his shoulder blades, working gently up and down the bends of his wings. Hands that were made to destroy dedicate their time to rebuilding, carefully firm with his joints. The magic works alongside him, threading a warm, glittery feeling through some of the torn ligaments his mentor seems so worried about. Techno keeps at it for the better part of an hour, until Tommy really starts to fall asleep, and Techno has to wake him up so he doesn’t miss dinner. According to Techno, Phil miraculously ‘doesn’t find out,’ though Tommy notes the way his eyes follow him from the moment he gets home and wonders if he's being gently swindled, again. 

It’s embarrassing, but it feels like home, feels safe to be watched after, so he doesn't make a big deal out of it. He realizes even if Phil does know, he doesn’t mind, as long as they promise he's not in trouble. Techno is just looking out for him in the only way he knows how. Something about it makes Tommy feel better, knowing Techno is there to catch him when he falls.

And to answer absolutely not when Tommy asks so I shouldn’t bring Schlatt any more diamonds?