(ON HIATUS) La Tropica - orphan_account (2024)

Chapter 1: It’s a good day and Tommy is going to get mugged

Chapter Text

Honestly, when Tommy ran away to the city of L’Manburg, this isn’t quite what he was expecting.

Seagulls cry out in the sky, gliding on the wind with curved wings, weaving through the air with practiced ease while people hide their food from the birds when they get too close. The murmur of waves is constant, water lapping at the shore as fish swim within it, barely visible with the way the sunlight bounces off the surface of the water with a harsh glare. Their scales are illuminated, shimmering reflections brightening up their silver bodies.

People roam around the streets, talking amongst themselves, walking to work, jogging, or just walking around for the sake of it. The air is warm and humid, and the cars that pass by on the road have their windows rolled down, music either blasting or calmly thrumming out a rhythm from within the vehicle. Sometimes, Tommy can even spot a horse-drawn carriage padding along the concrete of the streets, which is weird as f*ck, but hey, to each their own.

Nature is entwined with the buildings as well; flowers, trees, and other types of foliage coexisting with the people of L’Manburg in their own ways. Floral baskets hang outside windows, trees with long branches covered in strange twisting leaves droop down towards the pavement, while ancient logs twist up towards the sky and shelter those who take comfort within their shadows. Moss, weeds, and grass are ever-present, poking out through the pavement, and thriving in the park nearby. Dogs bark at squirrels that dash up into high branches, while the horses that pull the carriages trot along peacefully.

All in all, it’s a much calmer scene than what Tommy’s used to.

He’s used to the city, the constant shrieking hubbub that never ends, car horns blaring and people shouting, dark alleys with threats lying within, people that won’t hesitate to hurt you if it’s for their own self-gain. Sure, there were plenty of good places throughout the city, such as the museums, shops, cafes and parks, but they were constantly overshadowed by the suffocating smell of cigarettes, alcohol, blood, and many other things that Tommy would rather not think about.

But here, it’s so much more… peaceful.

It almost feels like home.

Tommy breathes in the fresh air, a soft breeze brushing past him as sunbeams pour over him. Honestly, it’s really f*cking hot, but he’s not complaining. It’s a nice kind of hot, one that gives him at least some kind of idea as to what summer days with a family would feel like.

(He’s never had those days. He’s never needed them either, which is obvious by how his chest feels hollow and his heart aches when he thinks about it. No, Tommy Innit is a Big Man and he doesn’t need a family. He’s good enough on his own.)

Anyway, the stories that Tommy had heard about L’Manburg, rumors and scattered whispers, spoke of the heroes and villains that clash within the city. Constant conflicts, an even larger reflection of the pain caused by enhanced individuals back home. Supposedly, three of the top heroes, members of the famed Dream Team, live within this city and protect it from every threat that dares to face it.

However, as Tommy looks around, he finds it harder and harder to believe that this is where those famous battles take place. In fact, it looks like somewhere he’d go for a vacation, a tropical getaway where he could just sit and chill for a minute. It doesn’t seem anything like a city where criminals, vigilantes, villains, and heroes duke it out for their own definition of the word “justice.”

To be honest, Tommy came here specificallyfor conflict. His life has been a cycle, a circle of events, a permanent limbo that tears him apart even more than any kind of physical wound could. Every day was the same, constant, dragging, lonely and dark and depressing with no end in sight.

He knew his enhancement could prove useful, and he knew that if he stayed in that constant cycle he’d go mad, so the most logical idea in his head was to head out to L’Manburg. Here, he can make a change— he can helppeople, he can save others and he can save himself from the hell that he was stuck in before.

L’Manburg isn’t just an escape for him— it’s a place where he can have some kind of hope, a city where he can learn to believe that he has a purpose. Back in the old city, he was just a starving street rat, someone who only used his enhancement to survive, constantly on the run from authorities in a desperate attempt to stay alive.

Yeah, sure, he’s a Big Man™️ who’s always had a purpose, always been one of a kind, but it’s gotten increasingly harder and harder to believe that over the past couple of years.

L’Manburg is a brand new start, and maybe, just maybe, he can be a brand new person.

He takes in a deep breath, the breeze brushing past him as it carries the smell of the ocean along with it, the hubbub and commotion of people living out their days a constant comfort.

For the first time in what seems like forever, a small yet genuine smile makes its way onto Tommy’s face. Something about this place makes him feel at home already, like he’s always belonged here, and just hasn’t realized it yet.

There really isn’t much that could f*ck up this moment.

Except, of course, for the hand that grasps Tommy’s shoulder and practically yanks him backwards.

Tommy doesn’t even have time to protest— his mouth is covered with another hand as soon as he opens it, and as he struggles to break free from the stranger’s grip, the hold that the other person has on him just gets tighter. Panic surges within him, and he tries to squash it down, but fails as he gets dragged further and further into a dark alley.

For once in his f*cking life, can Tommy please just have something good happen? For f*ck’s sake, he literally justshowed up in what seems like the paradise he’s always needed, and he’s already getting kidnapped.

It’s hard for him to tell just exactly whograbbed him, but the strength of their hold is enough to tell Tommy that they’re an enhanced individual. However, they’re shaking slightly, and every so often, the stranger stumbles and tries to catch themself as they drag Tommy along.

The metallic scent of blood hits Tommy’s nose, and he just barely contains a gag when he breathes it in. Okay, what the f*ck, why is there blood, holy sh*t, why the f*ck is this happening. Is the person kidnapping him injured, or is the blood someone else’s? If it’s someone else’s, Tommy hopes and prays that his own won’t be joining them soon.

The stranger is still hauling him through the dark alley, the sunlight just barely managing to penetrate through the rooftops, laundry lines, and other things that hang overhead. It seems as though nobody’s around, no one who could potentially help Tommy out, which just makes this situation even more sh*tty.

However, before Tommy can even consider ways out of this, the hands lift from his mouth and shoulders, releasing their grip as the sound of someone stumbling back against wet stones echoes throughout the alley, reverberating through his head.

He whips around, already eager to give the f*cker what’s coming to them, but the stranger’s quicker, holding up a finger over their mouth for a silent “be quiet”motion.

“Listen.”

The words are somewhat wispy, with the hint of an unfamiliar accent just barely hidden within them. The man standing before him’s voice is somehow commanding yet gentle, and as he peers at Tommy with intelligent, bird-like eyes, Tommy finds himself unable to break the silence.

“You new here, mate?” It’s barely a question, more like a statement, as if the man has known Tommy for his whole life. The man tilts his head quizzically, and his movements strike Tommy once more as to those akin to that of a bird’s, gaze sharp and posture relaxed, yet posed to strike if danger arises.

“Yes?” Tommy replies, and even though he’s been in plenty of dangerous situations before, he finds his words shaking slightly with nervousness. He takes in a deep breath, tries to still himself, and forces the next sentence out. “What’s it to you, bird boy?”

To Tommy’s surprise, the man barks out a laugh, his blond hair flowing as he throws his head back. The strange green-and-white bucket had atop his head barely shifts as he moves, and his emerald robes just barely shift, as though he’s so practiced in his movements that he can control every part of himself with ease. “Oh c’mon, it’s not thatobvious, is it?”

Though Tommy’s still on guard, he relaxes a little at the man’s light tone, carefully returning the toothy grin that the stranger flashes at him. “I know an avian when I see one, mate.”

“Mm, and I even went through all the trouble of hiding my wings.” The stranger sighs, grimacing slightly as he shifts his shoulder blades, evidently trying to reveal the feathers that are so delicately hidden, whether it be with power suppressors, magic, or just a natural ability.

“If you keep f*ckin’ acting like a bird, people are going to call you a f*ckin’ bird.” Tommy points out.

“I could say the same to you.” The man laughs, then tilts his head once more, a small glint of concern in his blue gaze as he stares at Tommy. “Though, you’re too light for comfort. Much lighter than an avian should be.”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, you kidnap me and now you’re f*ckin’ worried about my health?” Tommy retorts. “What’s your problem anyway, asshole?”

“Sorry,” the stranger smiles apologetically. “I couldn’t exactly ask for help in public, since I’m what they call an ‘outlaw,’ so I thought it was best to take you back here.” At these words, he stretches his arms out, the emerald sleeves thrown to the side as he exposes a massive, crimson splatter clashing with the jade of his robes.

There’s a hole torn through his shirt, revealing a deep wound in his chest, a violent slash oozing blood. It looks as though it’s been open for a while, and it’s only now that Tommy truly notices the way that the stranger struggles with each breath, his posture slightly shaky as he tries tries to communicate. The blood is still flowing, dripping down onto the cobblestone floor below them, forming a small scarlet pool.

Tommy stares at the wound, then back at the stranger’s face.

“Holy sh*t.” Tommy breathes.

“Yeah, that’s what I said too.” The man chuckles. “Bit of a nasty gash, isn’t it?”

“f*ckin’ understatement. Holy sh*t man, how the f*ck are you still moving?” Tommy chokes out. “It looks like an animal f*ckin’ tried to kill you or something.”

“Might as well have been.” The stranger’s gaze darkens for a moment, then lightens once more as he meets Tommy’s eyes. “Ah, sorry. Got caught up in my own thoughts for a second there. Uh, anyway, there’s a reason why I pulled you back here. Mate, you’re new to L’Manburg, so you’re not familiar with how the hero system works, correct?”

Slightly taken aback, Tommy pauses for a moment before he nods slowly. “Yeah, I don’t know sh*t about the hero system yet. But what does that have to do-”

“So you can’t contact the heroes, right?” The man’s sharp blue eyes seem to bore into Tommy’s soul, and something tells Tommy that even if he didknow how to contact the heroes, doing so would be a really f*cking stupid decision.

“No, I can’t.” Tommy answers, gulping down the slight nervousness that’s beginning to rise up in his throat once again. “Are you a- are you a villain?” He hates how his words shake slightly on that last question, a slight, yet clear betrayal to the fear he feels in this moment.

The man’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, confused. “You really aren’tfrom here, are you? No, I’m not a villain. I’m a vigilante.”

“Oh.” Tommy says. “Makes sense.”

“Yeah. So, now that we have that out of the way, I have a bit of a favor to ask.” The man laughs, though pain is laced within his tone. “As you can tell, I have been severely wounded.”

“Don’t worry, I f*ckin’ noticed.” Tommy replies.

“So, uh, I’d like some medical assistance. And since the city of L’Manburg doesn’t exactly allowhelp for vigilantes, I was wondering if maybe, just maybe, you could lend a hand. Especially since you’re new here and you could get off scot-free for helping me. How’s that sound?” The man suggests, spreading his hands out slightly.

“Let me get this straight.” Tommy begins, glaring at the stranger. “You found some random f*ckin’ teen on the street, dragged him into the back of an alley like you were going to f*ckin’ mughim, and that’s your way of asking for medical help?”

“Yes.” The man states.

“Fair enough.” Tommy sighs. “I’ll help you.”

“Really? That was easier than I thought it would be.” The stranger chuckles.

“On one condition.” Tommy continues.

“Oh. Here it comes.” The man sighs. “Do you want money, protection, or-”

“I want you to teach me how to be a vigilante.” Tommy deadpans.

There’s a moment of silence as the two of them stare at each other, Tommy standing defiant, while the man who’s currently bleeding out of what appears to be a stab wound just looks at him in a state of utter confusion.

This, my friends, is what we call a “plot device.”

Chapter 2: Tommy robs a store and heals a wanted vigilante, POGCHAMP

Chapter Text

“You want me to… teach you how to be a vigilante?” The man blinks, azure eyes confused as he stares at Tommy.

“Yeah.” Tommy nods, his stance defiant and stubborn as he glares at the stranger, his own blue eyes a reflection of the other’s, yet with much more fire in them. “If I help you, you have to promise to help me out, okay? It’s a pretty f*ckin’ good deal, if you ask me.”

“I mean, sure, but are you sure mate? If I’m being completely honest, that’s a weird request to ask.” The man laughs, then winces, clutching at the wound dug into his chest. Tommy grimaces at the sight, and it takes more willpower than he would like to admit to stop himself from looking away. Whatever, or whoeverattacked this guy was pretty f*cking vicious about it. To be honest, it looks more like a warning wound, something to ward the stranger away and caution him from getting too close— it’s somewhat obvious by the way it’s placed square on the chest, and seems purposely too shallow to cause any fatal damage. But it’s still pretty f*cking nasty, and Tommy’s beginning to wonder just what this guy did to warrant such an injury.

“I’m quite f*ckin’ certain, yes. So is it a deal or not?” Tommy prods.

“It’s a deal.” The man nods, extending his hand out for Tommy to shake. Tommy can’t help but wince at the sight of the crimson dried blood flaking on the stranger’s hand, but he accepts the gesture anyway. Their fingers entwine for a moment, the stranger’s grip much stronger than what Tommy would’ve expected, and then they’re separate once again.

For a second, Tommy feels rather accomplished in the fact that by pure luck and plot convenience, he found someone who can actually teach him vigilantism.

Then he realizes that he has no f*cking idea what to do next.

He’s not a healer in any way— the various scars lining his body are proof of that, faint traces of the things he’s suffered in the past (including that one time an ironing board fell on him, and that other time he got scared by his own reflection and punched a window). However, he knows just enough to get by, and he’s pretty f*cking clutch when it comes to robbing people (sorry, borrowing. Tommy Innit is a good man who has never stolen anything in his entire life. His phone was bought with his own money in his totally existant bank account), so if he could just find a good pharmacy, then chances are he can make this work.

Yes, Tommy Innit is a massive genius with a massive f*cking brain.

Einstein quivers before him.

“Alright, old man,” Tommy begins, “know any good stores around here?”

“What?” The stranger asks.

—

And that’s the story of how Tommy stole— sorry, borrowedfrom a store.

Long story short, he waltzed in, grabbed a ton of medical sh*t, and bolted as fast as he f*cking could. He is now on the run from the law.

Ah yes, another typical Wednesday.

The sun is already starting to set, the golden rays dappled with hues of reds and violets as the flame begins to sink below the horizon, soon to be overshadowed by the moon and stars that illuminate the night sky. The street lamps flicker slightly, Tommy winding around them as he tries to keep the gauze, disinfectants, and other items from stumbling out of his arms while he runs.

L’Manburg would definitely be a peaceful place in the evening, the seagulls crying overhead with people enjoying their time via hanging out with friends, going to shops, driving past lazily on the roads, or literally just having fun. It’d be even more pleasant if Tommy wasn’t illegally trying to help a wanted vigilante from bleeding out in an alley.

It’s not long before he makes a turn around a building and ducks into the shadows, the last of the fading sunbeams reaching out into the alley with longing lights before dissipating completely as Tommy slows his pace, his footsteps echoing against the wet stones beneath him and the walls of the buildings surrounding him.

The laundry lines above still sway with the breeze, slight clicking sounds mingling with the noise of soft fabric billowing in the wind, while music dances in the distance, the light hum causing Tommy to sway to the rhythm despite the fact that he can barely hear it.

Sure, he may be bringing medical supplies to a wanted vigilante, but L’Manburg truly does feel like a new home. Somewhere where he’s always belonged without realizing it.

When he starts living here, he’s going to make it everyone else’s problem, because he’s an absolute goblin and will not hesitate to mildly inconvenience people.

One of said inconveniences is arson.

Tommy whistles to himself quietly as he continues moving down the alley, keeping an eye out for the various things that he remembers from when he was quite literally kidnapped by a vigilante and dragged into the darkness. A faint, flickering light from one building helps to guide his way, while a pile of trash looks pretty familiar when he weaves around it.

Soon enough, he finds the man slumped against the wall, breathing quiet yet rushed as he clutches at his chest with a robed hand. Worryingly, the wound’s being a bitch and refusing to stop bleeding, soaking deep into the green fabric wrapped around the stranger’s torso as he tries and fails to contain it.

“You look like sh*t.” Tommy comments.

The man nearly jumps at the sound of Tommy’s voice, but stops himself before he can do any more damage to himself, flashing his teeth in an apologetic grin at Tommy. “Yeah mate, I know. I kind of noticed.”

“Have you ever tried not bleeding out? It’s surprisingly helpful.” Tommy suggests.

“Thanks mate, I’ll keep that in mind.” The stranger snorts. “Did you get something to help?”

“I got all the good sh*t.” Tommy grins. “Now you won’t die, and you’ll owe me for the rest of your f*ckin’ life, which probably isn’t much longer ‘cuz you look old as sh*t.”

“I- what? I’m not that old!” the man scolds. “I’m only in my thirties!”

“ANCIENT.” Tommy drawls. “Imagine being old, I could never. f*ckin’ cringe, that’s what that is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just f*cking reverse my age then!” The stranger retorts, though there’s no heat to it, just a teasing tone.

“Yeah, you’d better, or else you’ll f*ckin’… you know.” Tommy sighs dramatically. “By the way, do you have a will written yet?”

“No, because I’m not going to f*cking died yet!” The man snaps.

“You made a typo in that.” Tommy points out.

“How did you- mate, are you okay?” The man tilts his head.

“I’m perfectly fine, thanks, mate.” Tommy replies, then pauses. “Oi, why the f*ck do you say ‘mate’ so much? ‘Oi mate, I’m old as f*ck, my back’s going to throw out soon.’” His pitch gets high and mocking as he smirks at the stranger.

“I don’t sound like that! And it’s just a choice of words. Is a man not allowed to have those anymore?” The man snorts.

“Yep. I am superior, a gigachad, if you will, so you are now forbidden from saying ‘mate.’” Tommy nods knowingly. “If you say ‘mate’ one more time I will have to execute you.”

“Since you’re doing nothing to help me while I bleed out, I’d say you’re already doing a good job.” The man wheezes.

“Stop being sarcastic, I’ll clart you.” Tommy threatens.

“Sure, mate.” The man grins. “Now, could you please, for f*ck’s sake, stop the bleeding?”

Tommy nods, then takes a few careful steps forward, surveying the man with a lighter form of caution than before. Yeah, the stranger seems to have no bad intentions, but Tommy still needs to be careful— not every vigilante is kind, and many more than one won’t hesitate to turn to violence if it’s to protect themselves or others. Though Tommy can tell that the man trusts him not to hurt him, if only a little bit, he still approaches him as he would a wounded animal.

The man seems to notice his wariness and relaxes his posture, taking his hands away from the gash on his chest, though it makes him grimace for a moment. Okay, good sign. Unless the guy is trying to lure Tommy into a false sense of security and kill him. Then it’s a bad sign.

Eh, Tommy’s been in worse situations. He’ll be fine.

Besides, if this works out and the stranger keeps his end of the deal, then Tommy can truly become a vigilante, able to help others while not falling into the strict laws and codes of the hero committee. Pretty pogchamp, if Tommy says so himself.

Once Tommy sees that the man has taken a more relaxed posture, his arms to the side in a way that tells Tommy that the stranger won’t hurt him, he takes a few steps forward, gauze and other supplies in hand. He still doesn’t have the best medical experience, and all he knows is the basics that he’s learned over his years of getting continuously injured, but it should be good enough for this cut.

The man has to move his robes slightly so that Tommy can get a clear view of the gash, removing the fabric that sticks to the wound with now-scarlet threads. After soaking up as much blood as he can with some paper towels, he and the stranger have a silent exchange. Tommy tilts his head up to face the man as he kneels upon the ground, extending his hand out towards the injury with the disinfectant that he “borrowed” from the pharmacy. The stranger nods, though he stiffens when Tommy begins to apply it.

“That f*cking hurts.” The man grimaces, wincing at how Tommy rubs in the disinfectant, his hands already stained red with the blood.

“No sh*t, Sherlock.” Tommy mutters, trying his hardest not to acknowledge the way the blood sticks to his hands. Maybe he should’ve grabbed something more to wipe them off on other than the paper towels he used to soak up the blood, like an extra roll or some sh*t when he robbed— sorry, borrowed, from the store. However, in his rush to get away from the law because he’d rather not get taken to jail, he hadn’t thought of getting anything to clean his hands with. He didmanage to wash them before starting the healing process, but other than that, he doesn’t have sh*t.

But he’s stuck with what he’s got, and he’s already started, so he continues working, finishing with the disinfectant and beginning to apply the gauze. This is something he’s familiar with, carefully winding the gauze around the wound while pressing down, keeping the material in place while simultaneously holding back the blood that continues its effort to be a bitch and flow out. Every so often, the man lets out a grunt of pain, and Tommy glares at him in a silent warning to shut the f*ck up, because he’s f*cking working, and he doesn’t need the guy to start being an ass and interrupting him.

It takes a few moments, but Tommy finishes up the roll of gauze, snapping off the last bit after completely covering the wound. The material is pure white, no blood flowing through it, which means Tommy at least did a good job. And by the way that the man doesn’t struggle to breathe with the gauze winding around his chest, it’s not too tight, which means Tommy did a semi-alright job.

Yeah, Tommy’s not a doctor, but he has a basic idea on how to get by, even if it’s not much.

The moon and stars have already begun to illuminate the sky when Tommy tucks the remaining roll of gauze into his pocket, careful not to get any more blood onto his clothes as he pushes that gauze deeper into the fabric. The disinfectant is soon to follow, shoved into his other pocket.

“I reckon that’s good enough.” Tommy mutters, glancing at the fabric winding around the stranger’s chest. “It’ll stop you from dying, at least.”

The man follows Tommy’s gaze, looking down at the white patch of gauze that just barely lies beneath his green robes. He reaches a tender hand towards it, then hesitates before putting it back down and shooting Tommy a grateful smile. “Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Tommy mutters. “Anyone would’ve done the same, right?”

“Not anyone.” The man replies. “Really. Thank you.”

Tommy nods, then looks down at his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “I couldn’t just let you bleed out, could I? It’d be a sh*tty thing to do.”

The stranger barks out a laugh, though it’s much softer than what he’s done before. “Yeah, it would be. But not a lot of people would go out of their way to help someone like me— most of them would just turn me in to the authorities.” He pauses, and then, “you may be a gremlin, but you’re kind, I’ll give you that.”

Tommy glowers at him, though he barely has enough energy to put any anger into it. “And you’re a bitch. f*ck you.”

“Alright, weird gremlin child. Keep telling yourself that.” The man grins, flashing his teeth at Tommy before pausing, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Y’know, I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“It’s Tommy.” Tommy replies almost instantly, which is strange— he’s not entirely sure why he would just give this guy his name like that, especially when it could prove dangerous in the future if he’s not careful.

“Nice to meet you, Tommy.” The man smiles, a faint look of fondness crossing over his face. “You can call me Phil.”

Chapter 3: Phil recovers from stab wound and thinks about adopting another child

Chapter Text

The moon and stars are already painting the sky, pale lights dancing among the night while Phil lies in the alley, Tommy only a few feet away.

Tommy’s already fallen asleep— despite the fact that he was clearly fighting against it, exhaustion got the better of him, making his eyelids droop and his breathing slow as he slipped into unconsciousness. His hands are still sticky with flaked blood, crimson that’s soaked into his skin after treating Phil’s wound.

It makes Phil just a tad bit uncomfortable, seeing the kid who was already much too dirty for comfort have his own blood soaking his hands, the red having dried, yet still remaining as a scarlet reminder of what he’d done to help Phil. Honestly, a lot of things about Tommy unsettled Phil— from the way he was careful in every move, how his skin’s lined with pale scars, and how his eyes are constantly scanning his surroundings like a scared animal.

From what Phil’s seen, Tommy’s loud-mouthed, easily angered, and won’t hesitate to start a fight, but there’s a clear amount of kindness that’s barely hidden by Tommy’s aggression. Not everyone would’ve chosen to help Phil, despite the fact that he tries his hardest to keep this city safe. Even fewer would’ve stayed with him, with the risk of imprisonment hovering over him and those around him like a dark cloud.

But Tommy did just that, even robbing a store (yes, Phil knows he robbed it. Apparently Tommy’s a really sh*tty liar) to get the materials he needed to heal the wound. Sure, it wasn’t the bestattempt that Phil’s seen in terms of healing, but it’s good enough, and the thought of someone who’s clearly seen hell stopping to help Phil in any way that he can is enough to warm his heart.

The kid still snores softly across from him in the alley, slumped against a wall as he huddles in on himself for warmth. Pale blond hair with tufts of white frame his face, dropping into his eyes and drifting away from his mouth whenever he breathes. Two feathers are tucked carefully behind his ear, vibrant with hues of blue. They clash with the rest of Tommy’s appearance, the bright colors nothing like the dirty clothes and scars that cover the teen.

The feathers are the only things that would prove him as an avian to humans, though even that is barely enough to betray his species. The only ways that Phil was able to tell was by how fast the kid recognized Phil himself as an avian, along with his movements, often co*cking his head like a bird, twitching his fingers constantly, and staring up to the sky more often then not with a longing expression on his face.

Honestly, it’s strange how Tommy refuses to show his wings, his plumage carefully hidden with natural abilities. There’s no power suppressor to be seen on him, and no magic winding around his shoulders, so it’s clear that he was just born with the ability to keep his feathers away from the eyes of others.

Well, it’s not Phil’s business, so he won’t pry. The kid saved his life, he owes him that much, so if it’s not his business and Tommy’s not comfortable sharing, then he won’t push him to answer his questions.

Even though Phil has a f*cking lotof questions.

He sighs and taps his foot absentmindedly, refusing to let himself give in to sleep in case one of the heroes is patrolling, or a villain walks by, or just a citizen who bears a grudge notices him in the alley. For Phil, being caught is usually a mild inconvenience because Techno and Wilbur can get him out, but he’s not so sure about Tommy. From the looks of it, he’s alone, nobody to cover him except himself.

That definitely doesn’t form a selfish tug in Phil’s heart to protect him.

Not at all.

Phil just met the kid. He’s not attached.

Trust him, he’s only broken the law about 117 times in the past month.

Yes, a very trustworthy man.

You can tell that he’s not attached to Tommy by how he extends his wings, releasing them from his shoulder despite the pain, and reaching out towards the teen, wrapping his black-and-white feathers around him in an attempt to keep the cold from biting at him.

Yup. Not attached at all.

Phil pulls Tommy in closer, careful not to wake the kid up as he attempts to warm him with his feathers. L’Manburg may be hot as f*ck during the day, but often times the night is much cooler, sometimes even dangerously so if one doesn’t have any protection from it. And, seeing how sh*tty Tommy’s clothes are and how he clearly has no place to go, Phil will be his protection.

Tommy leans into Phil at the touch, muttering something incoherent as he presses his head into Phil’s wings. Careful not to let Tommy near the bandaged wound, Phil just lets the teen lean against his shoulder, wings tucked around him so that he’ll provide him with at least some warmth tonight.

Humming subconsciously, Phil looks to the sky, watching as the clouds drift past the moon and stars, covering the light for a few moments at a time before moving onward, leaving the brilliant whites to continue shining down upon L’Manburg. Back home, underneath these very same stars, Phil’s sons are most definitely worried sick.

Or pissed off.

Actually, they’re most likely pissed off.

The last time Phil had come back to his house with injuries like this, he’d been scolded for hours, Techno and Wilbur fretting over him until they were absolutely certain that he was okay. It wasn’t even that severe of an injury— just a few broken ribs caused by that asshole “hero,” Dream.

But they care about him, and he cares about them, so it’s only natural for them to fuss over each other when they think something’s wrong. Whenever Techno or Wilbur gets hurt, Phil does his best to make sure they recover well, and he tries his absolute hardest to keep it from happening again. After all, they’ve all sworn an oath to protect each other, to keep their family safe.

Yeah, it’s cheesy as f*ck, but it’s important. It’s something that Phil’s lived with ever since he met the two of them.

Family comes first, whether they’re bound by blood or not.

…

…something about Tommy reminds Phil of his sons.

Is it the way that he’s constantly alert and vigilant, prepared to run or fight at the slightest hint of danger, or is it how willingly he helped Phil?

Or maybe it’s just because he’s completely alone, roughed up from the streets of some foreign city, having run to L’Manburg for sanctuary, just like they were when Phil first found them.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to tug on Phil’s heart and push him further to protect the kid, pulling his wings tight in an effort to blanket Tommy. Maybe there isn’t much Phil can do for him, mainly because Phil doesn’t want to drag the teen into the dangerous life of vigilantism, but he made a deal. And he intends to keep it, no matter how much he doesn’t want to.

Maybe Tommy would lose interest in vigilantism after seeing Phil’s wound, or he never intended to ask that in the first place. It’s pretty clear that he hadn’t even needed an exchange when it came to convincing him to help Phil, because even though he stood stubborn and defiant, something in his eyes told Phil more than words ever could— that the teen would stay anyway, and patch up the wounds, despite getting nothing else in return.

Okay, now that Phil thinks about it, Tommy staying defiant and standing for ideas doesn’t make the whole “losing interest in vigilantism” thing look good.

sh*t. Phil reallydoesn’t want to drag a kid into this, let alone a child who completely refuses to show his hybrid traits and abilities for some unknown reason.

There’s a tense feeling of fear that’s barely hidden under Tommy’s rough exterior, and even though Phil promised to teach him how to break the law and stop crime, Phil finds that he wants nothing more than for this kid to find something that’ll actually make him happy. A family, people who’ll love and cherish him, a job and a home where he could live his life in peace, far away from the conflicts of heroes and villains.

But clearly, Tommy’s dead-set on this goal, and he won’t leave Phil alone until he achieves it.

Phil sighs, his breath only a tad louder than the puffs of air that come from Tommy by his side. The kid’s still bundled up in Phil’s wings, and Phil could swear that he’s tucked himself closer to the feathers. Tommy doesn’t look any older than sixteen or seventeen, which makes the situation even worse.

Despite the fact that Phil barely knows him, he knows that if Tommy were to get hurt, the guilt would eat him alive.

Almost as though he read his thoughts, Tommy shifts a bit in his sleep, letting out a discomforted whimper before pulling himself closer to Phil. Tommy may be an asshole, and he may be loud as f*ck, but there’s an instinct somewhere in Phil that tells him to comfort Tommy.

Phil lets out a small coo, just a tiny bird-like sound that warbles up from his throat.

Tommy grunts in his sleep, something that sounds like “f*ck off, bitch.”

Yep. What a nice child.

The corners of Phil’s lips tilt upward and he lets out a gentle snort of laughter before tucking Tommy closer to him, his black and white wings curving around the kid in a gentle motion.

Though the moon and stars still dance across the night sky, lighting up the darkness like distant fireworks lost in space, Phil finds that he doesn’t mind staying here for just a bit longer. He’ll have to leave in the morning, but for now, he’ll protect Tommy with everything he’s got.

Chapter 4: Father and son bond by running away from the law

Chapter Text

Tommy just barely wakes up to something soft wrapped around him.

Huh. That’s weird. He doesn’t have blankets.

Whatever. At least it’s warm, and the rhythm of someone breathing next to him, their heartbeat thrumming in a gentle pattern, is rather soothing, so he stays where he is, pulling whatever’s surrounding him closer to himself.

“Tommy?” The voice of who Tommy can only assume is the person holding him is quiet, purposely lowered as though the other’s trying not to scare him, like Tommy’s some kind of wounded animal.

Tommy’s not a wounded animal. He’s just tired as f*ck.

“f*ck off.” Tommy mumbles, practically shoving his face into the feathers brushing against him. They’re dark as night, soft and fluffy with startling white plumage underneath them, just barely hidden by the pitch black that surrounds the wings. If Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d say that it feels almost as though he’s being watched over by some kind of giant toucan.

“Tommy, I’m going to have to move my wings if you don’t wake up.” The other warns.

“I’ll… f*ckin’ move your face off...” Tommy mutters, his words almost as cluttered as his thoughts as he makes a half-hearted attempt to shove at the person next to him. His shoulder just nudges uselessly against the other’s chest, only causing a soft rumble in their chest as he tries to push them away.

The other person sighs. “Don’t make me do it.”

“…do it puss*, you won’t.” Tommy challenges, his words slurred.

“You brought this on yourself.” The other person barely hides a laugh, rumbling deep in his chest before the wings holding Tommy flare out, feathers scattering along the alley as the sun’s rays pool right into Tommy’s eyes, causing him to yelp and stumble back, right into Phil.

The alley’s much brighter than it was before, the sun illuminating the buildings and the clotheslines that hover up above, suspended by strings that extend from one wall to the next. Several of the windows are open, but it seems as though if anyone had noticed Phil and Tommy, none of them cared enough to confront them. Evidently people have much bigger problems than thinking twice about a wanted vigilante and a teen he allegedly kidnapped.

Tommy’s thoughts are cut off as Phil catches him before he falls over, a chuckle bubbling in his throat and warmth in his eyes. “Took you long enough.” He grins, absolutely no sympathy or guilt in his eyes for what he’s done. The light that pours down from up above flows over his azure irises and golden hair, making him look much warmer and more content than he was the other day. Which is great, considering the fact that he was practically bleeding out when Tommy tried to heal him.

However, that doesn’t change the fact that Tommy’s f*cking pissed. No, he doesn’t give a sh*t about Phil (or at least he thinkshe doesn’t), but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the feathers shielding him, protective wings spread over him and keeping him away from the biting cold that nipped at his skin the night before.

And now that Phil has decided to be a bastard and not hold Tommy anymore, Tommy’s going to make that his f*cking problem.

“f*ck. You.” Tommy groans. “That’s so f*ckin’ bright, why’d you have to f*ckin’ do that, I’ll see you in court—”

“I’ve never been to court and I never will.” Phil flashes his teeth at Tommy, who simply glowers back.

“I’ll f*ckin’ change that, prick.” Tommy retorts.

“Mhm.” Phil smiles, that same fond look crossing over his face, the corners of his lips tilting upwards as he practically beams down at Tommy. There’s a bit of amusem*nt in his expression, along with an emotion that Tommy can’t quite place his finger on. It almost looks like how Tommy’s seen parents look at their children, which is weird, because Tommy is most certainly not a child and Phil is definitely not his father. “I’d like to see you try.”

“I’ll bring my lawyer into this.” Tommy threatens. He will. He’ll f*cking decimate this bitch in court.

“Who’s your lawyer?” Phil questions, an amused glint flashing in his eyes.

“Me, f*ckface.” Tommy states.

“You need help.” Phil states.

“I’m f*ckin’ poggers, I don’t need help.” Tommy retorts.

“Fair enough.” Phil laughs. “Wait, ‘poggers?’”

“You don’t know what poggers— Holy sh*t, you’re so f*ckin’ old.” A pause, and then, “When you die, do I inherit anything?” Tommy asks, tilting his head up to face the man with a mischievous lilt in his slightly-fanged grin. “I’d like to be rich soon.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m rich, and even if I were, you’re not getting my will.” Phil snorts. “My sh*t’s going to my sons.”

The thought of Phil having kids is equally both terrifying and comforting, and if these sons are anything like their father, Tommy feels like he’s going to lose all sanity he has left the moment he meets them.

“Oh, what the f*ck, you have sons?” Tommy exclaims. “You’re truly the oldest man ever. The only man ever, in fact.”

“I’m not even going to comment on that.” Phil sighs. “Alright, changing the subject—”

“Old.” Tommy drawls. “Ancient.”

“—changing the subject.” Phil continues. “We made a deal, remember? You healed my injury, which means I have to teach you how to become a vigilante. The only way I can do that is by taking you home, somewhere where we won’t get caught or be arrested.” He pauses, and then “we can leave now, or-”

Before he can even finish his sentence, he’s rather rudely interrupted by a hatchet flying into the wall next to him, embedding itself into the stone with it’s dark enchanted metal glimmering in the sunlight. The runes lining its sides glow with a faint purple in a language that Tommy could never understand.

This kind of weapon isn’t cheap, and usually the only people who can get these kind of tools are—

“Phil.”

The voice is cold and calculating, and Phil’s head snaps up to stare at it’s owner.

Tommy follows his gaze, albeit rather nervously, because he knows that there’s a f*cking hero and that hero is probably going to f*cking kill them both. Or land them in prison, which would suck ass, because Tommy’s only sixteen and he’d rather not go to jail. Again, because apparently arson is a felony, which is cringe. That shouldn’t be a valid reason to be sent to prison, but it happened to Tommy anyway, and he’s still pissed about it.

He’s also quite pissed about the bastard standing in front of him, completely covered in green, a white, void-like smiley face mask obstructing the view of his facial features, though it just barely hides his anger as he glowers down at Phil and Tommy. For f*ck’s sake, Phil and Tommy were just having a moment. A meaningful conversation, if you will. Something akin to a father and son bonding, but the father is a random vigilante who was bleeding out and asked a random teen to help him out.

Tommy decides not to think about that, because the author doesn’t want to make the chapter super f*cking long.

Wait, author? What the fu—

The stranger’s jade robes are much brighter than Phil’s, wrapping around his chest and stopping at a belt that snakes around the lower part of his torso. Within the belt, several weapons are sheathed, along with potions that the man hovers his hand over, clearly prepared to use them if needed, shining liquids with hues of reds, pinks, and bruising purples sloshing around within the glass vials. A sword with similar runes to the axe is hung at his side, sheathed, yet still whispering of danger with the faded crimson stains that soak the end of the blade, dried blood of old victims that flakes the metal. His entire appearance is built for battle, his body lithe and his stance tense, yet somehow relaxed at the same time as he focuses his attention on Phil.

“Dream.” Phil replies coolly, but even though his voice is calm, he tenses besides Tommy. Soon after the word is spoken, Tommy feels a hand land on his shoulder and tighten its grip, though it’s not in a dangerous way, more of a protective move. Kind of confusing that Phil’s willing to defend Tommy in this situation, but alright. It’s probably just because of their deal.

Tommy Innit may be a dumbass.

“Phil, again.” Dream sighs. “These dramatic encounters are getting old, you know?”

“Almost as old as this f*cker.” Tommy mumbles under his breath.

Phil shoots a glare at him, but it lacks the heat that he sends back at Dream.

“It’d be a lot less dramatic if you just leave me the f*ck alone.” Phil counters, his sharp, sky-blue gaze focused on Dream like how a bird focuses on its prey. “Can’t you see that we’re just trying to better the city, while you heroes just ignore the sh*t that happens here unless you’re paid for it?”

“Kidnapping a child is a strange way to ‘better the city.’” Dream shoots back.

“Oi, it wasn’t a kidnapping, dickhe*d.” Tommy protests. “I voluntarilydecided to get pulled into the back of an alley so I could help this f*cker out. Therefore it’s very f*ckin’ legal.”

“Helping a vigilante is a felony, you know that, right?” Dream quizzes, tilting his head at Tommy.

“And you’re a bitch, what else is new?” Tommy shoots back. “You know what, I bet you’re f*ckin’ homeless, you green prick.”

“I— what?” Dream stutters. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Tommy, shush.” Phil whispers. “This is dangerous, okay?”

“I’m just saying.” Tommy shrugs, but he falls silent under Phil’s eyes, allowing the man to pull him closer, his feathers extending once more like shadows that creep along the alley walls. “He didn’t deny it.”

Dream’s attention turns to Tommy once more, and his posture changes yet again, turning to some kind of worried stance as he takes in Tommy’s appearance and the way he’s being held by Phil, a strange look of guilt crossing over him. “Your name’s Tommy?” He asks, a lilt of anxiety just barely hidden in his voice. “I can help you, alright? You’re going to be okay, just come with me, and you’ll be fine.” He extends his hand, the black, fingerless gloves reaching towards Tommy in a welcome gesture, an attempt at tearing him away from the world that Tommy’s being sucked into.

Even though it’s not obvious, something about Dream says that he’d be more than willing to keep Tommy away from the world of vigilantism, and potentially even take him in as a hero, training him to fight for the right causes while being loved by the people.

However, unfortunately for the green bastard, Tommy f*cking hates the law because he got arrested for arson, so he’d rather do sh*t his own way, A.K.A illegally. Also, he can f*cking tell when someone’s trying to lure him in with false promises, and maybe if he were a bit less intelligent, he’d fall for this green asshole’s sh*t.

Too bad Tommy’s IQ is higher than Einstein’s.

“f*ck off, you green asshole.” Tommy snaps. “I’m giving you a 0 star review on Yelp.”

For a moment, Dream just stands there, dumbfounded, while Tommy flashes his teeth at him in what could probably be described as a snarl instead of a grin.

Then everything goes to sh*t veryf*cking fast.

Dream reaches towards one of the weapons on his belt, but Phil’s faster, his wings flaring out as he pulls Tommy towards him and scoops him into his arms. Dream doesn’t even get the chance to tear the blade out of its hilt before Phil’s taking off, the sky as his target as he soars upwards, ignoring Tommy’s indignant screeches of protest and Dream’s various curses thrown his way.

Adrenaline is already coursing through Tommy the moment they lift off the ground, Phil’s massive wings flapping to push himself further, aiming for the clouds as his eyes gleam with the prospect of not only flying, but escaping the heroes that are clearly soon to follow.

Phil’s wings are lashing against the wind, warm breezes brushing past him and Tommy as he spreads his feathers, extending them out towards the heavens while he makes his getaway from Dream and the heroes that are bound to be close behind the green f*cker. Somehow, despite everything that could go wrong, Phil still keeps his composure, almost seeming as though he’s enjoying the whole scenario— a manic grin has already started to spread across his face, pushing at the corners of his eyes and just barely hiding the laughter that’s bubbling up in his throat.

Usually, being on the run from the law is fun, in a crazed, “I’m getting my ass the f*ck out of here” way. But the thing is, Tommy has quite the problem, and in this situation, he has absolutely no f*cking chance of getting himself away from it.

What’s the problem, you ask?

Well, Tommy may be an avian, but he’s absolutely terrified of heights.

So, while Phil is having the time of his life, Tommy is having a rather sh*tty time. A bit of a f*cko momento, if you will.

He’s clinging onto Phil for dear life, out of breath both from screaming and the fear that’s begun to clutch at his heart with sharp talons, though his avian blood flows through him with the excitement of being airborne. The feathers he’s so carefully hidden are begging to be released, to reach out towards the clouds and to never be covered again, but he can’t use them, he could never use them. For as long as he can remember, his wings have always proved useless in the last moment, no matter how hard he’s tried to take off like the birds he sees so often.

Tears are starting to poke at the corners of his eyes, and he struggles to brush them away, hide them from the madman who’s currently gliding over L’Manburg towards some weird-ass jungle in the distance, but he can’t. He can’t let go, it’s too dangerous, and if he falls, that could be it for him, the ground racing towards him could be the last thing he’d ever see.

All the horrible ways that Tommy could crumple, broken and shattered if he were to plummet are racing through his head, and even though he’s trying his absolute hardest to be the gigachad he knows he is, a sob fights against him, rising up in his throat.

The city’s so small down below. People bustle about with their business, but from here, they look like the beetles that Tommy watches sometimes.

Yeah, he doesn’t want to join them the hard way.

“Tommy?”

Tommy’s thoughts are cut off, as though they were sliced through with a hot knife when Phil speaks. He tries to choke out a response, but the tears are racing down his cheeks now, and he knowsthat if he talks, it’ll come out all sh*tty and broken and he doesn’t want to sound like that. He’s not broken, he’s come too far and tried too hard to be broken.

“Are you alright?” Phil questions, his voice barely heard as the wind whips past them, lashing against Tommy’s face and causing a sickening feeling of nausea to creep up through him. “You look kinda pale.”

“I’m fine.” Tommy grits out, voice gruff. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re fine.” Phil murmurs, and there’s concern laced in his words, delicately yet unknowningly woven through them. Tommy finds that he hates that concern, and he hates the fondness that’s begun to make its way into Phil’s smile and his voice, something that says that this is someone that Tommy will get attached to.

Tommy hasn’t been attached to anyone in years, and if he’s going to be honest, he never really expected a toucan-like old man outlaw to be the first person he bonds with.

I’m not getting attached, Tommy thinks to himself.

“I’m okay, I just—” Tommy begins, and he can’t even get the last part of his sentence out before a hiccup racks his body, shaking him as he tightens his grip on Phil and tears soak his cheeks. “—not feeling great. Don’t like heights.”

This is the part where Phil questions as to why Tommy doesn’t like heights, why he’s terrified of being off the ground when it’s in his blood, part of who he is. Where Phil assumes that there’s something wrong with Tommy, something that needs to be fixed—

“That’s alright, mate.” Phil replies, cutting off Tommy’s thoughts once more, and Tommy can practically hear the smile in his voice. “Not everyone’s built for it, y’know? We can work through it.”

Tommy’s massive brain cannot comprehend the words that Phil, the only man ever, has just said to him, so instead of saying anything, he just nods and pushes his face against Phil’s shirt.

He barely even pays attention to the forest canopy that’s rapidly approaching, and the wooden boards that surround it one of the trees, making up some kind of wild, unkempt treehouse.

On second thought, maybe he shouldbe paying attention.

Chapter 5: Tommy has panic attack and gets a hug

Chapter Text

Phil lands on the platform with a grunt, stumbling slightly as he throws his wings out to balance himself while simultaneously holding Tommy close to him in a protective hug. It takes a few moments of flapping, feathers thudding against the wooden floorboards that make up the platform, but soon enough, Phil rights himself and Tommy’s able to get a good look at his surroundings.

However, as soon as Tommy peeks over Phil’s wings to see where they are, he finds that he wishes he never opened his eyes in the first place.

They’re high above the ground, up in a lush green canopy that surrounds them, broken only by the gaps that allow sunlight to pool through and the platforms that encircle various tree trunks, much like the one that Tommy and Phil are sitting upon now. It’s almost impossible to tell how high up they are, but it’s quite obvious that they’re much too far from the ground for Tommy’s liking.

So, upon the realization that he not only had to deal with heights while he and Phil made their escape, but he has to cope with them here as well, Tommy does the most reasonable thing that comes to mind.

Like the Big Man™️ he is, he stumbles out of Phil’s hold, ignoring the sound of protest that seems to involuntarily warble in the man’s throat, and vomits right over the edge.

It almost feels as though his insides have all turned outwards, his body quivering with the effort of heaving what little food he had in his stomach out and tossing it into the rainforest below. Involuntary shivers run through him, and sweat beads down his head as he tries to keep his vision from swimming and his mind from shutting down completely, with the only thing that breaks through the muddled clouds of his thoughts being the shaking fear of where he is.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen to his knees until his gaze drifts downwards, locking onto his whitened knuckles that grip the edge of the platform, practically locked against the wood in a desperate, yet futile attempt to keep him safe from the false threat that looms over him, the fear gnawing at his heart with sharp teeth as he fails to fight against it.

Tears are already pricking at the corners of his eyes again, and no matter how much he wants to shove them away, to keep himself from crying and to continue to believe that he’s stronger than this, he’s just too exhausted to do anything. So they fall, rolling off of his cheeks like the water that drips from leaves in a storm, plummeting down towards the ground that he fears so much right now, yet longs for at the same time.

Usually, Tommy can handle himself. He can push through almost any scenario, fighting against the past that haunts him and begs for him to relent and dwell in it again, to let his scars open once more and spread red blossoms against his skin as though some kind of cruel painter is using him as their canvas. He’s learned to cope, to work with what he’s got and to keep himself safe, to learn how to deal with stressful situations and get himself away from them.

He even had a pet cactus for a while, and even though he doesn’t have it anymore, the thought of it and the care that he put into it still helps him, causing a small smile to pull at the edges of his mouth whenever he thinks about it.

But in the face of heights, he can’t do sh*t. He freezes up, his body breaks and his mind crumbles whenever he’s too far away from the ground. While his avian blood screams at him to spread his wings, blue feathers blending with the sky and brushing tips with the clouds, his mind pleads for him to go somewhere safe, where he won’t collapse, where he won’t get hurt.

Now is one of those times, every instinct in his body fighting against the thoughts that swirl in his head like the muddied water of a river, rapids flowing against his skull and pounding at him, a numbing pain that only grows the more he crouches there, blue eyes wide while the tears tumble away from him and into the distant, deeper layers of the forest.

But before he can collapse and give in to it altogether, letting the fear wrap its talons around his heart as he curls up into a sobbing mess, something soft wraps around him. It’s familiar, despite the touch being something new, something that Tommy’s only just discovered the day before. Dark feathers brush against his skin and pull him closer to someone who murmurs comforting words, though Tommy has a hard time discerning them from the aching nausea and clouded words that clutter his mind.

Tommy’s not entirely sure what’s happening right now, and he doesn’t know what to think, so instead of tearing himself away from what could be an even larger threat, he leans into the touch, throwing his arms around Phil and burying his face into the man’s shoulder, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of Phil’s heart and the gentle rumble of his words.

With his eyes shut tight, Tommy simply just breathes, letting the sound of each breath soothe him as well as the soft comforts that Phil provides him. Some kind of clicking sound comes from Phil every so often in the following minutes, a snap of the tongue that’s akin to the words of the birds that fly overhead. It’s calming, in a way, so Tommy leans into it, following the various noises that Phil makes while simultaneously letting the man fold his wings around him.

Phil may be a wanted vigilante on the run from the law, but Tommy would be lying if he said that he doesn’t give good hugs.

Usually, Tommy’s loud-mouthed and can come off as arrogant or agressive, but in times like this, he’s silent, only making sounds when he absolutely has to. It’s an old habit developed to keep him safe, and old habits die hard, so he’s been stuck with it for years. But for once, after what seems like eons, he’s not alone, and he’s not letting the f*cker that made the mistake of staying with him go anytime soon.

There’s a few more minutes (or maybe even longer, Tommy’s lost track of time) of serenity before Tommy feels himself get scooped up in Phil’s arms, soft and quiet coos escaping the other’s mouth as he carries Tommy in some unknown direction. Tommy makes no effort to fight against it, instead letting the dark wings drape over him like robes as the footsteps against the floorboards turn more sturdy, the hollow feeling of being over empty air fading as Phil makes it into some kind of room.

Though Tommy doesn’t want to look around in fear of seeing another drop, his other senses tell him of an area that emanates the energy of a home. The scents of wood and carpentry, along with home-cooked meals (why the f*ck does it smell so strongly of potatoes in here?), and the sound of faint strumming of a guitar from a small distance all whisper a not-so-discrete murmur of welcome, a feeling of being in a place where a family would live.

And evidently, a family doeslive here, because the guitar thrumming stops and the sound of someone shuffling to get to their feet echoes from across the room. There’s the soft clicking of feet against floorboards, and then the muffled footprints of someone stalking over a rug, and then—

“Phil?”

The first thing that Tommy thinks of when he hears the stranger’s voice is that’d they’d be reallyf*cking good at singing. Or a podcast. Or some other sh*t— to be honest, Tommy doesn’t really know. He doesn’t go on the internet too much, because it’s hard for him to charge his definitely legally acquired phone, and it’s also weird as sh*t.

(what the f*ck is a stan?)

“Hey, mate.” Tommy can practically hear the warm smile in Phil’s voice as he speaks, though he makes no effort to drop Tommy or move him aside to talk to the stranger. Huh, strange. Usually, when people talk, they just shove Tommy away or ignore him, no matter how loud he may be. He’s just not important to them, and that’s okay, because he’s important to himself, right?

…right.

But Phil doesn’t do that, and instead holds Tommy tight in his arms, wings draped over him in a soft, yet protective motion. It’s not really a defense against a clear threat, in fact, it’s more of a stance that a father would take if anything, no sign of true danger but a need to protect those he loves anyway.

“What the f*ck happened out there? Did that 404 f*cker actually stab you again? Is that why you’re late?” The stranger rambles, and despite the fact that there’s an edge to his words, there’s a worry that’s just barely hidden, an anxiety that traces every question like a thread carefully woven into fabric. “When I get my f*cking hands on him, I’ll—”

“Wil, it’s fine, okay?” Phil cuts the stranger, who’s evidently named ‘Wil,’ off. “He didget me in the chest, but I got some help and patched it up. It’ll only take a few more days to heal.”

“Yeah, but—” Wil begins, but he gives up and lets out a defeated sigh. “You’ve got to be more careful on patrol, Phil. If you get seriously hurt, or killed, I don’t know what the f*ck I’d do.”

“Aw, mate, I don’t remember you being this sappy.” Phil laughs, and it’s a warm sound, bubbling from deep in his chest and rising like the foam pooling from a waterfall. “Did I worry you?” He teases, and it’s light in his voice, a fondness that dances across his words every time he speaks to Wil. If Tommy had to guess, he’d say that this Wil guy is one of Phil’s sons, though he sounds much different than Phil himself does.

“Yes, you f*ckin’ did.” Wil grumbles. “Tech kept saying it was fine, but he was f*ckin’ pacing his room every night since you left. We saw the news, and I had to hold him back from going to fight the whole hero force.”

“Oh.” Phil murmurs, and his words are much softer this time. “That bad, huh?”

Though Tommy can’t really see from how he’s positioned, he can tell by the shift in the wind that Wil’s just given Phil a curt nod. “Yep. That bad.”

Phil sighs, a soft exhale that brushes over the top of Tommy’s hair. “I’m sorry for worrying you two. You’re right, I should’ve been more careful on patrol, but they caught me by surprise.” A pause, and then “On the bright side, though, I did meet someone who I think you’d get along with.”

“Really? And who’s that—” Wil starts, but before he can even finish his sentence, Phil unfolds his wings slightly, revealing Tommy who’s quite disgruntled about the fact that the feathers are gone, and still rather shaken up about the heights.

“Hey.” Tommy mutters, and even he knows how cracked his voice is, and how broken it sounds.

“Holy sh*t.” Wil breathes. “You’re so small.”

Chapter 6: yet another criminal gets attached to tommy

Chapter Text

When Tommy first looks at Wil, his gaze now longer obstructed by Phil’s wings (no, he doesn’t miss the warmth they provide, stop talking), his only thought is that the man somehow looks like a living combination of a Pinterest board and a dark poet.

Flowers drape around his neck, tropical blossoms shining with the hues of the rainforest as they almost seem to glow with their dancing colors. Reds, golds, blues, and other shades contemplate each other almost perfectly around Wil’s throat, hibiscuses and hyacinths mingling with one another, each petal boasting a wealth that only nature could provide.

Meanwhile, his clothes are dark, with undertones of brighter, more tropical colors laced within the fabric, mainly hues of red entangled with the blacks, blues, and violets that curve around him in his shirt and pants. He’s poorly dressed for the weather, Tommy thinks, because the dumbass is covered in almost pitch-black clothing from head to toe while also wearing a short, cropped overcoat.

His glasses glint in the sunlight, enhancing the view of his eyes, which swirl with luminescent shades of purple, blue, and black, a dancing galaxy trapped in his gaze as he takes in his surroundings, constantly co*cking his head like a bird.

Speaking of bird-like, a crown of feathers rests on his head, blending in with his dark hair, white speckles glowing like stars in each quill. Whenever he moves or something catches his attention, the feathers lift and fall, following his every movement and emotion with a careful precision that even he can’t control.

Large, dark wings unfold behind him, much like Phil’s, though Wil’s are dappled with the same star-like patterns that paint his feather-crown. It’s as though an artist flicked a brush illuminated with moonlight onto his plumage, the coloring reminiscent of the stories told in the night sky.

Also alike Phil, he has white markings striped across his face, curling around his eyes and tapering into thin, pale lines on his cheeks.

But the thing that catches Tommy’s attention the most is the look in his eyes.

“Phil.” Wil chokes out. “Where did you findhim? He’s so small, holy sh*t—”

Phil opens his mouth to speak, but before he can even get the words out, Tommy wrestles his way out of the man’s grip to stand upon his own two feet (though he staggers slightly) and glower at Wil. The other is much taller than Tommy is, but that doesn’t change the fact that Tommy is a Big Man. An absolutely massive lad, if you will.

And since he’s such a chad, he won’t f*cking tolerate being called “small.” Especially not by some dark, edgy poet Pinterest board aesthetic f*cker who’s looking at him like he’s something fluffy.

“f*ck you, bitch. I’m not small, you’re just a f*ckin’ bastard.” Tommy challenges. “‘Ooo, look at me, my name’s Wil and I like to call people small!’ f*ck you, dickhe*d.”

For a moment, Tommy fears that he’s overstepped his boundaries, angered the stranger, landed himself in a situation much too dangerous than he can handle. He wonders if Phil would protect him, tuck him into his wings again, but before he can even consider running back into Phil’s arms (when did he learn to trust him so much?), Wil surprises him with a bark of laughter.

“So you’re small anda gremlin. Where’d you learn to swear like that?” Wil grins. “Oh, and my name’s Wilbur, by the way.”

“f*ck you, don’t care, didn’t ask, plus ratio.” Tommy retorts.

“Aww, is the gremlin angry?” Wilbur teases, striding over to practically tower over Tommy, which definitely isn’t threatening at all. Nope, not terrifying in the slightest. His height and his massive wings aren’t intimidating. Tommy’s just cold, that’s all.

(ignore the fact that he is quite literally in a rainforest, in the daytime, where it’s hot and humid as f*ck.)

“Leave him alone, Wil.” Phil sighs, and it’s not long before Tommy feels a slight tug on his shoulder as Phil’s hand rests on it, pulling him closer in a protective move. Wilbur tilts his head slightly at the gesture, but relents and steps back a few paces, evidently recognizing that Tommy needs space. “He was just having a breakdown, like two minutes ago. Give him a break.”

“Was not.” Tommy mutters.

“You were crying, Toms.” Phil frowns.

“Proof? Evidence? I see none, therefore you’re f*ckin’ wrong.” Tommy claims, ignoring the nickname that Phil had unconsciously slipped into his words. Nope, that didn’t make Tommy feel warm at all. Definitely not.

“You’re such a little sh*t.” Phil sighs.

“And I’m f*ckin’ proud of it too.” Tommy states.

Though Phil’s trying his best to seem tired of Tommy’s sh*t, a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth anyway as he subconsciously pulls Tommy closer, his wings extending slightly to shield the teen.

See, the thing is, Tommy may be a bit of a dumbass (a lovable dumbass), but he’s getting the feeling that Phil’s starting to care about more than just the deal they made.

And, unfortunately, Tommy’s finding himself getting attached as well, no matter how much he hates to admit it. There’s just something about Phil that’s… fatherly? And it tugs at him to stay close.

So maybe, just maybe, Phil calling him “Toms” was just a littlebit comforting.

“Wait, a breakdown?” Wilbur questions, and he has the decency to look at least a tad concerned. “He looks like he’s what, fourteen? What happened?”

“Sixteen.” Tommy corrects, though his voice is quieter than before upon remembering the events that led up to him being here. “I’m in my prime.”

Phil makes the wise decision to ignore him as he turns his gaze to Wilbur, a worried expression crossing over his face temporarily before he covers it up with the same nonchalant one that Tommy’s often observed him wearing. “Don’t worry about it, Wil. Just a bit of trouble on the way home, that’s all.”

Tommy feels a small jolt of surprise upon realizing that Phil covered for him, hiding his fear of heights, having guessed that Tommy wouldn’t feel comfortable about it. Which is true, because honestly, this Wilbur guy seems like an absolute bitchand Tommy would rather not get teased about being an avian who can’t fly for the rest of the time that he’s here.

The fatherly vibes radiating from Phil just seem to get stronger by the minute, and truthfully, Tommy’s getting worried about being “surprise adopted” by the man. Which, in all fairness, is just a nicer way of saying “kidnapping.”

What the f*ck has Tommy gotten himself into?

“Fair enough.” Wilbur shrugs, jolting Tommy back to reality. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I’ll just pry it out of the gremlin later.”

“Ay, f*ck you!” Tommy snaps.

“Aww, he’s angry again,” Wilbur mocks. “He’s like a lil’ chihuaha!”

“You f*ckin’ spelled that wrong, asshole!” Tommy barks.

“Wait, how the f*ck—”

Phil sighs, cutting Wilbur off before he can even finish his question. “Don’t ask. Asking him anything just gets you nowhere.”

“I am a fountain of knowledge, a phi-loss-oh-fer, if you will.” Tommy boasts, sounding out the word “philosopher” as he talks, careful not to stumble over his words through his accent. “I am simply too smart for your comprehension.”

“Mhm.” Phil nods, exhaustion painting his eyes like clouds in an overcast sky, not so much dangerous as they are tiring. “Good for you, Toms.”

“Don’t f*ckin’ patronize me, dickhe*d.” Tommy retorts. “I’ll f*ckin’ see you in court.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you swear like a six-year-old who’s just found out what swearing is?” Wilbur questions.

Tommy responds, in a rather dignified manner, by flipping Wilbur the bird.

“I’m offended.” Wilbur states.

“Don’t give a sh*t.” Tommy replies.

“I care.” Phil offers.

“Thank you, Phil.” Wilbur nods appreciatively. “Best father in the world right here.”

“Aw, thanks mate,” Phil smiles.

“You know, I’m what they call a… hmm, what do they call it?” Wilbur muses, pondering over his next words carefully, sure to create the most brilliant sentence ever known to man. Upon finding out what he was looking for, a chaotic grin spreads across his face, his teeth flashing in a mischievous expression as he peers down at Phil. “Yes, now I remember. A f*cking liar.”

“I hate you.” Phil mutters, his smile falling instantly.

“Feeling’s mutual, Phil.” Wilbur says cheerfully. “It all started when you said Techno was your fav—”

“I don’t want to hear your f*ckin’ trauma dump, old man.” Tommy interrupts. “Can I please just get something to eat? Mans is starving.”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment, a concerned expression akin to Phil’s lighting in his eyes like the embers of a candle, small, yet warm as he takes in Tommy’s appearance. “Wait, Tommy, when did you last eat?” He questions, then pauses. “Alright, I’m going to say something you may not like, but I mean this in the best way possible. Don’t take offense, okay?”

“I’m never offended. I am simply too large.” Tommy states.

“Good, good.” Wilbur nods. “You look like I could play your ribs like a xylophone. You’re small as f*ck.”

“I’LL f*ckIN’ CLART YOU, YOU EMO-ASS LOOKING BITCH.” Tommy snaps.

“Please don’t clart my son.” Phil sighs. “Well, on second thought, I do have another one—”

“Stop f*ckin’ telling people you have a ‘spare son,’ Phil!” Wilbur argues. “Am I not enough for you?”

“If you keep eating sand, then no, you’re not.” Phil shrugs.

“Wait, you eat sand?” Tommy asks.

“Yes.” Wilbur states, like it’s the most simple, average thing in the world. “Lots of it.”

“Can I have some?” Tommy questions.

Phil shoots a burning glare towards Wilbur, who simply gives him a crooked grin in return. “Don’t teach the kid to eat sand, we just f*cking got him, he’s too young to be corrupted—”

“You’re never too young to be corrupted.” Wilbur counters.

“—we have to at least give him some real food, y’know? Something to keep him going through the day.” Phil continues, ignoring Wilbur. “We’ve gotten too far away from the topic anyway. Toms, when’d you last have something to eat?”

Tommy pauses, thinking. When didhe eat last? There was that time he robbed— no, borrowedfrom a hot dog van, but that was a few days ago. He had to have eaten something else since then, right?

…right?

He thinks as hard as he can, but no matter how much he tries, he can’t think of any food he had after that weird f*cking hot dog that had something that looked like a bone in it.

“…uh, two days ago, I think.” Tommy mumbles. “Hot dog.”

“Hot dog, bottom text— WAIT, TWO DAYS?” Wilbur shrieks.

“It was pretty f*ckin’ crunchy.” Tommy muses.

“TWO DAYS?!” Wilbur exclaims, louder this time.

“Are they supposed to be crunchy?” Tommy questions, mostly to himself. “Did I eat a bone?”

“TOMMY! STOP TALKING ABOUT THE f*ckING HOT DOG!” Wilbur practically screams, his hands slapping down upon Tommy’s shoulders and shaking him back and forth, a frantic motion that just barely mirrors the panic in his eyes. “YOU HAVEN’T EATEN FOR TWO DAYS! WHAT THE f*ck ARE YOU DOING?”

“How the f*ck was there a bone in my hot dog?” Tommy wonders. “Whythe f*ck was there a bone in my hot dog?”

“TOMMY!” Wilbur shouts. “HOW ARE YOU STILL ON ABOUT THE f*ckIN’ HOT DOGS?! COME HERE!”

“Now that I think about it, that hot dog was a bit f*ckin’ sus.” Tommy concludes, too distracted to notice the hands lifting off his shoulders and picking his torso as their next target. “Weird as sh*t, I—”

It seems like everyone gets cut off prematurely in this story, which is proved as Tommy’s sentence is finished before it even begins when Wilbur quite literally picks him up holds him off the ground like Simba from the Lion King.

“WHAT THE f*ck IS YOUR PROBLEM, dickhe*d!” Tommy screeches.

“I— WHAT THE f*ck DO YOU MEAN, ‘WHAT’S MY PROBLEM?’ MY PROBLEM IS THAT YOU HAVEN’T f*ckING EATEN FOR TWO DAYS!” Wilbur yells. “TWO DAYS, PHIL, WHAT THE f*ck?”

“How the f*ck would I know he didn’t eat!” Phil protests, though he himself looks a bit pale. “I figured he was a bit too light, but—”

“PHIL, LOOK AT HIM!” Wilbur shrieks. “HE’S SO SMALL!”

“f*ck YOU, YOU f*ckING ASSHOLE, I HOPE YOU DIE—” Tommy screams.

“—in the video game.” Phil states.

“Oh yeah, in the video game.” Tommy nods.

“Mhm.” Wilbur agrees.

There’s a few moments of peace, the only sounds being the gentle whisper of the breeze making its way through the windows, brushing past the three of them as they all stand in silence.

“I feel oddly self-aware.” Tommy comments.

“Oh, MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE YOU HAVEN’T EATEN AT ALL FOR TWO f*ckING DAYS!” Wilbur shouts.

“I wish I could retire.” Phil sighs.

“OH, YOU WOULD, BECAUSE YOU’RE SO f*ckIN’ OLD—” Tommy screeches.

“SILENCE, CHILD! EAT SOMETHING BEFORE YOU INSULT THE ELDERLY!” Wilbur snaps.

“I DON’T f*ckIN’ NEED TO EAT, I’M TOO POGGERS, f*ck YOU—” Tommy yells.

“I’LL f*ckING CONVINCE YOU TO EAT IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO—” Wilbur screams back.

“I’m going to make coffee.” Phil notes. “I’ll be in the kitchen if either of you need anything.”

“f*ck OFF, OLD MAN!” Wilbur and Tommy screech in unison.

“Have fun.” Phil waves, turning on his heel and striding over to a wooden door, pushing it open and shutting it as the last of his feathers slips through.

“Bye, Phil.” Tommy waves back.

“OH, STOP SUCKING UP TO HIM!” Wilbur shouts.

“I’M NOT f*ckIN’ SUCKING UP TO HIM, YOU f*ckING MOTHER HEN!” Tommy screeches.

“YEAH, YEAH, SHUT THE f*ck UP.” Wilbur snarks. “‘OOO, HAVE FUN PHIL! MAKE YOUR COFFEE, PHIL!’ YOU f*ckING GREMLIN.”

“I’LL f*ckIN’ CLART YOU!” Tommy makes a half-hearted attempt to swing a fist at Wilbur, but the man dodges easily, a furious expression on his face. For a split second, Tommy feels as though he’s gone too far, that he’s going to get hurt, that he’s going to have to fight his way out of this situation.

But upon a closer look, it’s clear that Wilbur’s anger isn’t directed at Tommy, the flames in his eyes aiming to ignite something else, lashing out against an unknown force, something that’s proved to hurt Tommy.

sh*t. Wilbur’s gotten attached too, hasn’t he?

Tommy has a small grain of hope that no, this Pinterest board bastard hasn’t, but it’s shattered the moment Wilbur just slings Tommy over his shoulder, ignoring the screeching protests as he follows Phil’s footsteps, disappearing behind the door just as Phil had done.

Big L.

Chapter 7: Don’t tell an avian to eat chicken, don’t tell an avian to eat chicken, don’t tell an avi

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the dining room is separate from the room that they’d been in before, which Phil described as the “first deck,” evidently just the first part of many sections of the house. That area itself had been rather comforting (if you ignore the screeching fight between Wilbur and Tommy), with the soft carpet that sank in with every step, the sofa and chairs placed in an orderly fashion, clearly set to hold the three who live here, and blankets and pillows sprawled against the room.

There were bookshelves as well, and Tommy found himself itching to search through them, to pry each word off of every page, even if he couldn’t understand them. There’s a constant longing within him to learn, to explore, to travel and figure sh*t out.

He’s never had the chance to do those things until he smuggled himself into L’Manburg and ended up here, under the careful watch of at least two wanted vigilantes who are dead-set to keep him safe, though he can’t exactly understand why.

In all truth, every part of this place intrigues him, especially the way that the entire home is made up of platforms attached to trees, slung high above the ground, the rainforest canopy brushing against the outside and whispering promises of mystery to those within. Despite the fact that Tommy’s fear of heights claws at him like an angry jaguar, he holds a begrudging respect for the way this structure was built— carefully crafted to fit every nook and cranny of the top of the trees, glass surrounding every wall in encircling fashions, balconies and open exits to the outside available at every turn.

It’s obvious that this place was built intentionally for hybrids, specifically avians, people who have animal traits and want nothing more than to be closer to whatever makes them feel at home. Each hybrid has a longing for a habitat that suits their species, such as foxes being drawn to forests, phantoms lured to the dark, open areas that show them the sky, and avians staying high up in the trees, tropical ones feeling more at home in the heights of the rainforest canopies.

Wilbur and Phil show nothing but a feeling of contentment as they look out over the jungle, their feathers occasionally twitching as if they need to fly, to embrace the freedom of the wind and soar between massive tree trunks, tucking and diving between leaves.

Somehow, Tommy feels the same urge, his own blue wings tugging at his shoulder blades, begging to be released, to brush feathers with the sky and tango with the excitement that pulses through his avian blood, a need to lift off and dance with the clouds.

But he can’t fly.

He just… can’t.

He knows why, in fact, he can never get the memory out of his head, the vision of plummeting to the ground, wires flung around him and trapping him as he screams for help, nobody around to help. Nobody to answer his call, to provide him with the support he so desperately needed.

However, even though he’s lived with that memory for his whole life, the fear lingering and refusing to leave, staying to taunt him and pull him under, that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t triedto fly.

There were little things that he’d do, creating small platforms and running off them, spreading his wings and pushing his avian blood to help him embrace the sky like how he was born to do. He’d read books that he’d find on the streets (or borrowfrom stores) about aerodynamics, following the images and trying to copy the birds in the pictures the best he could.

But nothing worked, so he keeps his wings hidden, the only avian traits he’s kept being the two blue feathers tucked behind his ear, and his hair that flows in a much paler gold than it would’ve been, if he were a full human.

So here he is, sitting as far away from the glass walls as he can manage, glowering down at his plate of salad as though it’s personally offended him, while Wilbur stares at him intently from the other side of the table.

“Gremlin.” Wilbur states.

“Old Pinterest-board looking f*ck.” Tommy shoots back.

“Eat your salad.” Wilbur prods, ignoring Tommy’s counter. “It’ll get all warm and sh*t if you just leave it there.”

“Salads are cringe.” Tommy declares.

“It’s good for you, mate.” Phil calls out from across the kitchen, still busy making coffee with what appears to be an old, broken down maker, which looks concerningly broken down. “I mean, you have to start with something, right?”

Tommy pauses, lost in thought for a moment.

“Well, do you have any chicken?” He finally questions, deciding on something that he’s actually in the mood for. Since he’s an avian, he can’t really eat “true” meat, such as pork, beef, or other kinds of red meat, but for some reason, chicken’s perfectly fine. Fish is too, but he’s not entirely fond of fish because it tastes like sh*t and smells like sh*t. Besides, he f*cking hates the fishing process. It has something to do with wriggly worms and sh*t, and the hook goes into the fish’s f*cking mouth, and it’s all really disturbing.

It’s only a few more seconds of thinking before Tommy realizes that the entire room has completely fallen into silence.

Pure, terrified, and tense silence.

Wilbur stares at Tommy as though he’s released some sort of eldritch god.

Phil stares at Tommy like he isthe eldritch god and he’s going to punt the child into the solar system.

Tommy mayhave f*cked up.

“Chicken?” Phil says slowly, sounding out the word as though it’s the most criminal thing in the world, like Tommy’s just suggested curb-stomping an orphan or some sh*t. “You want… chicken?”

See, in this kind of scenario, words must be chosen carefully, every sentence picked with a delicate hand. It’s completely necessary not to poke at the sleeping bear.

But unfortunately, Tommy’s too hungry to care, and he’s not exactly thinking straight.

“Yeah, chicken.” Tommy repeats. “Y’know, like the bird?”

Wilbur’s eyes go wide, an expression of fear that can only be compared to a rabbit ensnared in the jaws of a fox crossing over his face. Without saying anything, his gaze flickering back and forth between Tommy and Phil, he simply ducks under the table, throwing his wings around himself and only leaving his face uncovered.

“Wilbur, why the f*ck—” Tommy begins, but he stops as soon as he hears Phil stepping over to him, precision in every step, a barely concealed trace of rage entwined in his movement like vines around a tree.

“Yes.” Phil states, his voice flat. “The bird.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur’s voice is a frantic whisper, muffled by his wings as he cowers beneath the table. “Tommy, I’m going to need you to run, f*cking run—”

“Wait, is there something wrong with eating birds?” Tommy questions.

His IQ is the highest in the world. Absolutely massive brain, f*cking immense, the sheer size of it would cause Einstein himself to evaporate and perish on the spot.

“You’re dead, you’re so dead—” Wilbur hisses. “Tommy, what the f*ck, you’re such a dumbass, what the f*ck—”

“WHAT DO YOU f*ckING MEAN, ‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH EATING BIRDS?’” Phil screeches, and Tommy could swear he hears the voice of a toucan mingling with Phil’s. That would be funny, in any other scenario, but right now, Tommy’s wondering how fast he can write his will on a napkin. “YOU AREA BIRD! THAT’S CANNIBALISM!”

“But they’re a different kindof bird! The kind you get from McDonald’s!” Tommy protests, not only digging his own grave, but jumping in the casket, writing the eulogy, and performing his own funeral in the process.

“YOU LITTLE sh*t!”

—

Tommy ends up eating salad.

It wasn’t half-bad, actually. It was pretty decent, which was good, because Tommy has no f*cking clue how he’d be able to look directly into Phil’s smoldering eyes and tell him that the salad tasted like sh*t.

As it turns out, Phil is not only good at being very fatherly and comforting, but he’s also fantastic when it comes to being the most terrifying person to ever walk the Earth.

Tommy has never been so terrified of a toucan call in his entire life.

Once Phil had calmed down, and Wilbur stopped hiding underneath the table (coward), Tommy found himself heading back to the first deck, busying himself by building a pile of pillows and blankets and tucking himself within them, a dense book describing the wildlife of L’Manburg by his side.

Wilbur’s strumming his guitar nearby, sat upon the wooden steps that lead to one of the many doors, murmuring lyrics to himself and humming to each note that rings out through the room, a gentle rhythm that, though Tommy would never admit it, is very soothing. Every so often, Wilbur will stop picking at the strings and stare around the room for a moment, peeking out at the rainforest and the sun that’s beginning to dip below the horizon, before finding the motivation he needed and thrumming out chords yet again.

Meanwhile, Phil’s sitting in a soft rocking chair nearby (old. Ancient), occasionally humming along to the small songs that Wilbur plays, though he mainly focuses on the computer in his lap, his brow furrowing every so often as he peers at the screen. His headphones are off, evidently so that he can keep an eye on his surroundings, specifically Wilbur and Tommy, but he still seems intent on staring at whatever’s on the laptop.

It’s probably some law-breaking sh*t, so Tommy’s not going to ask. Besides, he doesn’t want to get berated by toucan calls again.

All in all, it’s a calm, almost domestic scene, with Tommy flipping through the pages of the book as he occasionally tunes into the background noise of Wilbur playing the guitar and Phil clicking away at his computer.

Tommy stares at each page, his eyes widening when he sees the pictures of various animals, longing to understand the words that describe a “caiman,” lingering on an image depicting a capybara, and tracing his fingers over the wings of wild macaws, their colors painting the sky as though the clouds are their canvas.

He feels as though he’s lost in each scene, the sound of the river almost real in his ears as he follows the scales of an arapaima, soon to be followed by a page decorated with river dolphins. It’s all so beautiful, a jungle that’s alive even on paper, its call ringing out in his ears, almost as loud as his avian blood as it lures him to its depths.

Sometimes, he can almost find himself wanting to go out onto the balcony, leaping off and letting his wings spread wide, desperate to dive into the rainforest and explore it all, every nook and cranny catching his eye as he’s determined to learn about everything there is to see.

But he still can’t fly.

And that’s not changing anytime soon.

As he loses himself in a section about “Spix’s macaws,” he also loses track of time, unaware of just how far the sun has gone until the last pools of sunlight drip away from the pages, dissipating until the next morning, only to be replaced by the moonbeams and starlight that leave a faint echo through the windows.

With a sigh, he rolls over to his side, keeping the book firmly in his arms as he stares up at the ceiling. Even the ceiling is made out of glass, an open view of the air and the twisted branches that extend above him, green vines and leaves flowing with the wind as they drape over the wood. It’s still terrifying to think about just how far away from the ground he is right now, but at this point, Tommy’s too tired to care. He’s helped a vigilante, faced off against a hero, and been taken in by said vigilante to stay in their home for who knows how long.

To be honest, Tommy’s still rather confused over the whole scenario. Phil hasn’t said a single word to him about training since they got here, seemingly more set on getting him fed and letting him relax into the home setting. Wilbur accepted him rather quickly as well, even teasing him as a brother would, poking fun at him while simultaneously fretting and fussing over him like a mother hen.

Well, it’s probably just to let him recover before he can actually begin his vigilante training, soon to be taken (quite literally) under Phil’s wing and shown everything that he can do to help L’Manburg, doing whatever he can to support the people and f*ck up the government.

Because Tommy knows that no matter how attached Phil and Wilbur may seem at the moment, they’ve only known each other for such a short period of time. Soon enough, they’d get tired of having Tommy in their home, and they’d make him go live somewhere else, where Tommy can figure out his own sh*t and stop piggybacking off of other people’s hard work.

He doesn’t deserve this treatment, right? He needs to work for things, to fight and struggle until he achieves what he needs to do.

It wouldn’t make any sense for these people to keep him.

But yet, as he finds his eyelids drooping down and the soothing darkness of sleep wrapping around him, he can just barely feel the warmth of another blanket being lain across his shoulders, and gentle murmurs of rest reaching his ears.

Chapter 8: Two outlaws discuss how they can get better at breaking laws

Chapter Text

“That green bastard.” Wilbur hisses.

The moon’s starting to set, taking the stars down with it as they dip beneath the horizon, the colors of night fading and being replaced by the golden hues that paint the sky. A brilliant mix of reds, violets, blues, and yellow are already dancing in the distant, a soft tango that calls of the beginning of the day.

It’s really quite beautiful, and Wilbur would appreciate it a lot more if it wasn’t for what Phil’s just told him.

His father’s standing across him on one of the many decks, the wooden planks below them forming a circle platform that extends from the tree, vines and leaves brushing against it while branches support the edges. Due to it just only having become dawn, it’s still rather dark, the shadows casted by the massive tree pooling over Wilbur and Phil, broken by no more than the light that’s beginning to poke through the tree canopy.

Phil’s peering at him with that bright azure gaze, one that can only be described as blue flames dancing across the edges of a fire, so close to death yet dodging it anyway, taunting and teasing their own fate as the air tries so desperately to stamp them out.

His stance is tense, poised as though he’s about to run or fight some unseen threat, each muscle in his body prepared to encounter whatever’s planning to hurt him.

However, considering what Phil’s just said, his foe isn’t exactly after him.

Just by sheer bad luck, the turns of life pulling the strings of chance just for the fun of it, Phil had been caught on camera.

Usually this isn’t a negative thing, in fact, many people look up to him and the other vigilantes as being major defenders of the city, pillars of support that hold up the order the best they can without being funded by the government.

But in this case, the footage of Phil, blood soaking his robes and seeping into his skin as he drags a random blond kid into an alley, disappearing into the shadows, this is a pretty sh*tty situation.

The video itself is a prime example of how f*cking awful security cameras are, crackly and unfocused, the people and images depicted as mere blurry figures. The only way that it’s even able to be called good enough evidence is because of the light that had been shining on the teen, illuminating his crimson and white shirt as he stared off into the distance, evidently lost in his own thoughts, before he was seemingly attacked by Phil and hauled off into the darkness.

Yeah, this isn’t going to be good for the press.

Especially since Dream, that f*cking bastard hero who’s most definitely homeless, shared the footage to the news and broadcasted a bounty for vigilantes, specifically the SBI, along with a missing person report for Tommy.

Tommy, who is most definitely notmissing, because he’s the most orphan-like kid that Wilbur’s ever met, and he doesn’t look like he has any home to his name besides the streets. Well, besides the home that Phil’s trying to give him, the treehouse and its warmth that’s only ever been suited for Wilbur’s family being extended to a stranger for the first time, Tommy hidden within the first deck while bundled in blankets and reading a random book about wildlife.

It’s a bit of a sweet thought, and a selfish thought of keeping Tommy here, keeping him safe and refusing to let him be harmed, tugs at Wilbur’s heart. Sure, he doesn’t know the kid’s backstory, and he doesn’t truly know whyPhil brought him here, but he knows just enough to recognize the fact that Tommy’s alone. Alone, with nobody to care for him, just lost on the streets.

Then again, it’s obvious that Tommy has at least someidea as to how to survive on his own, a smart wit to him and being much quicker and agile than most teenagers his age should. His eyes seem to almost be trained to search for danger, to recognize any threat and be able to counter it appropriately, to fight for his life and come out on top, no matter what.

But there’s just something about him, even though he’s proved himself capable of living alone, that screams that he needs to be loved.

He tries to hide it, but the way that he struggles against the thought of staying with Phil and fails every time, only to tuck himself into Phil’s wings and melt into the man’s arms just proves that he needs someone. He needs a home, somewhere to feel safe, something that he’s deserved for a long time.

Wilbur’s not going to force Tommy to stay. He can tell that Tommy’s a wild child, someone who couldn’t sit still even if he tried, his feet tapping agitatedly whenever he stays in one place for too long, constantly co*cking his head at every sound and staring at anything that can manage to catch his attention. He knows that Tommy probably has a load of trust issues that came with him from the streets, fears following him like a looming shadow and pulling him away from others whenever he gets too comfortable.

If anything, if Tommy were to tell Wilbur he didn’t want to stay, Wilbur would just nod and try to figure out a way for the kid to be safe, to get the life that he needs. A home, a family, people who care, instead of just roaming the city as though it’s a forest, and he’s one of the animals fighting and struggling to survive.

But still, that selfish need to have Tommy at his side tugs at Wilbur’s heart again.

And the need to protect the kid is even stronger, a burning, yet quiet fury building up in Wilbur’s chest at the thought of Dream searching for him, the hero commitee looking for a random child they know nothing about, just to either throw him back to the streets or drag him into their ranks.

Wilbur cannot, and willnot let that happen.

“The whole f*cking hero force must be looking for us right now.” Phil mutters, breaking through Wilbur’s thoughts as though he’s shattered them like glass, the shards scattering around the floor and dissipating into nothingness as he catches Wilbur’s full attention. “We’re going to have to be extra careful when we patrol, and keep an eye out for any heroes or citizens who could turn us in.” A pause, and then, “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my years in Pandora’s Vault.”

“I’ll let Techno know when I get the chance.” Wilbur nods. “He’d be less than happy if he ended up in that sh*thole, and if he tore the whole place to pieces, that wouldn’t exactly look good for us.”

“Eh, I think the footage of me kidnapping a teenager doesn’t exactly look good for us either.” Phil shrugs. “f*ck the media, am I right? We’ll look bad in someone’s eyes no matter what, we might as well make a bang while we do it.”

“Isn’t that an AJR song?” Wilbur frowns. “I f*ckin’ hate AJR.”

“I know, Wilbur.” Phil sighs.

“They’re sh*t.” Wilbur continues.

“I know, Wilbur.” Phil looks as though his soul has been sucked out of his body, exhaustion taking it’s place.

“Literal sh*t music.” Wilbur goes on. “I bet I could f*ckin’ deck all of them in a fight.”

“Yep.” Phil smiles, the tilt to his lips strained as he looks at his son, a twitch to his hands like he’s about to f*cking throttle Wilbur. Which he might do, actually, so Wilbur should probablybe picking his next words carefully. “I know, Wilbur.”

“Their days are numbered.” Wilbur notes.

“You could say that they’ll go out with a ‘bang.’” Phil grins, his slightly fanged teeth flashing at Wilbur as the sunlight drips through the canopy, pooling onto his face.

“One day, I’ll f*cking kill you, and I’ll inherit everything you own.” Wilbur threatens.

“Sure, mate. Have fun with that.” Phil chuckles.

“I despise you, Phil.” Wilbur grits out.

“Aw, I love you too.” Phil smiles, like the absolute bastard he is.

“Please pass away.” Wilbur groans.

“I’d rather not.” Phil laughs.

Wilbur glares at him for a moment, and Phil just stares back, amusem*nt tracing the lines of his face as he practically mocks his own son. His own flesh and blood, can you believe it? How dare he look so smug, satisfied by the pain that his pun has caused, his play on words somehow more devastating than any tragedy that has ever crossed the earth. Pain, nothing but agony.

See, the thing is, Wilbur and Phil have an interesting dynamic. It’s not the “father-disappointed-in-son” dynamic, but rather the “both-incredibly-disappointed-in-eachother” dynamic.

“I believe I’ve won this argument.” Phil smiles brightly, clapping his hands together as he co*cks his head in a bird-like fashion, laughter bubbling up in his throat. “So, are we going now?”

“First of all, you haven’t won sh*t.” Wilbur retorts. “Second of all, going where?”

“Patrol.” Phil grins. “Dream may think he has us by the neck, but we’ve faced way worse than this, haven’t we? He can’t keep us away for long.” There’s a few moments of silence after his final words, and then he speaks again, a strange mix of a concerned, yet mischievous expression crossing his face.

“Oh, and tell Techno to watch Tommy, will you?”

Chapter 9: The blood god makes a severe and continuous lapse in his judgment

Chapter Text

Something rustles in the room.

Tommy snores and turns over in his sleep. He couldn’t care less about some random sh*t moving around.

It moves again, louder this time. It sounds like boots clicking against wooden planks, a dull, yet echoey thud that resounds against the walls, the shuffle of someone who sounds like a battle general stalking around the deck.

Can’t Phil wait a while to wake him up? It’s early as f*ck.

Tommy may be part bird, but he most certainly isn’t early, and getting a worm is probably the last thing he’d ever want to do.

More rustling. The sound of pages being flipped through, fingers tapping against a dull, hardcover book are quiet, yet just loud enough to reach Tommy’s ears. It’s as though whoever’s watching him is impatient, in some kind of rush to wake him up, to talk to him and get some answers, whatever they may be.

Even more shuffling. A book gets carefully placed back in a shelf, a soft creak following its movement as its tucked in with its brothers, the holder making sure that they won’t disturb the many other books lining the cabinets, their pages barely shifting with the placement. Whoever’s there is clearly practiced in their movement, each step calculated, their position poised so that wherever they are, they’ll be ready to defend themself against any threat.

Seeing as they’re obviously trained, a warrior of some kind (perhaps another vigilante?), they can definitely mask their steps and slip in and out of silence if they want to.

But clearly, they don’t want to, as they keep clicking their boots against the floor, a rhythmic sound that’s almost like how a predator would tap its claws on a hard surface, talons ready to strike whatever prey it’s after.

Actually, now that Tommy thinks about it, there’s a pretty high chance that this isn’tPhil or Wilbur, and could potentially be someone sent after them, whether it be a hero, a villain, or another vigilante with a grudge.

sh*t. In that case, Tommy is most likely in danger, and could get killed if he’s not careful— and to be honest, he doesn’t exactly want to ruin Phil and Wilbur’s floor with his blood, because they’ve been really f*cking nice to him and soaking their deck is kind of a sh*tty way to repay the favor.

So, Tommy does the reasonable thing.

He prepares to beat the sh*t out of whoever’s coming to kill him.

His breathing slows back into the rhythmic snore that comes with deep sleep, one that signifies his brain muddled with dreams and darkness, completely unaware of his surroundings. However, unfortunately for the stranger in his room (when did he start thinking of this room as his?), he’s most definitely not asleep, and he’s rather aware of his surroundings.

See, the thing is, Tommy may be a dumbass, but he’s not stupid.

Though his eyes are shut, lashes brushing against his cheeks like leaves sweeping against the vine, he’s spent just barely long enough in this room to know where he is, and what he can use to his advantage. He always picks corners or the sides of walls when he stays somewhere, a place where he could keep an easy eye on someone, so he’s able to determine that whoever else is in here is just a few feet away, stalking around the chairs and standing right in the middle of the room.

As if they own the place, which they most likely don’t, because Phil and Wilbur live here. This is their home, and even if Tommy’s fine with being homeless, that doesn’t mean he’s just going to stand by and watch someone f*ck up their house. They’ve been far too kind for that, and he wants to repay that favor in any way that he can.

So, in the smartest decision of a lifetime, right when the stranger paces just a little too close for comfort, Tommy practically throws himself out of his blanket fort, nature book in hand, and makes a full-hearted attempt to f*cking deck the person standing across from him over the head with it.

The stranger’s eyes widen, and Tommy takes note of how they’re a brilliant red, shining like crimson suns upon a white horizon, like scarlet paint scrawled against a canvas, just moments before they’re forcefully shut as both Tommy and the stranger plummet to the ground, Tommy on top while the stranger lands with a thud upon the wooden deck.

Almost instinctively, the person throws Tommy off with a graceful, yet deadly movement, causing Tommy to topple backwards before struggling back to his feet, his nature book still clutched to his chest.

There’s a few moments of peace as Tommy and his opponent stare each other down. Just enough time for Tommy to get a good look at the man.

He’s tall, much taller than Wilbur, which is saying something because Wilbur’s got even more of a height to him than both Tommy and Phil. However, the stranger’s clothing is drastically different from Wilbur’s, reminiscent those of a pirate’s rather than a poet. A thin, white shirt encloses his chest, torn at the shoulders and folded at the collarbone, while black shorts end just above his knees, reaching towards dark boots which are shaped like pig’s hooves, sharp and elegant with faint red stains encircling the edges.

Though Tommy can’t deny that he’s at least a little curious about the bloodstains, the most eye-catching things about him are the scars that line his body, etched across him like words carved into stone, and the wild, pink hair that drapes around him, falling in front of his face and pooling over his shoulders.

Yeah, this is the kind of person that Tommy shouldn’t f*ck with.

But seeing as he has no choice, he might as well fight his way out of this situation.

The seconds of calm are over almost as soon as they’ve begun, shattered like stained glass, the shards scattering through the air as the stranger takes a swing at Tommy, much faster than Tommy would’ve expected from him, carrying his weight and muscle with as much grace as a dancer would.

However, Tommy’s faster, after years of avoiding strikes and punches thrown his way, he’s able to duck underneath the man’s fist and slam the nature book against his chest, causing the man to stumble backwards, a grunt of surprise escaping his fanged mouth before his stance is repaired, a taunting frustration blooming across his face like the petals of a rose.

Then he’s on the offensive again, moving like the rapids of a river as he kicks out at Tommy’s legs, a smooth, yet vicious strike that nearly shoves Tommy off his balance. Yet again, Tommy saves himself, leaping into the air and using his avian blood to his advantage before the other’s foot can make contact with his legs, staying airborne for a moment before landing silently upon the wooden floorboards.

Nature book still in hand, Tommy makes a reckless dash for the stranger, his hand poised as though he’s going to strike as he sprints towards the other. As expected, the pink-haired man lifts his fists in a defensive posture, holding them up to his face so that he can get an easy aim at anything that targets his upper body.

But, the thing is, Tommy’s not aiming for his upper body.

Tommy lashes out with the hardcover book, the pages flying as he makes a false swipe at the stranger’s face before he slides to the ground in a practiced maneuver, the book dropping as Tommy sweeps his legs out at the stranger’s hoofed boots, a satisfying growl of frustration reaching his ears just before the sound of the man toppling to the floor resounds throughout the room.

For a moment, Tommy just stands there, breathing heavily as he stares down at his opponent.

There’s a heartbeat’s worth of pride that reaches his heart, something that makes him want to tell Phil and be praised, but before he can even get the thought through his head, something wraps around his leg, yanking him into the air.

Tommy’s off the ground in practically a fraction of a second, a shriek ripping its way out of his mouth as he feels his grip on the floorboards get torn away, a mere ghost of the wind outside whipping around his ears and blowing against his face with the momentum of the the stranger throwing him over. It’s a hasty movement, something that feels almost as though it never happened as all that causes Tommy to feel his back slam against the wood with a dull, yet resounding thud. He grits his teeth, biting back the shout that tries to escape his lips, and stares up at the man standing over him.

Eyes as red as hibiscus meet his own, the stranger’s a strange mix of blazing curiosity, his look of frustration having dissipated by now. It’s like he’s testing Tommy, trying to find out what he’s worth, learn what he can do.

“Are you done yet?” The stranger questions, his voice low and gruff. It’d actually be quite relaxing, if Tommy wasn’t fighting for his life right now.

“No, ‘fraid not.” Tommy hisses, and he’s back on his toes in a second, springing up from the floorboards with more agility than a human could ever manage. The wind guides him, whispering comforts to his avian blood, adrenaline coursing through him as the thought of a fight bursts into his head, dancing with the same feeling of flying that Tommy could never achieve.

Yeah, maybe he’s being reckless, and maybe it’s really f*cking early, but if someone breaks into Phil and Wilbur’s house, he’s going to defend it even if it ends up in him spilling some blood.

And could you blame him if some of it isn’t his own?

Teeth bared in an almost animalistic grin, Tommy flings himself at his foe, the faint breeze pushing past the curtains guiding his movement as he leaps up and feints another punch. Having been fooled before, the man prepares to protect his legs, but this time, Tommy takes advantage of the air current and lifts himself past the height of the stranger, throwing his hands onto the other’s shoulders and using them to thrust himself against the wall.

Pirouetting in the air, he springs off the wall, bookshelves rattling as he lunges back at the man, whose eyes are wide with both shock and something that almost looks like pride. Ignoring the warm feeling at seeing the hint of pride (mans really out here so touch-starved and socially deprived that he’s desperate for any kind of validation), Tommy pushes forward, momentum building from the violent shove off the wall.

The man, to his credit, has the decency to look at least a little worried when he sees the ball of gremlin fury flying at him.

But that expression fades in an instant as he, instead of ducking, steps to the side.

sh*t. Tommy hadn’t thought this far ahead.

In a desperate attempt to notbreak the door down, Tommy spins in the air, tucking his feet in before stretching them out in a balanced stance so as not to topple over the moment he hits the ground. Upon landing with a soft thump!, he turns his eyes back onto his enemy, who’s simply just striding over towards him like it’s a typical Tuesday morning.

And, for the first time this morning, Tommy feels real, genuine fear.

He’s backed up against a wall, fighting against someone he doesn’t know, who potentially has powers that can break him, which is even more likely considering the fact that the pink-haired man hasn’t shown a trace of any abilities, but has managed to avoid and counter every hit that Tommy’s thrown at him with ease.

Even if Tommy wanted to run, he has nowhere to go. He doesn’t know this place— he doesn’t know exactly how high up it is, how far away it is from the ground, or how distant the city is.

So as he sees the stranger looming over him, his lips quirked in amusem*nt, Tommy does yet another reasonable thing.

He kicks that f*cker right in the balls.

“HOLY sh*t!” The stranger cries.

“f*ck YOU, BITCH!” Tommy screeches right back. “f*ck YOU AND YOUR COOL— I MEAN DUMBASS HAIR!”

“WHAT— WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!” The man exclaims, crumpling to his knees. “WHAT THE f*ck!?”

“DON’T f*ckIN’ BREAK INTO MY DECK, dickhe*d!” Tommy screams back.

“I LIVEHERE!” The stranger shouts, and it’s reminiscent of a boar’s growl. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘BREAK INTO YOURDECK!?’”

“f*ck OFF— Wait, what?” Tommy pauses.

“I LIVE HERE AND YOU f*ckING KICKED ME IN THE CROTCH!” The stranger cries out once again.

“AND YOU f*ckIN’ DESERVED IT!” Tommy yells.

“THIS IS THE LAST TIME I LET PHIL ASK ME TO BABYSIT AN ORPHAN!” The stranger groans, still on his knees.

“YOU KNOW PHIL?” Tommy questions.

“HE’S MY FATHER!” The stranger chokes out. “THREE DAYS, THREE DAYSHE’S GONE, AND HE’S ALREADY FORGOTTEN ABOUT ONE OF HIS SONS! HE’S GOIN’ SENILE!”

“Oh sh*t, sorry.” Tommy says. “My bad.”

“I hate orphans.” The stranger states, though his voice is still chocked with pain. “Every last one of you.”

“I’ll f*ckin’ kick you again.” Tommy threatens. “State your name and purpose.”

“What is this, an interrogation?” The stranger snorts.

Tommy nabs a banana from a nearby shattered fruit bowl (sorry Phil), whirls it in his hand like a pistol, and points it directly at the stranger’s face. “It is now, bitch.”

“Oh no, produce. I’m quaking in my boots.” The stranger deadpans.

“Name and purpose.” Tommy snaps.

“Technoblade, and I’ve been sent to babysit you, which, in my brilliant opinion, was a huge mistake. Please help me get up.”

Chapter 10: Techno and Tommy bond. Bedrock bros

Chapter Text

Technoblade stares at Tommy.

Tommy stares right back, banana gun still in hand, pointed directly at the space between Techno’s crimson eyes.

The first deck is a little worse for wear than it’d been just the night before.

Okay, but can you really blame Tommy for fighting a guy and eventually kicking him in the balls when he didn’t know who he was, or what he was doing in his room? It was completely justified, and if the police were to ever question him (it’s happened before, cringe), he’d just tell them that Techno had it coming.

Because he did, and Tommy’s never incorrect. Despite the fact that the man is absolutely f*cking menacing when he’s standing to his full height, towering over Tommy like a carving of a god that one would find in a museum, each feature and scar chiseled into his skin as though an artist were imagining every battle he’s ever faced.

Not only is Tommy right in this situation, he is also notscared. Not at all. He definitely doesn’t feel intimated by Techno practically looming over him, a constant low chuff-chuffsound rumbling from his chest, a hybrid trait that Tommy can’t quite put his finger on.

For all he knows, it could be a warning growl, a premonition to a coming storm, a hurricane that’ll tear Tommy limb from limb.

Well, if that happens, Tommy will just kick the guy in the crotch again. That always solves his problems.

“Are you going to stop staring and say something, or are you just going to stand there?” Techno questions, breaking Tommy out of his line of thought. “Oh, and I don’t think the banana’s necessary anymore. You can put it away now.”

“I’ll put the f*ckin’ banana down when I want to.” Tommy grits out, and he hates how his voice quavers towards the end. sh*t, has he always been this scared of people, or is it new? He knows that he’s never trusted humans, or even hybrids, but lately, it seems as though he’s more terrified of them than he is of a pack of venomous snakes. Interacting with people for him is like dancing on ice, careful to avoid any cracks, fearful of every step, and hoping and praying for a way out, or a safe place to land on.

Mans really went from talking about a banana gun to his anxiety.

This day really isn’t shaping up to be a good one so far.

“Fine.” Techno drawls. “Just… don’t threaten to shoot me with it when Wil and Phil get home. I don’t want them knowing that a child—”

“Big Man.” Tommy corrects, his lips still peeled in what could only be described as a snarl.

“—broke half the deck and tried to kill me with a banana while they were gone.” Techno continues, ignoring Tommy’s correction as though it were nothing. Asshole. How f*cking dare he not recognize the status “Big Man.” It’s like owning every NFT, but much better, because he’s not a piece of sh*t who spends his life savings on jpegs.

Come to think of it, why did he even make that comparison in the first place?

“So it’s your problem?” Tommy questions.

“Just like you, yes.” Techno deadpans. “I’ll have to make something up to get out of trouble.”

Unable to restrain it, Tommy lets out a snort of laughter, which soon turns into a full wheeze when Techno turns his confused frown onto him. “You look like you’ve fought in every war, and you’re scared of getting in trouble with your dad? puss*.”

“I could just pin the blame on you.” Techno mutters, glowering down at Tommy.

“Try it.” Tommy grins, flashing his teeth at Techno. “You won’t.”

“I will.” Techno warns.

Tommy’s smile only gets wider, his fangs glistening with the sunlight that’s starting to pour through the windows like a waterfall, sprays of light dancing across the surface and flickering in the air. “Oh, will you now?”

“Why do I feel like you’re up to something?” Techno sighs. “And why do I feel like it’s going to involve turning my family against me?”

“You’re smarter than you look, aren’t you, big guy?” Tommy says, eyes still bright and teeth still bared. He may be on thin ice right now, poking and prodding at a sleeping boar when it could gore him with its tusks, but hey, he’s faced worse. It’s simply not his time to die yet, because he’s got way more chaos to cause, and he can’t exactly do that if he’s six feet under.

Besides, if everything goes wrong, he still has his backup plan.

His foot raises, and Techno takes a few steps back, poised in a wary, yet exhausted stance, much like the one that Phil seems to wear constantly. Especially around Tommy, which is odd, because Tommy’s not tiring, at least not at first. He’s incredibly invigorating, much like a can of Coca Cola (brand name moment. Sometimes he wishes that they’d pay him to say nice things about their products, but it’s just thatgood. He can’t help it), until people find out he’s a burden, and these f*ckers haven’t come to the conclusion yet, so he’s going to take every chance he can to f*ck with them.

They made the mistake of letting him into their home.

He’s just capitalizing on it.

“I like to think that I have a somewhat decent IQ, yeah.” Techno answers carefully, his steps timed as his heeled boots click against the wood, a dull-sounding yet echoing noise that resounds through the room. His eyes are leveled with Tommy’s, yet they flicker between Tommy’s gaze and the banana he’s wielding with a rather threatening aura. “I can read. I have that going for me.” For a brief moment, he thinks. “In fact, I used to be an English major.”

“And now you’re a criminal?” Tommy questions.

“Eh, it works out.” Techno shrugs. “If you’d been in college, you’d understand.”

“I could’vebeen to college.” Tommy glares. “You don’t know. Bitch.”

“Tommy, you look like you’re twelve and you’re threatening me with a banana. I doubt you’ve gone to college.” Techno deadpans.

“I’ll f*ckin’ clart you.” Tommy warns.

“Do it then, you won’t.” Techno drawls, echoing Tommy’s own words at him as a fanged, rather toothy grin makes its way across his face. There’s a soft thump!on the wood, and Tommy glances over to see a long, curled tail lashing out from behind Techno, hitting the floorboard and swaying back into the air as he mocks Tommy.

“Are you insulting me?” Tommy accuses. “Me, the poor child you’re supposed to be watching over? How could you?”

“Yep.” Techno smirks, popping the “P”.

“I’m telling Phil.” Tommy threatens.

“Wait, no, don’t do that.” Techno laughs, a bit of nervousness weaving its way into his voice as though it’s a coarse tapestry, each of his words rough, yet calming in a way, harsh and soothing mixed into a single sound. At the end of each word, there’s that same chuffing sound, though it’s more soft and harder to notice.

“I’m telling him.” Tommy continues, in a sort of sing-song echo of his own words. “I’m telling him, and then you’ll be in sO much trouble.” His voice hitches on “so,” a crack that would probably make it to the world record books for being the most broken f*cking thing on the planet, if it weren’t for the fact that there’s only one witness, and he’s being held at banana-point.

“Please, no, I’ll do anything, just don’t tell the old man that I bullied you—” Techno begs, tail lashing more out of agitation than the amusem*nt it once had followed, a brush painting his emotions through the air rather than displaying them on his face.

“Anything?” Tommy repeats, turning back towards his hostage.

Techno pauses. “If I won’t regret it, then yes.”

-

And that’s the story of how Techno and Tommy got to laying on a blanket fort, horror movies playing on the TV, screams and shrieks of terror echoing throughout the first deck. Yeah, maybe some of them were Tommy’s, but the movie’s f*cking terrifying and that’s not his fault. Even Big Men™️ get scared sometimes, and that’s okay.

Beisdes, he’s got a fresh bag of popcorn, and Techno wrapped up in blankets next to him, his bodyguard against any unseen threats that could mimic what’s going on in the screen. Sure, the monsters on the screen are fake, but that doesn’t make the fear of them any less real, so Tommy finds himself curling up closer to Techno, for absolutely no reason other than his own safety.

It’s started to rain outside, which only adds more to the atmosphere, an ambience that makes the scene comforting, in a way. Just watching horror movies, eating popcorn and resting underneath the arm of a wanted vigilante. It’s a perfect way to spend the day, at least until Phil and Wilbur get back home.

Tommy’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the killer in the movie raising an axe and slamming it down towards one of the protagonists, a scare that causes Tommy to scream even louder than the man on the screen, pulling Techno closer to him and shoving an entire handful of popcorn into his mouth out of pure fear.

“I hope I get paid for this.” Techno grumbles, but he doesn’t complain as Tommy ducks under his arm, munching away at popcorn (and the seeds. He doesn’t know why he eats the seeds. He just… does), and muttering random sh*t about things such as Primes, whatever those may be. Techno doesn’t even say anything when Tommy starts to drift off once more, pushed up close against Techno’s chest, breathing coming in soft, quiet puffs of air, popcorn still in hand.

Techno can’t do much to stifle the chuff-chuffs that come from his chest. It’s a habit, an instinct of protection that just comes with being a hybrid.

He’s not getting attached to some orphan child that Phil found in the city. Of course not.

Chapter 11: Techno’s only had Tommy for a day but if anything were to happen to him—

Chapter Text

Techno’s beginning to wonder if Tommy’s just sleep deprived, or if he always sleeps through the day.

The kid’s still curled up next to Techno’s chest, breathing soft as he unconsciously tucks himself into Techno’s hair, the pink fluff draping over him and providing a gentle shield between him and the breeze that drifts through the window, carrying the calls of wild birds and the other creatures of the rainforest with it.

Along with the animals’ calls, rain is pouring down outside, the patters of droplets a soothing rhythm, falling from the dark clouds that drift lazily in front of the sun and splashing onto the deck, the walls, the windows, the ceiling, everything. The smell of rain, the way it rejuvenates the foliage, rebounding off of curled green leaves and seeping into the branches of the trees, dripping into the cups of tropical flowers and trailing on the feathers of birds makes its way through the windows, something that causes Techno to take a deep breath of the humidity and calm.

The horror movie’s still playing, a madman with an axe chasing after the one person who dares to defy him. It’s interesting, but if Techno’s going to be completely honest, it’s not really his type. He may be named the “Blood God,” but seeing innocent people get torn to shreds, the only survivor facing off against his foe with terror and fear swarming in his eyes like a flock of dragonflies is nothing less than daunting. Whenever the hatchet comes tearing down through the air, violent, maniacal laughter trailing it as it aims to strike at the last one standing, Techno finds himself wincing despite not being the target.

Techno reallywants to turn it off, to stop the screaming, but Tommy had wanted to watch it, so he leaves it on. The absolute gremlin, though he may be asleep, could quite possibly wake up, and in all truth, Techno doesn’t want to bother him. There’s something about the way that he snores softly, curling into a ball and holding the blankets (and Techno’s hair) close that makes a rather guilty feeling rise in Techno’s chest, despite the fact that he hasn’t even done anything yet.

Tommy’s just a stray orphan that Phil found by chance, and is only keeping temporarily because of a deal they made.

And yet, Techno feels as though if anything were to happen to Tommy, he’d f*cking tear L’Manburg from its roots and throw the entire city at whoever hurt the gremlin.

Brother, brother pog, bedrock, the voices whisper in a rather unhelpful manner.

“Silence, thought.” Techno mutters.

Tommy, brotherinnit, friend, big brother Techno pog, the voices continue, paying no heed to the bubbling frustration that rises up within Techno. Bri’ish goblin child, brotherblade? Pogchamp.

“You’re really not going to let this go, are you.” Techno groans. “Please, for the love of—”

“Tech?” Tommy murmurs, his voice groggy and his eyes drooping as he makes a half-hearted attempt to peek up at Techno, confusion splashed in his drowsy gaze. “Who are you talkin’ to?”

YOU WOKE HIM UP, the voices cry. NEVER FORGIVEN, UNSUBBING.

Ignoring them, Techno turns back to Tommy, who’s currently bundled up in blankets and tugging on Techno’s hair, evidently trying to warm himself up despite the fact that it’s incredibly hot. Either that, or it’s an avian thing— Techno’s seen Wilbur and Phil do it a couple of times, building nests, curling up in soft materials and snoozing the day away.

However, what he hasn’tseen is one of them using him as a pillow, which is what Tommy is now trying (and succeeding) to achieve.

“No one. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Techno replies, his voice a bit more gruff than he’d like it to be. sh*t, the kid’s already jumpy, he doesn’t want to mess things up by scaring him with his blunt words, the sound being potentially a false sign of danger to Tommy.

Yep. He doesn’t care. Not at all.

If you say he does, you’re lying, not only to yourself, but to the world as well.

Go to the corner and think about what you’ve done.

“…‘kay.” Tommy mumbles. He goes quiet for a moment, a still silence that makes Techno wonder if he’s gone back to sleep, but then he talks once more, words still muddled as though his mind is clouded and he’s trying to work out how to speak, like each sound is a raindrop that he’s trying to catch and mold into something understandable. “…Tech, could you make that sound again?” He drawls, his eyelids still struggling to stay open, lashes fluttering against his cheeks like the wings of a bird.

“Sound?” Techno questions, eyebrow quirked in confusion.

“…yeah, you know.” Tommy slurs, waving his hand around slowly through the air in a dismissive motion, as though whatever sound he’s talking about is common knowledge. “The rumbling one, the… chuff-chuffthing. Could you do it again?” The imitation is flawed to say the least, but it’s heartwarming, and just a tad bit endearing. Only a little bit, okay? Techno’s never been attached to anyone besides Phil, Wilbur, and Kristin. Nobody else, especially not some goblin that just tried to threaten him with a banana gun.

Techno lets out a snort of laughter at the look on Tommy’s face, drowsy, yet still like one that a younger sibling would wear, asking for a favor while giving nothing in return. “Your impression isn’t all that great. Just letting you know.”

“Please?” Tommy pleads.

A pause.

Tommy’s looking up at Techno with the purest set of puppy-eyes he’s ever seen, and in all truth, Techno hates them because he knows he can’t say no to them.

Techno has to admit (although grudgingly), for an absolute goblin, a mischievous gremlin up to no good, a child who didn’t even hesitate to kick a man in the balls, Tommy can actually be quite endearing.

“Fine.” Techno finally sighs, relenting to Tommy, who just looks at him with a sort of tired joy etched in his expression, too sleepy to grin, but not exhausted to the point where he can’t at least flash his fangs. “I’ll do it.”

Tommy smiles, and it’s a warm, soft thing, a gentle curve to his lips as he stares up at Techno, still bundled up in his hair. He pulls himself closer to Techno upon hearing the gentle rumbling from his chest, a constant, rhythmic sound. Azul eyes more blunt than sharp for once, Tommy begins to drift back into sleep, content with the chuff-chuffsthat Techno provides him.

But, before he slips back into unconsciousness completely, he says two simple, yet very complicated words.

“…thanks, Techie.” He mumbles, and then he’s gone, snoring once more, head laid against Techno’s chest as he snoozes.

For once in his life, Techno thinks he may be dying.

For once in his life, the voices are quiet, too much in shock to say anything.

Either that, or he’stoo much in shock to listen to them, drowning them out as he focuses all of his attention on Tommy, the too-small avian that’s curled up right next to his heart, both literally, and, dare he say it, emotionally. Techie. The word rings in Techno’s head as though it was a gunshot, but much more quiet, much more soothing, much more… confusing. It’s like a nickname someone would give to a sibling, an older brother, a family.

No, maybe Tommy’s just tired. He’s exhausted, whether it be from the fight that occurred earlier (no, Techno doesn’t feel a guilty tug at his heart upon thinking about it. You’re imagining things), or from the eventful days that have led up to him being here. He wasn’t thinking straight, he was just slurring his words and mumbling whatever comes to mind because he was half-asleep.

But at the same time, Techno finds himself ready to protect Tommy at all costs. This teen, who’s scarred more than a wounded animal, something that was hunted for years, has earned Techno’s defenses. It may be an overreaction, but upon hearing that simple nickname, Techno’s fully prepared to defend this goblin with his life.

Rather ironic, isn’t it? The Blade, felled in one small swoop by an avian child who fell asleep in his arms and given him a nickname that would quite possibly stick with him for the rest of his life.

Heroes, villains, and even other vigilantes have tried and failed to destroy Techno, utilizing weapons and powers, hybrid abilities and traits in futile attempts to kill him, to take him down once and for all. All of them have fallen too short, believing themselves to be so close to defeating him, but every single one of them lost in the end.

And yet, Tommy, a single gremlin child with two blue feathers tucked behind his ear has defeated Techno with the simple tactic of being endearing.

This is rather upsetting, in a way.

However, even though Techno should be upset, he finds that he’s rather content with how things are turning out. He’s not going to complain, there’s something comforting about protecting someone, holding them close and shielding from any unseen danger. Besides, he’s beginning to like Tommy, his flame-bright spirit and his quick wit.

Maybe, just maybe, if he’s lucky, he can find a way to keep Tommy, even when Phil fulfills his side of the deal.

So caught up in his thoughts, Techno doesn’t notice that he’s stopped the rumbling noise until Tommy lets out an unsatisfied whine, reaching out at Techno’s face with his hand and pawing at it in a rather anguished, tired, cat-like manner. Sighing, though it’s fond and filled with warmth, Techno starts the sound again. When Tommy hears it, his smile returns, and he turns over once more, pulling the blankets closer and pressing his face into Techno’s chest, pink hair draped around him like the branches of a cherry blossom.

Brother, brother pog, BROTHERINNIT, aww, safe, safe, protect, hold, the voices clamor in his head, and Techno doesn’t even bother to shush them as he lays back against the pillow fort, a soft hum making its way through his throat as he absentmindedly watches the TV, barely taking in the scenes of the horror movie as he peers at it.

Every few seconds he peeks at Tommy, making sure that the kid doesn’t stir or wake up. Or show any signs of stress, or have any nightmares. Actually, Tommy seems like the kind of person who wouldhave nightmares, a lot of them, things that haunt him both in the daytime and in his sleep. Maybe Techno could do something to help with that, check the bookshelves for books about it, or roam the internet until he finds an answer.

He’s so small, one voice whispers, and Techno’s not entirely sure if it’s not his own echoing back at him. He gives a small nod of agreement, gaze drifting back towards Tommy for what seems like the hundredth time in just the past couple of minutes. He’s scrawny, and though he looks like he’d be lanky even if he were well-fed, it’s obvious that he’s not getting enough food, or even water. Techno’s got to work through that with him, finding recipes and foods he likes, and go on trips to the city to look for anything that could help.

Wow. One day with the kid, and he’s already this attached.

Even if Tommy’s hellbent on becoming a vigilante, even if it throws him directly in harms way, Techno’s determined to stay by him, to protect him and defend him with his sword. Phil may have been the one to make the deal, but Techno’s gradually becoming more and more intent on being the one to fulfill it, to train Tommy properly, to keep him from falling apart.

The world of heroes and villains is a dark one, much like a whirlpool, something that sucks people in and refuses to release them, but with enough work, one can survive and even thrive within the riptide.

Looking down, seeing the way that Tommy’s hair moves ever so slightly with each puff of breath, Techno finds that he’s going to teach this kid everything he can about vigilantism. Even though he’s only known him for a day, it’s clear that Tommy’s not the type of person to throw away a goal, and so he’ll stick to the path that he’s already set on. Which means that Techno, whether it’ll be with or without his family’s help, will do everything he can to ensure his safety.

And if anyone were ever to hurt Tommy, they’ll get the full force of the Blade swung at them, and the whispers of the Blood God will no longer be just a rumor.

Chapter 12: Wilbur and Phil kick ass

Chapter Text

Rainfall soaks the city, dripping and pooling into puddles that line the streets, the scent of the ocean and distant rainwater following it as it falls. Each step someone takes outside warrants a splash, a tumbling spray of water that mimics their stride with a faulty echo.

It’s the perfect setting for a fight.

Wilbur, or “Symphony,” as people have dubbed him, ducks and rolls underneath a rather violent punch thrown his way. The fist swings right where his jaw had been only moments prior, a hit with more ferocity packed into it than most opponents that Wilbur tends to face.

These aren’t heroes, nor are the villains or vigilantes, but simple criminals who use their powers and hybrid traits to their advantage, utilizing the upper hands gifted to them and rising to the top of the food chain, breaking everyone below them in an effort to gain more control. Each of them is unidentifiable, masks cloaking their faces and dark clothes wrapped around their bodies.

Even though Wilbur can’t recognize them, or notice any features, that doesn’t mean that they can’t do any damage.

In fact, they can actually cause a lotof damage, which is pretty f*cking annoying and is starting to really piss Wilbur off.

His opponent, some type of fire mage, lashes out at him once more, hand draped in burning flames as he aims harshly sharpened claws at Wilbur’s chest. With a grunt of effort, Wilbur dodges yet again, causing the criminal to hit thin air once more. The rain patters around them, a chorus that sings the song of a victory soon to come as Wilbur and his enemies perform the dance of combat.

Another swipe, another, and another. One, two, three, four. There’s a pattern to it, like the rhythmic beat to a song, each note replaced by the fury of someone who’s determined to burn the world down and watch as he plays his lyre. Wilbur weaves and pivots, ducks and pirouettes, locked in a tango with the man who’s trying to end his life, turn the last breath that Wilbur takes into nothing but smoke.

Though Wilbur’s supposed to be a “good guy,” there’s something about the thrill of fighting that invigorates him, something that leads him to toying with his opponents in fights when he loses himself in the action. His thoughts will be buried by the ferocious tug of battle, an urge to fight and tear until he wins, playing with theatrics as he goes.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even use his abilities, unless they’re completely necessary. So to him, each of these fights, every scuffle or scrap he ends up in is nothing other than a warm-up. For what, he doesn’t know, but what he doesknow is that he’ll continue to pluck the chords of life, strumming out the tune of war as he wrestles victory away from his opponents.

It’s refreshing, really, and sometimes he tends to lose track of time when he’s fighting.

Phil is just the same, wings spread far as he twirls in a fatal pirouette with his foes, bird-like talons extending from his hands as he slashes at them. Each move is as graceful as the last, something so beautiful, yet so deadly, a fateful image that would be the last thing someone would see if they had truly crossed him.

But as vigilantes, Phil and his sons have a strict rule not to kill, just to incapacitate until the authorities arrive. So, each attack he and Wilbur throw at the criminals is just a weak mirage of what they’d use against a true opponent. These are simply just the people who have traveled the wrong path, using their advantages against others, yet falling too short of becoming a real threat, living with petty crime such as robberies and muggings.

Wilbur turns yet again, weaving beneath the burning embers swarming enemy hands and throwing his own hits at the man’s chest. With a grunt, the man stumbles backwards, winded, which gives Wilbur just enough of the time he needs to knock him off his balance, a leg sweeping underneath the lawbreaker and causing him to stumble to the ground. Just as soon as he hits the ground, a dull cry of pain escaping his throat as his back slams against the pavement, Wilbur throws his foot down onto his chest as a way to keep him pinned.

“Stay down.” Wilbur whispers, and his words drip with something unnatural, a whisper of convincing, something that not even the strongest foe could withstand. Shakily, the man nods, his eyes dimming from the heated inferno of anger to the simmering, controlled embers of acceptance.

The other criminals are stuck in a tango with Phil, some either looking for exits, frantic gazes searching for a way out, while others burn with rage and continue to try to take Wilbur’s father down. All of them fail, no matter what their goal is, those who try to run being thrown to the ground while those who try to fight are felled within mere seconds. The last one falls, Phil standing over them, his feathers extended in the pride of victory as he glowers down at them.

When most people hear that Phil’s a toucan hybrid, they think of him as something innocent, a father figure who shows more kindness than the Blood God and Symphony. But they could never be so wrong, for despite his appearances, tropical orange and yellow shades blending in at the tips of his black and white feathers, he can truly be the Angel of Death, a sweeping reaper who won’t hesitate before throwing his enemies aside.

There’s only a few moments before the battle is over, Phil and Wilbur triumphant over their victory and barely sweating with the effort. They’ve been fighting all day, working through the chaos that Phil and his sons’ disappearance caused, bringing down criminals who got too co*cky as there were less people to take them out. Heroes are often tasked with the major threats, villains and vigilantes who are deemed as “unsafe” to the city. However, “lower” ranked individuals are left alone for the most part, free to cause as much destruction as they can as long as they don’t provide any immediate danger to the inhabitants of L’Manburg.

Petty crimes are ignored by the heroes, especially the higher ranking ones, so vigilantes such as Wilbur and his family are the ones who take it upon themselves to put an end to it. Sure, there’s no end in sight, and the pain will last for as long as this city stands, but every little thing helps. Even if it’s not much, even if it’s just one criminal who’s taken down, it’s something, and that means a lot more than it may seem.

“Do you have the rope still?” Wilbur questions, causing Phil’s gaze to turn on him. “If not, I can just throw them in the dumpster. That’d be funny.”

“Yeah mate, I’ve got it.” Phil smiles, before his expression turns to a frown. “Wilbur, we talked about this. No throwing people into the f*cking dumpster.”

“Sorry, Phil. I’ll throw them into the recycling bins instead.” Wilbur laughs, his grin crooked as he jokes. “More environmentally friendly and sh*t, you know?”

“I swear, my hair’s going to be f*ckin’ gray at this point.” Phil groans, but it lacks any true heat behind it, more of a tired fondness that traces his words whenever he speaks to his sons. “You two will be the death of me.”

“Don’t forget about Tommy.” Wilbur chimes in. “He’ll be the death of all of us. f*cking gremlin child.” He ends, his last sentence more affectionate than harsh as he talks. “I wonder how Tech’s holding up with him.”

“Hopefully well.” Phil muses. “Techno’s faced worse, hasn’t he? Tommy shouldn’t be thathard to handle.” He pauses, and then “…right?”

“Yeah.” Wilbur agrees, though it’s unconvinced. “Techno will be fine.”

Phil nods, and he seems just as concerned as Wilbur is. “Well, if anything happens, he can just call us.”

“Oh, and speaking of which, can you let him know that we’re going to be gone for a little while longer? At least until we let the city know that we’re back.”

Chapter 13: Nightmare moment, unpog

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Techno’s suspicions of Tommy being prone to nightmares were completely right.

The hours of the day had slipped into nighttime, a smooth transition that could only be noticed once the final gold hues of the suns rays were drowned out by the horizon, darkness flowing up to take their place as the stars and moon faded into view. Tommy had still been asleep, curled up in Techno’s arms, while Techno continued to make the sound that seems to comfort Tommy so much. Chuff-chuff. Chuff-chuff.It’s rhythmic and reminiscent to the huffs of a wild boar, yet it’s soothing and quiet, something that can only be fully appreciated when lying against the rumbling of Techno’s chest.

It worked for some time, a calming lullaby that kept Tommy asleep. The horror movie that they had been watching had long stopped playing, the screams having been smothered by the credits and the end screen, which Techno soon shut off. Occasionally, when Techno would mutter something aloud to his voices, Tommy would stir ever so slightly, but with a gentle ruffle of Tommy’s hair and a soothing rumble, the kid would fall into unconsciousness yet again.

Techno’s seen exhaustion before. He knows that this what Tommy’s doing isn’t laziness, it’s the result of having fought too hard for far too long, and finally having a chance to rest. Soon enough, he’ll rise up again, raring to go and ready to threaten more people with bananas.

So as the darknening blanket of night drapes over the treehouse, bringing with it the calls and crows of nocturnal creatures such as crickets and other animals that sing out to the moon and stars, Techno fully expected Tommy to sleep through it. He believed that Tommy will just wake up tomorrow, a bounce in his step and full of life, bright eyes flashing with the prospect of a new day.

What he didn’t expect, however, was for the teen to start begging for his life in his sleep.

It starts when Techno himself is beginning to doze off, struggling to stay awake so he can keep an eye on Tommy. There’s that continuous feeling of peace that has trailed throughout the day, ever since Tommy had first started to slip into slumber, but it’s soon broken as whimpers that sound as though someone’s being held at knifepoint.

Techno, still drowsy, peers around the room, wondering if some sort of animal had somehow snuck in. Occasionally birds and other tree-dwelling creatures will make their way into the first deck, and start crying for help as though the exit isn’t right behind them.

But he doesn’t spot any animal.

The whimpering continues.

It takes the shifting movement of Tommy at his side for Techno to realize where the sound’s coming from, the teen shaking and mumbling incoherent words in his sleep, his hands and legs twitching as though he’s running from something. It’s a broken noise, and Techno can only watch as Tommy’s face contorts into an expression of pain, fear rising up in his throat as bird-like chirps, the sounds becoming more and more frantic by the second.

Then the first, truly understandable words come out his mouth, and each one feels like a shard of ice being stabbed right into Techno’s heart.

“Help, help me, please—” Tommy whimpers, and his eyes are still shut, body still twitching as he attempts to run from an unseen threat. “Please, please, help me—” his voice starts off quietly, but it steadily raises in volume, a cry for help that would never be answered in the nightmare that he’s facing. “Please, you promised, help, help—”

“Tommy?” Techno begins, careful to lower his gruff voice into something soft, something that’s comforting rather than the terror-invoking sound that tends to make enemies run and allies falter. “Tommy, it’s alright.”

“Help.” Tommy whispers, just one, single word. Tears are beginning to run down his cheeks now, droplets that start to pool onto Techno’s lap and the pillows that form their fort. It’s a sight that feels more painful than any injury, a child who’s so headstrong in the waking world, but filled with horror in his mind, haunted by things that swarm him as he sleeps. “Please, please, I’m begging you, someone, help—” His words are rushed, tumbling like the water that sprays from a waterfall, cold and frantic, splashing onto whatever’s close enough and leaving nothing but a frigid, terrified hint of what had been there before.

Techno’s dealt with nightmares before, but very rarely. Wilbur and Phil don’t tend to have them very often, and when they do, they usually cope through it on their own, letting the images that their minds created fade into nothingness as they joke and laugh with their family. Techno himself has also faced them, but he often forgets them after he wakes, tucking them away into the back of his mind so he can focus on what he’s going to do for the day.

So, as he’s faced with a crying Tommy bundled up in his arms, a child who seems more frantic than ever to escape a situation, body tense and arms swinging helplessly against an unknown threat, Techno’s not entirely sure what to do.

He tries to repeat the rumbling, louder this time, the chuff-chuffscoming at a more rapid rate as he peers down at Tommy, looking for any difference in the kid’s composure. But still, there’s no difference. The cries get only louder, the tears run faster and soak into his cheeks and his hair, rolling off his face and painting Techno’s clothes with dark stains.

Soon enough, the cries turn to racking sobs, and Techno feels his heart wrench upon the sight of Tommy, one so hot-headed, a kid who was more than ready to fight his way out of any situation, now so vulnerable.

Techno doesn’t want to wake Tommy up. The teen needs rest, he needs to catch up on his sleep so that he can have enough energy for the days of training that are soon to come.

And yet, watching him curl up into himself, cries turning to helpless screams as he begs for his life to be spared, to see the sun again, Techno finds that he can’t just leave Tommy like this. Sometimes it’s better to wake up restless rather than face the horrors of your mind in your sleep.

Techno nudges Tommy.

No response, other than the sobs that continue to stab at Techno’s heart, a sound that shouldn’t affect the boar hybrid as much as they do.

Techno shifts his weight awkwardly, moving his arm from his side (sh*t, had it really been asleep all this time? Ow.) and using it to shake Tommy lightly, a gentle motion that hopefully won’t startle him too much.

This time, Techno’s attempt works, causing Tommy’s eyes to shoot open and to whirl upon him with a wild gaze, as though he’s an animal who’s just escaped a cage. There’s a few moments of tense, silent panic, only broken by the harsh ragged breathing that tears through Tommy’s throat, before he gets a basic understanding of where he is.

“Techno?” He asks, and it pains Techno to hear how hoarse his voice is. Whoever hurt this kid, they’d better count their days and enjoy them while they last.

Technoblade’s not a forgiving person.

“Tommy, are you okay?” Techno asks, as if the teen hadn’t been weeping in his arm just moments prior. “Was it a nightmare?”

A pause. Tommy turns wary eyes onto Techno, as though he’s searching for any kind of malicious intent, like he’s staring at a predator looking him over for weaknesses. There’s something about the way that he looks at Techno that isn’t just worrying, it’s… sad. Like he’s been tricked before, manipulated into spilling his secrets, every weakness taken as an advantage against him.

There’s just a few more seconds of cautious silence, Tommy scanning Techno, before the kid finally relents and turns his gaze to the floor. “…yeah.” He mumbles, and his voice cracks before he can even finish saying the single word. “A bad one. Sorry if I woke you up.”

It’s the first time Techno’s heard Tommy apologize, and it just sounds so genuine, as though Tommy truly believes that he’s inconvenienced Techno by being scared, a feeling of guilt coursing through his veins as he can barely even make eye contact with Techno.

“Do you, uh,” Techno begins, completely unsure of how to act in these kinds of situations. He’s a fighter, not a comforter, and his gruff voice is only proof of that. He attempts to make it softer, clearing his throat before he speaks again. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s— fine. It’s fine.” Tommy replies, yet the shakiness in his words imply otherwise. “It happens a lot, y’know? Just gotta, get used to it ‘n sh*t.” He stops, a few moments of silence drifting through the air like mist in a summer morning, before he whispers words that seem like he never meant to say thme at all. “I wish I were better than this. I’m a f*ckin’ coward.”

“Not a coward.” Techno corrects, and Tommy glowers at him, shock and denial dancing in a strange tango within his gaze. “Just scared. Fear doesn’t make you a coward.”

“Depends.” Tommy states, subconsciously fiddling with a stray strand of pink hair that’s drifted in front of him. “Lots of people just… deal with their sh*t, right? I’m stuck with mine, because I’m a bitch and I can’t f*cking sort anything out.” He grits his teeth, and there’s a hint of sorrow in his voice, something that says he doesn’t want to say these things, but he does so anyway, a habit that he’s held for who knows how long.

Techno tilts his head, trying to quell the fury that’s rising up in his chest, a simmering rage that screams to find whoever hurt Tommy and pay the pain back tenfold. He decides to ignore it, turn his attention back to what matters in the moment. Revenge can wait. “I, uh.” Curse social awkwardness and how, how awkwardit is. “Don’t really know how to help? But, if there’s anything I can do, uh—”

“Can we go for a walk?” Tommy cuts him up abruptly, a desperate look crossing his face before he shuts it down, seemingly just as surprised as Techno at his own decision. “I haven’t seen the whole treehouse thing yet. It’d be cool if I could.”

“At night? During a thunderstorm?” Techno frowns.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be like some horror movie sh*t.” Tommy grins, and it’s a crooked, endearing thing, his fangs flashing as he bares his teeth. “You know, like, f*ckin’ uh… Jurassic Park, that sh*t. It’d be f*ckin’ wild if a vel-oc-i-rap-tor attacked us, innit?” He sounds out each syllable, struggling to make them work through his thick accent. “Or some wild jungle sh*t. I dunno much about this place, but it’s wild, right? Means it’s got jaguars ‘n stuff.”

“I don’t know about velociraptors, and jaguars are pretty rare, but we do have something else.” Techno offers.

“What could be cooler than that?” Tommy questions, his nose scrunching up as though he’s offended by the suggestion.

“Well, we have fireflies.”

Chapter 14: Fireflies

Chapter Text

Tommy’s never seen a firefly before.

Well, that’s not completely true. He’s seen them in books, such as the one he clutches close to his chest now— yellow sparks dotted against forests, glowing hues dancing through the night, flickering, fading, and lighting up again like embers that refuse to die. From what he could read in the book, they’re a kind of insect, creatures that use their ability to glow to attract others of their kind.

Yet, despite the beauty of the pages, the delicately drawn images that stretch against the paper, photographs that can capture even the smallest pattern on the insects’ wings, none of it does justice to the real thing, according to Technoblade.

Techno’s leading the way, his hoof-like boots clicking against the floorboards as he hums to himself, pushing open one of the many doors that leads to the first deck, and swinging it behind him once Tommy’s gotten through. Tommy narrows his eyes at the man, somewhat offended at the fact that Techno doesn’t realize how much of a Big Man™️ Tommy is, but part of him is thankful for it, albeit grudgingly.

There’s another hall, one decorated with plants growing along the sides, water irrigation systems feeding them and glass windows providing them with the light they need to survive. Flowers bloom along the walls, orchids reaching out towards Tommy and hibiscuses straining to face the moon, the scents of every petal reaching him and giving him a strange sense of comfort. It’s that same feeling that he continues to get while he’s here, as though he’s finally come home after years of being missing.

Neither Tommy nor Techno say much as they walk. Tommy’s lapsed into silence, the thought of iron barring him away from freedom, the cold metal seeping into his skin and causing him to quiver with fear and from the lack of warmth in his cramped cage still pounding at his skull, begging for him to remember and to drag him back down. It’s… terrifying, to say the least, but he’s learned to accept these nightmares. It’s something that follows him, haunts him whenever he shuts his eyes, harassing him whenever he’s too exhausted to fight back.

Usually he wakes up screaming, shaking and terrified as he begs for a way out, trying to run from a threat that’s no longer there. Then, as more time goes on, him refusing to wake up while the sun begins to glide over the horizon, he calms down. It takes a while, and there’s been days where he barely recovers at all, but he’ll be fine.

But oddly enough, this time, with someone at his side to comfort him, to take him outside and show him the wild things that Tommy’s always been curious about, Tommy finds that his heart’s beat steadies into something more peaceful, a gentle rhythm that soothes his mind and relaxes his body from being poised to run.

Though Tommy doesn’t quite want to admit it yet, Techno’s presence is calming to be around. The way he continues to make that one sound, the gentle rumbling in his chest when he holds Tommy close like a brother, his mane of hair that’s enough to get lost in, it’s all reminiscent of what it’d be like to have an older sibling to stay with. Or what Tommy thinksan older sibling would be like. In all fairness, he doesn’t know, but hey, he’ll take what he can get, and Techno is quite poggers so that’s good enough for him.

Not to mention that Techno’s just f*cking cool. His body’s etched in scars, carved into his being as careful lines and gashes that have long since healed, yet the reminder still stands. It’s like Tommy’s scars, and something about the way that Techno wears them, going about without having any intent on hiding them, that’s just… comforting. He makes no attempt to cover them, whether it be with bandages or long sleeves, and the way he holds the ones that cross his neck and face is as though he’s proud. Not proud of what happened, but proud of the fact that he survived.

Subconsciously, Tommy finds his own hands drifting away from his arms, trying to mimic the way that Techno holds himself. If Techno, the man who got bested by Big Man™️ Innit with a banana and a kick in the crotch can walk with confidence, then so can Tommy.

Soon enough, another door is pushed open, swaying with the force of wind that drafts inside when Tommy pokes his head through, taking cautious steps forward before Techno swings the door shut behind them.

It’s still raining, a steady, furious downpour that’s made it its mission to soak everything in the rainforest. Which makes sense, considering the name “rainforest,” but still, it’s a lot. Even back in the city, Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many water droplets in one place, spraying down and causing a heavy mist to swirl around the jungle. It’s bound to be beautiful in the morning, fresh and vibrant, but for now, it’s hard to see anything beyond the wooden decks and structures that make up Techno and his family’s base.

“Uh, it’s still wet out, so we may not see any.” Techno states, his voice still in that awkward tone that he’s developed after talking to Tommy more. Tommy can’t tell if it’s the boar hybrid trying to be considerate, or if he’s just incredibly socially awkward. In all truth, it may be both. “If we don’t, we can just wait—”

He’s cut off, his words evaporating like the stillness of a lake beneath a raft as Tommy lets out a deep gasp.

Right in front of him, there are small, golden sparks, flying through the air and fading in and out of the darkness, brilliant, fiery hues that dance across the night. They’re silent, no sound trailing their wings, but the light that tails behind them is louder than words.

Though the rainforest echoes with the calls of animals that sound through the night, songs that reach up to the moon and stars, Tommy ignores them all in favor of the small creatures that sway in front of him. They fly freely, bound by nothing as they glow and darken, glow and darken, a repetitive tango that seems to never end. The only thing that could ever stop these embers is the light of the dawn, but that’s far-off.

So for now, Tommy can just watch, entranced by what he sees.

Just like Techno had said, the books don’t do them justice.

“They’re still out.” Techno muses. “Weird.”

“Holy sh*t.” Tommy laughs, and it’s shaky, quivering almost as much as he is as he extends his hand out, his fingertips reaching towards the little bits of sun. “Holy. sh*t.”

Techno’s nose scrunches up in amusem*nt as he peers down at Tommy, who’s still staring at the fireflies as though he’s seen stardust, flashes that refuse to lose his attention. “You know, you can catch them if you want.”

“Really?” Tommy breathes, excitement and anticipation racing through the singular word as though he’s sung an entire song rather than just one syllable. “I can?”

“Yep.” Techno replies, and he turns towards one that’s drifting steadily closer to him, easily reaching out with his right hand and guiding it towards his left palm, where the bug stops trying to fly away and instead clutches onto his skin. It shuffles around for a moment, its light blinking repeatedly as it tries to get its bearings. Tommy takes the sight in, eyes wide as he leans in closer, fingers twitching with the need to hold his own little star in his hands. It’s a small, but beautiful thing, and he could never get enough of it.

Catching his longing look, Techno just snorts out a laugh, a gruff, yet comforting sound that echoes with the hint of a rumble rising up in his chest. Every sound he makes, though it may seem threatening to others, has become a safe call to Tommy, something that makes Tommy want to run up and give the man a hug. Which he won’t, because he’s a Big Man™️, and he doesn’t need hugs from people.

But Techno also looks incredibly huggable, so Tommy’s beginning to wonder if he’s not such a Big Man™️ after all.

In fact, Tommy would quite like a hug. He’ll find a way to cheat one out of Techno later, when the guy’s not expecting it and Tommy can get away with no repercussions whatsoever. It’ll be risky, and Tommy doesn’t really want to get kicked out of this treehouse yet, so he’ll have to be careful and—

“Do you want to hold it?” Techno questions, interrupting Tommy’s thoughts as though he’s set off a firecracker.

Tommy blinks. He processes the question.

He nods shakily, and without saying anything, he brushes his hand against Techno’s, and, in an effort to replicate what Techno had done earlier, guides the bug over to his waiting fingers. As though being kidnapped by giants is something normal that happens on a daily basis, the firefly makes no complaint, its wings twitching and its rear flickering as it shuffles over to Tommy’s hand.

Tommy’s holding a little piece of starlight in his hand.

sh*t, he’s surroundedby little pieces of starlight, isn’t he? The insects are still dancing throughout the night, ignoring the way that rain pours down around them, as though they’re taunting the very thought of death, leaping out of the way of its reach and laughing with blinking lights at it.

It’s f*cking incredible. Nothing in the city, nothing anywherethat Tommy’s been could compare to this, a moment so simple, yet so intricate and beautiful that Tommy finds himself drawn in like a moth to a lamp. There’s just something mesmerizing about the bugs, gleaming in the night as though they saw that the sun had gone, and decided that they’d take its place. Like they’d seen the stars up in the sky, decided that they were too far away to appreciate, and took it upon themselves to form their own little galaxies.

There’s a grin making its way across Tommy’s face, a genuine one, all of his teeth bared as he peers down at the firefly that illuminates his palm. It buzzes its wings at him, and he hears himself give an involuntary chirp back, a click of the tongue and a bird-like sound finding their way out of him as he makes a child-like attempt to communicate with the bug. It pauses, as though wondering what in the absolute f*ck Tommy just said, before buzzing its wings again, this time lifting off of his palm and going off to join the others.

Watching it go, Tommy’s unable to squash that stupid smile, his eyes bright and his mood brighter as he watches the light show. Techno stands by his side, and Tommy could swear that he hears some kind of new sound coming out of him, like the chuff-chufffrom earlier but… amused? Or something. In all truth, Tommy can’t really tell, and right now, he doesn’t exactly care. He doesn’t care about the fact that his hair’s getting sopping wet, or that he’s had to tuck his nature book underneath his dirty shirt to protect it from the rain, or the fact that thunder’s echoing throughout the distance.

Right now, all he cares about is where he is right now, what he’s watching, and the fact that he’s not alone. Usually that’d freak him out, he’d be planning a getaway, searching for exits and trying to lose the person standing beside him, but he decides that Techno is okay. Ignore the fact that Tommy has literally been gravitating closer and closer to Techno and resisting the urge to hug him and hear the chuff-chuffsound again, along with the fact that he quite literally fell asleep on the guy and bundled himself up in his hair and blankets. Tommy swears that the guy is just ok. Not a brother figure. Not at all.

(holy sh*t what a dumbass. Anyways I’d die for LT!Tommy)

“You’re gettin’ soaked.” Techno comments, yet again forcefully shoving Tommy back into reality. Prick. “We’ve got some towels inside, and you can go back in the pillow fort.” He pauses for a moment, frowning, then continues. “You should also change out of those clothes. You look like you’ve been eating mud.”

“Mud’s tasty, you f*ckin’ asshole.” Tommy protests. “And I’m perfectly fine. I don’t need to dry off, see?”

He proceeds to give Techno a hug.

Techno, having just been soaked by a soggy gremlin child, somehow looks simultaneously incredibly offended and like he’s just seen the cutest thing in the world.

It’s a bit of a contrast against his rough, scarred exterior, but Tommy’s beginning to be that the guy’s a big f*cking softie at heart.

That theory is proven the moment that Techno starts that steady rumble again, seemingly unintentionally, before wrapping his own arms around Tommy, though it’s difficult with the size difference.

It’s warm, and though it’s not much, it’s a shield against the cold of the rain and the night in more ways than one.

Tommy was right. Technoblade is, in fact, very huggable.

Chapter 15: Cooking with Technoblade episode one: there’s a gremlin on the counter what the fu

Chapter Text

One day without Wilbur and Phil has turned to two.

Despite their promises of returning soon, they seem to get caught up in one thing after another. First it’s a bank robbery, then it’s a standoff between heroes and villains, and then it’s stopping muggings. It’s a nonstop rush of scenarios that prevent Techno’s family from coming home, and even though he knows that they can’t help it, a selfish part of him wishes that they’d just come back already.

It’s nothing new, really. Occasionally crime will spike up, whether it’s due from the absence of local vigilantes (cough cough, Phil), some new laws that the government’s cooked up, or the heroes switching districts. Whenever there’s an opening, criminals will take it. They’ll get co*cky and do whatever they can to fulfill their needs— sometimes it’s for necessary things, like food and water, which Techno can’t exactly blame them for, and other times it’s for nothing but selfish greed and profit.

Still, even if Techno is used the startling lack of Wilbur and Phil in his home, that doesn’t mean that he has to likeit. Often times he goes with them, searching for crime and wreaking havoc, giving true meaning to the name “Blood God.” And when he doesn’t, he either just sleeps the days away or refuses his basic needs as he trains against an unknown foe. It’s, well, lonely, if he’s going to be completely honest.

And even though Techno’s technically an introvert, he still gets lonely.

He still misses his family.

With a sigh, he makes his way over to the kitchen, looking back at the pile of pillows on the ground one last time before he steps through the door. Tommy’s still sleeping in there, covered in soft cushions and blankets as he snores like a broken lawnmower, his fingers twitching every so often as he chases something in his dreams, occasionally mumbling about “primes” and “subs.”

It’d taken some effort, and Techno’s hearing is probably worse for wear than before due to the amount of screeching that Tommy had provided upon being forced into the water, but in the end, he’d gotten completely cleaned up, dressed in some of Techno’s old clothes and with his hair almost free of knots. Techno had carded his hands through Tommy’s hair, searching for the tangles (there were a lot of them, and there’s still some to find. The kid looks like he’s never seen a hairbrush or comb in his life) and sorting through them, humming to himself as he listened to Tommy ramble on and on about the fireflies.

“They’re so cool!” Tommy had gushed, his words tumbling like ocean waves lashing at the shore. “Did you see them glow? Their asses are like— like light bulbs or some sh*t. f*ckin’ weird, innit?”

“Mhm.” Techno had agreed wordlessly, too focused on a rather stubborn knot on the back of Tommy’s head to say much more. It’s mor difficult than it should be, for Tommy had refused to move the two pale blue feathers that plume out from behind his right ear, causing Techno to end up working around it. He moves carefully so as not to disturb them as he sorts out the tangle.

“And there was the rain ‘n sh*t too, right?” Tommy had continued. “It was— it was f*ckin’ pretty. I’ve never seen anything like it. Even the lights and sh*t back in the city aren’t as cool as that.”

“You lived in a city?” Techno had questioned, though he’s not too keen on actually talking. In all truth, he’d rather just listen to Tommy, hear the way that the teen speaks of simple things like summer nights and fireflies as though the stars themselves have come down to kiss his hands.

“Yeah. It was a bit sh*t.” Tommy had replied, and he paused, his expression darkening for a moment before a crooked grin made its way across his face yet again, his fangs flashing in pearly white as he peered up at Techno. “But this place isn’t. It’s f*ckin’ poggers, that’s what it is.”

Techno had simply nodded, a smile tugging at his own lips as he looked back down at the gremlin sitting in front of him. The voices in his head had raged, saying a million different things that Techno couldn’t keep track of, but a few words stood out, continuously repeated and screaming louder than the rest.

Protect. Safe. Brother.

Those same three words still follow Techno as he busies himself in the kitchen, picking potatoes out of a basket sitting upon the table and placing them upon the cutting board. Avians can’t eat meat, right? So he should cook up something vegetarian, something that both he and Tommy can enjoy for the morning.

He hums a wordless song to himself as he readies the knife, cutting each potato in half before slicing through the insides, creating a block-like pattern within. The sun’s just beginning to wake, the stars slipping out of view as hues of pinks, purples, reds and golds pool across the sky, flowing through the window and illuminating Techno’s work. He prefers working without the lights on, instead following the guide of what nature provides as he cooks.

It’s a habit, a routine that’s carved into Techno’s being at this point, tucking the potatoes into the microwave and preparing the toppings as he waits for them to heat up. The fridge door swings open and he peeks his head through, searching for the right kind of cheese before tugging it out and placing it on the counter behind him. Soon enough, salt and pepper are to follow, two small containers sitting beside the duo of plates that await the breakfast that’s to come.

Not entirely sure what kind of drink Tommy would like, Techno stops to think. His own choice of beverage is coffee, but giving that to Tommy would be like giving a raccoon a gun, so he nips that idea in the bud before it even has the chance to bloom. Since Tommy’s an avian, milk may not be an option, so Techno will settle for a vegetarian drink, something home-made.

Lying in the fruit basket just a few steps away from the fridge are a couple of starfruit. He stares at them, ponders over for it for a moment, and makes up his mind.

Starfruit juice it is.

He multitasks, squeezing the fruits out into glasses as he keeps a careful eye on the microwave timer, listening for the beep!and going to turn the potatoes when he has to. He wonders if he should add sugar to the drinks, then decides not to, because he has a will to live and he’d rather hold onto it than lose it to a gremlin hopped up on the stuff. He sticks to his previous recipe, mixing the starfruit juice with water and several other fruits and leaving it to stir while he pulls his potatoes out of the microwave for the final time, placing each one on a plate and applying the toppings to them as they cool off.

All in all, it’s a rather peaceful morning, and the cool, humid air that’s soaked with dew mixed with the waking calls of animals is nothing other than calming. Sure, his muscles still twitch and he still longs to be in the thick of battle, lunging at his opponents and letting his voices rage for blood, but for now, he’ll settle with making breakfast.

He’s still finishing up the food when a toco toucan hops up onto one of the windowsills, peering at him curiously before letting out that strange honk-croak that’s unique only to their species.

Techno, who’s grown quite used to the birds by now, just turns to it with a sigh.

“He’s not here right now.” He states.

The bird tilts its head at him, an intuitive squawk rising up in its throat.

“No, he’s not in here.” Techno reminds, more firmly this time. “Check the city or somethin’. He’s out with Wil.”

A sadder sound comes from the toucan, and it ruffles its feathers, clicking its beak before spreading its wings to lift off once more. In a rather graceful fashion that’s unexpected from their apparent lopsidedness, the bird soars towards the direction of the city, letting out a harsh cry as it goes. Other calls answer it, the rest of Phil’s chat that spend most of their time waiting for him to come back to the treehouse rising from the trees and trailing behind it.

Techno shakes his head. Of all the things that Phil could be a hybrid of, it had to be a toucan. And of course, his chat is an entire flock of the things, loud, honking birds that sound like a macaw choking on a tree frog.

Every so often they’ll drop by the treehouse, searching for any news or just to follow Phil around, hopping across the floorboards and onto the counters while squawking repeatedly. They may be pretty, but they’re loud, and the memory of Wilbur trying to toss one out the window is still quite clear to Techno.

Phil had scolded Wilbur for what seemed like ages after that, but Techno had to agree that it was worth it. That toucan was reallyobnoxious, and if Wilbur wasn’t going to do it, Techno sure would.

A part of Techno wonders what the toucan had come for, but he dismisses the thought. It’s probably just trying to join Phil’s flock, looking for some action after sitting around in the canopy for too long.

He turns back to his breakfast, and almost jumps when he sees two blue eyes peering back at him from upon the counter.

“Hey, Techno.” Tommy says, sitting cross-legged on top of the counter, wearing clothes that are much too big for him, grinning from ear to ear with bright, mischievous eyes. He still seems tired, and he rubs at his temple as though there’s a pain in there that he can’t quite get rid of, but he seems more cheerful than before. “What’re you making?”

“I wasmaking potatoes, but now I’m considering making you go back to sleep so you can’t bother me.” Techno deadpans.

Tommy frowns. “f*ckin’ try it, dickhe*d. I dare you.”

“Alright.” Techno yawns, and, ignoring Tommy’s screeching protests, he steps over to the side of the counter that the kid had claimed, reaching up towards the gremlin and picking him up like it’s nothing.

(Actually, it feelslike nothing. He’s light, too light.)

(Techno’s going to have to feed him a lot more than potatoes.)

“OI! f*ck YOU, BITCH!” Tommy cries, but it’s all in vain as Techno slings him over his shoulder, a laugh rumbling deep in his chest. “PUT ME DOWN! I DEMAND TO SEE MY LAWYER!”

“Mmm, this is my house.” Techno states. “I am the law.”

“NOOOOOO!” Tommy screams. “WELL, I’M— I’M THE NEWLAW, BITCH!”

“As the original law, I disagree.” Techno says.

“f*ck YOU!” Tommy screeches.

“Seeing as I am the law,” Techno continues, ignoring Tommy’s screams that are a mix of agony, anger, and protest, “I deem that you should either go back to sleep or eat your potato in peace.”

“EATING IS FOR THE WEAK!” Tommy cries out. “AND I’M NOTWEAK IN FACT, I’M THE STRONGEST f*ckIN’ BIG MAN TO EVER WALK THE EARTH, MASSIVE, IF YOU WILL—”

“And yet, here you are, felled by a single potato.” Techno muses.

“WHAT?” Tommy shouts.

“You don’t have to talk in all caps anymore.” Techno snorts.

“I’LL f*ckIN’ TALK IN ALL CAPS IF I WANT TO, BITCH!” Tommy retorts. “AND I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW, PIG BOY, I’M POWERFUL ENOUGH TO HANDLE A HUNDRED OF THOSE f*ckERS! A POTATO HAS NOTHING AGAINST ME, HOW DARE YOU EVEN INSINUATE THAT I’M—”

Decidedly not paying attention to Tommy’s monologue, Techno busies himself with moving the chairs to the table out, which is much more difficult than it should be as there is, in fact, an angry ball of gremlin fury slung over his shoulder. But he manages, setting up the napkins, forks, knives, and other items before he carries the plates with potatoes on them over to the table. He takes the starfruit juice drinks along with him as well, sipping on his as he slides Tommy’s over to the spot where Techno has decided that the gremlin will take.

“—YOU’RE A dickhe*d AND I COULD f*ckIN’ THROTTLE YOU—” Tommy continues, and Techno’s completely lost at this point. He’s beginning to miss the Tommy from last night, and he feels a piece of his soul wither and die upon the realization that he’s going to have to deal with the raging gremlin until Wilbur and Phil come home.

But still, in some strange, chaotic way, Tommy’s endearing, so Techno finds himself laughing along to Tommy’s taunts and insults as the teen rages.

“Sure, Toms.” Techno says, a fond rumble bubbling in his chest as he makes no effort to hide it. He slips Tommy off of his shoulder, as gentle as he can in an effort not to hurt or startle him too much, and places the kid onto his seat. Tommy, who’s clearly out of breath from screeching every curse imaginable, just glowers at him, before turning his eyes onto the plate.

It’s not hard to see how Tommy’s eyes widen with a sudden longing, and he reaches his hands out towards the vegetable before taking them back and wrapping his arms around his torso, a conflicted expression warring across his face before he covers it up with the same angry, defiant one that he’s grown accustomed to using. “I’m fine without it.”

“I made the potato for you.” Techno points out.

“You didn’t have to.” Tommy retorts.

“Eh, I did anyway, so you might as well eat it.” Techno replies.

Tommy glowers at the potato as though it’s wronged him personally.

“It doesn’t bite, if you’re worried about that.” Techno half-jokes.

“I do, when I feel threatened.” Tommy hisses, and he flashes his fangs for a moment before staring back down at the vegetable that sits comfortably on his plate, melted cheese flowing off the top of it while salt and pepper grains soak into it.

“Understandable. But Toms, you’ve got to eat, alright? It’s going to be a lot harder for you to train to be a vigilante if you refuse to sustain yourself.” Techno states. “Self-care and all that.”

“I don’t f*ckin’ need self-care.” Tommy mumbles, and his eyes have gone from the potato to the floor, his leg twitching anxiously as his nails begin to dig into the fabric of his too-long pants. “You can have it. Or Wilbur. Or Phil. Just not me.”

Techno pauses, his gaze sweeping over Tommy for a moment, searching. There’s nothing but stubbornness in Tommy’s posture, yet there’s strong traces of fear as well, a small sort of terror dancing in his eyes as though he’s afraid that he’ll be punished for refusing the food. There’s a pang in Techno’s heart upon the thought of that, but he shoves it aside in favor of finding a solution to the current problem.

Okay, so the kid’s refusing to eat. Techno can’t exactly forceTommy to eat, nor does he want to, and Phil and Wilbur aren’t here to help him out.

So, he’s going to solve this the only way he knows how.

“Let’s make a deal.” Techno begins. “You eat the potato, and I’ll start teaching you vigilantism before Phil comes back. Okay?”

Tommy’s eyes light up, and a grin is spreading across his face like wildfire before Techno even has the chance to regret his actions.

“Deal.”

Chapter 16: Phil knocks a clingy bastard into a fruit stand and laughs at his untimely demise, 2022 colorized

Chapter Text

Okay, so maybe Phil and Wilbur have been fighting for a while. Maybethey’ve left Techno at home to take care of an orphan that Phil’s just found, and maybe, just maybe, they’re unable to go back to said home because they know they’re being tracked.

There’s whispers in the dark, and there’s eyes in every shadow, some unseen… person? Thing? Animal? Spying on them, waiting, stalking, like a jaguar pacing through the night in an effort to take its prey down when it’s least expected. The feathers of Phil’s wings rustle with uncertainty, and his claws click against the ground more often than not, an anxious movement that comes with the tapping of his leg.

Something’s wrong, and Phil’s refusing to go back to the treehouse until he knows what’s up. He’s not about to let whatever, or whoever is watching him find their way to his home, a safe place where not only Techno’s residing, but Tommy as well, a teen who shows nothing but potential and desperation, emotions swirling in his eyes and words as sharp as ice flowing off his tongue. Even though Tommy’s determined to take on his vigilante training, he hasn’t even started yet, and a threat attacking him while he has no way to fight back could be catastrophic.

That’s why Phil’s leading the thing (person?) following him away from the direction of his home, hauling Wilbur along with him as they weave through the winding streets of L’Manburg, slipping into dark alleys and vanishing into small shops whenever they get the chance. Every so often, there’ll be a sign of something trailing close behind— a fruit stand they just passed tumbling to the ground, the seller staring at the citruses with wide eyes, or the panicked bark of a stray dog upon getting startled out of its resting place.

The thing is, even though Phil’s told Wilbur countless times that this diversion is for the greater good, and that they haveto do this in order to keep their family safe, Wilbur’s still being a little sh*t and complaining about it the entire way, taking out his frustration on random criminals and throwing up the middle finger at anyone who looks at him funny. It’s gotten to the point where several criminals see Wilbur coming and make a break for it, simply because they know he’s in a sh*tty mood and they don’t want to get in the way of it.

“Phiiiiiil,” Wilbur whines, for what seems like the hundredth time today. His heels are tapping against the cobblestone street, the dark surface of his shoes reflecting the harsh sunlight in a dull echo, a mere whisper of the brightness that hovers up above. Shade provided by the various awnings that loom over stalls in the market masks their presence, though just barely. It’s a warm day, and Phil would be enjoying it a lot more if he could actually fly, but he has to comply to his own rules.

So does Wilbur, even if he hates them with every fiber of their being.

“Yeah, mate?” Phil replies, and it’s an exhausted breath, a sound that echoes the tired expression etched into the lines of his face and dawning his blue eyes.

“Phil, it’s hot as balls out here, and I want to talk to Tommy.” Wilbur complains. “C’mon, we don’t even know for sure if something’s hunting us down, right? I’m f*cking melting, Phil. You wouldn’t let your poor son melt, would you?”

“Since when were you so f*cking clingy with Toms? And yes, I would let you melt.” Phil states matter-of-factly. “Especially if you keep whining to me.”

“You are no longer the bravest man I’ve ever met.” Wilbur claims, an offended, yet slightly mocking expression painted across his face. “Simply the worst.” He sighs, and his gaze reflects some of Phil’s own exhaustion, a mirror of the pain that they’ve both been shouldering for the past couple of days, a weight thrown onto them as they can’t leave the city until it’s safe.

And L’Manburg is neversafe, so that means that Phil’s going to have to be stuck here with Wil for even longer.

“Alright, Wil.” Phil mutters. “How could I possibly make this up to you?”

“You can let me go back and see Tommy.” Wilbur suggests.

“Besides that.” Phil counters.

“Absolutely nothing.” Wilbur declares cheerfully. “In fact, if you don’t let me go home and bully the gremlin child soon, I will have to go nuclear. Do you want to see me go nuclear, Phil? Do you want to f*cking test me?”

“Again, since when were you so attached to Tommy?” Phil questions. “You’ve only known him for what, less than a f*cking day?”

“But he’s so small.” Wilbur whines. “He’s like— he’s like a lil’ baby brother. So small and angry. I’ve claimed him.”

“Wil, we’ve talked about this.” Phil groans. “You can’t just ‘claim’ people.”

“Too late!” Wilbur grins. “I’ve claimed him. He’s my brother now.”

“You already have a brother.” Phil points out.

“Now I’ve got two!” Wilbur beams. “Aww, lil’ Toms. When I see him again, I’m going to hug him and then I’m not letting go.”

“Please don’t harass the gremlin child.” Phil sighs. “We’ve only had him for a couple of days.”

“No promises.” Wilbur laughs. “He shall be my emotional support Tommy.”

“I swear to f*ck, I’m losing all of my f*cking sanity and my hair’s going gray at this point.” Phil mutters underneath his breath, a barely audible whisper that drifts through the warm air like a wisp of wind.

“Awww, old man Phil, are you alright?” Wilbur asks, a mocking, yet friendly lilt to his tone. “Ooh, have you forgotten to eat your porridge today? We can buy some soon, don’t worry.”

“I don’t even like porridge, you f*cking asshole!” Phil finally cries out, throwing his face into his hands as he tries his hardest not to look at the successful, smug grin that’s most definitely plastered across Wil’s face. “Holy sh*t, just one day! One good day, that’s all I’m f*cking asking!”

“Oh, don’t worry, great-grandpa Phil, I’ll get you some porridge!” Wilbur chirps, and there is absolutely no f*cking debate about how smug he is. Though Phil’s not looking at him (thank f*ck), he can feel it in his f*cking bonesthat Wilbur’s baring his teeth in a sharp, satisfied smile upon gaining the upper hand in the argument. Wait, is this even a f*cking argument, or is Wil just starting sh*t for fun?

Now that he thinks about it, yeah, Wil’s definitely just starting sh*t for fun.

Eh, Phil’s used to it. If he’s lucky, he can just tune out the conversation and think about something else until he can finally go home and relax for once. Once he gets the chance, he’s going straight into hibernation and he’s not waking up for the next 4-5 business days.

“I’m going to f*cking punt you to the sun.” Phil grumbles, turning to face Wilbur, who’s currently beaming at him as though he’s never done nothing wrong in his entire life and he’s the most innocent creature to ever walk the planet, which is, in case you were wondering, false. The f*cker’s an absolute bastard and he knows much more than he lets on, such as the farming process of salmon, which is a conversation Phil will never recover from.

“Do it, you won’t.” Wilbur challenges.

“Don’t test your luck.” Phil warns.

“I will.” Wilbur smiles, and there’s a mischievous light dancing in the constellations of his eyes, a hint of the trouble soon to come, like the beginning breezes of a hurricane. “Don’t you know that I always test my luck, #1 Porridge Fan Phil, porridge taster extraordinaire, rater of all flavors of porridge, such as favorites like the sh*tty and the sh*ttier?”

Phil, too tired to even dignify that with a response, simply shoves Wilbur into a nearby fruit stand, watching his son fall into a tangled mess of feathers and limbs with an undignified squawk, a rather large citrus plonking him on the head as he hits the stone of the ground. Thankfully, the owner of the fruits is nowhere to be seen, which means that Phil can simply enjoy seeing Wilbur flounder about, his wings flapping as he tries to right himself, bird-like screeches making their way out of his throat.

“PHIL, YOU ARE A BITCH.” Wilbur cries, and right as soon as he’s so closeto standing up again, he trips on a fallen banana and flips through the air, a cartoonish motion that’s followed by him squawking like a co*ckatoo as he, yet again, lands on the cobblestone road, limbs splayed as he gets practically plastered against the floor.

“You good there, mate?” Phil asks, genuine concern barely heard through his chuckles. “Took a bit of a fall there, huh?”

“I f*cking hate you.” Wilbur mutters, his wings defeatedly falling to the side as he accepts his fate as an avian pancake. Truly, this is a sad moment for the Wilbur community, but seeing as he had it coming, Phil honestly doesn’t give a sh*t. As long as Wilbur’s not actually injured, Phil’s completely fine with decking him from time to time. He needs it, it builds character.

“Aw, I love you too, mate.” Phil smiles. “You need help getting up?”

“I need to write my will.” Wilbur groans. “Phil, can you pass me a book and quill?”

“Where the f*ck would I get a book and quill?” Phil laughs.

“Craft one.” Wilbur states, as though it’s the most simple, well-known fact in the world.

“Mate, this isn’t Minecraft.” Phil says, and now he’s actually feeling a tad bit concerned, because Wilbur quite literally just asked him to write his will in a Minecraft item. That’d be a sad way to go, and no matter how f*cking insane Wilbur may act at times, a death written in item ID 386 isn’t suited for him, nor is it suited for any other respectable person.

“I know.” Wilbur breathes. “But it has to be done. Phil—”

“Holy sh*t, can you two stop talking for one f*cking second?”

Both Wilbur and Phil jolt from their places, gazes rapidly searching for the new speaker, someone who sounds familiar, but in a threatening, deadly way, rather than a welcoming manner.

It takes a moment, but Phil’s eyes land on the alley behind Wilbur, a dark stretch of land muddled with trash, old clothes, and doors to unknown homes. Cobblestone pavement drips with leftover rainwater, and the man standing within the darkness has dark spots blooming on his clothing, water stains from the clotheslines up above.

“I was going to make my dramatic entrance, but you literally won’t stop talking.” Dream sighs, and despite the mask, his expression can be read through his voice, each word carefully picked, yet still leaking with frustration as he talks. “How is a guy supposed to be threatening when you’re talking about writing your will in a Minecraft item?” He pauses, then glances at Wilbur, who’s glaring at him with the rage of a thousand suns burning in the cosmos of his eyes. “Speaking of which, are you okay?”

“You don’t really care, do you?” Wilbur hisses. “You’re the one who’s been f*cking following us for days, right? Then what the f*ck do you want?”

Slowly and cautiously, Phil makes his way over to his son, his posture poised so that if Dream were to attack, he’d be ready to defend both himself and Wilbur. Dream’s no joke, he’s the top hero for a reason (even if it’s for the wrong reason), and in all truth, Phil would rather do anything than fight him right now. The last time that happened, it wasn’t just Phil who came out of that battle with injuries, and the SBI were put out of commission for several days.

In a scenario where Wilbur’s been felled, even if it was just for a joke, and Phil’s definitely not in any shape to be fighting right now— his bandages are starting to tear, he really needs Tommy to look at them again— Dream’s a real threat. Phil’s seen what he can do, he’s seen the city’s top hero tear through villains like it’s nothing.

And yet, the hero makes no move. He doesn’t advance, he doesn’t even tense up when Phil’s gaze lands on him. Instead, he just stands there, posture relaxed and hands drifting away from the weapons tucked into his belt.

“Mm, I thought you’d already know what I’m here for by now.” Dream laughs, and it’s a cold thing, falseness poisoning each word, the tone leaning farther from one of content humor to one of frosted calculation, the laugh of someone who’s planning, plotting, waiting for something. “Isn’t that right, Phil?”

“In my defense, I have no f*cking idea what you’re talking about.” Phil retorts. “Mate, if this is about the one time I poisoned your McDonald’s—”

“First of all, f*ck you for that, but second of all, that’s not why I’m here.” Dream shoots back. “I’m not here for you, or Symphony, or even the Blood God.”

There’s a pause, and it’s filled with tense silence, fear teetering on the edge of each second.

“I’m here for the kid.”

Chapter 17: Dream tries to blackmail people and fails miserably

Chapter Text

Wilbur stares at Dream for a moment, shock and confusion plastering his face, the emotions were crudely dashed over him, like a sculptor unsure of what to create carved an even more uncertain echo of themself into Wilbur’s visage.

The kid. The words, so small, so simple, yet so dangerous, seep into Wilbur’s mind like poison crawling into a wound. They reverberate through him once more, a silent chill falling into his bones, the hiss of a threat whispering into his ears. The kid.

Tommy.

Dream’s looking for Tommy.

Holy sh*t, what the f*ck? The city’s top hero, known for showing no mercy in battle (whenever the cameras are turned away, mans gotta keep his image up) is looking for Toms. Wilbur’s Tommy, his emotional support gremlin, the kid he’s claimed as his new baby brother. The teen who’s somehow wormed his way into the SBI’s heart within a matter of days is now being targeted by Dream.

No, not targeted, hunted.

“What?” Phil asks, and the single word jolts Wilbur back to reality, his father’s tone laced with venom and a silent, yet vicious anger hiding beneath his voice. He’s spoken a question, but it seems less like Phil’s asking for Dream to repeat himself, and more like he’s daring him to say it again. As though if Dream were to threaten Tommy once more, ask to hold the life of a teenager— no, not just ateenager. Wilbur’steenager. Tommy— in the palm of his hands, just another puppet in his game of control.

Wilbur feels a snarl building up in his throat, his teeth bared before he can even think to stop himself. He’s still a rather undignified, crumpled mess upon the cobblestone, surrounded by his own feathers and various fruits and a wooden crate tossed over him unceremoniously, but if he needs to, he’ll jump to his feet in a moment’s notice. He’s not about to let this green bastard anywhere near his family, nor is he going to let him near Tommy. He’d rather fight the f*cker head-on, even if he’s outmatched.

Evidently Phil feels the same, his feathers puffing up to make him look twice his size, wings looming over him and casting long, foreboding shadows across the ground. It seems as though this market, usually so busy, has gone silent, the voices of the crowd and the civilians within blending together into nothing but white noise as the three squaring off in this small corner. There’s an eerie hush that’s gone over them, a silence just waiting to be broken and shattered like stained glass, the shards digging into Wilbur’s palms and drawing red blood from his skin.

“You heard me.” Dream whispers, and it’s a quiet thing, like the silent wisp of wind that comes from a cobra’s hood expanding, a deadly threat, but quiet to those who are blind. “Hand over the kid. I saw you with him days ago, and nobody’s seen him since. Missing person reports have been filed, but there’s no data on him anywhere.”

A pause, and then he turns his accusatory gaze onto Phil, his eyes burning from within the mask. Even though it’s not directed at him, Wilbur winces anyway, hating to think about just what exactly Dream’s hiding within that porcelain face.

“Just what the f*ck did you do with him?” Dream questions, and he sounds as though he believes that they’rethe monsters, not him. The mere thought of that turns Wilbur’s blood to fire, fury building up within his heart and shooting through his veins. This f*cker’s such a stuck up bastard. He’s done so much, hurt so many people in the name of ‘justice,’ and here he is, standing as though he’s still a hero? After all he’s done? “What, are you trying to pull him into your little vigilante group? Drag him in, whittle him down, convince him that you’re on the right side of history? You make me sick.”

Green bitch.

“That’s none of your business, mate.” Phil snaps, and his plumage flares with the statement, wings extending from his sides and reaching away from him, flight feathers brushing against the air around him. It’s a posture akin to that of a bird of prey’s, and it’s an avian habit, one that stays with Wilbur and Phil’s kind even if they don’t want it to, the fluffing of feathers in an effort to make them seem much bigger and more threatening than they really are.

But, in Phil’s case, this is barely even a mirror of Phil’s strength, rather, it’s much like a reflection of his face in a muddy puddle along the side of a road, dull with dark ripples flowing across its surface as it fails to even replicate his appearance.

His azure eyes glare with the harsh sunlight, pupils small eclipses within his gaze as he glowers at Dream, the white spirals tracing his face only enhancing the clear warning that lies within his expression. Sharp fangs are just barely shown in his scowl, but they’re visible enough, small points that curve backwards, teeth meant for eating fruit, though they never fail to intimidate opponents.

Sometimes, Wilbur’s really f*cking thankful that Phil’s on his side.

“Eh, I think it ismy business, actually.” Dream counters, and he takes a step forward, his combat boots sinking into excess rainwater that’s pooled across the stones. Phil raises his wings in a warning upon seeing the hero come closer, and Wilbur tenses, as though Dream will strike at any moment.

However, he does no such thing. Instead, he simply just stares at Phil, cold and calculating, his expression perfectly hidden underneath the smile of his mask. “If you’ve taken a citizen of L’Manburg, then I have every right to intervene.”

“It’s not any of your f*cking business, prick.” Wilbur retorts. “He could be a tourist, for all you know. You have no idea if we even havehim anymore.”

“Judging by your reactions, I think you dohave him, Symphony.” The name is gritted out as though Dream’s spitting out poison, like bitter leaves of yarrow caught between his teeth as he peers down at Wilbur. “An innocent man wouldn’t be so defensive, now would he?”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” Wilbur argues. “Of course I’m going to want to f*cking defend myself, you’re accusing me and Phil of kidnapping a literal child! I don’t know about you, green boy, but being accused of crimes really pisses me off. Especially if I didn’t f*cking do them.”

“You’re ruining my f*cking dramatic moment again.” Dream groans. “Could you please just— fine. Look. The fact that the kid’s been missing for days now, and Phil, a wanted vigilante, was the last one to be seen with him, is enough to give the hero committee reason to put full force into catching the SBI.” He takes a breath of the tension-filled air, the sound rattling and echoey against his porcelain mask. “If that happens, I willpush the rules further, far enough to allow me to take drastic action against you three. But if you hand the kid over now, none of that would happen, okay? And he’ll be safe with us, every hero will watch over him until he’s recovered. Sound like a deal?”

“If you have a brain in that dense green skull of yours, it’s incredibly f*cking small.” Phil comments, anger tensing his posture like a viper coiling around his shoulders. “What, you think that even if we did have him, we’d willingly give him over to you? Let him get sucked into heroism? Bullsh*t. I’m not letting Tom— the kid get dragged into your sh*t.” He stumbles, but catches himself before he can finish the name, Wilbur sucking in a panicked breath and releasing it as soon as Phil covers his mistake. It’s bad enough that Dream’s hunting Tommy, but it’d be even worse if he knew his name.

“You don’t really have a choice, Phil.” Dream snaps, rage seeping into his tone, dissolving the calmer voice he had been putting on like acid. “The whole hero committee will be on your ass unless you let him go. I’ve let you get off easy in the past, but kidnapping a literal child is going too far.”

“I didn’t kidnap him!” Phil protests, his own frustration causing his wings to flare and his eyes to glare icy daggers at the top hero, all caution being thrown to the wind as he squares up. “Again, he could just be a random f*cking kid who chose to help me! He’s probably not even fromL’Manburg! He could just be a tourist who’s already on his way home!”

“Mm, even if he is a tourist, he hasn’t left the city. None of the other heroes or even the police have seen him at all since the incident.” Dream prods. “So, all evidence is pointing to you, and if you don’t have any way to dispute it, or give him over, there’s a good chance your life will be sentenced to hell in Pandora’s Vault.”

“Do you hear this guy?” Wilbur asks Phil. “What f*cking evidence, huh? A few blurry pixels on a sh*tty security camera? f*ck off, bitchboy. Go be a green dick somewhere else.”

“Holy sh*t, you two are really getting on my nerves.” Dream hisses. “Is it really that hard to comply with the law?”

“When you’re a literal family of anarachists and the law f*cking sucks, yes.” Phil replies.

Though it’s impossible to see through his mask, it’s clear that Dream’s gritting his teeth, agitated with the conversation as a whole. To be fair, any conversation with Wilbur never ends well, but still, he’s being an asshole and trying to get Wilbur and Phil to hand over the gremlin that they’re currently keeping in their house. Not just any gremlin, but Wilbur’sgremlin, his comfort Tommy, who he’d rather perish for than hand him over to Dream.

Wilbur knows full well that if the missing person report filed for Tommy reaches the hero committee, Dream could twist the whole thing, pulling at strings and manipulating the situation until it’s legal, sh*t, even encouragedfor him to imprison the SBI in that hellhole. Despite his facade of being the city’s top hero, a legend among men who does nothing but strive for the best in L’Manburg, there’s no hesitance in his hands, no kindness in his false eyes when he needs to tear someone’s life away from them, throwing them into Pandora’s Vault just to decay and rot in the darkness of the prison.

Villains and vigilantes have fallen at his hands many times, and every time, the media covers it up for him, saying that there was no other choice.

In Wilbur’s humble opinion, there was a choice, and that choice was not to coat his hands in metaphorical blood and watch the life dim and die away from somebody’s eyes when he tosses them to the hounds of Pandora’s Vault, the deepest, darkest cells silent and maddening within the depths of the building.

The SBI is simply just waiting in line to be added to the toll, the spotlight turning upon them so that it’ll finally be legal for the Dream Team to wipe them off the map, like a pesky mosquito that they can finally swat. However, L’Manburg has grown to love the SBI, treating them as heroes despite the clear fact that they’re only vigilantes.

Which is why Dream using Tommy to his advantage, a new pawn that he can use in his game. With the combo of Tommy being missing, having no files on record, and the sh*tty-ass security footage (seriously, there’s better footage on f*cking mars), Dream has more than enough fuel to use against Wilbur and his family. If he puppeteers the media, if he pulls at the strings and twists it to make the SBI look like the villains, then their credit to the public will fall, and the hero committee will have all the more reason to lock them up.

Unfortunately, however, Wilbur and his family are much more elusive than that, and they’re really f*cking good at staying out of prison, so even if Dream manages to pull this off, the chance of him ever catching them is slim.

Hey, when your an illegal vigilante anarchist, you learn to get good at avoiding the law.

That’s why Phil’s wanted in several states for accounts of tax fraud, and he doesn’t even live in America.

Talent. That’s what it is. Pure talent.

“Phil, he’s annoying me.” Wilbur announces, his black, velvety feathers rustling as he pulls himself to his feet, shaking off dust from his clothing and kicking the fruit crate away from him. “I say we leave now, and let him deal with his little bitch problems on his own.”

“You can’t just do tha—” Dream begins, but Phil cuts him off.

“Sure, mate. We can kick his ass later, don’t worry ‘bout it.” Phil agrees, but there’s no smile pulling at his lips, no taunting grin thrown at Dream before he makes his getaway. Instead, there’s nothing but ice, a stony expression carved into his face as he glowers at the top hero. “f*ck knows he deserves it.”

“Mhm. Can I poison his food again?” Wilbur questions.

“I did it the last time, so sure.” Phil nods. “Try something different this time though, shake things up a little.”

“I’m literally right here.” Dream protests. “You can’t just talk about poisoning my food in front of me.”

“I can, if it’s funny.” Wilbur shrugs.

“How is food poisoning funny?” Dream argues.

“How is the fact that you’re blackmailing us to give you a kid funny?” Wilbur counters.

“I never said it was funny.” Dream frowns.

“Ratio.” Wilbur smirks, as though he’s just won the argument within a single sentence.

“You didn’t ratio sh*t!” Dream snaps. “What the f*ck?”

“Bye, f*ckface, see you never!” Wilbur grins cheerfully, refusing to elaborate further. And, with a proud and definitely not rushed exit, he spreads his wings, the stars spiraling within his feathers as though the night sky itself has come to kiss the ground. Red undertones lie underneath his feather crown, which raises and falls slightly with each hint of anger that courses through his veins, a mirror of his own emotions, a clear threat just barely hiding within.

Phil follows suit, his own wings flaring out, blacks and whites tangoing with colorful tips on the very edges of his flight feathers, yellows, oranges, and traces of pink dancing upon the ends as though a tropical drink has been splashed on him. He glowers at Dream one last time, and, without a moment of hesitation, launches himself into the air, wings thrusting against the wind and reaching towards the sun, Wilbur following shortly behind.

Oh, how Wilbur wishes that Dream would take his stupid f*cking mask off so he could mock the hero’s expression right now. The guy’s just standing there, watching Wilbur and Phil soar, unable to do anything but stare as they fly high above his reach.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have just done this earlier.” Wilbur laughs, and it’s short, a single breath coming out of his mouth in a wisp. “Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Again, I didn’t know who was following us.” Phil shrugs, his feathers pushing against the wind currents to gain altitude over the city, a gleam in his eyes upon realizing the prospect of freedom that only avians can reach— flight. He reaches out at the clouds with his hands, far too distant, yet seeming so close, a mirror of Tantalus as he dips and sways with the breeze. “He could still be following us, but if we take enough detours, we should be able to throw him off.”

“Fair enough.” Wilbur sighs, and he glides a bit higher, wingtips brushing with Phil’s for a moment before he tilts his feathers, letting the air guide him forward at a tilted angle, wind brushing past his hair and filling his lungs with a sense of liberty. “He’s such an asshole, Phil. Did you see how he f*cking looked at us?”

“No, because he has a mask on.” Phil frowns.

“Yes, but I could f*cking sense it, Phil. He’s so smug— I just want to knock that f*cker into the ground. Green bastard.” Wilbur continues. “‘OooOo, give me Tommy! I want the child! I want leverage!’ Prick. dickhe*d. I want him gone.”

“You’re not alone there mate, trust me.” Phil agrees, then pauses. “Wil, how bad is the fall damage from about one hundred blocks? Hypothetical question.”

“Philliam, you’re starting to worry me. Please, for the love of f*ck, stop talking like we’re in Minecraft. I’m not a Minecrafter, Phil. In what universe would I ever be one of those?” Wilbur questions.

“A real one?” Phil offers.

“What?” Wilbur asks.

“What?” Phil asks.

“Okay, anyway, existential crisis over, we’re going home now and I am going to hold the little gremlin. I am going to hug him and I am going to make him my little brother. See, Phil, here’s my plan—”

Their conversation fades with the wind, turning into nothing but a faint whisper carried by the breeze.

—

The sky’s clear right now, but Tommy, back in the treehouse, can feel a storm coming his way. A rather clingy storm, and he’d be lying if he didn’t feel a twinge of fear. He has a feeling, a subtle one, but a feeling nonetheless, that someone’s going to try to adopt him soon.

sh*t.

Chapter 18: Tommy and techno try to kill each other because vigilantism

Chapter Text

“Keep your stance balanced, or you’ll fall over again.”

Tommy, having collapsed onto the wooden boards of the tree platform for what seems like the fifth time, nods, his breath knocked out of him and his chest heaving with the effort that he’s put into this combat practice.

He and Techno have been circling each other for at least an hour now— using rather harmless weapons such as wooden swords and staffs as a way to train, Techno teaching Tommy how to sweep others off their feet, while Tommy tries desperately to avoid getting bowled over again. Despite the fact that Tommy’s been doing his best, using his avian traits to his advantage, following the wind currents and staying in the air for much longer than his boar hybrid counterpart can, Techno manages to defeat him every time, throwing him to the floor and pressing his wooden staff into Tommy’s chest as a sign of victory.

Despite the fact that the constant losses should be frustrating, Tommy finds that he’s more intrigued by figuring out Techno’s fighting style and learning how to mimic it, following the way that Techno holds himself and how he handles his weapons. Instead of the red-hot anger that Tommy usually expects from losing, he finds nothing but curiosity, a tilt to his head as he observes all of Techno’s movements, trying to decipher just how he could eventually knock Techno off his balance and potentially win the first fight of the day.

The way that Techno fights is somehow simultaneously a mix of brute strength and gracefulness, like a warrior who’s learned how to dance in his spare time. Every step, every swerve and duck that he does is calculated, a natural flow to him that’s reminiscent of a river, beautiful yet deadly if misjudged. He holds his weapons, whether it be a simple wooden staff or a long, elegant sword, like extensions of his own body— he moves with them as though he was born with them, each twitch of his fingers and shift of the item as intentional as the last.

His hoof-like boots click against the floorboards, and there’s a rhythm to them, a song of violence that can only be heard by those who listen for it. The hollow sound of the wood clashing against his heels echoes dimly throughout the tree platform arena, so high above the ground, yet so sturdy that it can handle the combat practice with ease. At first, Tommy had been pretty f*cking spooked by the somewhat thin ledge that extended from a massive tree trunk, creaking with every step and murmuring with the wind, but after Techno had shown him the marks of previous battles and scuffles and proved to him just how much the platform could withstand, Tommy reluctantly agreed to join him in this combat session.

After all, a promise is a promise, and Tommy wants that potato deal to be worth it.

As Techno reaches his hand out towards Tommy in an offer of help, Tommy takes it, letting the man haul him back up to his feet before they separate once more, returning to the same circling fashion that they’ve been continuing for what seems like centuries by now. Tommy, always calculating, observes every move that Techno takes, each step, each twirl of his weapon, the careful gaze that the pink-haired man sweeps over the arena, never wavering. It seems as though the entire jungle is holding its breath as Tommy takes his own weapon in hand, the bark of the wooden staff feeling coarse yet familiar against his fingers, knuckles white and fists curled around it in preparation for the attack that’s soon to come.

“You should loosen up.” Techno calls out, a suggestion that rings out across the platform before being lost to the rainforest, bird calls, wind, insect chirps, and animal howls overtaking his words within a matter of seconds. “You’re too tense. It’ll mess up the way you fight.”

“Why don’t you loosen up, dickhe*d.” Tommy mutters back, but the breeze takes his words away before they can reach Techno’s ears. Well, at least he thinksso— the moment he finishes talking, Techno frowns at him and his tail twitches momentarily.

Curse boar hybrids and their enhanced hearing. f*cking overpowered, that’s what it is. How is Tommy supposed to get the upper hand in this fight if Techno can anticipate every step he takes and every word he says? Even if the boar hybrid can’t see Tommy, he can most certainly hear him, which just adds more difficulty onto an already seemingly impossible fight.

Unless…

The thing about avians is that their bones, despite being strong and sturdy enough to allow them to withstand most hits, are rather hollow. They’re light, enabling flight and causing the hybrids to be able to move with the wind, drifting upon the air and using the sky as their ally during combat. Because of this, every movement that an avian does, especially if they’re a smaller species (such as a sparrow, or a hummingbird) has an added layer of silence to it, something that can often prove useful when fighting. Usually this ability is overridden by the fact that avians are often trailed behind by their wings, their feathers rustling in the wind and plumage flaring during the dance of combat, but seeing as Tommy never uses his wings anyway, he’s more than happy to take this advantage.

There’s a few more paces. Techno’s scarlet eyes never leave Tommy’s azure ones, locked in a contrasting gaze, neither one willing to back down and give the other the upper hand. This may be a practice session, but both of them are in it to win. No matter how hard Techno tries to disguise this as him just merely trying to teach Tommy the ways of vigilantism, there’s nothing that could hide the excitement that twitches his fingers, his tail swaying back and forth with the prospect of a battle, even if it’s not a real one. His staff twirls in his hands, the wood brushing against his skin like an extension of his limbs, something that he’s always known. Like all boar hybrids, he was born with the will to fight and protect, and whatever one of those sides comes out depends on the situation and the person he’s dealing with.

Even though Techno had calmed Tommy down in the night prior, and he’s showing brotherly attachment already (hah, weak. Tommy would never. He definitely doesn’t see Techno as a brother figure. Yet), there’s something about the way that he’s poised that screams that he’s more than willing to go all out in this battle, the roar of combat in his blood much louder than any words that could ever escape his lips.

Tommy wants to trust Techno. Well, kind of. A little? In truth, he doesn’t really trust anyone, but he finds himself drawn to Techno, Phil, and Wilbur anyway, a family that’s been pulling him into their orbit with welcoming arms. However, the way that Techno’s observing him, like a jaguar eyeing a stray capybara, is something that causes just a tad bit of fear to rise up like bile in Tommy’s throat.

The fact that heroes are able to hunt down this guy and face him when he’s actually serious is pretty f*cking daunting. Like, how the f*ckcan someone face off against Techno, the Bladehimself, and not immediately make a run for it? Sure, the hero committee in L’Manburg is pretty f*cking powerful, but there’s something about Techno that tells Tommy that the guy could take at least half of the heroes on in a fight and win without trying.

Yeah, now that Tommy thinks about it, the chances of him winning this match are very f*cking low. Especially if he doesn’t pay attention to the pink blur coming his way.

Oh sh*t.

He just barely has time to leap into the air and dodge before Techno’s lunging at him, staff extended and shoulder turned so that if he were able to reach Tommy, he would’ve bowled him over, tossing the Big Man™️ to the ground and ending the match right then and there. Unfortunately for Techno, however, Tommy’s already out of the way, having let the wind guide him into the sky as he tucks his legs into his chest, preparing for landing as Techno regains his balance and whirls towards him, a snarl written over his face and boar-like tusks bared.

If Tommy were to say that Techno isn’t terrifying when he’s fighting, he’d be lying, because holy sh*t, seeing that wild look in the mans eyes and knowing full well that he’s potentially the target is nothing less than daunting. f*cking sh*t, this is a lot scarier than he thought it’d be— when he brought up training, he pictured learning how to use obstacle courses and getting a handle on the various weapons and tools that Techno and his family kept in stock, not a combat session against a guy who looks straight out of Jurassic Park.

There’s just a few more moments where Tommy’s airborne, twisting in the air in a delicate spiral before landing lightly behind Techno, staff in hand as he thrusts it forward, aiming it directly into the boar hybrid’s chest in an attempt to knock the wind out of him. It succeeds, if only for a heartbeat, but it’s enough time for Tommy to haul himself up using the momentum of the wooden pole and kick back against Techno’s torso, flipping backwards into the air with the staff tucked carefully in his hands as he just narrowly avoids a sweeping attack at his legs from Techno’s own staff. A crimson gaze burns into his own azure one, the scarlet sunset glaring into the sky itself.

“Not bad.” Techno grunts, voice gruff as his eyes narrow, judging Tommy and his movements as though predicting wherever he may go next. Well, knowing Techno, he probably isfiguring out what Tommy’s next plan is, and just how he can dismantle it before it’s even begun. It’s hard to read what exactly Techno’s thinking, as he holds every part of himself with a careful, closeted guard, but Tommy’s learned from how to tell when Techno’s preparing to knock him down from his recent losses.

Click. Click.Hoof-like boots press against the wooden boards of the platform. Click. Click.Techno paces forward, and Tommy counts each step, waiting for the shift in movement that betrays when he next strikes.

Click.

Click.

Cli—

Tommy’s just barely able to discern the misstep before Techno’s lunging at him, staff poised to strike him in the chest and knock him to the floor yet again. There’s a heartbeat’s moment of panic, a single second of oh sh*t, oh f*ck, and Tommy’s back in the air once more, using the wind as a guide to throw him out of the way of the attack. It all seems like a blur, a fight that somehow lasts throughout an eternity and the blink of an eye at the same time, Techno pivoting upon realizing his mistake and preparing for Tommy’s landing as the teen plummets down upon the boar hybrid.

Techno throws his staff out in front of him, blocking his face from Tommy’s onslaught as he lets his weight shift and allows himself to fall from his place in the sky, avian blood crying for the wind that flows around him, begging for flight but reveling in the feeling of combat instead. Shoes clatter against the wooden pole as Tommy lands precariously upon Techno’s weapon, the wood creaking under his weight and shifting ever so slightly, allowing Tommy to bounce off of it and pull a practiced flip through the air, a trick that he’s known for his whole life. It’s a replacement for flying, an extended leap that provides him with the escape that soaring on tilted wings could never give him.

Tommy lands with a quiet thud, and he barely gives his eyes time to blink before he whirls around, extending his own weapon to clash against Technos. The boar hybrid is already ready to face him, his staff flying at Tommy the moment he stuck the landing, calculated, yet instinctive movements guiding Technos combat as he aims to fell Tommy once more.

Too late does Tommy realize that he’s lost the high ground, and that he mistimed his landing— he had been planning to get the better of Techno, to catch him off guard and knock him off his feet, leading him to a much needed victory that he’s been longing for throughout the past few hours of the violent dance that they’ve trapped themselves in. But Techno, battleworn and clearly well-versed in combat, was already prepared for Tommys move.

It’s impressive, but it’s also really f*cking sh*tty, because that means that Tommy’s on the defensive yet again.

Wood thunks against wood as Tommy parries Techno’s blows, the staffs clashing in desperate attempts to knock the other away. A bead of sweat flows down Tommys brow, his eyes focusing only on keeping his opponent away, each hit seeming to hit harder than the last as Techno puts what feels like his all into his continuous onslaught.

The only thing that Tommy can do to counteract this attack is to somehow knock Techno out of the rhythm that he’s placed himself in, a song that only he knows as he paces each strike to the beat. Clang! Clang!It’s a constant thing, and it reminds Tommy of how Wilbur strums his guitar, the chords hummed out and echoing throughout the air like the sound of swords clashing against each other in the heat of war.

Mind racing, Tommy just barely deflects yet another blow thrown his way, his staff creaking with the effort as Techno knocks against it, crimson eyes glowing with the prospect of battle while the two tango. All the weight of every fight that Techno’s ever been thrown in seems to be pulled into this strike, his wooden pole pushing almost hard enough to break Tommys.

The song has reached a standstill. A rest, a tension-building note that resonates with the cry of victory.

But this victory will be Tommys, not Technos.

Tommy drops his weight, throwing himself underneath his staff and swerving to avoid the startled fall of Techno, who had been so focused on keeping the rhythm going that he hadn’t even noticed the way that Tommys shoulders had gone slack, prepared to slip away from the situation he had been locked in. It’s a basic move, but a smart one— dropping everything so that your opponent overwhelms themself, stumbling over their own weapons as they watch their foe worm their way out of their grasp.

Time is short, Tommy knows that, and Technoknows that.

There’s only a small opening, a tiny gap of seconds in which Tommy can make this fight run in his favor. He has to take it before Techno can even realize what’s happening.

Lying on the wooden floorboards, Techno prepares himself to spring back up to his feet.

Standingon the wooden floorboards, Tommy prepares himself to knock the boar hybrid down.

Techno leaps.

Tommy lunges.

Technos eyes widen.

Tommys gaze narrows with the prospect of victory within his grasp.

He’s so close, all he has to do is capture this move perfectly, poise himself to knock straight into Technos torso and throw the man to the ground. This’ll be his first victory, and his first major step in vigilante training. If he can defeat Techno, he can prove that he’s ready to keep going, to keep fighting and learn how to fight the crime that runs wild in L’Manburg.

Tommy hits his target.

The two of them clash and tumble into a mess of flailing limbs, Techno trying to throw Tommy off of him while Tommy anchors himself upon the boar hybrids torso, pinning the man to the ground and digging his foot into the center of Technos chest in an effort to prevent him from turning the whole plan on its head. There’s a few moments of fighting, of thrashing about and trying to gain the upper hand, both of them fighting desperately for the W that’s just so incredibly close.

“Holy sh*t, do you ever stop moving?” Tommy grits out, throwing his hand out of the way as Techno lunges at it, fist clutching at the empty air where Tommys arm had been. Upon the failed attempt of quite literally gaining the upper hand, Techno simply just glowers at Tommy, though it lacks any real heat.

“I do when I’m not getting murdered by a gremlin child.” Techno deadpans, and he has to avoid the light-hearted swat that Tommy aims at his face. “You’d be amazed how calm I am when I’m not having to fight you all the time.”

“More like boring.” Tommy snorts, ducking away from a kick directed at his stomach that was rather well-timed. “I bet you just spend all your f*ckin’ free time cooking up potatoes and sh*t.”

“I take offense to that.” Techno states. “Potatoes are great. You just don’t have any taste.”He swipes at Tommy, a feint that’s clearly meant to throw Tommy off his balance, but unfortunately, Tommy Innit the ultimate Big Man™️ is not so easily swayed. he barely flinches, and instead parries the blow, clutching the boar hybrids hand in his own and throwing it to the floorboards as though they had been arm wrestling, and he had become the clear victor.

“How in the absolute f*ck do you have any taste left?” Tommy protests. “You live off of f*ckin’ POTATOES. They’re bland as sh*t!”

“Not if you add cheese.” Techno shrugs.

And that, gamers, was his final mistake.

The loose movement, tossing Techno completely off his guard and leaving him open, is just what Tommy needs to end the match once and for all. He prepares to finish this, to catch victory in the palm of his hand, to prove himself, to—

“Tommy.” Techno comments simply, cutting off Tommys train of thought completely.

“What?” Tommy inquires, confusion clouding his gaze.

“You might want to look behind you.” Techno suggests.

“That is the worst f*ckin’ tactic I’ve ever heard.” Tommy groans. “Seriously? All this, and you try to make me fall for a ‘look behind you?’ What am I, a dumbass?”

“Apparently, yes.” Phil speaks up from behind them. “Hello, boys. Vigilante training, huh? I could’ve sworn that was myjob, Techno.”