Chapter Text
A train whirs, flashing through a tunnel of bright purples and reds. Wilbur keeps his hands attached to the bar from where he’s stood in the center of the train. His face presses against the chill of the metal, intent to keep from noticing the dark shadows standing around him.
They mock him, he feels; the whispering of his old deeds and thoughts having been the only thing he’s heard over the past few days other than his own wheel of thoughts. Amongst them, the green and red amalgamations have been the only things to keep him company.
Taking a breathless inhale, Wilbur closes his eyes. He listens to the distant, overhead alarms that sound ever so familiar. He can’t name where they’re from; he’s unsure if he can name anything anymore.
The train halts with urgency, screeching metal against iron making his head whip up expectantly. Someone is speaking over the train’s intercom, but Wilbur can’t reach them, nor make out what it is they’re saying. If he tries hard enough, he can almost make out his mother’s and father’s voices.
The train doors whisk open, blowing the hair out of his face, and he turns. Pushing through the crowd of scattered shadows whose faces he cannot see, Wilbur scrambles towards the doors and tosses himself through them.
.
The feelings come all at once.
First, his hands, tingling and numb; then, his head, which throbs against his skull. He lets out a soft wince, hand reaching up to press against the center of his chest, the very place he remembered a blade once being. Nothing’s there, but he can still the phantom pain of where the sword had lodged itself, as though it had made a home to forever remain.
Slowly, Wilbur opens his eyes for what feels like the first time and draws in a deep breath of fresh air. Of real air.
It’s sharp and cold, daggers down his throat, but he lets out a choked laugh anyway. He’s back. He’s alive, he’s here, and no longer does that constricted feeling remain just at the center of his chest.
There is that feeling, though, he realises— somewhere deep down, the acknowledgement that there’s something wrong, like seeing something out of one’s peripheral but not being able to figure out what it is.
With a hand pressed against his chest, Wilbur takes another sharp breath, and closes his eyes.
Finally, he has returned home.
——
It doesn’t take as long as Tommy had originally thought it would for things to begin to calm down in the Craft household.
A few days pass by and, despite everything feeling like a tremendous fever dream, time slowly resumes to its natural pace. Or what had been its natural pace before all of this had happened.
Niki and Jack continue to swing by with updates from Las Nevadas, whilst also making deals with Phil and Techno about 'watch times'. Watch times being defined as 'guarding over Wilbur's unconscious self until he, at some point, hopefully, wakes up'.
Originally, Tommy had tried to argue that he wanted to do it twenty-four seven, but was promptly (and quickly) shut down from doing so. It's for the best, he figures, even though his skin still itches with the feeling of not keeping the promise that he'd made with the man.
After a while, it becomes a sort of glorified schedule. Tommy watches over Wilbur around lunch time, Techno watches him during the night (switching every so often with Niki, both of whom are pretty much nocturnal), and everyone else interchanges throughout the daytime.
It's not entirely what Tommy had wanted, but he figures it's the best that he's going to get. He'd really not been wanting to leave Wilbur's side at all (and he could tell that Techno and Niki were both right there with him on that, albeit Niki had more of a tough-love act going on with the guy at the moment), but he's fine with the hours he has.
Besides, it's not like anyone else complains if he wanders into the room and sits with them for a while to help watch Wilbur.
The worst of it, though, is that it’s… difficult, he finds, to keep in mind that Wilbur is no longer dead; that his brother is, in fact, breathing in the next room over, and the white fringe at the front of his hair isn’t just an act of Tommy’s imagination running rampant again.
The only thing that seems to help to remind himself— or better yet, convince himself— that Wilbur is alright, and that there is a heartbeat beneath his ribs if Tommy were to hug him again, is by checking his pulse every two minutes.
Tommy knows fully well that it’s a process that takes time, coming to terms with this; he is no stranger to grief.
Maybe it’s for the best that he’s parted from Wilbur though, just for now. As much as he wishes to remind himself that his friend’s heart is still beating, the routinely thump-thump humming against Tommy’s fingertips, he knows that there are different things he should be doing.
There are so many discussions to be had, so many passing glances passed between family members that he’d thought he’d known (who had thought they’d known him) that he can’t always run away from, despite how much he wants to.
For now, though, things are quiet, and Tommy finds that every day becomes a bit of a strange routine in some type of way. It doesn’t even feel real, how quickly he falls into the role of whatever it is he’s doing now— waking up, having cereal for breakfast (unless Niki pops by with Jack and decides to whip up something on the stove), and sit by the window to watch the snowfall or the lights flickering in the front yard.
When Niki and Jack swing by, they don't speak to him much. When they do, though, it's quick passing glances that say more than words could. Tommy almost wants to be pissed with them for not mentioning who they are to him, but he knows that he can't be when he'd only been doing the same for so long.
It is rather strange having multiple people that Tommy's known at some time or another all crowded together into one house, but he wouldn't say that it's the craziest thing that he's ever gone through. Even if it is a little freakish to see Jack, who has been working alongside him at the cafe for months, grin at him in his Dimensional suit in the mornings, or Niki, who doesn’t stick around for long but stays behind for enough time to cook breakfast on the stove whilst dawning her gold and brown Nemesis outfit.
In a way, it almost feels like a crazy fucking dream threaded together by Morpheus with Hypnos’s help or something. Even though Tommy isn't entirely certain if Hypnos even knew about what Dream had been planning with him, much less knew that he, former hero Theseus, was actually alive this whole time.
According to Nemesis— no, Niki— and Jack, there hadn't been any sightings of the heroes at the Complex. Nobody showed up, despite the alarms blaring for multiple hours on end. It was all on the news, too, for Tommy to watch tiredly the morning after they'd done the process on Wilbur: the bizarre disappearance of every citizen of Manberg's beloved heroes, minus a few of the minor ones.
If Tommy thought that there was terror sweeping the city when the Banquet happened, it was nothing compared to what was going on now that everyone was losing their shit over the loss of almost every member of the Hero Complex.
One of the heroes that weren't as well known- Confidant, his name was, which Tommy had always found particularly stupid- came on television at one point to announce that he would be stepping up as Manberg's leading hero until the detectives they'd employed found Morpheus and the rest of them. (And just hearing the name Morpheus come out of the hero's mouth made Tommy flinch into the cushions. It had a pretty similar effect on the rest of the villains in the room, too, with Niki clenching her jaw and Phil's face darkening).
If that wasn’t bad enough, Tubbo and Ranboo haven’t come by since the argument that they’d had a few days prior. Every time Tommy asks Techno or Jack about them, they each say the same thing: they don’t know where they are, but they’re safe, so don’t worry too much. Whether it’s a lie or not, Tommy doesn’t have it in him to overthink it like he usually would.
It's not a surprise to Tommy that neither of them have tried to reach out, but it still hurts nonetheless. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't spending most of his time that wasn't occupied by watching Wilbur or taking hour-long baths (in hopes to scrape off every follicle of dirt left over from that cell) by the window.
The snow continues to fall hard as the days pass, blanketing the front and backyard with a white sheet. Tommy's back hurts every time he looks at it for too long, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away like it’s a particularly interesting tragedy. God, how awful that sounds.
(Theseus’s story was a tragedy, he recalls on one day, the voice in his head sounding both bitter and smug. Why is it such a surprise that yours may resemble his when you’ve stolen his name?)
Another addition to Tommy’s new schedule is the news on the television. Despite him ignoring its presence in his day-to-day life only a few months prior, he now can’t help but glance over at the screen whenever Phil or Jack sit huddled in front of it, mouths drawn into thin lines at the streets rioting in Manberg over the loss of their number one heroes.
As much as Tommy would prefer to watch something nicer, like another Ghibli movie, it becomes a strict appearance in his life.
The news station is, unfortunately, the only show that seems to play on the Craft family television nowadays, constantly bombarding the front living room with the sounds of sirens and newscasters being overly dramatic about how the heroes still haven’t shown their faces.
It is a fact that Tommy knows he should be more concerned about, something that makes him feel like he should pretty much lock himself away in his room in case they are to ever come looking for the kid that made their number one member go missing or whatever the fuck, but he can't find it in himself to bring his thoughts away from quite literally anything else.
(How strange it is to think about how different things would be if he’d never had followed Dream to the top of the Hero’s Tower. Would he still be where he is? The question does nothing but make him want to run to the bathroom, bile peeling up his throat).
As the days trickle by and grow exponentially colder, everything feels so strange. Dreamlike, in a way, which only makes Tommy’s anxiety grow at the mere thought.
He finds that he would prefer everyone to be staring at him strangely, though, and never quite speaking to him despite him living amongst them (and taking the guest bedroom just down the hall again, the way he used to— the way he feels he’s done multiple times before, like it’s meant for him).
The day will come when the routine shatters. He knows this; he knows that there is so much to talk about, so many conversations to be had with more people than just the ones that he’s living amongst like a weed sticking out in a patch of roses.
On that day, all hell will break loose; the dam will fall, and he will drown with it. For now, though, he lets the boat rock against the waves, and holds his breath.
The routine becomes more like clockwork. A glorified version of what Tommy used to have- waking up at god knows what time in the morning to stumble his way to his first job at Eldritch Wings, then head off to his second one at the warm cafe. Nook’s café… Sam’s. The Warden’s. (Jesus… it’s another thought he has to shelf off for a later time, for when he’s sat at a round table with everyone that had been there at the Complex on that day. It’ll be solemn, but it’s coming. He knows it).
The only thing that remains the same in the face of everything, though, is Tommy. He's the one that isn't a hero, nor a villain; he's a civilian now, which is what he certainly prefers to be, but it does make his skin itch every time he watches the others gear up to go patrolling, or catches a glimpse of Nemesis and Dimensional’s full-suited figures appearing in the kitchen.
Tommy doesn't even know what they're up to and he wouldn't go as far as to say that he feels betrayed by it in the slightest— truly, how could he be saying something like that?— but it does feel like something close to the word.
Not betrayal; there's another word for it, but Tommy can't quite find the name for it.
Nevertheless, he ignores the feeling, and continues to keep his head down.
——
Phil is worried.
It’s a natural response, he figures, to be worried after everything that’s been going on; one of his sons died and he had to help revive him because he wouldn’t come back, his other son is currently working through the five stages of grief, and his youngest is… unresponsive, in a way.
The best word would be distant, but Tommy’s always been like that. Phil knows why now, and the mere thought— the mere memory— of what Jester and Warden had told him back at Tommy’s old apartment makes him feel sick every time he pieces it together. Even thinking that the boy that’s currently sitting in the window seat by their Christmas tree was once a hero, was once the very protégé that Techno used to come home grumbling about because he didn’t understand it… it feels like fate, in some twisted, demented way.
Then again, fate’s always had it weird with Phil’s family. He supposes that this is the consequences for having two members that were Blessed by Lady Death, and two others who— now, at least— have been cheated death itself.
A fortunate thing, though, is that Phil isn’t the only one that’s concerned. In fact, he knows he isn’t the only one. In between their silent, closed-door meetings that they have, Niki and Jack always mention Tommy— always whisper in hushed voices with wide eyes about how young he is, and how young he had been when he’d been with Dream. They ask how he is, and if he’s better, even though they already know the answer to that question.
Phil figures Niki would know most of all. As much as she’d deny it, he sees the way she looks at Tommy, as if he’s a mirror image of her own self. Wilbur would probably tease her about it if he were awake— would make jokes about how Tommy’s both of their little brother or something, anything that’d make Niki close to punching him again.
“Sitting by the window again?” Kristin murmurs from beside him, startling him slightly out of his reverie.
She’s back up and walking around again, which he finds to be a small miracle amongst the wreckage left in their wake the past couple of days. She’s got a mug clutched between her hands and her eyebrows are furrowed, face turned in Tommy’s direction.
Phil nods solemnly, leaning his shoulder against the stairwell railing. Even if Tommy can feel the two of them watching him— which he’s certain that the boy can, he’s always been good at that sort of thing— he doubts that he’ll turn around to try and catch their eyes. Rather, he’s been avoiding them.
As much as Phil understands where he’s coming from, it still stings a little bit. Not at all Tommy's fault, but moreso his own. He’d gotten attached far too quickly. They all had.
Kristin hums slowly, shifting on her feet. “Think I should go speak to him?”
Phil blinks, turning his head. “What?”
“I think I should speak to him,” she repeats, sound more sure of herself now. She taps one of her nails against the mug with a clink and turns her head, giving Phil a placating look. “If you’ve pretty much adopted him at this point, then I have too, Phil. Plus… he deserves to hear what I have to say. The poor thing is terrified.”
“He’s also sixteen,” Phil whispers, and hearing the words out loud makes him grimace. He hasn’t admitted them to himself verbally in a long time. He’d heard Tommy admit that he was fifteen— which feels like ages ago now— but he’d barely even fully comprehended how young that is, or that Tommy had gone missing on his sixteenth birthday.
Gods, Phil feels ill. And slightly overwhelmed. He’s going to have to call Niki about a cake.
“Sixteen,” Kristin repeats, her tone reflecting the horror twisted in Phil’s stomach. “Stars... I know you’ve told me before that he’s fifteen, but it feels like it’s only just now sinking in.”
“I know,” Phil rubs at the wrinkles on his forehead, suppressing a huff at the fact that he’s getting wrinkles. His kids would have a field day if this were any other time. “He’s too young for all of this. It’s awful that he had gone through all that shit.”
‘Shit,’ he finds, is a bit of an understatement for dying and then being revived. Phil would probably get another migraine if he tried to weave together all the threads of Tommy’s story.
“He’s strong,” Kristin responds quietly, eyes still trained on Tommy, watching the boy’s wings flicker a little bit underneath the blanket he’s got wrapped around his shoulders. She clears her throat and turns, setting her mug into Phil’s fumbling hands. “I’m going to tell him.”
Phil clutches the mug close, watching his wife with a frown. “Tell him what?”
Kristin shrugs, a ghost of a smile on her face. “What he needs to hear. I’d reckon he’s tired of all of us just standing about and staring at him like he’s a zoo animal, don’t you think?”
Ah. Yeah, Phil probably should’ve gotten that one earlier. He tries to swallow down the mirth gathering in his throat as he watches Kristin walk down the rest of the steps and cross the room to where Tommy’s sat.
He knows that it’ll go alright— or at least, he hopes. Kristin has always been good at setting emotions out on display for all to see. If anyone’s ever worn their heart on their sleeve in their family, it’s always been Kristin.
Maybe, he begins to think, watching as Kristin settles down with a kind smile beside Tommy, who curls up in a ball and watches her with guarded eyes. That’s how they’d found Tommy, too.
——
Tommy settles near the fireplace, arms around his legs and chin settled on his knees.
The snow falls out the far window heavily, and he shudders at the mere sight, moving ever so slightly closer to the hearth. It's nice, he thinks, to feel this; the warmth provided from the fire that seeps into his bones in a way he wishes would always stick with him, the comfort of being where he is.
He doesn't really like being alone nowadays, especially late at night, but he can't help but think it is for the best.
As much as he's been reassured that he's family, and none of this is his fault, he still feels really guilty for all of it. For the Banquet, for Wilbur, for Morpheus even setting his sights on the Crafts in the first place (although, rationally, he realises that would've happened anyways, with them being supervillains and all; but it still makes him nauseated to think about).
His wings flutter behind him dully, and he exhales, digging his forehead into his arms. The remnants of a headache still pound behind his eyes and a he knows that he'd probably be falling ill if it weren't for the constant Harming potions that Phil has been— reluctantly— allowing him to have (and really, it's been hilarious to see the expression on the man's face when he watches Tommy swig down something that's naturally supposed to be harming, as is in the name. At the very least, it makes Tommy feel better).
There hasn't really been much going on over the past few days, which only forms a sort of crawling sensation underneath his skin. The want— or need— to be out of the house and doing something to assist everyone that's currently doing everything in their power to both keep Dream contained and track down everyone that's missing.
The floorboards creak and Tommy flinches, head turning in the direction of the sound.
He relaxes slightly when he recognises Techno walking into the room, book underneath one arm and rectangular glasses pressed up his nose. He looks incredibly relaxed minus the strain between his eyebrows that has been there for days now. Tommy knows the feeling— waiting has never been something that he's good at.
"Hey," Techno greets, tilting his head. "You alright?"
"Yeah, 'm fine," Tommy reassures, turning back to look at the fire. "Just thinking. You know how it is."
Techno huffs, sounding a bit amused. "Yeah, I s'pose."
There are more creaking sounds as Techno crosses the room and takes a seat beside him in front of the fireplace, book settling down into his lap. Tommy turns his head to glance at it, stomach twisting when he recognises the golden-fronted cover of the book.
"I never did get to finish telling you about popular Greek figures," Techno begins quietly, fingers tapping against the book. "I understand if you don't want to know, but I... uh, thought it'd be nice. If you wanted to just listen." Like we used to.
Tommy hums. Although he's not entirely certain he'd like to hear about them anymore, he nods all the same.
"Yeah," he accepts, staring as one of the logs of wood falls in the fire, making a clunking noise against the hearth. "That'd be nice."
"Alright," Techno shifts, opening the book and leaning back against the wall. He's sat pretty close to the Christmas tree, which Tommy finds vaguely funny. If he's not careful, he might make the whole thing come crashing down onto his head (which, honestly, would be the highlight of Tommy's entire week). "Do, uh... do you want me to braid your hair again as well?"
It's a bit out of nowhere, but Tommy's heart lifts all the same. Then, he frowns.
"You can't braid hair and read from a book at the same time," he points out, turning to look at the man.
Techno waves his hand dismissively, setting the book aside. "I don't really even need the book. I've memorised most of it. Usually, it's just something for my hands to hold while I'm reading."
Ah; another thing that Tommy understands quite well.
"Oh," Tommy breathes, then nods, in a slight daze. He hasn't had his hair braided in a long, long time. Honestly, he can't remember when the last time had been— much less when the last time it was done by Techno. "Yeah, uhm... okay. I'd like that."
Techno gives him a small smile, patting the space in front of him. "Alright, come here then, kid."
Hesitantly, Tommy shuffles his way towards Techno and turns, pressing his knees to his chest and settling his chin on top of them. He presses his wings against his back and pushes his hair back so that Techno can reach it.
Ever since he’d been taken by Dream, his hair had grown a bit longer so that it now brushes against his collarbone. He kind of likes it, honestly— it’s a stark difference from how short he’d been forced to keep it while he was a hero.
The feeling of Techno combing his fingers through Tommy’s hair isn’t an entirely alien feeling, but it’s such a distant memory that it makes the kid flinch at first.
“Sorry,” Techno mutters, and Tommy just hums.
It’s a comforting thing, having his hair done— albeit, slightly bittersweet. Tommy leans into his older brother’s hands a little, eyes slipping close with contentment.
Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can imagine that they’re elsewhere; that there’s an alternate universe where everything is okay, where Wilbur is sitting on the sofa nearby laughing with Phil about some random video on Youtube while Kristin makes fun of them for being ridiculous— where Tommy has never been and will never be Theseus.
The concept almost feels wrong to think about, even if the idea should bring some sense of comfort. It’s strange to realise that there really can’t be a world where Tommy himself exists and Theseus does not.
The thought makes Tommy swallow the bile gathering in his throat. Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t think about existential things while his friend braids his hair.
“Can I ask you a question?” Techno speaks up suddenly, voice gruff and unsure.
Tommy startles slightly, eyes opening. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Techno pauses, awkwardly braiding a few strands of Tommy’s hair. “When you dyed the front tips of your hair red… was that to hide it?”
Tommy purses his lips, stomach clenching. That was a question he probably should’ve expected.
“Not… not exactly,” he begins, voice quiet. He fidgets with his hands, prodding at his fingertips and cracking his knuckles. “No, well, it was, but it’s… I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain.”
Techno hums, “That’s alright, you don’t have to explain it. But I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to hide it anymore. Nobody’s going to make fun of you for it.”
Tommy laughs dryly, settling his chin onto his knees. “Thanks, big man.”
Silence falls again for a second, and Tommy lets his eyes slip close. For a moment, there is nothing— there’s just Tommy and Techno, two brothers sat on the floor in the living room of their father’s (their father’s?) house, content with being simply near one another.
Then, a finger tucks some hair behind Tommy’s ear, and he can hear Techno make a confused sound.
“Did you go outside today, Tommy?” Techno questions, and Tommy frowns a little. Both because it’s a stupid thing to ask— why the hell would Tommy ever go outside in this weather?— and because it’s the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“No,” Tommy responds simply, opening his eyes a fraction to wrinkle his nose, even though Techno can’t see the expression on his face. “Why?”
There’s a pause, and then Techno lets the strand behind his ear fall with the clearing of his throat. “No reason. I was just wonderin’.”
Still confused, Tommy gives the fire crackling in front of him a strange look— as though it can see his face and understand him— but decides it’s better if he doesn’t ask.
(If later he notices the snowdrop tucked into the braid that Techno had done over his ear, he decides to pretend that he hadn’t.)
——
Phil has been trailing behind Tommy for a while.
It was probably going to happen at some point— this is his house, after all— but Tommy was truly hoping that it wouldn’t be this soon.
The first question out of Tommy’s mouth when he whirls on the man is something stupid, but he’s tired. He’s tired of acting like he doesn’t know what’s going on, of having to sieve through kindness and good-nature to pick out the true meaning of a person’s words.
He’s tired, and for once, he doesn’t pretend.
“Are you kicking me out?” he asks, blunt and to the point.
Expectantly, the man blinks a few times, obviously taken aback by his question. Tommy hasn’t really spoken to the Crafts much since he’s been here, both by his own volition and theirs. Too much to say, too little words to try and bring out of his clouded mind.
“Am I-?” Phil begins, shaking his head as though to restart it. “No, Tommy, I’m not kicking you out. I wouldn’t even dream of it.”
Oh. That’s a bit of a shock, but… Tommy bites the inside of his cheek. Phil had told him that they’re family multiple times, as had Techno and Kristin— albeit one more stern than the other— and Tommy believes them, of course he does, it’s just that everyone’s been a bit distant recently.
Coping, just as he has. He doesn’t blame them for a single second, and he never would, but he’s been waiting for the day that it finally clicks for them that he isn’t the same kid that they’d thought he was.
Rather, Tommy is an extension of Theseus; a piece of the former hero that cannot be undone, no matter how much he wished he could. He always has been connected to Theseus, and despite Tommy’s hopes, he always will be. Tommy had already tried to part ways with his alter ego once, and it had done nothing but get his brother killed.
“Why?” Tommy blurts out, blinking at the man. A part of him knows, somewhere deep down, that it’s a stupid question. That Phil has always thought of him as family; that Kristin’s words to him only a day or so prior still ring true. You’re our son, Tommy, and we love you. And yet, the doubt still claws at his throat.
Tommy clears it, as though hoping to tear it away like phlegm, but it doesn’t work. So, instead, he continues. “I know- uh, I know that you’re- that I’m—” he breathes. He can’t say the word. It’d sting too much if Phil turned around and denied it at this point. “That I’m a friend, but I’m not exactly— Phil, I don’t normally live with you. I wouldn’t blame you if I’ve overstayed my welcome or anything like that.”
There’s more to the ‘anything like that,’ but neither of them bring it up, even if Phil’s face contorts at it a little bit. Tommy would be lying if he claimed he knew what that expression meant. He only hopes it’s nothing bad.
“Tommy,” Phil begins, taking a breath, and Tommy has to mentally prepare himself for whatever the man’s going to say. “Christ, kid, can- can I hug you?”
Oh, a voice in Tommy’s head says. Oh.
Tommy stares at the man for a moment, taken aback. His mouth dries, but even though he can’t seem to form words, his head nods like it’s something that realistically, he shouldn’t even have to think about.
Unlike him, it’s without a second of hesitation that Phil pulls him forwards and wraps him up in a familiar feeling; warm arms and now— at the expense of not wearing his hybrid hiding earring for once— feathers.
Tommy lets out a low noise that he hopes doesn’t sound like a cry, but it must, as Phil tugs him even closer and runs a hand through the back of his hair.
“It’s okay, Toms,” he whispers. “I’m not going to make you leave. Nobody’s going to make you leave, kiddo. I’ve told you before, but I’ll continue to tell you until you’ve got it knocked into your silly little brain— you’re family. You’re just as much my son as Techno and Wil are, and you’re just as much Kristin’s, too, as I’m sure she’s told you.”
She has, Tommy thinks with a small, wet laugh. I don’t think it sunk in, no matter how many stern looks she gave me to make sure I understood.
“Theseus…” Phil begins, voice a murmur, and Tommy’s throat tightens at the name. “He’s you, Tommy, and do you know what? I wouldn’t change you for the whole world.”
Tommy lets out a cough, burying his face into Phil’s shoulder. He won’t let him see him cry. He knows that he has before, but he can’t. Not now.
“We love you,” Phil continues, voice far too gentle. A hand rubs gentle circles into his back, just like Wilbur used to do when Tommy got migraines at work. “We don’t care about who you used to be. You’ve shown us that you don’t care about who we are, either, Tommy. Even if you did someday, we would never toss you out for speaking your mind. Tommy, you are not a burden here. You never are. You’re with us, and that’s all that matters.”
It’s almost funny, the way Tommy sinks into Phil’s arms; into the arms of a supervillain, the very type that once upon a time, Tommy would’ve been asked by Dream to deliver the death blow to. He never would have, not even when he’d once believed Dream to be a good man, but it’s still something that makes every part of him nauseated to even think about.
Tommy lets out a soft exhale, arms tightening around Phil’s form. It’s a first step in the right direction, he figures. There’s still so much left to do, and he knows it— but it’s a step.
——
Tommy isn’t sure what to feel.
Fear, or maybe surprise?
Albeit, that last one is probably what everyone had originally meant him to feel, hence the phrase surprise party.
The delicately decorated cake rests on the counter in front of him, icing perfectly tipped and rounded on the edges in a way he immediately recognises as Niki’s own work. There are a few mishaps here and there in red and blue vibrant gel-icing that he couldn’t not recognise as Jack being an idiot, but it’s… it’s nice, the cake.
It is, however, the last thing that Tommy had expected to find on the kitchen table when he’d hauled himself out of bed that morning. It’s so out of character with the daily life he’d grown accustomed to that it’s enough to snap him out of his dreamland long enough to glare up at everyone who is standing to the sidelines expectantly.
“Fuck is this?” he asks, gesturing to the cake as though it’s personally offended him.
When he looks up, everyone’s giving him a dim smile— even Jack, who had originally looked constipated when Tommy had come down the stairs ten minutes ago, just woken up from a two hour power nap.
“It’s yours,” Kristin speaks up, offering him that same gentle smile. He tries not to meet her eyes, but it’s difficult— everything about her screams inviting, from the way she speaks to her overall motherly aura.
She speaks to him frequently. Or, well, it’s recently become a frequent thing. Tommy doesn’t mind. It scares him a little bit, though, each time she takes a seat beside him by the window. He doesn’t quite understand why— before it had been out of fear she’d make him leave, but now it’s probably something to do with the fact that she radiates of Death.
Tommy hadn’t originally picked up on it in his state, but things have been slowing recently, and as the waves slowly begin to settle, he can’t help but scoot away from something that he instinctively knows is ancient. Or, at least, Blessed by it.
“What do you mean, it’s mine?” Tommy asks, confused and redirecting his attention from spiralling into his deeper, ‘meant for three am’ thoughts. “I thought Phil said it’s unhealthy to eat sweets for breakfast.”
At the sound of his name, the man blinks, resurfacing from his mind. He softens, giving Tommy a kind look.
“I did,” he affirms, looking a bit nostalgic for some reason. Maybe it’s because those were words he’d said a long time ago, back when things were different and Tommy didn’t feel like everyone knew more about him than he knew about himself. “But this is different. You’re allowed to have sweets on your birthday, Tommy, even if it’s for breakfast.”
Your birthday.
Tommy reels back as though he’d been singed. Fuck, his birthday. He’d forgotten that birthdays even existed, much less that he had one.
“I—” he begins, throat closing. He looks frantically from Phil to Kristin, then to Techno. Each one of them is watching him quietly, and for once, Tommy realises that it isn’t a judgemental stare; it’s a reassuring one.
The next words out of his mouth were meant to be a genuine question, one that’s stony and curious, but it comes out more like a squeak. “My birthday?”
Instantly, everyone seems to soften, eyes drooping at the corners. Tommy forces himself to look away, to stare instead at the details on the cake in front of him. He’s never even had a birthday cake before, nothing like this. Every birthday he’s ever had back at the Complex was always… strange. It never felt like the ones he’d read about in fairy tales or seen in the old 90’s movies that Sapnap used to like watching.
They felt dull, cold.
“It’s your birthday cake, Tommy,” Niki speaks up, voice warm. A hand hovers over his shoulder and instead of flinching like he normally would, Tommy can’t help but lean against it, like it’s a lifeline.
He can hear the smile in Phil’s words when the man pipes up, voice coming from right behind him. “We knew that you didn’t get to celebrate it this year, so we thought that we’d try. We’re a bit late, but…”
Phil’s voice trails off as Tommy’s shoulders rise and shake, soft sniffling sounds coming from his mouth. His hair clouds over his face, covering the tears that sting his cheeks.
“It’s perfect,” Tommy chokes out, reaching up a sleeve to wipe his face before any tears or snot get onto his cake. His cake. His beautiful, wonderful cake that is meant for him. To celebrate him. “It’s— it’s great, Phil— Techno, Kristin, everyone— uhm. Thank you, really, but…”
“But?” Techno pipes up, his tone matching the others’. A hand lands on the center of his back, grounding; another on his arm.
Everyone’s with him, everyone except…
“I can’t,” Tommy shakes his head, wiping his face with his sleeve and sniffing loudly. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Phil questions beside him. He doesn’t sound condescending, not like Dream used to. He just sounds concerned.
Tommy hums, letting out a little laugh for the first time in days. “I can’t, it's not right. Not without Wilbur or Tubbo and Ranboo.”
The last two names leave a sour taste in his mouth— they still hadn’t shown, hadn’t even tried to pop by so that he can properly apologise— but the first makes him feel almost hollow. Tommy is used to it, though, so there isn’t too drastic of a difference that he can spot.
As expected, the air thickens when he says Wilbur’s name. When Tommy turns his head to meet Phil’s eyes, the man is smiling sadly.
“Of course, Tommy,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side. He’s always looked like a bird when he does that. “We’ll postpone, then. Until Wilbur is awake and your friends stop by.”
Tommy nods, looking back at the cake on the table. A warmth passes through him, and he smiles.
“Thank you.”
——
It only takes one nightmare for Tommy to realise exactly what it is that’s been bothering him; that itching feeling underneath his skin, the words resting on the tip of his tongue, all boiled down to one singular thing: fear.
He wakes up, sitting boltright in a cold sweat. His chest heaves, eyes already spilling over with something wet. He doesn't remember crying.
Taking a sharp intake of breath, Tommy presses his hand to his chest and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress.
It’s Christmas Eve, something that he only knows because Phil had spent half of the morning rushing about with wrapping paper. Tommy isn’t sure how he does it, the energy thing— Kristin had once pointed at the espresso machine as though that explained it, but Tommy lived on espresso back in the day, and he’d never had Philza Craft’s sheer willpower.
Tommy had wanted to try and sleep the entire night away, to try and forget about the fact that the morning after means Christmas. He still hasn’t had a clue what the fuck Christmas is like, despite the towering decorated tree that sits tauntingly in the foyer of Phil’s house.
He’s warmed back up to the Crafts a bit in the past couple of days— not by a lot, there are still so many things that confuse him, especially with the knowledge that they’re all members of the Syndicate— but it doesn’t help with the factor of Christmas.
Like his birthday, Tommy’s never really had a proper Christmas. He wanted this year’s to be something better; to be different. He’d been excited about it for once, back when he wasn’t… this.
(And maybe the memory of The Bard—of Wilbur— chasing him down into that alleyway that one day, making him leave behind all the presents that he’d bought everyone does nothing but sour the already bitter taste in his mouth, but he can’t really dissuade the thought from crossing his mind).
He’d known not to expect something great for Christmas, though. He doesn’t exactly have any presents for anyone, as they were all left stranded in that alley, but he’d hoped.
His wishes weren’t granted, and he figures that he should’ve known better than to think they would be for a change.
Carefully, Tommy stumbles his way out of the bedroom, clawing at the walls to keep himself positioned upright. The entire house is quiet, with not even the sounds of a fire crackling providing him any sort of comfort that he is, in fact, not alone; nor caught in the depths of yet another nightmare.
Tommy walks down the house's corridor, moving purely based on muscle memory. He's done this walk before. Multiple times in the five three days that he's been back, he's had nightmares that always lead him right back into the master bedroom where Wilbur remains unconscious.
Not dead, not anymore— just unconscious. He always has to remind himself of that, but he can't help moving his hands to listen to his brother's heartbeat again just to make sure of it.
Tommy pauses in front of the master bedroom and takes a deep breath.
Slowly, he counts in his head: one, two, three... four.
Exhaling, Tommy reaches forwards and eases the bedroom door open.
The hallway floods with dim orange light, providing him with the smallest bit of relief. His eyes glide through the bedroom, shoulders relaxing when he sees Wilbur still laid on his back, fast asleep. Just beside the bed, though, Tommy catches sight of Niki, who is sitting upright in the armchair by the nightstand.
Her head leaning to the side, eyes fluttered closed and hair hanging in front of her eyes. She's got a dagger across her legs that is an incredibly stark contrast to the face-down book that it's laying on top of.
Tommy swallows thickly, having a moment where he debates about completely dipping from the room or just standing there like a creepy wax figurine. Or he could pretend to be a ghost.
It's not that he doesn't want to speak with Niki— he's held conversations with her multiple times over the past week or so that this has come to be— but it's... awkward, to say the least. Not that she's Nemesis, but just about everything else. The Banquet, the Hero Complex, all of it.
Of course, even though he is so certain that he thinks at the speed of light, he does not react quickly enough, and one of Niki's eyes open a crack, as though the mere sound of him thinking was loud enough to wake her up.
"Oh," she murmurs, sitting up and rubbing a kink from her neck. "Hey, Tommy."
"Hi Niki," Tommy says awkwardly, keeping his voice quiet. "Sorry, I just wanted to check up on Wil."
Niki smiles at him, warm and inviting. "You're fine, Tommy, don't worry. You didn't technically wake me up or anything, I was only half-asleep."
Tommy isn't sure how true that is, but he decides not to argue.
"Uhm," he begins, looking down at his hands. "Sorry. I was just- uh, if you want, I can take the rest of your shift? If you want to sleep, that is."
Niki frowns, blinking past the sleep so that she can fully take in the way Tommy looks; dishelved.
"Are you alright?" she asks, voice gentle.
"Yeah, yeah, I just..." Tommy shrugs, fumbling with his fingers. "I can't sleep."
Niki hums, "That's alright. I'll be honest, I haven't been able to sleep well either recently. I keep thinking..." she huffs, leaning back against the arm chair, putting a hand to her forehead. "I don't know."
Tommy knows.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs again.
"There's nothing you have to be sorry for," Niki reassures, putting her hand down to smile up at him. "Really, Tommy. You're fine."
They're such simple words for such a heavy situation. Tommy rubs his arm with his hand, warily taking a step forward.
"Can I sit with you?" He asks, unsure of what else to say.
"'Course, but I don't want you sitting on the floor," Niki says, standing up to move and lean against the wall.
Tommy holds his hands up in mock defense, eyes wide. "No, that's fine, I like sitting on the floor-"
"I insist," Niki motions towards the chair. "I should stand if I don't want to accidentally fall asleep again anyways."
Tommy hums, walking forward to take a seat with uncertainty.
There are a few moments of very awkward silence where Tommy debates with himself about if he should speak or not, before the words are exiting his mouth without the chance to pull them back.
"I'm sorry," he says again, but this time it’s different. He clears his throat and warily tacks on, "For all of it. The… the party, too. Everything. I’m sorry."
Niki tenses a little, then sighs. "Tommy, that wasn't your fault."
"It was, though," he shakes his head, tapping his foot against the floor anxiously. If she really wanted to, Niki could probably kill him right here, right now. There's nothing stopping her from doing so- no Phil nor Techno hovering around to make sure that all the different types of people crowded into one house get along. Even so, Tommy continues. "I was a hero, Niki. I- I hurt people, and- not to mention that I willingly participated in the Banquet, and that Quackity used to be one of my close friends. I came to the party, I put on a mask, I-"
"Did you know that innocent people would die?"
Tommy flinches at the suddenness of her question, wrapping his arms around himself. His voice is quiet, but he answers honestly. "I knew that heroes would."
"That's not what I'm asking, Tommy," Niki interrupts. Tommy can feel her put a hand on the back of the chair he's sat on. "I'm asking if you knew that innocent people would die or be put in danger. Did you?"
"Well, no," Tommy begins slowly, before shaking his head again. "But that doesn't change anything. I still knew some people were going to die, and I went anyway. I don’t- I shouldn’t have. People don’t deserve to die, no matter how awful."
He tries his best to ignore how much he wishes to have taken that sword out of Wilbur and put it through Dream instead. He wouldn’t— the mere thought makes him feel sicker than before— but a part of him deep down wants the man gone.
Niki clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Tommy, you didn't host the Banquet. You weren't the puppeteer pulling the strings, and you certainly weren't the person that planted those bombs in the first place. Yes, you attended it, and you shouldn't have- but tell me, and be honest. Did you really go to that event expecting there to be people like Tubbo or Ranboo showing up? Or even the other heroes and villains that you don't count as exactly 'entirely evil?'"
Tommy opens his mouth, wanting to say something like No, but that doesn't excuse my actions, but he shuts it. Instead, he simply shrugs, which makes Niki sigh softly.
Gently, she places her hand on his shoulder. It doesn’t seem like a rude thing, nor like a way for her to somehow intimidate him— in fact, it feels rather grounding above all else.
"I've been visiting Las Nevadas recently," she begins, keeping her tone light. "I've been speaking with Jes-" she exhales sharply, grinding her teeth for a second, as if the name agonises her to say out loud. "With Quackity. He's been telling me about the Banquet- after, well, apologising, which is something that I've never expected to hear from the guy, but nonetheless..."
She pats his shoulder lightly. Tommy would flinch if he wasn't so used to the amount of affection he's been getting recently. It wasn't as much as he did before Morpheus, but little things here and there; a ruffle of hair from Techno, a slap on the back from Jack (who proceeded to make it a lot softer after Tommy flinched so hard he knocked a cup off of the table when he did it the first time), and other means of casual touch that implied only one thing— family.
Tommy would hate it. He should hate it, but he doesn't.
"Quackity explained the situation," she murmurs, clearing her throat. "He told me about how you weren't sure and only went through with it because Morph— because he was there."
Tommy lets out a soft breath, the smallest bit of relief covering him over the fact that she didn't say his name.
Nobody has been saying it recently except for the people on the news channel, but he tries to tune them out as much as he can. (He nearly threw Techno’s thick book of Greek myths at the screen last time he’d actually listened in— the last thing he wanted to hear was multiple people blaming his hypothetical family of the heroes’ disappearances).
"That still doesn't change anything, Niki," Tommy replies, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "I still went to it. I still hoped to see someone die, and- and even if he's- even if he's awful, and I still want to kill him—"
"I know," Niki promises, sounding strained. Not at him, it seems like, but almost at herself. "I know. You don't want that on your conscience. I don't either, never have and yet a part of me wants so badly to see his head on some type of stake." She sighs, before continuing. "It's something that we can all discuss... later. For now, Quackity and Sam have him locked up underneath Las Nevadas with twenty-four hour supervision. He's not going anywhere until we figure out what to do with him, okay?"
Tommy nods, even though his throat is beginning to close up again. He knows Dream. He knows how he works. He'd never go willingly like this. There's a plan; there has to be. (And yet, they've heard nothing from the man. Well, nothing according to Phil and the rest of the people that have gone to visit him in his makeshift solitary confinement, but nonetheless...)
"We'll figure it out," Niki says again, hoping to drive the point home. She reaches forwards, holding her hand out for his. He can hear the smile in her words when he takes it. "All of us will. And..." she trails off, her voice cracking. "And Wilbur will too, when he wakes up."
Tommy hasn't much of a choice than to nod again, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. When he wakes up.
There's a pause, and Niki lets go, reaching up to pat his arm. "Actually, Tommy, if that offer of taking my spot for the night still stands, I just might take you up on it. I'm feeling pretty exhausted. I’d hate to keel over standing up as well- we’d have a whole calvary on our hands."
Tommy snorts. She’s right— if she did fall over in the middle of the night, it wouldn’t be long before Phil and Techno ran into the room, eyes fiery and weapons prepared. And, honestly… Tommy isn’t entirely sure if he’s ready to see that yet.
So he simply nods, scooting his chair closer to the bed so that she has access to move from behind it. "Yeah, it still stands. Go get some sleep, Niki."
She reaches out, gently ruffling his hair as though they're back in the kitchens at Nook's again. Tommy can almost feel the fly-away flour falling off of her hands and into his hair. Jack had always made fun of him for having 'makeshift dandruff'.
Asshole, he thinks, despite the warm feeling that brushes against his shoulders. (He misses it, as much as he wishes he could deny that).
"Try not to stay up too late," Niki reminds him kindly, brushing past the chair for the door. She pauses before leaving, turning on her heel. “And Tommy?”
Tommy looks up, and she smiles at him. It’s genuine— he can see it in the dimple at the corner of her mouth.
“Happy belated birthday… and Merry Christmas, I suppose,” she says gently, tapping her nails against the doorframe. “You’re a good kid, you know. Never forget that, okay?”
With that, she gives him another bright look, and exits the room.
Tommy lowers his head, barely suppressing a smile himself.
——
A hand cards through his hair.
It's a nice feeling, familiar in the way they scratch a little just behind Tommy's ear.
Murmuring a little bit in his sleep, Tommy shifts closer to the person’s hand, face pressing into the mattress.
There's a tired but warm laugh above him that makes his nose wrinkle in confusion and… something else.
Slowly, he opens one eye, blinking blearily through the darkness. One of the lamps in the bedroom have been switched off, but the other one- on the opposite side of the bed- has been left turned on, displaying a gentle, orangey-hue against the walls of the bedroom.
"Wh't?" Tommy grumbles to himself, leaning into the hand against his face. He hasn't entirely recognised where he is yet— still waking up— or who it is that's currently running their fingers through his hair.
Maybe he's just dreaming again. That's always possible— he does have them quite frequently, although they're typically more nightmarish than this.
This... it's nice. If this is a dream, he hopes to not wake up anytime soon.
"Shh," the person nearby whispers in a raspy tone, sounding just as exhausted as Tommy feels. "It's alright, Toms. Go back to sleep."
Tommy frowns, all the more confused. He shifts slightly, turning his head more so that he can properly see who's speaking to him.
His eyes meet a pair of warm brown and all at once, reality seems to smack itself into his brain, and Tommy sits upright like he's been jolted awake with a hot iron rod.
"Wil?" He whispers, only feeling slightly sad for the hand to have left his hair from how quickly he'd sat upwards.
"Mhm?" Wilbur hums, a small reply that somehow seems to have Tommy practically in tears.
Tommy chokes, scooting closer to the bedside and reaching out to take Wilbur's hand. He puts two fingers over his wrist, waiting— and hears it. The thump-thump, thump-thump; a normal pace, albeit one wracked with fatigue.
He’s almost tempted to go through the grounding technique that Techno had taught him more about as of recently, but as he listens more to Wilbur’s steady heartbeat and the sounds of creaking wood (really, this house is too old), he feels that he’s awake.
"You're alive," Tommy whispers, putting his head back down onto the mattress to hide his teary face. He can hear Wilbur laughing above him quietly, and he can’t help his own giggles that begin to bubble up in his chest with excitement. “You're— oh my God, Wil you're here— you're alive!”
A hand cards through his hair again, pressing against the side of his head.
Tommy’s laughter dies and he lets out another strangled sob into the mattress, refusing to look back up at Wilbur in case this is just another dream— in case he's wrong, and if he looks at Wilbur's face again, all he's going to see is Dream's smile looking back at him.
"Of course I'm alive," Wilbur whispers, slowly moving his hand to lift Tommy's head up to meet his tired— but happy and alive— eyes.
In the dimness of the light, Tommy can see it; Wilbur's face, the brown curls in front of his eyes, and the newly grown white fringe at the front of his hair that now matches Tommy's own. He’s noticed it ever since he was revived, but it’s so apparent now with him being awake that Tommy can’t help the choked sound that leaves his throat at the sight of it. Dream couldn’t fake something like this.
Tilting his head at the look on Tommy’s face, Wilbur smiles, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He thumbs away a stray tear on Tommy's cheek, eyes full of remorse and knowing.
“I did promise you, didn’t I?”