Chapter Text
Tommy realized that maybe bringing a bleeding supervillain into his apartment at three in the morning was a terrible idea a little too late.
Oh, well. Not that he could do anything about it now that the Blade was watching him (or at least, he thought he was, it was hard to tell with the guy’s big boar skull covering half of his face).
Tommy distracted himself from making any sort of eye contact with the villain, moving calmly around his kitchen, dousing a bloodied washcloth into the sink basin.
He’d already gone through the second most difficult step of dealing with the Blade; the guy letting him get close enough to clean the wound. It was on the Blade’s side, right underneath his ribs, and when Tommy lifted up the man’s black dress shirt he’d received a low growl before being allowed to examine the wound completely.
The next thing, though…
“I’m gonna need to do stitches,” Tommy says, turning to give Blade a look. The man shifted a bit, but nodded vaguely.
Tommy hopped up onto his countertop, Blade turning to look at him again (his head tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing him), and Tommy shot him a glower before opening his cupboard and pulling out a tin first aid kit he kept at the very top.
He ignores the aching feeling in his back, biting the inside of his cheek as he hops down off of the countertop, hoping that the Blade doesn’t notice the grimace making its way across his features.
Tommy brings the kit down and, paired with a freshly cleaned washcloth and bowl of water, he makes his way over to the sofa, setting both items onto the ground. It’s times like this where he wished he had a coffee table to make this sort of stuff more accessible, but oh well.
He’s learned to adapt.
Opening the first aid kit, Tommy took out the needle and thread, which he somehow used more frequently than he should. It’s been a while since he’s given someone (usually himself) stitches, but he knew that he’d grown so accustomed to it that it should just be second nature at this point.
Leaning forwards, he glanced up at the Blade, who inclined his head once, giving Tommy the permission to start sewing up his side.
It took a while, Tommy sticking his tongue between his teeth and furrowing his eyebrows together so he could properly weave the needle through flesh, until he’d finished and leaned back, his back hurting from staying forwards on his knees for so long.
“You should be alright to walk,” Tommy says, grabbing the kit and bowl containing the cloth, “You are the Blade, after all. Everyone knows that healing quickly is basically your thing.”
There’s a rustle of clothing, and the Blade stands once Tommy’s turned his back and gone back into the kitchen.
“Why did you save me?” the Blade asks, or rather blurts out. It feels like a question he’d been meaning to ask the whole time.
Tommy turns, glaring at him.
“That’s a pretty stupid question,” he responds, even though it really isn’t. He knows it’s a normal thing to ask, especially in this sort of case. It’s not everyday you have a civilian saving a local top ranked supervillain.
The Blade recognizes this, too, tilting his head to the left while he examines the boy in front of him, before Tommy sighs.
“It’s not a big deal, the Blade,” Tommy responds truthfully with a shrug. He’s so nonchalant about it that Blade frowns, despite knowing the boy can’t see his face.
“Civilians don’t like villains,” Blade says matter-of-factly, and Tommy groans.
They always say that.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, I’ve never been a big fan of the whole ‘hero, villain hierarchy’ ideal,” Tommy admits, waving his hand, “Sure, it’s great and all that heroes save people, but they’re all so full of themselves that they spend more time worrying about if people are going to see them doing the good deed rather than actually caring about if the person’s alright. As for villains, sure, they’re wrong’uns, but I’ve seen the way you fight, Blade. You don’t like it when people get hurt, and always make sure someone’s okay if they end up in your crossfire.”
He sighs a bit before continuing, rubbing the back of his neck as if easing off a phantom pain, “You’re a ‘merciless killer’, they say, because that’s what they want the world to think in order to cover up for the actual good things you’ve done. The media doesn’t listen to villains who have a soft spot. They all only care about the stupid heroes who have stolen the limelight for years.”
The Blade doesn’t respond, shoulders unraveling a little bit, swaying on his feet. Tommy scoffs at the man being practically speechless.
Then again, most people are when Tommy goes off on these random tangents. He’s never understood it.
Maybe it just has to do with his stunning charisma.
“You watch me fight?” Blade asks suddenly, and Tommy’s nails dig into his palms. Fuck.
(Truthfully, he watched quite a few villains fight. They were… interesting to watch).
“Uh, a bit,” Tommy admits nervously, averting his eyes. He’s screwed. “Nothing weird, obviously, it’s just… fascinating, the way you fight. I guess. Don’t take it the wrong way, or I’ll clart you.”
The Blade huffs, and if Tommy had known any better, he’d take it as one of laughter.
The man walks forwards a bit, so that he’s standing right in front of Tommy. The latter gulps, taking in just how much the guy practically towers over him.
He can see why people take one look at this guy and immediately run in the opposite direction.
This height is unrealistic, really.
“What’s your name, kid?” the Blade wonders, voice genuine despite maintaining the monotone.
Tommy shifts on his feet, really debating about if he wants to tell this guy his name or not. On one hand, it’d probably not be a great thing for a number one ranked supervillain to know his name. On the other hand… does he really give a shit?
“Tommy,” The boy responds, focused on holding his ground and glaring up at the man, despite how his hand shakes under his sweater sleeve.
There’s a pause, and the man tilts his head again. It almost seems like he’s smiling, Tommy thinks to himself, but he wouldn’t be able to tell with the black mask covering the lower half of the Blade’s face (the part uncovered by the iconic skull helmet).
“Stay safe out there, Tommy,” the Blade says, reaching out to pat the boy’s head before whirling around, blood red cape trailing behind him as he heads for the front door. “Oh, and, uh, I’ll be contactin’ you soon.”
At Tommy’s confused (and vaguely fearful expression), Techno adds, “I do owe you, after all.”
With a final click of the door closing and the scent of rust hitting Tommy in the face like a mallet, the Blade’s gone.
And Tommy realizes all at once just how fucked he really is.
Glancing at his severely cracked phone with a grimace, he’s got about four hours until his first shift the next day.
What a great way to spend his evening.
It should be fine, though. He’s used to four hours of sleep.
———
“It’s your destiny to fall, Theseus.” the voice says, the same one that haunts his dreams every night.
“I don’t fall,” he replies despite the way his voice trembles and breaks.
“We’ll see about that,” the voice croons, and then there’s a palm against his chest, and—
———
When Tommy wakes to a loud ringing noise coming from his battered phone - laying on the ground upside down from where it had undoubtedly dropped out of Tommy’s hand the night before - and a severe migraine, he figures that he might as well just have died last night in his living room.
He also realizes that it is, in fact, not fine. He is completely exhausted.
Oh, well, is all he can really think, scowling upon realization he’d quite literally fallen asleep on the same sofa he had cleaned and stitched up a top ranking supervillain on.
Wonderful.
Almost as wonderful as the fact he had actually helped (and now had a token favour from) a legitimate supervillain.
Not that it mattered, really.
He already had his views pretty set in stone with the whole hero and villain thing.
Pretentious, the lot of them.
With careful ease, Tommy rolled off of the sofa, taking drawls of deep breaths before peeling off the now sticky shirt he’d fallen asleep in.
Nightmares sucked, especially ones about that incident in particular (even though really that’s the only nightmares he had nowadays), but he’d long since learned to get over them.
Quickly, Tommy changes into a pair of non-sweaty clothing specifically for his two part-time jobs before all but dashing out of his flat, pulling at his shoe laces all the while.
The old bookstore he worked at for his first shift - Eldritch Wings, it was called - was just one hop and a train ride away from Tommy’s flat. It wasn’t too far, but far enough where a walk would probably invoke Tommy getting jumped (not that the Underground was any safer, but at least it was watched by security cameras).
Luckily for him, barely anyone from his district rode the train this early in the morning- anyone who did was usually just people like him, on their way to work, antsy and tapping their feet while glancing at their watch, or parents taking their children to school. (Tommy made sure to avert his eyes from the latter, hating the way his chest would pang longingly at the thought of parents).
It was the late night train rides Tommy had to worry about.
Everyone knew that “anytime after eight pm” was considered the “Villain’s Hour” (or witching hour, vampire hour, etc. it all depended on who you asked, really).
Tommy, honestly, didn’t give a flying fuck about what hour of the day it was. He knew what kind of people were out there and definitely knew how to fight them.
(Years of training helped that, a reminder of something that was never meant to be).
Even so, the night rides were dangerous, and Tommy always made sure he was wary of his surroundings at all times, even when he was busy immersed in a comic book (that he’d bought from the bookstore he worked at, even though he was more than certain Philza, the owner, would’ve just given it to him for free).
When he enters the bookstore - a ten or so minute walk from the Underground - he’s filled with the overwhelmingly familiar scent of old books, freshly made tea (and espresso, to his interest), and deep, dark wood. The bell jingles as he walks inside, and his shoulders relax ever so slightly at not being outside anymore.
“Hey, Tommy,” Karl, his coworker, calls from one of the bookshelves, grinning.
“Ayup,” Tommy responds quickly, shooting the guy a short smile. He’s always appreciated Karl— the guy’s funny and likes to talk about comic books with him a lot. Normally, Tommy hates any sort of literature (he can’t get his mind to focus on anything with too many words), but Karl always makes them seem so interesting, especially the ones based on time travel or the “alternate reality” theories.
(The guy also never hovers, unlike his coworker for his next job. He appreciates Karl a lot, honestly. It makes him feel less like a charity case).
Tommy takes his spot behind the register, slumping down onto the counter. This is probably his third (or fourth?) job working as a cashier. His other part-time job at a café (ironic, isn’t it?) involves him being a cashier as well.
Maybe it’s just his calling card, handling money and all.
Something particularly good about Eldritch Wings — the hours at the bookstore pass by quickly.
You’d think that with how little interest people normally have in books that the place would be empty, but strangely, it’s a rarity for Karl and Tommy to be the only people in the store.
Since it’s quite small, there aren’t a bunch of people crowded into the place, but that doesn’t change that there is still quite the amount of people.
It’s irritating but also exciting (bigger crowd = bigger paycheck, in Tommy’s eyes).
At half past two, Tommy is slumped against the counter, fiddling with a ballpoint pen, the sounds of people quietly talking slowly lulling him to sleep. It’s nice, hearing people other than himself talk— almost comforting, in a weird sort of way.
(He always had kept the television on at night back in the Hero’s Penthouse, the dull buzz of people laughing or speaking quietly over the box quickly comforting him into a comfortable rest. It sucked that he couldn’t afford anything like that anymore, but at least he was… safe?)
“Hello,” a melodic voice says, snapping him out of his thoughts and making him jump nearly five feet into the air.
He glares up at the speaker, his gaze only narrowing when he realizes he recognizes this guy.
He should, anyway. It’s hard to forget someone who practically looms over you and dresses like a nineteenth century poet.
“I know you,” Tommy blurts out, and the stranger(?)’s eyes lighten a little bit.
“I’m a regular at Nook’s,” the man explains, and Tommy grimaces. Oh, right. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers this guy a bit. He’s the one always acting weird and emo in the corner.
Isn’t he?
Or is that someone else?
Fucking hell, this migraine sucks.
It isn’t hard to recognize that this guy’s not exactly a “regular”, either.
(At least, not for Tommy’s shift, he isn’t.)
“Okay,” Tommy shrugs, turning back to lean down onto the desk.
A moment passes, and he groans.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks, making his tone sound sarcastically sweet, glancing up at the man who seems all too amused with this situation.
“That’s pretty shit customer service,” the poet dude points out and Tommy rolls his eyes.
Prick.
“Go complain to my boss about it or something, you tory,” Tommy mutters, almost immediately regretting it. Honestly, it would suck if he lost this job— it’s a good source of income, and he gets access to the books for an hour or so (if he finishes his job early).
Not that it matters, though — Tommy’s boss is rarely around. The guy is either holed up in his study all day or out on business runs or whatever.
In fact, Tommy’s only met Philza three times: once when he first applied and got accepted, once when he’d been given a free comic book out of nowhere, and another time when the guy literally came bolting through the bookstore to beat the shit out of some random person who had tried to talk lippy to Karl.
It was single handedly the coolest thing Tommy has ever seen.
(No, he didn’t idolize his boss. Shut up).
To his surprise, though, the poet dude just starts laughing at the insult, albeit glaring at Tommy (with no real venom behind it).
“I’m not a fucking tory, you child,” he hisses, and Tommy can feel a slight shiver go up his spine, despite how he knows the man’s clearly joking.
“Sounds like something a tory would say,” Tommy quips, holding a finger up to point at the guy, who bristles. “Also, not a child.”
“I- well- you are a child, I can see it.”
“I’m eighteen, dickhead.”
(Not entirely true— Tommy’s sixteenth birthday was a couple months away, but he’d say anything to keep a steady flow of income going).
The man hums, scrutinizing him as though he doesn’t believe him, but it’s replaced with annoyance quickly.
“Whatever you say, gremlin,” the man taps his fingers against the desk rhythmically. Tommy really is too tired for this shit.
“So, can I help you?” Tommy repeats, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his tone anymore.
“What’s your name?”
Tommy grimaces.
“I don’t see how that’s important? Kinda stalkerish of you, big man.”
“I’m just curious,” The poet dude holds his hands up, despite grinning a little. He eventually relents, after seeing Tommy’s unimpressed expression. “Fine, alright— have you got any good copies of Greek mythology?”
Tommy blinks.
“Really? Greek mythology?” he whistles, glancing up at the ceiling as he thinks about a strangely large amount of titles relating to that genre. Again, he isn’t fond of reading per se, but it’s easy to memorize book titles after stacking them on shelves for a while. “I would’ve taken you for a poet kinda person. Shakespeare and stuff.”
“It’s for my brother,” The man waves his hand, despite the small smile tugging at his lips from Tommy’s words, “But, no, uh, I don’t really read much. I prefer looking at music scores, or listening to audio books.”
Tommy perks up at this.
“Really? I’m the same way,” Tommy comments, and the guy smiles at him fondly.
“You like music scores?”
“Uh, well,” Tommy laughs nervously. He’d never actually seen a music score before, nor learned any kind of instrument. “I meant listening to audio books.”
“Oh,” The man nods, his face falling a little, “Have you got a favourite book, then?”
Tommy frowns a bit as he gets up from behind the counter, walking towards the many bookshelves, “Not really, actually.”
“That’s a surprise, since you work in a bookstore and all,” The man comments, following Tommy close behind, hands pushed into the pockets of his enormous brown trench coat (that somehow fits him perfectly, the tall wanker). “Can I ask your name now?”
“No,” Tommy responds simply, frowning up at the large bookshelf in front of him, eyes narrowed as he searches each of them for the right title.
“Aw, don’t trust me?” The man teases, voice lilting as he leans back against the bookshelf behind him.
Tommy rolls his eyes.
“No, you’re just a dickhead,” Tommy hums, reaching out to pull the iron ladder across the bookshelves towards the book that had caught his eye. He begins scaling it, ignoring the wounded noise the (not?) poet man lets out.
Tommy hums under his breath to himself, reaching out to grab the book labeled The Iliad, grasping it by the spine and turning to face the stranger over his shoulder.
“Catch,” Tommy deadpans before dropping the book into the guy’s hands. He relishes the shocked expression crossing the man’s face briefly, snickering when it’s closely replaced with irritation.
“You’re such a child,” The poet man grumbles, staring at the book in his hands as Tommy slides down the ladder with ease, chuckling still.
(He tries to not grimace when practically his whole body aches from the action).
“I literally already told you that I was eighteen, asshat,” Tommy comments brightly, patting the tall man on the shoulder.
(He’s decided he must hold a grudge upon anyone who makes him stand on the tips of his toes in order to pat their shoulder).
“Somehow I doubt that,” The poet man narrows his eyes suspiciously, taking in Tommy’s stature.
Tommy just scoffs, heading towards another bookshelf, motioning to it with his hand,
“Did you need anything else?”
“Unless you’ve got white Monster Energy stored underneath the front desk, no.”
“Yikes,” Tommy grimaces, looking up at the man, blue eyes meeting a very strangely familiar brown. “You’re so emo.”
He snaps his fingers together suddenly, as if having an epiphany, “I can refer you to a therapist if you’d like.”
(Not that Tommy goes to therapy. He just happens to know someone).
“I hate therapy.”
“No shit,” Tommy exhales, eyebrows raised as he takes his spot behind the counter again. “That’ll be £10 pounds, by the way.”
———
“You are in debt to a child?” Wilbur squawks, eyes wide as his twin brother slumps down onto the sofa, grunting a bit.
“Don’t act so surprised,” Techno responds, ever so blasé.
“Technoblade, you literally almost died last night and then come home this morning to tell me that a literal teenager saved your life out of purely the goodness of their heart and you tell me not to be surprised?” Wilbur all but shrieks.
Techno wonders how the neighbors haven’t alerted the police yet.
Then again, Wilbur has these fits often. He’s got a flair for the dramatic.
“I would’ve told you last night, but you were asleep,” Techno sighs, “Plus, you were already gone by the time I woke up this morning. And, to be fair, I didn’t ‘almost die’. Technoblade never dies.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t here because I went book shopping,” Wilbur seethes, rustling through the plastic bag tossed over his arm, pulling out the novel he’d gotten from the absolute gremlin kid behind the register. He tosses it at Techno, who catches it easily, examining the cover with great interest.
“You went book shopping?” Techno snorts despite the way he looks fondly over the cover of the novel.
“Yes, I did,” Wilbur crosses his arms proudly. He’s decided not to argue with the whole ‘Technoblade never dies’ motto. Smart of him.
“What for? You hate reading.”
“That’s not true! I enjoy reading some books!”
“If some books are just NatGeo Wild magazines, then sure.”
Wilbur glares at him for a moment before snatching the book out of his hands, “Fine, then, if you’re gonna be a bitch, I’m tossing this out the window.”
“Nooo, how could you,” Techno drawls, expression blank.
“I fucking hate you,” Wilbur mutters, pausing for a moment before tossing the book back at his brother, “and for the record, I went there because I was worried for my dear brother and thought I’d get you something instead of sitting by your bed all morning in a frenzy.”
“Thanks, Wil,” Techno huffs, and it’s genuine.
Wilbur relaxes a bit.
“No problem,” he responds, “Even if I did have to deal with an absolute gremlin child just to get it.”
Techno snorts.
“They were that bad?”
“Horrendous. I’m never going back there.”
———
“You’re late,” Niki comments kindly from behind the cafe counter, slipping the apron off from around her neck.
She sends a smile in Tommy’s direction, patting the boy’s curls as he passes by.
“Sorry, sorry,” Tommy sighs, pulling the baking apron over his head, hands dragging down his face miserably. He had been last to lock up at Eldritch Wings after Karl had left early for a date or something. “You can head out now for your break, Niki, I’ve got it.”
Niki hums in response, her face looking almost sympathetic as she walks towards the back room.
“Make sure you actually take a break at some point, okay?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at him. “You look exhausted, Tommy.”
“I’m not a baby, Niki, I’ll be okay,” Tommy responds with a shrug, before clearing his throat, “But, uhm. Thanks for the concern or something.”
Niki flashes him another smile. It’s brighter than the previous ones.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she says, and then pauses again, sighing almost like a big sister would before scolding their younger brother, “And for the love of Prime, please try not to get into any more arguments, okay?”
“No promises,” Tommy muses, leaning against the baking counter as the bell jingles when Niki exits, laughing lightly at him.
He slumps even further after she has left, his breath leaving with a fail swoop. The night shift is so boring. Nine pm until two-thirty am or so of mostly just standing around. Nothing interesting happens this late, but Tommy doesn’t mind it.
It’s better than having a night shift rush (which happens a couple times a week or so, making Tommy all but collapse once he gets back to his flat).
The steady flow of customers enters - Tommy instantly recognizes the few regulars, tossing only a few of them the ghost of a smile.
Around twelve am, he’s wiping down a diner table when the bell jingles again, and he glances up.
“How can I—”
His words die in his mouth and his eyes narrow at the recognizable brown styled curls falling over a face, long trenchcoat flowing around his ankles.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tommy mumbles under his breath, turning back to wipe the table down more aggressively.
He can’t avoid it forever, though, eventually slinking over behind the counter to glare dangerously at the man from the bookstore, who looks equally as bewildered to see him.
“What can I get for you?” Tommy asks, taking on a sweet, lilted tone.
“You—” The man begins, spluttering a bit.
“Me,” Tommy repeats boredly, slamming his hand on the counter. “So are you gonna order or just stare at me like I’ve grown three heads?”
The man glowers and then relents after a few moments, “Fine. Get me two black americanos. No sugar or milk.”
Tommy grimaces, grabbing two styrofoam cups and a Sharpie. He isn’t surprised— the guy’s totally the type to order just two black coffees and then dip. “Name?”
The man straightens, “Wilbur.”
“Understandable,” Tommy hums, and the man - Wilbur? - frowns.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Tommy shrugs, smirking to himself as he writes Dickhead on the cups.
“Well,” Wilbur scoffs, sounding strangely affronted, “Since you know my name now, don’t you think I deserve to know yours?”
“Nope,” Tommy says, popping the ‘p’.
“Fine, then I guess I’ll just have to think of a name for you,” Wilbur leans against the front counter, squinting at Tommy.
Tommy grimaces, turning from the coffee maker, “Please don’t.”
Wilbur hums, head tilted, “Alright, why don’t you give me a name then so I don’t have to just call you ‘gremlin child’?”
How many times do I have to tell you I’m eighteen for you to believe it, Tommy thinks to himself bitterly.
“Just call me…” Tommy scrunches up his nose, clicking his tongue as he puts a lid on Wilbur’s coffee cup before making the second, “Biggest man you’ve ever met, amazing, awesome, and handsome. Or, like, Big T or something.”
“That’s… a mouthful,” Wilbur makes a face, and then something smug changes in his expression that makes Tommy shift uncomfortably.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Tommy puts the coffee cup on the counter in front of Wilbur, turning back to the maker to pull the second one from it.
“Oh, no reason,” Wilbur says in a sing-songy voice, Tommy grimacing all the while putting a lid on the second coffee. “Timmy.”
The fuck?
“Who the fuck is Timmy?”
Wilbur blinks.
“Not that one then,” he says, looking slightly crestfallen.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said ‘Big T’,” Wilbur comments, taking a swig of his coffee, before he grins mischievously at Tommy. “That means your name starts with a T.”
“How do you know that?” Tommy bristles, setting the second coffee down in front of Wilbur rather aggressively. “What if- you know, what if that’s just my last name? Or just my nickname?”
“Hmm,” Wilbur shrugs, looking at the second cup and noticing the name on the side with a dip in his smug smile, “I’ll take my chances.”
Tommy rolls his eyes, running a hand through his curls.
“Why did you write Dickhead on my cup?” Wilbur whines, twisting so the name Tommy had Sharpied on is visible.
“Why are you getting a black coffee at this ungodly hour?” Tommy rebuttals with a smirk. “Also, because it’s true. You are a dickhead.”
“I usually come in the mornings, actually,” Wilbur admits, looking slightly sheepish. He’s decided to ignore the end of Tommy’s sentence, probably for his own good. “My brother’s the one who drinks coffee this late.”
“I figured you did,” Tommy responds with a slight hum.
He frowns a bit, though.
He’s seen Wilbur in here before, he knows he has, but he can’t remember when. Maybe it was one time before he left for Niki’s shift?
Not that it matters, really.
“Do you work two part-time jobs?” Wilbur frowns at him, the question coming out of nowhere.
The guy keeps asking dumbass questions.
Tommy just wants him to take his two black coffees and leave.
“Obviously.”
“Isn’t that a little… much for a kid?”
“Fucking hell— I’ve told you, like, three times that I’m eighteen, get it into your head, bitch.”
Wilbur just hums, seemingly unfazed.
“Why doesn’t your boss make you guys wear name tags?” he comments, eyes flitting down to Tommy’s apron where a name tag would normally be.
“He does, actually,” Tommy grins at him, turning away so he can begin cleaning the coffee machine, jaw clenching slightly when his back aches in response, “I just don’t wear them because I’m too cool for one.”
Wilbur scoffs behind him, “I should’ve guessed you would say that.”
“Yeah, you probably should have. Now can you please leave? I’ve got shit to do.”
“You didn’t give me a drink carrier,” Wilbur complains, his tone akin to a whine.
Tommy turns to grin sweetly at him, “Suffer, then.”