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The itching starts as a whisper.
A soft, maddening pull beneath the skin.
Tommy ignores it at first. He tells himself it’s healing—just the body doing what it does, just nerves waking up again after too long under the knife and needle. He scratches once, twice, and then stops himself with a hiss through his teeth. His nails hover over the mottled skin, red and ridged where pale scar tissue splits across his arms like rivers through a desert. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.
But he itches.
And the longer he resists, the more unbearable it gets.
By the end of the week, it feels like he’s burning alive from the inside out. Every movement drags skin over scar tissue that feels too tight, like it might tear again if he breathes wrong. Every time he wakes up in Wilbur’s ridiculously soft bed—silk sheets, feather pillows, curtains that block out all sunlight—the first thing he notices isn’t the warmth or the comfort. It’s the ache. The constant, crawling itch that makes his hands tremble with the urge to scratch until he bleeds.
He tells himself he deserves it.
He tells himself he doesn’t want to get better. Not really. Because healing means he’ll have to face the fact that he’s not a hero anymore, that his name’s been scrubbed from the Hall, that the people he fought beside now look at him like a traitor.
And what’s left when that’s gone?
So he doesn’t touch the creams Wilbur leaves on his bedside table. Doesn’t eat the meals. Barely drinks the water. The only thing he can make himself do is breathe, and even that feels like a burden some days.
The door creaks open.
Tommy startles, yanking the sleeve of his shirt down, even though the fabric already sticks to half-healed wounds. His first instinct is still fear—the kind that grabs him by the throat and reminds him how small he felt tied to that metal chair, under the cold stare of someone he once called friend.
But it’s only Wilbur.
“Hey, sunshine,” Wilbur says softly, voice threaded with that deep, careful warmth that always feels like honey poured over Tommy's senses. “You awake?”
Tommy nods mutely. He can’t quite meet Wilbur’s eyes. They’re always too full—of understanding, of grief, of that unbearable gentleness that makes something twist painfully in Tommy’s chest. He doesn't want it to be gentle. He just wants it to stop.
Wilbur steps closer, his usual grace quieted to something tender and deliberate. He’s wearing one of those ridiculous loose shirts again, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair half-tied back. He looks more poet than villain, Tommy thinks bitterly.
“I made you tea,” Wilbur murmurs, setting a steaming cup down on the bedside table beside the unopened salve. “Chamomile this time. Helps with the nerves.”
Tommy doesn’t answer. He just stares at his hands, flexing them, feeling the pull of the scars across his knuckles.
Wilbur waits. He always does. He never pushes, never rushes. Just waits until Tommy finally whispers, “It itches.”
The older man hums quietly, a sound that’s half-understanding and half-sorrow. Tommy's stomach churns, and he just wants to curl up and never open his eyes again. “Itching’s good. Means it’s healing.”
“Feels like it’s not,” Tommy mutters, curling his hands into fists. “Feels like it’s trying to crawl out of me. It hurts and I just want it to stop."
Wilbur sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Tommy can feel the shift of weight, the warmth radiating from him. He doesn’t touch, not yet. He never does, not unless Tommy asks him to. He's nice, he's patient, he's good. Infuriatingly so. “Have you been using the cream I gave you?”
Tommy shakes his head, guilt flooding through him.
Wilbur doesn’t sigh, even though Tommy feels like he wants to. He just nods, as though he expected that answer. “It’ll help. You’ll feel less like… like your skin’s turning against you.”
“I can’t,” Tommy says, voice cracking on the last word. “I don't—I can’t. Please, I just can’t—”
He can’t explain it. How every time he looks at the scars, it feels like staring at everything he’s lost. How touching them feels like remembering the way his teammate looked at him with disgust and pity before the first blow landed. How the smell of antiseptic makes his stomach lurch with phantom pain and shame.
“I know,” Wilbur says softly.
And somehow, Tommy believes him. Wilbur probably does know. Wilbur's a villain, after all. He probably knows how it feels to spend weeks in bed, unable to toss and turn because the injuries burn to heavily on his skin. Tommy closes his eyes.
For a while, they sit in silence. It's not a bad silence. It's not like the deafening quiet of that interrogation room, it's not the terrible, terrible emptiness in the aftermath of a session.
It's quiet, but he can still hear the wind rustling outside his window. He can hear the sheets crinkle beneath him as he breaths.
It's broken when Wilbur asks, “Would you let me help you, instead?”
Tommy hesitates. He shouldn’t let him. Wilbur is the villain, after all—the reason this all started. The reason his team turned on him. The reason Tommy’s name is a curse whispered in the halls where he used to laugh.
But Wilbur looks at him like he’s something precious. Something that didn’t deserve to be broken. It's Wilbur's fault, so he can fix it.
So Tommy nods.
Wilbur smiles faintly—just enough to show the dimples that appear when he’s relieved—and reaches out for Tommy. He always moves slowly, just enough so Tommy can pull away if he wants.
“Let’s get you sitting up a bit first,” he murmurs, voice dipped in that same soft patience that always makes Tommy feel like he’s something fragile being handled right.
Wilbur’s hands are steady as they slip beneath his shoulders, guiding him upright with careful precision. He moves slow, giving Tommy time to adjust, to breathe through the stiffness of old wounds. The sheets whisper against his skin as he’s lifted, and Wilbur props a pillow behind his back, the motion practiced but tender.
Tommy can feel the heat of him—Wilbur’s hand braced just against his spine, fingers splayed, holding him steady. It should make him flinch. Instead, he leans in. Just a little. Barely enough to notice, but Wilbur does.
He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t tease, doesn’t speak at all. He just stays close for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the scent of something faintly like smoke and ink and lavender surrounding him.
When Tommy finally settles, breathing a little easier, Wilbur gives a small nod of approval. “There. Better,” he says softly, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Now…”
He reaches for the bedside table at last, retrieving the little jar of salve. He unscrews the lid carefully, dipping two fingers into the pale cream.
“This’ll be cold, alright?”
Tommy braces himself.
When Wilbur’s fingers touch his skin, he flinches—not from pain, but from the shock of gentleness. Wilbur spreads the cream in slow, circular motions over the jagged scars on Tommy’s forearm, tracing the outlines with reverent care. The smell of herbs and lavender fills the room.
Tommy exhales shakily.
“There,” Wilbur murmurs, tone low and steady. “Not so bad, hm?”
Tommy swallows hard. Wilbur's so gentle, it kind of makes him want to cry. “You don’t—have to—” He can't even take advantage of the offer given to him, but it feels wrong to make Wilbur help him just because Tommy was stupid and thought his teammates where trustworthy.
“I want to,” Wilbur says simply. “You deserve to be cared for, Tommy.”
The words make his throat close up. He wants to argue, to throw them back with the bitterness that’s rotted in him since that stupid fucking interrogation room. But Wilbur’s hands are warm and tender, and for once, Tommy can’t bring himself to ruin the moment.
He watches as Wilbur moves to his other arm, smoothing the cream over each scar like he’s handling delicate glass. His voice stays quiet, almost like he’s afraid to disturb the fragile peace. “You used to be quite the brave one on the field, didn’t you? Never backed down, even when you should’ve.”
Tommy huffs out a dry, broken laugh. “Yeah. That’s me. Stubborn idiot.”
“Courageous idiot,” Wilbur corrects, with a ghost of a smile. “You saved a lot of lives, you know. That doesn’t go away just because someone called you a traitor.”
“It does,” Tommy says, barely above a whisper. “They’ll never see me as a hero again.”
Wilbur’s touch pauses, then resumes—gentle, thoughtful. “I don't think they ever deserved to. You were always to good for them."
Tommy closes his eyes. The words sink deep, pooling somewhere he thought was empty.
Wilbur moves on to the scars that twist across his shoulder and chest. Tommy sits still, shirt half-open, breath hitching with every cool brush of Wilbur’s fingers. It feels wrong to be touched like this—carefully, kindly—after so much cruelty. But it feels nice, to.
His eyes burn with unshed tears, squeezing his shut as if it'll make his emotions disappear.
Wilbur hums a soft tune under his breath. Something wordless, soothing. The rhythm of it lulls Tommy’s heartbeat into something steadier.
“Does it still hurt?” Wilbur asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Tommy says. Then, after a long pause: “But not as bad when you’re here. Your hands are warm.”
Wilbur’s hands still for just a moment. Then he leans back slightly, enough for Tommy to see the faint, fragile smile that crosses his face. “Then I’ll stay.”
Tommy nods, a lump catching in his throat. For the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe. The itching dulls, the ache quiets. The silence that fills the space between them feels less like emptiness and more like something alive—a pulse, a promise.
Wilbur caps the jar and sets it aside. “You should eat something soon,” he says gently, brushing a stray bit of hair from Tommy’s forehead and sliding his hand down to cup on Tommy's cheek. “Even if it’s just soup.”
Tommy nods again, not trusting his voice.
Wilbur stands, smoothing his shirt, but his gaze lingers—steady, warm, patient as always. “You’re allowed to rest, Tommy. The world can wait for you to come back to it.” Tommy bites his lip, leaning into the man's hand.
The itching has stopped.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Tommy doesn’t want to tear himself apart.
He just wants to heal.
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