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Tommy is having nightmares.
Captain Puffy describes it as sleep paralysis. The symptoms match. Tommy has every reason to be stressed, she says, and hugs him around the waist before sending him home with handwritten instructions and a fresh sugar cookie from Niki’s bakery.
She says this can happen to anybody, at any time.
At night, it feels like a grown man is sitting on his chest, until he can’t breathe and his eyes water and his cries for help get weaker until no one can hear him.
Tommy runs. He falls. He’s pinned to the ground. Grass or sand or stone or snow. Sometimes his mouth and nose are held beneath the surface of ankle-deep water until his vision crackles out and he inhales lake-fulls and next thing he knows he’s back home, damp with sweat and snot and tears.
Damp. Wet.
Every single chase he gets caught, and Dream toys with him for a while before finishing him off quickly, surely, with some kind of bludgeon or blade.
And every morning he wakes up back in his own bed - sometimes tucked neatly between the sheets, sometimes he’s thrashed them away, hair and clothing glued to him by a cold drying sweat, heart racing, nerves still firing with phantom pain.
He keeps having the same nightmare since he lived this in real life, since Dream got out and chased him - and he hasn’t seen the bastard since, but these daily ‘visits’ are wearing him down regardless. He’s gonna go crazy eventually. It’s a numbers game.
He’s had nightmares before, sure, but never like this, never so visceral and real and unremitting. And he’s tried every strategy he knows to calm himself down - working his farm, writing in a journal, embroidery, playing ball with Shroud the giant spider - none of it works. He’s been trying so hard to get better, to get Dream out of his head, but he must be doing something wrong, because this is just stupid.
The worst thing about the nightmares is that they start out normal. He’ll be happy and relaxed, picking flowers, baking bread, taking a walk in the sunshine, when he sees that glint of netherite and shit hits the fan.
He runs. Dream chases him. It hurts. He wakes up.
He eats. He sleeps. He knits with thick yarn. His food tastes like cardboard. His sweaters are lopsided. He starts listening to loud music at night so he can stay awake later.
He nods off at random moments from sheer exhaustion, and more often than not, the nightmares find him.
It’s always the same words, same lines. He’s a toy, a bug, a piece of prey - this will never end, he can’t make it end, and the pain always feels suspiciously real. It’s repetitive, but he never gets used to it - that soul-clenching, teeth-on-edge terror of feeling his soul shear away from his body before he falls through blackness and startles awake and realizes that it was only a dream.
“I really do think he’s gone,” Phil reassures, sheltering Tommy with a glossy gray wing. “He sure fucked off easy.”
“Then why am I still having this problem?” he raises his voice and waves his arms, “what if the nightmares never stop?”
“They’ll stop,” Phil promises, ruffling his hair. “You’ll see. It can only get better from here.”
It gets worse.
A crossbow bolt pierces his knee from behind, slicing through ligament, shoving aside bones. Tommy cries out but stays upright, until a second shot jams into his opposite thigh and he loses control of the entire muscle. He falls facedown in mud, and the laugh gets colder-louder until it seems to be coming from all around him, like he’s trapped in some giant predatory mouth. “Make it quick,” he gets out, “I know this isn’t real, fucking kill me so I can wake up at home.”
“You think I’ll show you mercy? You want me to take pity on you?” A massive hand closes around the back of his neck.
“It-it hurts please just make it stop hurting…”
“Hmmm…” says Dream, like he’s considering, “naaah, not yet.” Tommy tries to crawl away but he can’t. Dream yanks him up by the hair and flips him, so his back is pressed against the dirt and he’s staring up through blurry tears at the stars. “You know, after what you put me through in that prison, you’d think maybe at least I’d learn some new techniques.” His fist tightens, nails digging in closer to the scalp. “But what I found out, is that humans are very fragile, very easy to break.” His opposite thumb comes to rest on Tommy’s trachea with gradually increasing force. “Anyone could do this. It isn’t difficult. It isn’t special.”
“Stop.” It comes out as a panicked wheeze.
“I’m going to ruin your life, Tommy.”
He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe---
“C’mon, fight back at least a little. Make this fun for both of us.”
He writhes on the ground. It’s almost over his vision will fade out and he’ll wake up in bed warm-safe-warm-safe…
Dream lets go of his throat. “Okay, okay, get some air. I’m gonna give you a chance to run.”
“I-I-I can’t get up…Dr’m, my legs--”
“I’ll even let you have a head start!”
He doesn’t know what else to do but listen. Gritting his teeth, he struggles forward, slowly and painfully, dragging his useless and maimed limbs.
“You’re never going to get away from me! Your friends will get tired of helping you. How long has it been, and you’re still having these…dreams?”
“It’s your fault, bitch.” He gets his fist around a frosty lump of grass and drags himself a few more inches, leaving behind a bloody smear, “don’t fuckin’ tell me I’m insane you made me insane, get out of my head, I don’t want you in here.”
“Who still cares about you? Tubbo?” Of course his subconscious has the time to pick out all of Tommy’s insecurities. He cares he cares he-- “He just lost his entire family, you think he has time for your shit?”
“We help each other…”
“What have you done for him lately? Cry? Whine? Everything in your life is fine, and you can barely even get out of bed.”
“Y-you don’t fucking understand how hard it is to rebuild myself - how much energy it takes - how hard I’m trying to be OKAY…why can’t you just leave me alone please haven’t you done enough haven’t you--” something rams into his stomach, and he realizes a second later that it’s a knife-blade, buried in him up to the hilt. He cuts off, choking, spewing bloody froth. “Guh! Hrrrg--” he tries instinctively to curl up, protect his soft spots - there’s vomit down his front, and his whole body seizes up in dying convulsions.
“Shhh,” says Dream, suddenly softer. He strokes a hand through Tommy’s matted curls. “There you go, there…”
“Don’t touch me you fucking FREAK--” he coughs and can’t stop, can feel the intrusive pressure of the weapon going all the way through him.
“Relax…” Tommy feels himself being lifted off of the cold ground and into someone’s arms and someone is hugging him and making whispery noises but his gut is all cramped and he can’t look down and the red is spreading all through his shirt and nothing makes sense anymore. “Not so bad…it could be much worse…you don’t want worse, do you? Don’t try to move… shhhh…”
He’s freezing… the pain is getting fainter, his whole body is humming, his mouth tastes like bile and earthworms. The knife is moving around inside of him, like Dream wants to pull it back out but it’s stuck on a kidney or something - he howls.
“Oh,” says Dream, somehow apprehensive but condescending at the same time, the stupid dick-fucker. “You’re loud, aren’t you?” A hand comes down over his mouth, and Tommy manages to bite it. His jaw is getting weak, like a baby gumming at a bottle.
“Mmrph…fuh oo.”
“Aww…you try so hard. But you know it doesn’t matter, in the end…not at all…”
His body jerks and snaps around, dying muscles twitching as they beg for oxygen. He feels dizzy and faint, his belly tingles. He thinks he might feel the knife sliding out, but he can’t tell anymore.
Please wake up please… the dream will end when he dies, and then he can go back to the normal fucking struggle. SOON - god it hurts he can’t take this… the darkness spills over him and he is falling…falling…falling…
He stops abruptly, disoriented - his window is open, letting in cold air. The sun is about to rise, the sky is coffee-colored. It’s silent - is he expecting birdsong? Fuck if he knows how birds work. Maybe they all fly off for the winter. He can’t remember.
His stomach hurts unbelievably bad - food poisoning, Tubbo told him not to eat the canned tuna, but Tommy isn’t a pussy, so… he throws up on the floor, legs too shaky to make it to a bathroom. Now he’ll have to clean that, and… christ, he’s getting a nosebleed, warm and wet and tangy where it dribbles down his throat.
This day sucks so far. He should just give up and go back to bed, but…
He rubs at his bleary, exhausted, eyes. But then he could have another dream.
His comm buzzes. It takes him a moment to locate it - stuffed in his shoe, for some reason? Whatever. Quackity is blowing up his phone.
Hey did you get home safe yet?
You said you’d text me
Tommy?
Are you okay is everything okay
i still haven’t heard from you please please call me
He shakes his head and dials. Quackity answers on the second ring. “Tommy? Is that you? Oh,” he laughs at himself, “sorry, man, you had me so scared! I mean, you were walking alone at night, shit it’s really good to hear your voice, shit…”
“Ah,” he says weakly, “y-yeah, I must’ve forgotten to check in.”
“But you’re really okay?”
He scans the dim room, trying to steady his breathing. “Well, I woke up at home, not in some creepy torture dungeon, so I guess I’m fine.”
“It’s really early,” says Q, “and you sound weird, what’s going on?”
“Had the nightmare again.” His shoulders slump. “And I feel a little sick…I puked, basically.”
“Did you really eat that old-ass fish? What the fuck, man, you’re smarter than this--”
“I was hungry, asshole! And I make bad choices sometimes.” His mouth tastes awful. He finds his bedside water cup and empties it. “I really need to go clean up.”
“Sure, yeah, feel better, buddy. Thank you for calling, and if there’s anything I can do--”
“No. Nothing.” He shakes his head, bitterness creeping up his spine like a tickle. He hates that people have to babysit him. He’s a big man and he isn’t afraid of the dark. “I see what you were saying, about paranoia, how it can get in your head and shit.”
“Exactly - listen, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know? You went through so much, and Dream’s out again - of course you’re gonna be scared. I’m sorry this is happening to you, but we’re gonna deal with it, together.”
As nice as it is, Tommy doesn’t see how Quackity can protect him from the bad thoughts inside his own head. “Alright. I’ll be fine, I guess.”
“Take care, kid.” He can hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “We’re all on your side here.”
***
The sun is coming in at a low angle over the arctic. Tommy leans his forehead against the window while Phil braids a shitty little rat-tail into his hair. “I saw him, the other day.”
“Him?” He feels the fingers freeze, his spine goes cold. “Oh.”
“Not around here. I was in a dark oak forest, gathering logs for a house extension. He was just foraging for mushrooms, I think, he had a basket.”
“Wh-what did he say?” Tommy’s lower lip trembles, “did he say anything about me? Are you okay, did he try to hurt you?”
“Well, he said hello, and I told him he was not welcome and if he didn’t move along I’d put an arrow in the back of his head. So the conversation died down after that.”
Tommy giggles. “He really just left?”
“Yeah, he ran…I scared the piss out of him.” He finishes the braid and ties it off with a piece of white thread. “I thought you should know, but there’s no reason to worry. I doubt he’ll come after you.”
A big part of him resents Phil, but he likes feeling safe and loved and cared for so much that he can sacrifice a little dignity. His pride has taken some significant hits. “Thanks for the update, I guess. Still wish you hadn’t broken him out of maximum security prison and given him free roam to terrorize me--” he gulps, “Ah, fuck, did I say that part out loud?”
“I’m sorry,” says Phil, “really, but thank God he’s finally leaving you alone.”
“Yeah.” He hugs his knees and waits for the other shoe to drop.
***
He’s never seen this forest before. It’s birch, shadowy and cool. The fluttering leaves and colorless bark seem to extend forever in each direction. He finds his name written on one of the trees - freshly etched, the letters weeping pale fluid sap. “Hello, I’m also Tommy.” He laughs at his own bit, then grabs a low branch and shakes it until caterpillars fall out.
“Hi there.”
Motherfucker, of course the dream has to change, just when he’s making friends-- “Not tonight.” He refuses to look up and acknowledge his tormentor, to make it real. “This is my brain and I choose what happens.”
“You don’t choose,” says Dream silkily, “that’s not how this works. I decide what happens to you.”
He scowls and digs his toes into the dirt. “Pick on someone your own size.”
“Thought you were supposed to be a big man. But I guess you’re just some pathetic little child.” Dream grabs him by his tiny braid and swivels his head around, forceful, causing whiplash. “Hey, look at me!”
“Why should I, you’re still an ugly-ass-bitch--” that earns him a solid punch that knocks loose his teeth “Don’t hit me stop fucking STOP--”
Miraculously, the assault lets up. Dream freezes and stares at him, tilting his head - the mask comes across incredibly eerie. “Should we do something different today?”
“How ‘bout we try a fun game called leaving me the fuck alone to get my sleep? I’m young, I’m still growing - this shit isn’t healthy for me to go through every night.”
Dream laughs until he wheezes. “Arguing with your own subconscious…God, you really are insufferable. You like drugs, right? Let’s do some drugs.”
Yeah, sure. Maybe he’ll wake up early, if this goes really off the rails. “I like powdered narwhal ivory in my cocaine.” Instead, a small opaque bottle is shoved under his nose. It smells like turpentine and bog acid. “What the fuck is this shit?”
“Drink.”
Somewhere in the canopy above him, a squirrel natters. Lucky little shit gets to run away unscathed. This nightmare is new and original, he’s kind of enjoying the change of pace. “Bottoms up, I guess.”
Fuck it tastes like so many things - fresh cut grass and industrial deodorizer and gasoline and birdshit - he doesn’t even have time to register what he’s experiencing before he loses control of his body and drops like a rock - is he just poisoned? Fuck, fine, whatever. The dream gets weirder after that. Shiny rainbow doves fall from the sky like beads on a necklace and surround him, crying - is he crying? his head hurts. He struggles to breathe, hiccuping, manually controlling his diaphragm. Oh, christ, he’s dizzy. He’s on the ground, little bugs come out of the leaf litter and start to chew. “...I am tripping absolute balls.”
Dream still leans over him, curious and greedy. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, but…” it feels distant, like it’s happening to somebody else. “I know it’s happening, but it’s like I don’t care.”
“Right. Hold still.” There’s a tugging sensation right around his ribs. He stays perfectly still and watches the clouds of glitter in the wind. They’re not real, but none of this is - not the pain, not the vague awareness of being carved like a turkey - nah. If he can’t get rid of the nightmares, he’ll just ignore them. He’s learning to roll with the punches.
“Are you fucking finished?”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” says Dream, ripping a knife across Tommy’s throat before he can even say you’re welcome.
“Hcch,” he splutters instead, “Gl-grrr.” Blood spurts out of him in an arc, then dribbles as his heart cramps up and goes still.
When he dies, it’s really really quiet.
***
Why is his room always so goddamn cold? Tommy wakes up, and the fluorescent letters on his watch read three-ay-em. He groans, and pulls another quilt over himself.
He’s gotten quite a few scars in his time, and this morning, they’re itching and stinging. It’s gonna be one of those days where it’s hard to look at himself in the mirror. He gives up on sleeping and dresses in the dark, slipping into his biggest, fuzziest, poncho.
Not to be a whiner, but he literally feels like death-warmed-over. He really doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he shouldn’t wake anyone else up, either, and traveling by himself in the dark without telling anyone where he’s going feels…inadvisable, under the circumstances.
Time to let Shroud the giant spider out of his crate.
“Hi, buddy.” He scratches his pet on its furry thorax. “You’d tell me if I were going insane, wouldn’t you?”
The spider says nothing. So far, so good.
“Nice boy. Yes you are.” God, he feels so achy. He’s been getting a lot of exercise lately, long walks and hikes and excavations to keep his mind off of things. It makes him more tired, but it’s all he’s got. But with the shin splints and the sore back, he feels like he’s run a fucking marathon in his sleep.
Tommy has a history of grinding his teeth at night, and scratching himself. There’s blood under his nails, and he’s not sure where it came from. He’s sweating bullets and needs a shower but can’t quite bear to take off his warm clothes. Whatever, maybe later. There’s no one around to impress.
Too tired to stay awake, too scared to sleep, he pulls the covers up over his eyes and does not move a muscle until day has come to burn off the morning fog. It’s like there are monsters under his bed. He doesn’t dare stick a toe out from under the blanket, even though he really has to pee.
***
Tommy feels lost. “Like I’m drifting. Like I’m not even sure what’s real.” The nightmares are too vivid and he can’t keep food down. The stress is so severe that the white streak in his hair is spreading into a snowy crown that settles around his ears. “Look - look at me! Look what this is doing to me.” He yanks at his hair, as if to get at the brain underneath. “I need help, Puffy, ‘cause I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this.”
Last night, Dream caught him, pinned him to the ground, and pressed a lit torch to his sternum until the fire caught. He held Tommy down, didn’t allow him to extinguish himself, and he could smell burning hair, and when he woke up his skin felt sensitive all over his body, like his bedsheet was full of hay and used needles.
“Is that dream based on a memory?”
Tommy shudders. “Not exactly. But sometimes he shot me with fire-arrows. So, similar.”
“I understand how…him… coming after you, was retraumatizing. You’ve said that’s when the nightmares started?”
“After that. Yes.”
“Did you ever have nightmares before?”
He gulps, trying to force down the tears that are welling up. “N-not like this. Nothing’s ever been as bad as this.”
“I’m so sorry, Tommy. This is all awful, it’s heartbreaking to see what you’re going through. I wish I could do more.”
His face crumples. “I-I’m sorry too. I don’t know why it’s still happening to me.
***
The next time Dream finds him, he’s mining. It’s already kind of a nightmare, even if he doesn’t realize it - down there in that narrow, dimly-lit, tunnel, he’s painfully aware of the million tons of stone insulating him from the sky.
He chokes on a bit of coal dust, doubles over coughing, and by the time he stands back up it’s too late - Dream’s got him by the scruff.
“Just leave me alone,” he whines. Dream slams him against a rock wall and his vision whites out. “Or-or make it quick, or…fuck. This was a good one, until now. A good dream, a good night. I-I found some diamonds? Do you want them? If I give you my diamonds will you fuck off and stop attacking me?”
Why does he even try?
Dream grins at him and procures a stick of TNT from somewhere - how does he always have so much? Where is he even keeping it? Does he shove it up his ass?
This isn’t real, he reminds himself, doesn’t matter, doesn’t need to make sense. All that’s important is, Dream is going to trap him down here and set off a bomb and leave him to suffocate in his own too-deep grave and FUCK THAT. Tommyinnit refuses to even FAKE die that way.
“Watch it,” he growls, cowering behind his shield. “Not that, no…”
“What’s the matter? Dream unwraps from cloth a piece of greasy flint, an igniting shard of steel. “Scared of a little noise?”
“You - you don’t get it, what it does to me.” How it brings him back to Logstedshire and L’Manberg, Wilbur dying and armor-in-the-hole and buttons and thick black smoke-- “Please, just have a little humanity - PLEASE.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Humanity? Tommy, I’m a GOD.”
“Then go fuckin’...hang out in a church, or something, and stop picking on me!”
Dream strikes the flint. “Let there be light,” he proclaims, as a spark travels down the wick.
***
He wakes up. It occurs to him that there’s no fucking point. He pushes a bookshelf in front of the window and stays inside all day. Eventually, he switches off his communicator. The buzzes are pissing him off. What is he supposed to do, text the trauma away?
He turns it back on an hour later. It’s boring in here alone with nothing to do. Fucking Philza, greatest survivor of his generation, crusty bastard, father figure, is in his DMs.
Haven’t seen you in a bit
everything okay?
He scowls, but thumbs back im alive
I know
big man never dies
but it’s probably not healthy to be isolating yourself like this
Fuck off, he answers, Birdy bitch. Eat rocks.
Okay rude
Glad you’re safe
love you mate
He chews on some bread. It tastes like nothing. He puts a pillow over his head and goes back to sleep.
***
Tommy’s backed up against a beautiful spreading oak tree. It’s leafless, but its thick crinkled bark radiates a kind of musty warmth. There’s a loaded crossbow aimed right between his eyes.
“My hands are up,” he begs unsteadily, “don’t shoot.”
Dream sends an arrow through his palm, tacking him to the trunk. He yelps.
“Shut up,” Dream hisses, “God I get tired of your loud fucking voice--”
“Bitch I’ll start singing, I don’t care, I love the sound of my voice, you’re not even real and I don’t have to listen to you anymore--” A sword swipes across his torso from shoulder to hip and it must have cut some important tendon because his free arm goes limp and falls down to his side, he can’t raise it. “Ow - ow!” He grits his teeth and yanks his good hand away from the tree - good, it’s all relative - ducks down, and punches Dream in the gut. He rolls and runs.
Tommy’s pretty sure he knows where he is. Maybe he just needs to break the cycle. One dream that ends peacefully, rather than with him being gutted - could that cure him? Fuck, he’s so tired of getting hurt. Dream takes another shot at him, missed. The next arrow hits home, he feels the wood splinter against his ribs.
He runs faster.
“Help!” he yells as he sprints, “help! Someone! Anyone! Please!” He can’t do this he can’t do this he can’t do this he--
“Tommy?”
This could end. This could end today, he’s sure of it - he could get his mind back under control. “HELP!”
“Tommy!” Quackity is wearing a dark cloak. His eyes are wide with horror. He almost falls off his horse in his hurry to get to his young friend. “Oh my god, you’re hurt, come here, I’ve got you, come here.”
Tommy feels more exposed than ever. “You’re not real!” He bats away the firm arms that are trying to hug him. “I’m dreaming, fuck off, stop lying, it’s not it can’t be real--”
“What are you talking about? Of course I’m real! Pinch me! No, wait, maybe--”
He decides he can deal with it later. “Please-please just let me come inside it’s not safe out there.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me twice.” Quackity helps him hobble into his home. There’s warm yellow light and coffee on the table, like he’s planning to pull an all-nighter. “I see the arrow in your back - skeleton?”
He gulps mutely and shakes his head.
“Tommy, why aren’t you wearing any armor?”
“I don’t know. I…” his memory feels all fuzzy-blurry. His heart is racing. “H-hurts really bad.”
“Fuck.” He reaches out shakily for the gash across Tommy’s torso, “what--”
“Just let me stay here,” he explains wearily, “I’ll bleed out in your bathroom so I can wake up back in my bed in the morning and--”
“--What?”
“Wake up. You know? I’m having a nightmare, and I just need it to-- oof!”
Quackity lunges forward and squeezes him too-tight, knocking all the air out of his lungs. His tiny yellow wings quiver in time with his shaking shoulders. “Oh my God, Tommy…”
“What is it?”
“Did Dream - did he do this to you?”
“I - no - it’s not real - why would it be - how could it be real? I--” his breathing gets panicky. His eyes are as wide as saucers.
“Hang on,” says Quackity. He sounds just as shaky, “sit down, I have a soft couch for you. It’s gonna be okay, I, I need to make some calls.”
“Did--” Tommy yanks at his hair. Handfuls come out, flecked with silver, “did he-- did I--? Really?”
“Take this.” Q avoids his eyes, shoves a stained and ragged towel into his arms, “hold it to your chest, keep it tight.”
“I’m bleeding all over your couch,” he says in a small, uneven, whimper.
“Don’t even worry about that - my number-one priority is getting you fixed up, so go ahead and get cozy. I - fuck Tommy, I had no idea - no, you’re gonna be okay now, you’re okay.” He still can’t lift his right arm. The fingers tingle. “Tea or coffee?”
“Diet coke?”
“I don’t have that.” He opens a chest and dumps the disorganized contents in a haphazard pile of the floor before sifting through it with both hands. “Health potion? It’s carbonated.”
Tommy yanks the cork out with his teeth, but hesitates. “This always tastes like cough syrup.”
“You’re bleeding out in my living room, dumbass. Shut up and take the potion.”
Healing magic always feels like being bitten by a million billion ants. He hates it. The bleeding shuts off, but everything still hurts, and his arm is fucking useless. But…
He stares up into Quackity’s pale, earnest, terrified, face, and suddenly a few scratches and scrapes and stab wounds feel far away. “You’re real?”
“Yeah,” he is choked with emotion. “It’s me.”
“This is real?”
“I promise.”
“What about the rest of the nightmares? The ones that started out exactly the same, except I didn’t get away, and nobody saved me? The ones where I actually died?” Tommy can hear his voice getting high and squeaky. “Does that mean I…?”
“Tommy,” he sobs, “Tommy, thank fucking God - I’m so sorry - we should have caught on…”
“Was I killed? Has he been k-killing and reviving me?” His resolve collapses like wet paper, and he crumples into Quackity’s arms, shaking all over. “Please don’t let it happen again - I can’t go through that - I thought I was going crazy - he’s going to hurt me--”
“I-I know,” he says softly, rocking the boy back and forth in his arms, “He won’t hurt you…he won’t touch you, never again. You’re not alone, you understand? Not this time. Not alone with him. It won’t be the same. We’ve got you, now, and I swear on my life I will keep you safe. Oh, Tommy, christ, you really get dragged into the worst shit imaginable, every time…”
“Ha,” he laughs wetly, “yeah.”
“We’ll make some kind of plan - active guards on you at all times, until Dream is…taken care of -- he will never touch you again, we won’t, I won’t let him touch you, Tommy. The--” his breath catches, “nightmares are finally going to stop.”
He sniffles. He wants to sob and scream and cry and pull off his skin from sheer cringe-worthy horror but he’s never been so tired in his life. “Can I sleep now?”
“Yeah,” says Quackity, “I’ll be watching over you the whole time, and I won’t let him take you. No nightmares.”
“No nightmares,” Tommy echoes, hardly daring to believe it. Someday he will process this - the absolute meat-tenderizing of his body, the decay and the decline, the panic attacks, the glances over his shoulder. Someday, a long time in the future, he will be well again.
But now, here, clutched like a precious stuffed animal in the arms of someone he trusts, he feels safe enough to get a good night’s sleep.