Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night sky cracked open above him with a peal of thunder, like an ancient giant bore it’s teeth just to laugh instead of bite, loud and ringing in his ears and bright enough to hurt his eyes.

Rain pelted him and wind tousled his hair and tugged at his hands, full of whispers and whimpers and he just—

He just stands there, staring.

Because what else is he supposed to do when the Angel of Death just crash landed in front of him, wings limp against his back and dripping with blood as the villain clutched his hand to his most likely stab-wound injured side?

The avian was still conscious, thankfully, and was gasping as he leaned against Tommy’s apartment wall—at the moment, the teen doesn’t know whether to be grateful he has such an isolated apartment so no one else has to bear witness to this or not—and his blue eyes were the only thing of his face visible, the rest hidden by a stripped green bucket hat or a mask.

And those eyes were—

Well, they were full of pain.

Full of hopelessness and panic, like the villain despite all his power and his allies in the Syndicate was scared, like he didn’t know what to do next.

Tommy recognizes it, he knows that feeling, knows it like the ache of his own bones.

But he’s still just standing there, the sliding glass door to his balcony still open behind him as he stood frozen and staring and he’s trying to get his legs to move, his tired mind to go past what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—

“Oh.” Blue eyes pummel his own first with fear, then confusion. “Hello.”

It takes a moment to register that ‘oh, the Angel of Death is talking to me’ but then the man takes a shuddering breath, gaze unfocusing as he slumps against the wall, wings drooping.

“Oh, fuck—!” Tommy doesn’t think before he darts forward to catch him.

Hands grasping the villain’s shoulders and his own dusty black wings wrapping around the man before he could think otherwise, the blood and water coating the Angel’s feathers soaking into his own caused a flinch to wrack through the teen.

He’s still standing, still just right outside of his apartment, still frozen.

But now there’s a super villain in his arms, injured and unconscious and Tommy doesn’t know what to do next. The man’s wheezing breath and the sticky warmth of blood draws his focus, though.

Because he knows what to do with gaping wounds and has been there himself so the blond doesn’t even have to process his actions before his mind slips into emergency mode.

Tommy then spends the next couple minutes dragging the Angel of Death into his dingy apartment, not letting himself think about their skin pressing together, not letting himself imagine what would happen to him if the lethal powers the man possessed got activated in his sleep.

The teen just knows that those eyes weren’t evil and he’s rather opposed to people dying on random rooftops.

Yeah, he knows that the Angel got his name for a reason.

Tommy just also knows how fucked the government is, knows that those villains are doing more good than those proclaimed ‘heroes’ ever will. Knows they’re different. Kind.

He just rolled up his sleeves, dumped the villain onto his couch as gently as he could, and let himself very much not think as he grabbed the first aid kit because Tommy decidedly did not need this kind of stress in his life when it was already so fucking overwhelming—

But it’s not like he could just let the avian die—

Tommy can handle this, he can.

He can handle this.

Tommy helped the Angel of Death. He knows better than to help people who don't deserve it.

The villain isn't one of them.

(This is the truth.)

Tommy could handle the wound, not the Angel of Death himself, it turns out.

He was rather fine with the man when unconscious but awake is very, very different.

Awake with those beady blue eyes staring right at him—beady because the alternative, the kindness, was far scarier—and body tensing, shifting slightly but enough that the man could easily jump into a defensive position if needed.

Easily, well, as easily as one could with a newly healed stab wound in their side.

And Tommy himself is in okay-ish physical health, he could probably get away. Unlikely, but he could manage it, it’s just—he’s a little groggy himself, having taken a nap.

He knew it was a bad idea to fall asleep.

He really, really knew it was.

But he was sleep-deprived and hadn’t had time for any shut eye, even a mere nap, in over three days and healing the Angel of Death took a lot of energy. Energy he didn’t have to spare so it wasn’t very soon after he curled up onto the chair one seat over that he lost the battle of keeping his eyes open.

Besides, he thought that after the first day, with the villain just knocked out on his couch, it was worth the risk of no longer feeling drained.

That led him to right now, where he and the supervillain he saved were both just blinking at each other, probably looking equally as tired as the other did.

“Ayup,” Tommy mutters, grimacing as he sits up. Oh, his wings so weren’t happy with the position he fell asleep in.

The Angel just watches him, eyes narrowed and confused—they follow him when he slowly stands up, pushing his blanket to the floor. They move to Tommy’s wings, surprise flitting over his face, then hiding as quickly as it appeared.

Which is fair, avians—let alone crows—were rather rare.

“Um…” the teen blinks, unsure what to do and feeling slightly uncomfortable under such an intense look. He tucks his wings as close to his back as he could, not wanting to put them away when they’re all messed up but not wanting to leave them open and vulnerable. “Do you, uh… remember how you got here?”

The Angel’s gaze shifts, brow creasing as he looks around Tommy’s living room.

"No." He shakes his head.

Okay, okay cool—they’re having a conversation.

It’s just a casual conversation with one of the world’s deadliest villains. Nice, nice.

“You crashed, I think? I found you on the roof. You were pretty hurt.” Tommy jolts forward when the Angel’s hands go to his side, too fast for comfort, the teen’s wings fluffing up. “Don’t twist like that! It's still a flesh wound, you’ll mess up the bandages and—”

And those blue eyes are back at him, unyielding and glaring.

Which is fucking terrifying.

But Tommy’s dealt with his fair share of terrifying people before so he glared back. “The fuck you looking at me like that for, old man? I didn’t say shit that wasn’t true.”

“Huh,” the Angel of Death tilts his head, relaxing slightly. Which is so not what he expected. “You’re unusual.”

“What the fuck,” Tommy splutters, heart picking up it's pace. “You’re the unusual one, prick! Who fucking shows up on someone’s rooftop like that without even a hello—wait, fuck, no, you did say hello.” He frowns, then is quick to add: “Bitch.”

And the avian laughs.

Unlike the ones he’s heard from video recordings or news clips, this one is far from cold and far from cruel—warm, room-filling, genuine.

Odd as fuck.

“Well,” he says, “thank you for not leaving me on the roof, mate, and for… healing me?” The smile in the villain’s voice ends, shifting, filling with uncertainty as his hand flexes around his almost-healed wound. “How did you heal me?”

“I—” Tommy flinches back, feathers bristling as he meets the other’s eyes. “You’re not, it’s… the stab wound, you got stabbed and it’s not, it’s not all the way healed. Mostly, but not. You, you probably shouldn’t—move around. Too much. Too much would be bad, you lost a lot of blood.”

There’s one that is dangerous no matter if you are facing a hero or a villain, that both sides fight for and need to survive: a healer, someone who can take care of both wounds and illnesses. The Hero Organization snatches most of them up, gathering the kids whose powers bloom early and, since they’re so rare, the Syndicate is believed to have very, very few.

They don't return to the fights as soon, show up with scars and history etched to their skin. They fight even after they get hurt, even after the path to recovery isn't as fast as their opponents.

Their opponents who collect healers like Pokémon cards.

See, Tommy doesn’t think that's very fair—not all healers want to get involved with that stuff. But he also, as a healer, thinks that at least he’s lucky he wasn’t one of those kids who got snatched up, who was lucky enough to hide in the neglect that the foster system creates.

The healers are wanted, desired.

The ones that can double as both a fighter—the tough ones, the ones meant for war and conflict and busted fists—well, those people are hunted down. Those aren’t given a choice, they’re treated like villains, treated like they’re meant to be contained, caged up.

And Tommy doesn’t like cages.

“Hm,” the Angel’s eyes slide to the fledgling’s wings, and he nods. “Alright, I’ll be careful.”

“Um,” Tommy didn’t relax but he did feel a sliver of relief coil under his lungs, breathing in easier. “They’re looking for you—your um, your team, I mean. I was watching the news while… patching you up. The Blood God’s down here in L'Manburg and Siren was supposedly spotted at Las Nevadas, looking for you.”

“Las Nevadas?” His eyes widened. “How long was I asleep for?”

“I found you around three yesterday morning,” he informed. “And seeing as it’s… Five PM right now, a little over a day.”

“Fuck—” the Angel hissed, wings spreading behind him as he stands. “I have to tell them—I need to—”

“Wow,” Tommy yelped as the villain swayed to the side, knees unsteady beneath the avian, and he reached out, curling a hand over his arm and hovering his other one, ready to catch him should he falter. “Fucker. I just said not to go too fast!”

The Angel of Death looks at him, eyes going down to where Tommy’s hand was attached to his bare forearm, then back to his eyes, blue to blue and all too real.

All too bewildered.

All too deadly.

“Aha,” he let go, still hovering but taking a steady step back. This is a killer, he has to remind himself. “Sorry, you don’t need to get bossed around by some stupid kid. I just—um, you shouldn’t rush into things. The heroes have been posting lookouts everywhere and, no offense because you’re a badass or whatever, but you really shouldn’t be fighting right now.”

“You’re really not like them, are you?” Is asked and Tommy startles, confused.

“Like who?”

“No one,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I need to get in contact with my team, do you have a way I can do that?”

“I have a burner phone,” Tommy admits, shuffling away from the villain slowly before going over to the other side of his living room, shoving his shelf to the side. The wheels at the bottom complain at him and he swears back, pulling it to be sturdy and out of the way.

(It's something Tubbo added to his apartment, just because he could, and it's never felt more needed than it does now.

Thank gods for his best friend.)

Moving his wings to rest behind him so they’re less awkward, Tommy bends down and grabs his emergency bag—half-facing the other avian the whole time.

Just because they’ve been amicable towards each other so far does not mean that that peace will last.

The fledgling knows better than to let his guard down.

Pulling out the phone and standing, wings raising triumphantly behind him, Tommy almost drops the stupid thing when a low, wounded noise rings out.

He whips around fully, facing the Angel, ready to help but—

Blue eyes are locked onto the bottom of his wings, sad and angry in one go, tracing the crude line that had been cut across his flight feathers and Tommy tenses, memories rising up—

“Here,” he spits out, quickly pressing his clipped wings closed, together, and out of sight. “Take it. Destroy it when you’re done.”

The Angel takes it, fingers brushing the fledgling’s palm, eyes full of sympathy and he hates it, he hates it so much.

He doesn’t need pity.

He doesn’t need other people to remind him of the ugliness, the cruelty.

He knows, he knows it’s bad and horrible and gross. Even if he avoids mirrors and looking at them and has to skip preening on bad days because it’s just too much, he knows.

The memories don’t leave.

And the past won’t either—it’ll stick to him until his next molting.

“Sorry,” the villain says, deft fingers typing into the phone. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, mate.”

“S’alright,” Tommy mutters, shrugging.

The sound of a phone ringing makes him jump and, for the next couple minutes, he tries really hard not not to pay attention, going over the first thirty digits of pi in his head, multiplying it, then moving to counting prime numbers when that gets boring.

He hates math so the spite fuels him rather nicely as a distraction.

When the Angel of Death clears his throat, Tommy has to blink a couple times before he looks over.

“That’s rude,” he says, nervous, “you just made the wall win our staring contest.”

Blue eyes blink at him, caught off guard.

He blinks back and then they’re filled with amusement, the Angel shaking his head while chuckling.

“You’ll win next time,” the avian reassures him. “Blood’s going to send one of his hounds here soon and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“That’s—okay.” Tommy really doesn’t know what to say. “If you die before the end of the week, I’m going to be very disappointed. All my hard work, right down the drain.”

“Noted,” he snorts. “And after a week?”

“Just mildly annoyed,” he shrugs. “A big man like me has more things to worry about. A bunch of women. Many, many wives to take care of.”

“Of course,” the Angel of Death agrees, humoring him. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“As you should,” Tommy nods oh-so-seriously.

Then the lights in his apartment flicker, shadows growing heavier, moving—a hissing rattle starting up, red eyes gleaming at him, a snarl filling the room and fear seeps between his ribs, digging into his heart.

His wings flare out, scared scared scared, fluffing up and wide—

“Fuck off,” Tommy hisses back, echoing the sound. “Your friend is, is—he’s fine, he's fine, I didn’t—”

His words cut off with a choked sound, a fear-filled chirp mangling together in his throat as he tries to swallow them down.

Predator, his instincts screech. Get away, fly!

But his wings—

Fuck, fuck.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” there’s a soft coo and the hissing lets up. “Just breathe, in and out—” A rattle, a warning. “Back off for a second, Blood. Give him a minute, he’s not a threat.”

The fear just—lessens, like a balloon popping.

Tommy gasps, pulls back from the hands that are on his shoulders, ears barely registering a gentle, reassuring coo that filters through the air before he’s chirping back, low and scared.

It takes a minute to get his breathing under control.

It takes another for him to gather enough awareness to choke out a “fuck you” and to flip off the shadow-beast blinking red eyes at him for the corner.

The Angel chuckles, sounding worried and amused, an odd mix, “you okay there, mate?”

“The Blood God’s a prick,” the fledgling grumbles, rubbing his neck.

A dark hiss replies to his words and Tommy stands up straighter, moving his other hand to flip the shadow off with that one, too.

“Okay, enough,” the Angel of Death sighs, turning to him. Tommy drops his hands without a fight because when the Angel of Death tells you to fucking do something, you do it. “I have to go. Thank you again for helping me, I owe you.”

“Please don’t say that,” Tommy grimaced, shoulders rising. “Just—you don’t owe me anything. I hate that stupid favor system.”

“It’s in place for a reason.”

“It’s shit for other reasons, too.”

“You can not like it,” the Angel says, “but I do owe you. A favor for a favor. You saved my life and, further than that, you didn’t rat me out when many others would and treated me like a person. I’m grateful and the Syndicate always pays its dues.”

“Okay but,” he tries, “you are a person so there’s no reason to not treat you like one. The police are assholes and the roof is a bad place to die, could you imagine the news? Number Three Villain, dead on teenager's rooftop, more at seven? That'd just be sad. So, anyways, can I just use my favor to say you don’t owe me a favor?”

“No,” is said so simply it’s frustrating. But the laughter that he earned with his 'more at seven' comment almost makes up for it.

Almost, but not enough.

Tommy narrows his eyes, lips pulling into a thin line. “You’re a bitch.”

“Thanks, mate,” the Angel of Death snickers.

And that’s that—the Blood God’s shadow beast herds the villain out of his apartment with a small goodbye and the darkness relaxes once they’re away. One leaping off the side of the roof with dark wings spread wide and the other disappearing into the cracks of the building.

Not knowing what to do from there, but still tired, Tommy sleeps.

Tommy does not have nightmares for the next week.

He does not dream of bloodied hands, a stained history covered in red, and fingers picked raw from ragged nails.

He does not relearn to be scared of the shadows.

He does not dream.

(This is a lie.)

Tommy fucking hates assholes who think they’re better than other people and especially ones who think that because they’re humans.

He works a steady job down at the Prison Pastry's Café (a dumb name but the owners, Sam and Ponk, think it’s funny) and sees pricks like that all the time. The ones who sneer when they see the ‘Hybrid friendly’ sign among the products, ones meant for the more common types. The ones who glower and grumble under their breath at other customers who can’t hide their non-human features like an avian can but who are also doing nothing but enjoying a warm drink and a tasty treat.

Right now he’s rather annoyed.

He just got done serving this small group of guys—a bulky man with pink hair and large tusks (an obvious piglin hybrid), a brunet with curly hair and round glasses, and a blond man with a red locket—when this prick walks in, orders, and sneers at them when he sits down one table over.

Like, Tommy understands not liking something, but really? Acting that way to strangers just because they’re different?

It’s not that fucking hard to be nice to people.

He keeps an eye on them while making their drinks, ready to intervene if anything happens—so when the prick spits out “can you stop making those disgusting noises?” towards the piglin who just huffed at something one of the others says, the fledgling is quick to stop what he’s doing and slowly begins to walk over.

“It’s not disgusting,” Red Locket replies, tone calm but he’s glaring, “and you have no right to ask that of him. We have the right to exist here just as much as you do.”

“You’re hanging out with a freak,” the man spits. “It’s wrong!”

The brunet rises to the defense, glasses reflecting the cafe's light harshly. “It’s not—”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves, being out in public with that thing,” he waves to the pink-haired man. “A filthy half, a mons—”

“Excuse me,” Tommy cuts in sharply, standing between the two tables. “But we don’t serve assholes here, so you can take your racism and you can leave.”

“What did you just say to me?” The man stands, all clenched fists and a nasty glare.

“Sorry, you must be deaf under all that ignorance, huh?” He snarks, pushing down the fear to keep the anger on himself. When he takes a step forward, the man takes a deep back, sneering. “I said, get the fuck out before I make you. You're racist and you're ugly. I'm allergic to ugly people."

“You can’t talk to me like that!” The prick exclaims, a hand waving in the air that only makes the fledgling flinch a little bit. “Where’s your manager? I want to see the manager.”

“Aw, that’s cute, you’re a Karen.” Tommy says, herding the angry man towards the door without the dumb fucker realizing it. “Leave, last time I ask before I call the police. Achoo—oof, there goes my allergies. You're hideous, might want to get checked out for that, could be Dumb Bitch Disease.”

“You’re fucking crazy!”

He’d reply but, well, they’re at the door so Tommy takes a quick step forward.

The man must be all bark and no bite because he stumbles, back hitting the door and the teen is quick to prop it open, ‘accidentally’ tripping him into falling onto the sidewalk—the prick spitting curses the whole time.

He shuts the door, locks it as he’s shouted at from the other side, and gives his sweetest smile as he raises both hands to tell him to fuck off.

“That is the least professional way I’ve seen you escort someone out before,” a familiar voice says from behind him and Tommy whirls, a scared chirp mixing with a yelp. Ranboo stands in front of him, raising an eyebrow as the tall bastard watches the man stalk off through the windows. “Making friends, huh?”

The other mouths 'dumb bitch disease' before blinking back at him, eyes focused just above his own.

“No it’s not, I've been far less professional before,” he says, giving a shaky grin. “And y’know me, so many friends, constantly making more. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with me? I’m perfect, the best.”

“Sure,” his best friend snorts, hands dropping when he finishes tying his apron around his waist. He gestures towards the door. “What’d he do?”

“Was being a massive prick,” Tommy scowls, following him back around the counter. “I found out his opinions on hybrids when, trust me, not a single person asked.”

“Ah,” the Enderian nods. “You okay? You seem a little anxious.”

Cracking a smile, he says, “the anxiety can’t touch me if I simply say no, big man.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Ranboo says. “No, yeah, that’s not how that works.”

“Don’t tell me how anxiety works, Ran-Boo,” Tommy bickers.

“If I won’t, no one else will,” he sighs. “Finishing up your shift or?”

“Working until six,” he corrects, throwing away the half-made drink sitting lonely and gross on the counter. “You?”

“Shift until three,” Ranboo shrugs. “Gotta pick up Michael from school, ‘Bo is working today too. He’s getting home around… eight, I think?”

“Oof,” Tommy grimaces. “Didn’t he work a couple late shifts earlier this week too?”

He remembers being grateful, at first, that his best friends had been working late—mostly because they lived in the apartment below him and if they had been home, there’s no fucking way they wouldn’t have suspected something had been up a few days prior when the Angel of Death dropped by.

Their building is almost vacant, the noise of an extra person is very, very noticeable once you get used to all the normal creaks and weird sounds echoing against empty halls.

As used to that as someone can be, anyway.

“Yeah,” Ranboo's shoulders drop, “but we need the money.”

Tommy nods but doesn’t reply, he knows the struggle well. He makes enough to keep up with bills, to pay for his groceries, to be comfortable enough to save up a bit—but what he saves usually goes to his best friends and their ‘son’ to help keep them afloat.

Raising a kid is expensive.

The rest of his shift goes by quickly—the trio that had the unfortunate encounter with the prick from earlier left as soon as their drinks were done but not without a thank you for the help and a rather generous tip.

The blond man had given him a really nice “I appreciate what you did” and a warm smile that had his ears turning red.

Tommy wasn’t used to thank yous or people saying stuff like that.

He was embarrassed but managed to give a quick “welcome” back.

Later, when Ranboo was packing up to go and Tommy was on his break, he slipped the hundred tip into his best friend’s coat pocket. He needed it more, anyway.

He sees the blond man more often than he sees his other regulars.

His name is Phil and he has two sons: Technoblade, the pink-haired hybrid and Wilbur, the brunet man Tommy spotted with them the first time they met. His laughter is familiar and the fledgling can’t really pinpoint where from and so are his eyes.

It’s nice, they banter and joke around, throwing both compliments and insults like they’ve shown each other for years.

Phil is a kind man. He’s funny and sharp witted and, most of all, he gives off major dad vibes. Tommy likes it, likes how he’s one of the only caring adults he’s ever met.

Even his exclaims of “you little shit!” are fond.

Tommy still is wary sometimes—a scrappy street kid like him hasn’t survived by being trusting—but as time goes on, it’s harder to keep his guard up.

Meeting Wilbur is like coming home after a long, draining vacation.

He’s all sunshine and clever comebacks, brilliance and mischief and laughter.

It takes him half the time to get close to Tommy as his father but twice as long to earn the title of friend openly (Tommy wasn’t ready to admit it and it was funny to bother Wil by calling him a bitch but not letting him know he was the favorite, even though he’s sure the man knew).

And if meeting him was returning home, meeting Technoblade was an adventure.

The hybrid was somehow both awkward and confident in one go. It reminded Tommy enough of Ranboo that the fledgling didn’t have much of an issue navigating the other’s social ineptitude.

He was a giant nerd, into mythology and stars and history—scarily intelligent and severely too soft for how tough other people tended to view him.

It’s nice, becoming their friends.

Really nice.

On a Wednesday at 10 AM, Tommy spills coffee on Wil's favorite jacket and proceeds to avoid him for three days.

He's scared.

He knows he messes up, that he gets to be too bothersome, too clumsy. He did not think his time would be that short, that he'd fuck up so soon.

But, somehow, the brunet isn't even angry? He pulls the younger boy into a hug, tight and warm and comforting, concern spilling into the air and sweeping across his skin as Wil cups his face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones as he asks: "Are you okay, sunshine? You just—disappeared."

"I'm—" Tommy didn't, couldn't, finish the sentence. A sob, sudden and loud, tears from his throat.

The other's face crumbles and he goes back to holding the blond. The fledgling apologizes, pleads and Will just holds him. There's no anger, just a gentle reassurance. No harsh touches or cold fingers, just a warm embrace and a crooning voice.

It's the first time Tommy truly felt safe with one of them.

If Wilbur's existence was a home Tommy was returning to and Techno's helped his soul along on an adventure, Phil was a companion, walking side by side with him, an umbrella in hand for the rainy days and laughter on his lips for any puddle that's a little deeper than initially thought.

He's the sound of coins clinking in a pocket, he's warm colors, and the shine of a lamp against a new book being read past midnight—he's new and familiar and everything in between.

He's one in the same and he promises Tommy that, one day, the teen will be happy like him too.

People often think that Tommy doesn't deserve to be happy. They think that he is a hard-headed kid with a foul mouth, dirty hands, and an ugly past that deserves an ugly future, too. They think that he's just another street rat, that he began worthless and he'll end worthless.

In a way, they're right.

Tommy is a street rat, but he's not worthless—he's not a homeless no one who will stay being no one's. He's not a terrified kid stuck against the cold walls of a broken city to escape the worst of a colder winter anymore but...

But it's scary that the alleyways still feel like home, sometimes.

(This is the truth.)

When Tommy begins to molt, he locks himself in his room for two days and meticulously picks through his feathers, sorting and precise. He pulls out the cut ones, makes room for the new ones, and fixes ones bent out of place. He puts them into neat lines and cleans them until they shine.

His wings look healthier despite the stress lines being ever-present.

When he leaves his room, determined to show his fellow avian his reformed wings, the Angel of Death promises to take him flying one day.

The more Tommy doesn't try to find connections, the more his mind likes to put them together.

Tubbo always says he's a spider building up other people's webs; a master of links and intersections and fitting puzzle pieces together that never would look like they're meant to be side by side, fitting things that should never fit and the things that do.

Ranboo says it's luck mixed with smarts—easy for an illusion of a fake-angry, ignorant boy hiding a genius underneath. He says that lies can always see other lies, that Tommy is made to find hidden things.

He just thinks it's annoying.

(This is a lie.)

Simultaneously, Tommy juggles becoming friends with the Minecraft family and the supervillain he had healed (and said villain's partners) as they grow to become close with him.

They don’t ask to be healed by him, they don’t push for anything more even when he knows they want to. Especially when they want to, they're good about keeping inquiries to themselves.

They show up, stay for a couple hours, and leave as quickly as they came—the meet ups are frequent enough, though, that he collects little pieces of them every time. He learns and he, foolishly, grows attached.

He misses them when they’re not there.

The Angel of Death has a great sense of humor and he doesn’t mind when Tommy chirps at him; he’ll do a little trill back and, without saying anything, they talk like that when it’s just the two of them. It’s nice, being able to let the more hybrid-driven side of him out once in a while, nice to have someone like him to be around.

The Blood God, despite their rough start and Tommy’s hesitation, is such a sweetheart—he acts like he’s never had a conversation with someone a day in his life and it’s really, really funny.

He tells cool stories and likes potatoes.

Siren is a bit of a mystery but Tommy doesn’t shy away from him; the older is all over the place, likes to jump from one thing to the next, and his giggles remind Tommy of sunshine.

All three of them remind Tommy of a lot of things.

Weeks become a month and a month becomes three and suddenly a year has gone by.

It’s like he wakes up and he has three families and two secrets:

One in the walls of his best friends’ apartment, a past unraveling from three scared kids growing up in a horrible system and a broken city to three teenagers raising a kid in that same city, less scared and so much more loved.

Another in the laughter of a blond man, a brunet with a silver tongue, and a piglin hybrid’s arms—this is the same family, but not the same, as a winged villain, a gentle giant with a boar’s mask, and Siren’s hugs late at night.

(It wasn’t a sudden realization, nothing quick and life-changing. It was slow, a steady walk down the street.

One day, he just knew.

One day, when Siren came by for a visit not even a couple hours after Wilbur stopped at the café to hang out, Tommy thought: huh, Wil must feel clingy today. Then the next when the Blood God stroked a gentle hand down one of his shadow’s back, the same way he’s seen his other brother do to a stray cat, and thought: Techno really is a softie. And a time before this one, when Phil and the Angel of Death both looked at him the same way, fondness and care and he thought: dad.

It wasn’t even startling, just a simple truth discovered in the little ways the people he has grown to love move about their day. Small things, all tiny bits and pieces brought together into one undeniable truth.)

The first secret is keeping the Syndicate from finding out he knows their identities.

The second one is to himself—telling himself that no, no, Wilbur cannot be Siren and Techno can’t be the Blood God and that it’s impossible for Phil to be the Angel of Death. It’s one big lie but he wraps up the truth to keep himself safe. It’s a lie he’ll continue to tell himself until he can’t anymore.

It's a lie but it's one worth telling.

(This is the truth.)

Tubbo and Ranboo—complete in their vigilante gear, toe to head disguised as Nuke and Ender—meet the leaders of the Syndicate by accident and without much grace.

It goes like this:

Tommy is curled up on the Blood God's chest, legs over the villain's and wings hanging limp over him. They're taking up the entirety of his only couch and due to this fact, Siren is sitting in front of them on the floor, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders and glaring.

The Angel of Death is snickering from his spot of the recliner and it makes him and his son start some lighthearted bantering.

It's good here, a sweet moment; soft and warm and theirs.

Only, it doesn't stay theirs and it does not stay soft, it does not stay within just this one family and one moment because Ender, in a cloud of purple, pops into Tommy's kitchen, a swearing and bloody Nuke in his hands.

The Blood God—who hates surprises, does not like getting startled—has both teenagers pinned to the ground and shaking underneath his shadow's claws before the blond could even blink.

It moves too fast yet far too slow.

One second, the Angel is laughing, Siren all cozy on the floor, the next they're standing over his best friends, silent and blank and—Tommy gets dragged to his feet by Blood and he yelps, fighting the strong hands as he breaks from his 'what the fuck'' daze.

One second, he's trying to process, the next he's forced into action.

"Don't!" He shouted over the beasts' snarls and Siren's questions, over his families shouting at each other. "Don't hurt them!"

The Angel of Death pauses, frowns.

He turns to Tommy, blue to blue, eyeing the fledgling's puffed wings and where he's struggling to pull away from his brother.

He turns back to the vigilantes and Tommy tenses—Ranboo is pinned, completely, he could probably get away but like hell he'd leave Tubbo and Tommy there when he thought they were in danger. Tubbo was pale even under his mask, shaking in a way different from fear, blood pooling the tiles below him.

They can't fight, the Syndicate might not hurt Tommy but these are just strangers to them—

How far does their care for Tommy go?

Will they take this risk?

Will they hurt the people he loves?

"Tommy," Ranboo chokes out, whimpering when a shadow presses closer.

He's frozen for a second, stuck in the terror that worms its way into his heart, whispering, you're about to lose someone again, you're going to watch and you're going to lose them.

But then a rattle’s shaking his throat and Tommy spits out, “back off.”

“Toms,” Siren turns, looking at him like he’s crazy.

“No,” his voice is too shaky, too scared—his best friends are right there, right there, and they’re in trouble but this is his family, his flock, how can he decide, he can’t— “Just, let them up. Blood, let them up.”

He’s scared of his family, he realizes.

Tommy’s going to be sick.

The God looks down at him, eyes glowing red through the boar mask.

His brother’s hands loosen their hold on his arms as he nods—both the Angel and Siren backing away from the vigilantes when the shadows do, too.

Tommy’s instantly stumbles towards his best friends, making a low wounded noise in the back of his throat when he sees Tubbo’s half-dazed eyes, the rip on his side.

He’s all too aware of how the Syndicate watches, confused and wary.

He’s all too aware of how they don’t take well to outsiders.

“Tommy,” Ranboo’s voice sounds raw, terrified, even with the modifier on. “Tommy.”

“They’re not thunderstorms,” he’s saying—he can’t think, he can’t explain it well enough. Tubbo’s bleeding out, he needs to help, he needs—

His hands are reaching towards the wound and—

Gloved hands grip over his wrists, shaking and blood-stained and weak. Ranboo can barely sit up but he doesn’t know these villains like Tommy does; they’re strangers, they’re the bad guys, they’re not to be trusted in his eyes.

His best friend is stopping him from healing Tubbo because he knows that the way healers like him are treated is worse than death.

His best friend is stopping him from healing Tubbo.

“Ender,” his voice does not shake, fuck you, “let go.”

“Tommy,” it’s the only one he can say.

“They’re not thunderstorms,” he repeats. “They’re not thunderstorms—”

And, because they trust each other, Ranboo lets go, slumps to the kitchen floor with a gasp. No one else would understand; no one else has the history. No one else spent nights with bruises and empty stomachs and curled fists with him in a room under dusty stairs, footsteps that sound like thunder the only noise that interrupts their sobs. No one else spent years running through a downpour with an umbrella in one hand and a first aid kit in the other at the first sight of lightning.

No one else understands the way Ranboo does, he knows what Tommy means, knows that these people are just safe because they are not like the ones from their past.

He’s still scared, he’s still probably running off of adrenaline but he isn’t the one bleeding out so Tommy lets his best friend watch as he reaches out to their other one—golden light trickling down his arms through his veins and turning his fingers numb.

The Angel of Death was passed out last time Tommy healed him. He doesn’t know if the others know, it was never brought up.

But he loves them.

He loves them and they’re safe so he lets them watch as he pulls Tubbo’s failed armor away, lets them watch as he turns gold-stained fingers red and holds both palms to the wound. It’s a long gash, deep enough to cut through the muscle just below his ribs.

A fatal wound, especially with the Withering seeping into his skin.

“Fucking idiots,” Tommy hisses, the burn against his eyes lets him know they’re glowing. “Who fucked your shit up?”

The silence is answer enough.

“Ender,” he says, “it’s okay.”

“Tommy,” there goes Ranboo again, wanting his heart to break with the desperate way his name falls from his mouth. “Tommy is—he’s going to—”

“Don’t,” he spits. “Nuke will be fine. I promise.”

“You don’t—” He gasps and he just barely sees his best friend pulling himself to his knees before going over to cradle Tubbo’s head, fingers trembling over his mask. “You don’t break promises.”

“I don’t,” Tommy agrees.

He’s slowing, the magic sluggish through his veins and burning hot, the muscle under his palms have knitted itself back together, the skin cooler, the wound turning from fatal to dangerous to uncomfortable—a small cut, bruises.

There’s no black marks, no angry streaks eating away at Tubbo’s body, the rot gone. Wounds can heal, can be stitched and patched up—withering can’t.

It takes and takes and takes until there’s nothing to take at all.

Only strong healers can fix it.

(The fact that he's strong shouldn't scare him so much.)

Tubbo groans, pained but alive.

There’s color returning to his face.

Ranboo is hunched over him, arms around the other’s shoulders, drawn close and protective. His eyes are closed and although his breath is ragged, the blond knows he’s sleeping. An adrenaline crash, no doubt.

He’s going to kick their asses when they both wake up.

How dare they get hurt. Bastards.

Tommy breathes out after a minute, pulls away—everything looks a bit tinted, like it’s swimming. The burn under his skin retreats and leaves his fingers feeling like ice.

When he slumps into the cabinets next to him, he turns his head and meets the Angel’s eyes. They’re blue and calculating, a mixture of awe and confusion, swirling emotions too big for the fledgling to understand.

“They’re family,” Tommy explains. He sounds terribly weak and the look in his villains’ eyes hardens. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about them.”

Siren shuffles in place, moving his eyes back and forth between Tommy and the vigilantes. The Blood God is silent, one hand rests on a shadow’s head, more than two pairs of red eyes staring at the teen, protective and patient.

The Angel of Death, though, he’s…

“I understand why you didn’t,” the avian crouches down next to him, blue eyes gentle. He raises his hands—deadly, deadly, deadly—and gently cups his face, pressing a kiss that could kill to the boy’s forehead. “You wanted to keep them safe, keep us separated. It was easier, hm? You didn’t want to risk anything?”

Tommy nods, fingers grasping tight at his dad’s—not dad’s, friend’s—soft over jacket.

“You did brilliant,” the Angel reassures. “You healed your friend and I’m so proud of you.” A hand guiding him up, wings over his own. He whines. “Shh, I know, I know. You overdid it, huh, love?”

He wants to shake his head, to say no, that he’s fine, he’s healed worse while weaker but everything’s so heavy.

“You can rest,” a low coo makes the blond melt, his whole body slumping into the other. He barely manages a weak chirp. “We’ll be here, we’ll keep watch and talk when you wake up. Just sleep, little crow.”

It’s an order, so he follows it.

It’s as simple as that.

When he does wake up, Tommy is thoroughly unimpressed with how out of the loop he is. He, quite honestly, feels like everything’s been moved one inch to the left and they’re all in on the joke but him because, well—

He woke up, his face pressed into a neck—mint and iron, Wilbur, Siren—and his body cradled by steady, capable hands. He’s warm and there’s a strong body against his back, deft fingers running through his hair; Techno, the Blood god.

He’s cuddling with his brothers, which isn’t all that uncommon.

The Angel of Death’s laughter is ringing through the air of his apartment and that’s not unusual either but the fact that Tubbo’s voice followed it—high and wonder-filled, the kind he gets when he’s learning something new—is.

What’s worse is that Ranboo speaks next and Tommy, in a flick of panic, realizes that neither of the vigilantes have their voice modifiers on.

He doesn’t remember it, but they explain what happened.

Tubbo and Ranboo, seeing it pointless to keep their faces hidden (they’re his best friends, it’s not that hard to link them together when someone knows where the look and the Syndicate can look everywhere) changed into clean clothes and didn’t bother with their masks when they woke up.

While the Angel told the teenagers what Tommy means to them, answering any and all questions that he was willing to, the bee boy explained one of his as well—that yes, it was normal for the fledgling to pass out for a while after healing someone, especially when it was from a wound that big and no, it doesn’t hurt him at all, just makes him tired.

It’s a nice day, after that.

Tensions are still a little high, they’re strangers after all, but they’re strangers who love the same boy and they—thankfully—were willing to put in the work to at least get along.

And so, life went on.

Only, now Tommy didn’t have to keep his families apart.

Tommy is not a stranger to cruelty.

It crawled its way into every corner of his skin, into the edges of his mind, showing itself in scars and flinches and words spitting out of his mouth before he could even hope to take them back.

It made insults cold and colder hands to leave aches over all they could find.

He learned how to survive before he learned how to create and it shows; rough hands, rough smile, rough sleep.

People used to tell him that he was made to fight.

Tommy likes to think that he was made to love. He has so much of it, how could it not be his purpose, his goal? How could he not want to love the people he cares so deeply for? How could he be made for fighting when he's so good at surviving?

He doesn't like it but when he needs to be capable of more than just love, when cruelty comes knocking on the door, returning again—

He fights.

When cold hands grab his arms in the middle of the night, harsh fingers biting into his skin, he fights. When he gets pinned to his bed, body trying to keep him down, hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, he fights. When he gets dragged off, thrown to the ground, kicked, he fights. When rope is tied around his wrists, a gag shoved into his mouth, he fights. When something heavy and hurting wraps around his throat, he fights.

When darkness eats away at his vision he—doesn't.

There’s no fight, not anymore, not when the darkness takes hold, takes everything, and leaves him with too little.

It leaves him without nothing at all.

Tommy is not meant to be a fighter.

(This is a lie.)

Tommy’s been awake for less than a minute and he has a visceral understanding that something is wrong. His whole body aches in a way it hasn’t since he was ten and locked into the back of a foster parent’s truck for two days straight.

It’s hard to breathe. There’s something cold over his hands, his legs, his body.

There’s cotton in his mouth, thick and awful and it digs into his cheeks, wrapped too tight around his head.

It’s hard to breathe.

There’s something dripping nearby.

It’s not his tears; they’re getting absorbed by the gag. He doesn’t want to be crying but he is. He doesn’t want to be hurting so bad but he is.

It’s hard to breathe.

There’s something in his ears, loud and repetitive. By the time Tommy realizes it’s his heartbeat, he’s already falling asleep.

The next time he’s awake, consciousness slips through his grasps before he can close his fingers, fleeting.

A flutter of the eyelids, a twitch of sore muscles, a sharp sting in his neck.

A coldness filling his body, a tiredness pulling at his mind; a fog, thick and unyielding.

He sleeps.

Tommy is an inherently gentle person but he knows how to hold onto cruelty, how to drag it from the corners of his past and shape it into a weapon. Pain breeds pain—and he has learned how to take his and make it worse.

He has mastered the art of cruelty.

(This is the truth.)

Voices, loud but unclear.

A growing throb across his body, like every muscle has suddenly turned into a big bruise that someone’s digging their thumb into.

Tommy groans, rolling his head to the side—a sharp pain follows the movement, clawing its way down his spine, spreading his arms like goosebumps.

He whimpers, tensing.

It hurts.

Something cold touches his forehead.

At first, it’s nice, then it shifts—fingers digging into either side of his temple, strong and painful. The cold shifts to ice and he thrashes, body held down, a raw panic eating away at his chest.

He thinks he’s screaming.

He thinks something really bad is happening, then—

Then he’s dreaming.

But he’s not asleep.

Tommy’s in his living room, muffled music coming in from his kitchen. He frowns, twisting his hands out in front of him, thumbs brushing his fingers. It feels… off. Everything looks—blurry. Like a camera lens, slightly out of focus until he looks at them.

What’s going on?

A crackling pop from the kitchen makes him jump.

Right, right. He was—cooking, wasn’t he?

Tommy walks over, startling slightly at the smooth feeling of the tile underneath his feet. He’s wearing socks. Why is he wearing socks? He doesn’t like socks. He doesn’t—

A shift, the smell of something in the oven, the hiss of sauce in the pan. Right, he has to focus on cooking. Tommy stops in front of the stove, three pans up on top of it, he reaches over to grab a spatula to stir it and oh, he’s at Phil’s house. Why is he at Phil’s house? This is Phil’s kitchen. He doesn't have pans like this.

He doesn’t—Tommy can’t cook.

Why was he trying to cook?

“I can’t cook,” he tells himself, almost crying when the back of his throat doesn’t rattle the usual way it does. Something’s wrong, something’s different, he needs— “Phil! Phil, please, something’s wrong!”

“Toms,” the man says, sighing and the fledgling jumps, spins to face him.

When did he get there? Tommy didn’t see him enter the room, didn’t hear him.

“You okay, bud?” There’s a concerned frown on his dad’s face but it’s wrong, the way he tilts his head is off. “We were mid-conversation and you just stopped.”

What? “I didn’t—”

“Tommy,” Phil raises his hand, pressing the back of his wrist against his forehead, tutting as he does so. He’s cold. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel—fine,” he chokes out.

Cold, cold, cold.

Phil is never cold, always bundled up, always layering, always with hand warmers in his pockets and an extra jacket in his car. This can’t be, this isn’t—

“I need to leave,” Tommy says, stumbling as he brushes past Phil but—

“Wait,” his dad—this isn't Phil, never was, can't be—grabs him, fingers heavy. “Don’t go.”

“Let go!” Tommy screeches. “Techno! Help! This isn’t Phil! Techno, Wil! Help, please, something's wrong!"

Surely they'll hear him—they'll help.

They have to help, they're going to—

“Tommy,” he sounds so hurt but it isn’t Phil, it isn’t— “What are you talking about?”

His grip tightens.

“No, no! Wil, Wil, please, Tech!” He cries, trying to get his arm back but the man (the lie) holds onto him harder, bringing his other hand up. “Let go, let go! Please, Techno, make him let go! Tech!” The man opens his mouth and the teen thrashes, tries to shove him back. “You’re not Phil, you’re not Phil, let me go! Help!”

The lie sighs, frowns, opens his mouth and—

“What happened?” A face in front of his own, blond hair falling over green eyes, a thick frown over busted lips. “Why didn’t it work?”

“I don’t know,” a sigh, something sharp over his forehead, digging in. “I’m trying again, I assume.”

“Yeah,” the face pulls back, sneering at him, reaching out and—

“Hey, hey, love,” a warm hand shakes him awake.

Tommy gasps, bolts upright, it hurts hurts hurts. He panics, pulling back, eyes rapidly going over a dark room, arms pushing himself away as he scrambling to the side.

His feet are under him, he goes to run but—

Oh, it’s Wilbur. It’s just his brother.

“Hey, sunshine,” his brown eyes are soft, concerned. Exactly like he remembers seeing them after every scraped knee or a trip that leads him face-planting into a wall. It’s also—different, somehow. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh…” Tommy grimaced, quick to raise his hands and brush away any wetness. His cheeks feel stiff with tears but there’s no tears. That’s odd. “I’m sorry if I woke you up. I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to apologize, just come back to bed,” like a bitch, his brother climbs into the fledgling’s bed and—bed. Not a nest, a bed.

Tommy looks around the room, frowning.

They’re… in Technoblade’s room.

“Wil?” He turns back, blue to brown, face visible even in the dark. “Why are we in Techno’s room?”

His lights are off, even the glowing pink LEDs the fencer usually has hanging over his window.

That's—strange.

“We were hanging out here and you fell asleep, remember?” Wilbur tilts his head, eyes staying on him. “Didn’t want to wake you and make you move, so Tech and I just let you sleep.”

He doesn't remember that.

“I…” Tommy hesitates but nods, slowly climbing under the covers.

He’s tired, after all.

Wilbur hums, running a hand down his back once they’re cuddled together, falling asleep together like they have so many times before—

“Don’t you want to let your wings out, darling?”

And Tommy nods, fully ready to take them out and get comfy but then he tenses—

He never fucking told Wilbur that he has wings, that he’s an avian. Siren might know but Wil isn’t stupid, he’d never slip up like that—

“Fuck off!” Tommy shouts, pushing himself away so fast he can’t stop himself from hitting the floor—it hurts but it doesn’t, the pain is off. Fake. “You’re not Wil!”

He pushes himself up from the floor but the ground shifts, the walls twists, these hands are not his hands but they are and—

“Try again.”

“If we do this too much…”

“I know.” Frustration, anger, desperation. “I know what could happen and—”

“I want you to try again,” Technoblade says, hands raised in front of him. “Just one more time, Theseus.”

“But Tech,” the teen groans, star-fishing out onto the mat below him. “I’m bored.”

“You’re an idiot,” his oldest brother corrects, earning himself an indignant ‘hey!’ that he raises a hand to, placating. “Just sayin’. You need to learn how to protect yourself.”

“I know how to protect myself,” Tommy grumbles, pushing himself up. “You’re just a bitch.”

Technoblade raises an eyebrow at him.

Right, he was the one who was begging to be taught. Street fights and schoolyard scraps can only talk someone so far.

"But," he grins sheepishly, “a bitch who's a lovely, lovely person who I’m so grateful for, o' teacher of mine."

“Right,” the piglin snorts, falling into a fighting stance. “Now, again.”

“But—”

“C’mon, again,” his brother demands, red eyes staring right at him.

Red eyes?

Techno doesn’t have red eyes, the Blood God and his shadows, though...

“You’re not Techno,” Tommy’s own eyes widen, mouth dropping open and—

“I don’t get it, he shouldn’t be this resilient.”

“Just—focus on the Syndicate.” A voice spits out. There’s something in front of him, white, round, a large smile painted across it. A mask. “We don’t need to know about his family.”

“I’ve been trying,” something heavy, a hand moving up his throat. “He keeps twisting things.”

“Then don’t let him.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Make it simple.”

“Alright,” bored, they sound bored and—

“Knock knock,” Siren sings out, opening his balcony doors. Tommy would like to think that he’s grinning behind his mask, just like the teen himself is hiding one behind his faux anger. “Got any gossip for me, sunshine?”

“Just that you’re a bitch,” he chirps.

Rolling his eyes, the villain confidently walks over and plops himself down on his couch. “See, you only say that because you’re a gremlin.”

“Nah,” Tommy grins. “Pretty sure it’s just because you’re a bitch.”

Ask for his name.

His grin slips and he flinches, eyes widening. That thought—he’s not. He already knows.

“Toms?” Siren asks, head tilting at him. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.” He reassures but it’s not the truth, it’s not the truth, there’s that voice again—ask for his name. “I can’t… I think that there's something wrong with me. I need help. I think I need help. I need help.”

“What do you mean?” The villain asks, head tilting—

Tommy knows something is off.

It’s—he remembers—there’s too much, it’s not real, it’s real but it isn't—

Everything is pretend, it’s fake, he’s playing pretend at being alive, this isn’t being alive, this isn’t even survival—

Dreaming, he’s dreaming, why is he dreaming?

Didn’t Wilbur wake him up from his dream? No, Tommy clutched his head, no, that wasn’t Wilbur. That wasn’t Wilbur and this isn’t Siren.

Phil wasn’t Phil, Techno wasn’t Techno.

None of this is real.

“Why are you doing this?” Tommy asks, choking out. His heart feels like it’ll explode in his chest but when he reaches up, it feels steady in his throat. A lie. “I don’t understand and—”

“We can’t keep doing this, Dream.”

He’s in the park.

Siren is by his side, fingers tapping against his thigh as he hums.

Tommy’s grown up in L’Manburg, he’s spent his life on these streets, sitting on this bench when the foster homes got too loud and his motivation for survival got too low.

The trees are wrong and—

“Again, do it again.”

“He’s not going to last much longer like this.”

“I don’t need him to last long. I need him to give me answers and—”

The Angel of Death is smiling at him, mask off. His eyes won’t focus but he almost looks like—

He looks like—

But he can't be—

"Put your mask on!" Tommy snarls, hands slapping over his eyes. ”And—”

“Dream, shit, grab his shoulders, fuck! ” Someone’s talking but it sounds like he’s underwater. It hurts. Tommy heaves, jerking to the side. It hurts. His eyes are blurry and he lurches his head to the side. It hurts, hurts, hurts. “Grab him!”

It's not supposed to hurt like this.

Fingers slid away from his temples, they’re ice and they’re gone and they leave behind a sting.

The fledgling screams, gasping.

He doesn’t stop screaming.

His head hurts.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It’s never supposed to hurt like this.

It is not supposed to happen—

Someone speaks, he can’t hear it. There’s pain and only pain and—

“Sit still,” a voice, there’s a voice too but he can’t listen. There’s hands, and they hurt, and there’s something warm and wet on his face, that hurts too, he thinks it’s tears, and he can’t stop screaming.

His throat is raw.

It hurts.

He wants it to stop. He wants it to stop. He wants it to—

It stops.

There’s a sting in his neck and it stops.

Sometimes, Tommy doesn't think he'll ever know what true pain is like, the words how to properly explain it.

(This is a lie.)

He thinks he'll find out, he's terrified of the when, of the expiration date on his peace, because there has to be a limit, an end, when Tommy is so used to pain.

But he is not used to pain like this.

And he wonders if he has found the definition.

(This is the truth.)

Across the city, in an underground base (a base half rotten and half impenetrable), an Angel, a God, and a Siren sit around a large table, furious and motivated. They are alone here but out there, past the walls, past the masks, there is a swarm of powerful people ready with claws and teeth and unpredictability at their beck and call.

The Syndicate are predators on the hunt but what they're searching for is not prey.

This does not mean that someone won't end up dead. This does not mean that they're not lethal. This does not mean that they aren't angry and won't take their anger out on the world.

Across the city, a new kind of war begins.

When he was young, people used to say that Tommy isn’t someone anyone will remember. That he is not a person that they will search for. That they will miss.

(This is a lie.)

An hour from now, two teenagers will go to their best friend's apartment and find him missing.

They will see the trashed room, the blankets kicked to the floor in a struggle, the blood on the kitchen wall, the cracks spiraling up the balcony's glass doors and they will not panic. These teenagers are young but they are not helpless, they will see what needs to be done and then they will do it.

An hour from now, two teenagers start a revolution.

“Hello.” Someone’s hands—cold and harsh and horribly familiar—grab onto his shoulders, shaking him. “It's time to get up, I'm done playing nice.” A quiet hiss, a rougher shake. “Wake up!”

Tommy gasps, jolting, eyes snapping open.

There’s an ugly white mask in front of him, a crude black smiley face etched into it’s surface. An even uglier bright green hoodie that he’s sure is hiding plenty of armor underneath it surrounds the bloody thing.

The mask tilts, the person wearing it moves back, hands still on his shoulders.

“Good morning,” Dream—the hero, the goddamn number one hero—says.

What a bad fucking way to start someone’s day.

Tommy locks his jaw, staying silent as he glares up at that stupid fucking mask. Stupid fucking hero. Stupid fucking ropes tying him to this chair. Stupid fucking drugs that are making him feel slow.

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” Dream says casually and then continues as if that’s not fucking horrifying. “I know you’re not shy. Go ahead, say something, don’t pretend now.”

Tommy smiles, bitter and mocking, “fuck you.”

The sound of skin on skin registers before the sting against his chest does, before the painful way his head is forced to the side.

He does not cry out.

He does not react.

He knows men like this—violent ones, clever ones with red flags dyed blue, cruel ones with smiles painted so nicely onto their face that people miss the cold eyes. He knows how it feels to have knuckles break open against his skin, how it feels for the anger to show itself by yelling and bruises.

He knows that men like this are quick to anger and hard to lose focus. They are patient and precise and they get what they want or they hurt people if they aren’t.

He knows that men like this demand respect.

Tommy also knows kids like him; all hard-headed sneers, bitten nails, and busted knees.

Men like Dream don’t give up but kids like Tommy don’t give in.

“Aw,” Dream says, mocking. He’s moved back, sitting in a chair across from the fledgling’s—the ghost of his hands on Tommy’s shoulders makes his skin crawl. “You should’ve known better than that.”

He stays silent.

The hero tilts his head. It looks a lot more unsettling with that ugly smiley mask than it should.

“What?” He asks. “No questions for me?”

There’s no reply, just a small shift in his chair that makes rope dig into his skin.

“That’s okay,” Dream continues, folding his hands in his lap. “I have a question of my own: what are the Syndicates’ identities?”

And he laughs—because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? Tell him?

No, he’ll be taking that secret to his grave even if it’s what will put him into it.

“That’s not a reply.” His other cheek gets a matching sting, harder this time. Tommy’s positive there’ll be a bruise. “Tell me their names.”

“That’s not a question,” he snarks.

This time, a hit to his stomach that has the boy wheezing.

“This is how it’ll go, okay?” Dream says, y’know, like an idiot. “I ask you a question and I’ll hurt you every time you don’t give me the right answer. So, let’s try this again, what are the Syndicates’ real names?”

Tommy exhales slowly, rolling his tongue in his mouth.

That last slap made his tooth cut into his cheek, the taste of iron sharp and undeniable.

He knows he shouldn’t—but while he can handle supervillains, he can’t heroes, they remind him too much of a broken system and houses that aren’t homes, fake goodness wrapped up to paint a pretty picture and nothing more—but he does it anyway. He spits.

The glob of blood and saliva slides down the white porcelain, leaving a both satisfying and disgusting stain behind.

Dream stays terrifyingly still in his seat.

While Tommy knows he fucked up, he can’t bring himself to care too much, so he just leans his head back and bites out, “that enough of an answer for you?”

No, no it’s not because the hero then decides to spend the next couple minutes roughing him up—punches, slaps, a hand digging into his hair, yanking and harsh—but Tommy’s been through worse by people far angrier.

What this bastard’s after, he can’t give.

When he’s done, Dream settles into his chair, flexing out his hand.

Tommy’s heaving. Wheezing, painful breaths leave his chest. Blood drips down his chin, he can feel it pooling onto his shirt and cooling. There’s sweat falling into his eyes, mixing with tears. His whole left side tingles, like spikey cotton balls are being pressed into his skin.

He’s sure, though, that it looks worse than it feels.

So jokes on Dream, fucker gets to deal with this ugliness now.

“Y’right han’ed,” Tommy barely manages to say, words slurring slightly. Huh, does he have a concussion? It doesn’t feel like he has a concussion… what do concussions feel like? “Media t’inks you… y’re a le’tie.”

Dream pauses, hand laid out before him before the hero draws back into himself, “I’m ambidextrous.”

“...” Tommy blinks, taking a moment to register the warmth moving down his cheeks is, in fact, tears. “Fuck’n bas-bastard. Pick a ‘ide.”

“I’ll break you, y’know.” He says, so casually. So confident. It should make the fledgling scared. It should terrify him and it does. It does, only, he’s mostly just angry. “You’re just a pawn, you’re not special. You have what I need and I’m going to get it from you.”

“In a… in a game of chess,” he struggles for the words, “you gave up y-your, your queen the moment you—the moment y'took me.”

“Hm,” a tap of fingers, a boot hitting the ground. “You’re unusual, most people start talking by this point.”

Tommy groans, letting himself breathe harshly for a minute as he looks up and stares at the stupidly bright ceiling. Great, ‘by this point’. Dream’s used to torturing people, or something. He has a plan.

What a fucking perfectionist, needing an A-Z go to just to hurt others.

It’s really bright here. Is that part of it? B for Burning People’s Eyeballs? Can’t they let a little bit of shade creep in, some nicer light bulbs?

Shade.

Shadows.

Oh. Oh. They didn’t want the Blood God’s beasts to get in here.

They… they really did plan this, huh?

He’s laughing—Tommy’s laughing. High, hysterical laughter that has his ribs and wounds protesting but he can’t stop, it’s not even funny but he can’t stop because it’s so fucking stupid—

“Let’s get back to it,” Dream says, leaning forward, “shall we?”

“Fuck you.”

A punch to the gut follows the words.

(Tommy bets it hurts his busted knuckles more.)

The week—Tommy thinks it’s a week, at least, it’s hard to tell in a room without windows or a clock and a body too used to a fucked up sleep schedule—goes like this:

On day two, Dream moves him from the chair to a smaller room and hogties his arms together. They chain one of his legs to a wall, thick and metal and wrapped in power-suppressant enchantments. He can’t heal himself even if he wanted to.

Day three, 404 is sent to watch over him.

He does not like babysitting Tommy and forcibly sets the boy to sleep (thankfully, without any hyper-realistic dreams) after pretty much his third curse word, which means the man is a wuss. The fledgling isn’t sure if it was the same day or the next, but he’s woken up by a cold hand handing him a water bottle and a sandwich wrapped up into plastic.

His arms are united and they stay that way for the five minutes he’s given to eat.

He doesn’t remember what happened next.

One moment, he was sitting on the shitty blanket they kept on the floor for him and the next he was in that uncomfortable chair with an ugly white mask staring down at him. And so, the interrogation the pair had before gets redone, leaving him with worse bruises and a “hero” with no more answers than when they began.

Tommy’s sure, though, that the man has learned a couple new swears from him.

He’s left in the room.

Day four, he'd be allowed to get up and piss without someone watching him and on day five, he eats again. He throws the food up and his body is a bit too warm, but sickness is better than getting the shit kicked out of him.

Day five and six, a repeat of day three. Only, they force him to take out his wings.

They tie those up, too.

He’s just thankful they didn’t clip them.

Day seven, nothing. Just him, the too-bright walls, and tears that sting. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever wished there would be a power-outage before, let alone wishes there had been one so far.

Day eight, the current day he’s being forced to miserably exist through, 404 is watching him again. He’s silent, this time. Annoying the hero isn’t worth the invasive feeling of having the other's power dig into his brain and force him to sleep or the pain from resisting it.

Being awake and aware, no matter how anxiety inducing, is the lesser of two evils.

404 is the lesser of two evils, too.

Much better than being around Dream, that’s for sure.

Tommy’s bored but the fact that he’s bored means he’s not dead yet, so the fledgling isn’t complaining much.

Sure, he kind of wants to bang his head into the wall until he can convince himself this is all one elaborate nightmare his subconscious is playing on him, like ‘haha, here’s your karma for loving supervillains’ or something. Sure, he’s in a lot of pain, sure he misses his family and his best friends and his apartment, sure he misses Wilbur’s smug smiles and Technoblade’s voice and Phil’s hug but—

But at least he’s still around to miss those things.

And they’ll come for him. They’ll help. They’re just… taking a while.

It’s okay, because he might be alone with mean heroes right now but he’s truly not alone in this.

His people are coming for him.

It’s okay. He’s okay. He can get through this.

He can.

The amount of chess references Dream uses is, frankly, ridiculous.

Really makes his whole evil genius shtick go down the drain really fast—anaphoras are nice but it's an overused metaphor.

Another week passes by.

Towards the end, 404 makes an offhand comment about how the fledgling has been there for a month already. He’s terrified about what that means, about how much he must have been asleep for, about how many days are blurring together in the too-bright room.

Tommy just wants his home.

He just wants Phil, he just wants his dad.

He wants everything to go back to being okay again.

(This is the truth.)

Tommy wakes up to the feeling of the ground shaking, to the lights flickering, to the sound of an argument.

“—found us, Dream!” It’s 404. He sounds… scared? “I didn’t sign up to get killed!”

“You won’t die—”

A thump. A crack up the wall, groaning deep within the building.

“—you said I just had to help you with your stupid pet project in there and I did that! I’m not fighting the Angel of Death just so you can—”

Dream’s screaming something. He doesn’t sound scared, he sounds crazy.

“—oesn’t matter! You’re in this now whether you like it or—

That was an explosion. That was an explosion.

Things are exploding, this whole building is going down and Tommy’s strapped to a chair. He’s trapped to a fucking chair and the building is going to go down, it’s going to go down and he’s trapped in here and—

“I’m not fighting for you, Dream! This isn’t worth it—”

They’re getting closer, oh gods, is this when they kill him?

Is this when they decide he’s not going to tell him anything and they’d rather have him dead then leave his family to find him?

The door opens, it’s behind him, he can’t see—he can’t see—there’s another boom! and the whole ground shakes, the heroes behind him swear but they’re not, they can’t—

Is this when he dies?

Is this how?

Broken and bleeding and tied to a chair? Is this how he goes out?

Tommy was never one for too much dramatics, for theater or irony or anything like that. There was enough going on in his life that he didn’t need to add anymore unnecessary drama or flare. He wasn’t one who poked around poetry looking to make beauty out of gravestones or bruises.

But—he had always hoped his death would at least be a little beautiful.

Something peaceful, pretty.

Something to make up for how ugly life has been to him.

He’s crying—Tommy’s crying and he doesn’t want to die here. He does not want to die here, he does not want this to be how it all ends. He has so much he hasn’t done. He has people left to hug and hold and love, he has experiences and laughter—so much laughter to give.

He doesn’t want to die.

The fledgling doesn’t realize he’s babbling incoherently before he’s being dragged up, the chain on his leg is gone—it’s gone, when did it get removed? It’s gone—but the rope keeping his wrists together is tight, tight, tight—

It hurts—

“Get up,” Dream’s in front of him, one hand steering him, nails digging into his shoulder while the other one holds his axe. “Get up!” Tommy winces, trying to force his legs to keep up but it’s hard, and it’s not his fault they kept him so immobile.

"Move." He's pushed forward. “We need to leave, we need to leave before they catch up—”

“Too fucking late.” A snarl, metal on metal, a swear and oh fuck—

He’s falling, Dream abandoned trying to keep the fledgling stand for his axe but that’s okay, that’s okay because there’s the Angel of Death—

There’s the Angel of Death, standing in this stingy little hallway, sword out in front of him and angry, angry eyes pinned onto the hero. It’s bright but the way his wings spread behind him, large and dark and a warning lets the Blood God’s shadows leap out from their corners, lets them cover Tommy in a layer of protection as the heroes are move away.

There's a moment where Tommy knows Dream's looking at him and he grins, teeth stained red.

"Checkmate," he croaks out.

It happens so fast.

Too fast.

Dream lunches at him, axe raised and then—he's just, he's gone, forced back—

The fledgling’s on the ground, but he’s not—mental on mental, skin on skin—fuck, was that a bomb?—there’s something, someone, pulling him up, hands gentle as they grab him and then he’s against someone’s chest, large and warm—

Arms wrapped around him, swaying, the thudding of military-grade boots, something that smells like iron and—

Mental on metal, skin on skin—

A blade, an axe clattering to the ground, a porcelain mask cut clean in half—

Mental on metal, skin on skin—someone’s easing him against their body, his arms around their neck even if they’re still tied but he’s safe, he’s safe because these people might be completely destroying everyone around them but they are his people and he is safe.

Those bombs—there’s Tubbo in the corner, fingers glowing a dark green and so does everything he touches (there’s a reason his vigilante name is Nuke)—Ranboo, here and there and popping in and out, tying Dream’s helpers—a boom, a pop, screaming—

Siren is in the corner, talking to a group of people, some are dead, though—

They killed people, they killed people, they killed people—

Tommy could have died .

Dream’s shouting, from somewhere, it’s really loud, it sounds so painful and then he just… stops. Tommy knows that’s not a good thing. He really knows that that isn’t a good thing but a sick part of him thinks good, thinks, he deserves it.

A disturbing part of him hopes it hurts worse than it sounded.

Ranboo, over at the side—then in front of them, eyes wide for just a second, he says something into the comm—everyone looks at them—everyone—

Technoblade’s holding Tommy—

Tommy’s sobbing and he can’t handle this, he’s so tired, he just wants to—

He doesn’t get to finish the thought before he’s drifting off, his brother’s frantic voice not enough to keep his eyes open.

He’s safe now and that’s enough for him to give up.

"—mmy, Tommy." A warm hand pressed against his face, lightly gripping his chin to make him face something. He groans, trying to turn away.

He wants to sleep; everything's heavy.

"I need you to wake up. Please," something wet falls onto his face. Is it… is it raining? "Please wake up, little crow."

A coo; a plea.

It's a struggle but Tommy opens his eyes, trying to push through the thick fog surrounding his mind—it's like trying to swim in ice water, everything's numb.

It's—dark? He's not in the room. He's not in the room. Where—

"Sh, shh," a hand forces him to still, pushing lightly on his chest to keep him down. "You're okay, you're okay. You need to stay awake though, Toms. You need to keep those eyes open, please ."

The Angel of Death is holding him.

He's in the back of—something. A van? A car? It doesn't matter. He's not in the room.

Dream isn't in front of him, hovering. 404 isn't caging him in his own mind. This isn't a dream, it's real. There's eyes—blue and wide, they're staring. They're crying.

The Angel of Death is holding him. They're moving, they're escaping. He's still hurt, his body feels—

"Stay awake," fingers gripping him tight, wings shaking against his own.

The Angel of Death is holding him.

The Blood God is in the seat next to them, his red eyes match the many shadows keeping watch, they're everywhere. Siren's—somewhere. His voice is recognizable with or without his modifier on.

These are his people.

The Angel of Death is holding him.

The Syndicate rescued him.

The Angel of Death is holding him.

Blue to blue, eyes holding steady even if they're full of tears and hands holding him even steadier; strong and warm. Desperate.

He doesn't think he was hurt enough for them to be desperate. Maybe he was gone longer than he thought.

The Angel of Death is holding him with hands that can kill. That have killed. These hands are the hands of someone who's far from good but these hands are all kind. These hands made him a monster, a villain. These hands have raised kids and pressed band-aids onto scraped knees. These hands have brushed away tears. These hands hold his face between trembling palms as their owner bends down to place a feather-light kiss to his head.

This affection can be deadly.

But it's not.

The Angel of Death is holding him—the Angel of Death is Phil. Phil's his dad. His dad is holding him and he's so tired.

"No, no," the avian begs, pressing closer. "You have to stay awake, love. You have to stay awake. I know it hurts—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Toms, stay awake."

He's—trying.

His eyes fall shut regardless.

"Little crow—"

Tommy’s never been one to dream much. He’s always been too much nightmare and not enough boy. He doesn’t think it’s fair that even in his sleep, he hurts.

He thinks it would be better if he didn’t dream at all.

( This is a lie .)

Words, slightly muffled.

They’re familiar but not the kind of familiar that Tommy’s grown used to; they’re safe voices, speaking in gentle tones and hushed voices. These voices, these people, they care about him.

They’re his family.

Tommy’s eyes open to complete darkness and he’s too relieved to be embarrassed about the sob that rips itself out of his mouth—and where there’s one, there’s more, so pretty soon the fledgling is crying into the mattress.

Because he’s laying on a mattress, a nest, there’s a nest around him that isn’t his own and he’s safe.

Tommy’s safe.

The fledgling chirps, loudly, louder than his tears could ever hope to make him. A pitched warble, calling and sad— he doesn’t want to be alone.

A thump, a swear, feet rushing across wood. That’s Phil, that’s Phil’s footsteps. He’s in Phil’s house, in his dad’s nest. His family rescued him and he’s safe. He’s safe and he’s home and oh gods, he just wants to break down and never get up again because they’re here and he’s safe .

Phil bursts into the room looking completely silly.

His wings are all puffed up, he’s wearing his villain costume but the sweater he wears over it is all crooked, the look in his eyes can only be described as frantic and the feathers in his hair are sticking straight up.

Logically, Tommy knows that avians do that to seem bigger and ‘scarier’ but he’s pretty sure his mind is broken or something because it’s just funny to him.

It’s funny but he starts to cry harder.

Phil’s rushing to his side before he could even try to get words out past the pathetic peeps bursting from his chest. Pupils blown wide, hands covering, the avian coos back at him.

Worried warbles, eyes tracing where he’s curled up into the nest, looking at the pillows and blankets as if they’re the problem. They’re not the problem, the nest is lovely—but it’s empty . It’s just him in this nest.

And although nice, it’s not supposed to be just him.

Tommy leans up (ignoring Phil’s panicked coos), and wraps his arms around his father. He trills happily when the other avian falls into the nest with a little “oomph” and curls against him, wings wiggling free to tuck underneath the other’s.

Phil’s silent for three second before he’s letting out comforting chirps and a clawed hand starts running through his hair.

The fledgling twitters back contentment and burrows further into his dad’s neck, wet cheek pressing against the soft texture of his seater.

“Phil?” A hesitant knock on the door. “Can we come in now?”

The avian replies with a loud chirp, a yes, and it takes a few seconds of him humming into the youngling’s hair to probably register that the person on the other side can’t understand it. Tommy’s thoroughly amused by the croaked out ‘come in’ that follows an embarrassed warble.

Wilbur! It’s Wilbur and oh, oh! Following him is Technoblade! They’re in their villain costumes too but oh, those are his brothers, those are his brothers!

Here, here, here! Tommy peeps towards them, shifting his wings underneath Phil’s in a few flaps of excitement and sure , that hurts his ribs a little bit but, so what? His family needs to know they’re welcomed into the nest, their nest, where it’s warm and safe!

Only… his brothers must not know that.

They’re not coming any closer, they’re just standing there, staring.

Do they not think the nest is built correctly? Do they think it’s not safe? That won’t do, that really won’t do. It’s a good nest. Tommy wiggles until he has an arm free and turns until his back is against his father’s chest. He tugs a pillow lightly, warbling softly before putting it back into place and patting it.

See, see? He looks at his brothers, raising his arms for them. Nudging his head against Phil’s, he tucks his wings back into place and calls towards them, safe, safe. Join?

They still don’t move.

He whines, a sad and distressed peep mixing into the sound.

Can they not see that the nest is a good place? It’s soft and safe and warm, it’s big, too! It has enough room for all of them. The fledgling is certain that they’d be comfortable, Phil is great at making nests. There’s so many soft things to run his hands against, space to spread his wings, to sleep. There’s pillows to lean against and their father’s wings to hide under if something spooks them.

It’s safe and it’s theirs, so why won’t they come to him?

Tommy peeps again, tears prick his eyes. Phil’s cooing at him, running a soothing hand through his hair, wings encasing him.

He doesn’t understand, why aren’t his brothers getting into the nest?

Here? The fledgling tries again, crooning lightly at them. Join, join? Safe.

They’re talking to each other, brother to brother but not to him. He turns to his dad, crying into his chest, arms wrapping around the avian as he hides his face in his neck. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it.

Do they just not want to be by him?

“He—” Phil coughs, a warble caught in his throat. “He wants you guys to join the nest.”

“Is that okay?” Wilbur asks. He’s speaking and he sounds closer but he’s still not in the nest. He peeks out and if the other was a little closer, Tommy might get to just—grab him, pull him in. Maybe... “What if he doesn’t want us there when he gets out of his instincts?”

“It’s okay, mate,” his dad rumbles something soothingly at him, though his words are directed towards his other son. “He needs you both right now.”

“He’s hurt, though,” Wil frowns, stepping closer. His fingers twitch against Phil’s shirt. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

Join , Tommy chirps up at him. His brother’s frown means it's no longer a choice and he peeps the warning cheerfully before lunging forward. He ignores his brother’s exclaim of ‘oh fuck!’ and wraps both arms around the other’s waist, pulling him into the nest.

His dad even helps! He helps Wil fall oh so nicely, right between the perfectly placed pillows and the blanket that smells like Technoblade.

He coos happily, climbing onto his brother—who is making rather grumpy noises but that’s okay! He can be grumpy in the nest but it’s the nest so he won’t stay grumpy!—to nudge their cheeks together, happy peeps slipping off his tongue as he nudges the other into place.

Wilbur’s glaring at him when the fledgling forces him into his former spot, but that’s okay. He’s against their dad, their dad is very warm and nice and his wings are the best to be under. All safe and happy and warm.

There’s so many soft things in the nest, so many pretty ones.

The best things, because his dad makes the best nests, and now he has two of the best people in his nest, too! He wants three, though. There’s room for one more. Tommy is not meant to be on the outside all by himself, even if Phil is there and so is Wil, there is supposed to be someone on the other side, someone also warm and also safe.

Technoblade is staring at him, just like before.

All wide-eyed, looking vaguely concerned but also very amused.

Tommy pats the nest and gestures to Wilbur, see, see, see, safe and good. Safe, safe, safe. Join? Join? Safe. Good. Join?

“Techno,” Wilbur hisses and oh! He must want their other brother to join too!

“Nah, nah, nah,” but their brother denies that this is the best place to be, denies where he should be. “I’m not gettin’ dragged in there to get you out. You did that to yourself.”

And now they’re arguing .

Why? Because they haven’t accepted that the nest is superior to being by themselves.

The nest is safe and warm and so, so good. It is nice and great, and oh , he’s so happy most of his favorite people—his flock—are in it.

The nest is perfect.

Tommy is willing to make the sacrifices he needs to get his big brother into it.

Even… if it means leaving.

Which—is harder than he thought it would be. Phil is such a good dad, he builds great nests. It’s safe and secure, nothing can get in that his father does not allow in. Unfortunately, this means that it’s also rather difficult to get out without messing up.

Tommy does not want to mess up the nest.

It’s warm and safe and good. His big brother is still grumpy, but he’s underneath their dad’s wings, so he can’t be all that grumpy. Tommy is supposed to be under that wing, too, but he can’t because his biggest brother isn’t either.

He sits up. It hurts a bit, so did all that moving, trying to get Wil into place, but he ignores that. He’s safe, so everything that hurts will heal.

Wings fluffing behind him, Tommy eyes the distance between the edge of the nest and Techno. The nest is big and warm and tall, the sides are a nice height, a perfect height to see over but still be safe. He doesn’t want to ruin that but he needs to get out.

Surely, he could make up those feet between him and his brother.

Surely, he’ll just… fall out, then get back up and then they’ll get into it together!

They can fall together and their dad will help, just like he helped with Wilbur.

“Tommy…” There’s a warning somewhere in Phil’s voice but the fledgling doesn’t really register it until he’s getting chirped at, a solid don’t echoing around the nest. “Do not jump out of this nest, little crow.”

His wings droop sadly behind him.

He stares up at Technoblade, wide-eyed and arms outstretched, a small peep leaving him. His big brother tenses up, boar mask tilting at him. He whines, shaking slightly as he makes grabby hands.

And oh! Oh! Finally, finally , his big brother walks forward!

He’s going to join the nest!

The mask is taken off, Techno’s red eyes are staring right at him and he only peeps happily as the others inhale sharply. He already knew what his brother looked like, he didn't care about the mask, he just wanted to cuddle.

The red cloak swaying behind his brother is taken off and wrapped around Tommy—and he gasps. It’s so soft!

The ecstatic, twittering chirps that leave him rewards him with a warm hand against his face and a big brother that gently picks him up before climbing into the nest next to him and it’s perfect !

Wilbur’s on one side, a hand in his hair, Technoblade on the other, a solid arm around his waist. Phil’s wing is over them all and his flock’s voices surround the space that his dad’s feathers don’t and it’s lovely.

It’s lovely and warm and so, so safe.

He doesn’t think he’s been safe in a while, before this.

Tommy gives a small, content peep and snuggles closer to his flock—he doesn’t feel anything but happy as he falls asleep surrounded by them and their protection.

What the fuck? Is the first thought he wakes up with.

Tommy’s fairly certain that he embarrassed himself quite a bit last night—or whenever it was that he coerced his friends into cuddling with him—and he’s blaming it completely on the stupid baby bird instincts trapped inside his head.

They’re dumb so they make him dumb.

Bastards.

Phil isn’t in the cuddle pile still, he either left a good time after Tommy was asleep or did so before his sons fell asleep too, but he was as good as gone. Wilbur was on one side of him, mask firmly in place but that same stupid mouth half-open look he always got while sleeping was plastered to his features and visible despite this.

Techno wasn’t wearing his mask at all, probably a hell of a lot more comfortable while in bed, and his face was pinched into a frown. He was also cuddling Tommy, hunched over him and keeping the fledgling pinned against him.

He was really warm though, so the blond has zero complaints.

The door creaks. Tommy tenses, eyes whipping from Tech’s face to the door and he doesn’t think before he’s reaching up and covering his face, wing coming up to shield it further.

The Angel of Death peeks into the room, eyes locking onto his own, blue to blue.

“Oh,” Tommy releases a heavy breath, letting his hand drop. “It’s only you.”

He blinks.

The fledgling blinks back.

He blinks again.

“Phil?” He scrunches his nose. “Are you okay?”

“C’mon,” his dad winces. He gestures out towards the hallway, propping the door open more. “We should talk.”

Welp. That’s not anxiety inducing at all.

“Um, give me a second,” Tommy looks down at himself, wings raised slightly as he tries to wiggle himself out of Techno’s hold—it backfire heavily, the Blood God only holds him tighter. “Fuckin’—stupid goddamn supervillains and their cuddles. Fuck. Tech, Techno.” He pauses in his struggles as Phil laughs, raising a hand to cover his mouth as if the fledgling hadn’t heard him yet. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up—eep!”

Technoblade rolled to the side, tucking Tommy against him as if the avian was a teddy bear.

“What the fuck?” He splutters, elbowing his brother. He doesn’t give a single indication that he felt it. Bitch.

If he’s going down, he’s not going alone.

Tommy moves, wiggling until he can latch onto Siren’s outer suit jacket.

The brunet wakes slowly and slightly sluggish, frowning at where Tommy latched onto the man, arms tight around Wilbur’s waist, “what?”

“Hey, Wil,” he chirps back. “Technoblade won’t let go of me, so I’m not letting go of you.”

His brother is silent for a solid five seconds, arm reaching up towards his face before he tenses and is silent for even longer.

He doesn’t have the energy to guess why, so he just waits.

“You…” Wilbur’s voice sounds small. “You know my identity.”

Tommy snorts. “You’re in Philza Minecraft’s nest, cuddling the Blood God who has Techno’s face, after I got kidnapped for however long I was for, and that is what you first say? Bitch. I always knew you were a wrongen.”

“Okay,” the Angel of Death says, sighing slightly as he comes into the room. “Guess we’re having the talk here.”

“You know my identity,” Siren repeats.

“Phil,” Tommy looks at the villain. “I think I broke your son.”

He gets a pained smile in response and that sobers up his ‘I’ll deflect my new trauma with humor’ mood pretty quickly. He’s silent as Phil wakes up Techno, it takes a minute but pretty soon the piglin-hybrid is letting go of the fledgling and they’re all in a little circle thing, looking at each other.

Tommy is in the corner of the nest, closest to the door, while Wil is across from him, the Blood God and Phil on either side.

All of them look like he just killed their dog or something.

It gives him enough time, which then gives him awareness to pick up on how sore he is. His right side especially, and his face. He winces as he shifts, hand coming up to his side—eyes latch onto the bruises and cuts marring his arms, lining up and down his forearms, thick and long.

Oh, he realizes, they’re rope burns .

He must not have healed himself after they got the power suppressors off.

Wilbur’s fist clenching catches his attention and Tommy looks up.

They’re all watching him, grief and anger twisting up their expressions.

“I’m okay,” the fledgling smiles at them, voice soft. “Really, guys, I’m okay.”

“That’s not—that’s not okay,” Siren spits out, looking away. “How could you say that, this isn’t—you’re hurt, Toms. This isn’t okay. What they did to you—”

His jaw clenches and he cuts himself off, glaring at the wall.

“Wil,” Tommy says. “It hurts but I’ll heal. I’m okay, I’m here now. I’m safe.”

“It’s not enough.” His brother shakes his head.

Tommy doesn’t know how to argue against that.

“Can you, uh,” Techno waves a hand towards him, seeming to know that, “heal yourself?”

“Yeah,” he frowns. He flexes his fingers, spreads his wings slightly. A whimper wants to rise up his throat but he shoves it down, blinking back the tears. “Can I—nevermind.”

“Can you what?” Techno frowns at him.

He looks to Wil and Phil, but they must not know what Tommy meant either, because they don’t reveal the fledgling’s stupid desires.

Tommy keeps his eyes away from his big brother’s face as he moves closer, climbing into the other’s lap—wings tucking up against himself, curling up onto his chest, hands clutching one of Techno’s, head tucked under his chin, safe .

“Oh,” the Blood God says, a rumbling starting up in his chest.

Tommy leans into his warmth, eyes closing as he focuses on the flicker of magic in his chest.

His wounds aren’t too bad but there’s a lot. It’s not like healing other's, where he can take their energy and feed it back into themselves. He’s taking right from the source and it runs out quicker when he’s so tired.

It starts at his fingertips, a slow burn creating a steady pace as it creeps up his arms, over his shoulders. A thrum of magic in his veins, of power running over his skin. It spreads through his chest like sand, falling against his ribs and lungs and heart without anything being about to grasp on and hold it tight.

His right side stings and he tenses as his power trickles over the wounds, holding onto Techno’s hand tighter, hiding his face in his brother’s neck.

It hurts. It always hurts when he heals himself.

It moves down his side, spreading over his legs and hip and ankles where he was tied up and kicked. Back over again, power seeping into every injury a little deeper, a little bigger than the rest. It goes over his collarbones, up his neck to heal what he’s sure is small nicks and bruises from where Dream held a knife to his throat, said: tell me.

And Tommy said no, so he got hurt.

His face is over quickly but the heat stays behind, the soothing burn encasing his eyes; if he opened them, they’d be glowing.

His arms are, most likely, the worst. They got injured when he first got kidnapped and were subjected to the constant feeling of ropes—where other things got the chance to at least heal a little bit, they didn’t.

And it's painful , it’s so painful.

Tommy can’t hide his whimper or the way he curls into Technoblade harder, trembling.

His brothers both murmur words of reassurance to him, Wil humming just a bit while Techno chuffs. Phil presses a hand against the back of his neck, protective and warm as he croons slowly.

When he starts to cry, Tommy pulls back his powers.

There’s not much else he can do and the burn will hurt more than a couple days worth of aches for bruises that will heal themselves anyways.

“You did so good, Toms,” Wilbur murmurs into his hair, running a hand up and down his back. “So good, I’m proud of you.”

“It’s okay, Theseus, you did amazin'.” Techno rumbles. “It’s over, it’s over.”

“We won’t let it happen again,” Phil promises. “You’ll be safe with us. We’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you, we’re never going to let you go.”

That should scare him.

Tommy knows that that should scare him; that being someone held so close by three dangerous villains should terrify him, but it doesn’t.

They might not be good people but they are his people.

And he’s sick of getting hurt.

He’s sick of a broken system fucking him over.

So when Techno presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head and Wil hisses out, “ours, you’re ours,” he replies—

“Yours.”

And it’s more relieving than anything else.

He’s happy to be at the mercy of these villains, he’s happy to know that the world could burn around him and at the end of the day, not a single flame will get near enough to hurt.

On day two of him being on bed rest (or, as Wilbur called it, nest napping) despite insisting that he’s fine, his best friends finally visit him.

They’re bordering on panic as they’re led to ‘his’ room. Tubbo is all clenched fists and is all puffed up while Ranboo is all twisting fingers and sagging shoulders; one’s fear coming out as anger while the other just gets nervous.

They both look tired as hell.

Tommy knows they saved him, that they were a part of the rescue—he remembers seeing them there briefly and not much else—but he also knows they’ve been rather busy.

While the Syndicate declared war on his behalf, his best friends called for a revolution.

A whole movement created out of anger, spite, and a little desperation.

Apparently, a lot of people in the whole superhero and villain world liked Tommy. A lot that he didn’t know about.

Sure , he helped a couple vigilantes here or there when the good ones stumbled across him bruised or bleeding, and yeah , he might’ve slipped a couple kind villains some interested, life-saving information every couple weeks, and maybe he got in a hero’s way on ‘accident’ when they were chasing someone but looked like they were about to drop any second and honestly couldn’t win the fight that would ensue—but that didn’t mean he knew they thought of him as a friend!

That didn’t mean he knew they took those little moments and friendly conversations and turned them into a favor owed. (Phil was right, being treated like a person when donning a mask was a rare occurrence.)

So when his best friends found out he got taken, they got busy.

They organized vigilantes into groups, spreading them out throughout the entirety of L’Manburg to search for him while they worked with the Syndicate to split their allied villains (or ones who liked Tommy) into pairs to scope out the underground and to gather gossip.

While they did this, they simultaneously found out all the information they could while also hiding anything they… borrowed… while doing so.

Tubbo, as Nuke, even got the heroes involved.

When they were looking for him, they exposed a lot of government corruption to the public and showed the media the good that non-heroes could do. They tore down oppression-based monuments and got bad cops fired due to the media coverage.

They took down fighting rings, back-handed businesses run by violent gangs, busted up both human and hybrid trafficking rings just looking for him—then there were the heroes, they were on clean up duty and civilian patrols.

The vigilantes would act as messengers, they’d put in some brunt work—the villains got heavy hits in, searching and tearing up the city in one go—and let them know when somewhere is going to get hit hard. The heroes and them then worked together to minimize casualties and look out for those caught up in the fights with the ones not on their side. That way, they could keep their jobs and reputations, let the villains slip back into the shadows, while also doing their part.

They had access to a lot of databases, information even the Syndicate had a hard time getting—they are the ones who found out who took Tommy.

And let's just say that the Dream Team must really regret pissing so many people off.

After finding him, the fight had been a lot more chaos than Tommy had seen. It wasn’t just one building fighting, it had turned into a whole battlefield for miles. Intricate dynamics everywhere, villain and hero on the same side, vigilantes helping one another when usually it was a solo career.

Lines were crossed, titles displaced, respect earned or lost.

After it settled and he was safe, Tubbo and Ranboo started doing damage control—vigilantes gathering the wounded, checking different building to see the damages, villains retreating with either injuries or victories, heroes turning to the news and personal interviews to let the public know what was going on.

The general consensus is this: don’t fuck with the Syndicate .

And Tommy? Well, he’s the Syndicate, and there’s plenty of people out there spreading the knowledge, going ‘here’s this boy; here’s this warning’ before they move on.

His family fought for him, his friends ignored the conflict that has been raging on for years to help him and his best friends—fuck, his best friends organized this whole thing just to get him back. They had help, but they’re so cool and they’re his .

Tommy didn’t like getting kidnapped very much.

But he’s rather grateful for the outcome it created, the changes it put into motion.

If Dream were alive, he’d be in a whole different kind of hell than he is now.

“Tommy,” Tubbo’s staring down at him, arms crossed, eyes angry. “You’re not allowed to get kidnapped again, okay, boss man?”

“Sure,” he easily agrees, snuggling closer to Ranboo (who’s currently curled around him like an overprotective cat). “Next time, I’ll just go ‘sorry, bitch, my best friend said no, you can’t snatch me’.”

“Try again never,” the tall boy adds, “loser.”

“Exactly, I’ll do just that.” He snorts, waving their best friend closer. “C’mon, big man. Post-trauma cuddle time.”

“No,” Tubbo wrinkles his nose. 

“Tubs,” Tommy whines, wiggling his fingers at the other.

“Clingy,” he mutters before giving in.

Climbing into the nest, Tubbo goes over the both of them to press against Tommy’s back, snuggling right between his wings and using the feathers as a blanket. His arms are around his waist, face squished into the fledgling’s shoulder blade. Ranboo’s already wrapped around him, all their legs tangled, his head resting against Tommy’s neck, a rumble in his chest.

Usually, he’d argue. He’d start denying that he was clingy, he’d complain—but not now.

Not now.

“I missed you guys,” Tommy confesses, arms squeezing one of the Enderian’s to his chest. “I really missed you both—just, everything about you guys. All our stupid conversations, goofing around. Whispering at minute, laughing because we know we aren’t meant to be up but we are anyways. Mostly… mostly your laughter though, I think.”

“You can’t do that,” Tubbo’s voice is watery and he leans against his back. “You can’t disappear on us again.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I’ll never—I’m here, I’m going to be by your guys’ side forever. You can’t get rid of me.” He pauses. “Bitch.”

“Good,” Ranboo curls closer, voice shaky. Gods, the three of them are close to tears now, aren’t they? “You scared us.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes closed, “I was scared, too.”

Tubbo sighs shakily and from over his side, he finds one of the fledgling’s hands and links their fingers together.

“It’s us, Tommy.” Ranboo whispers. “We can’t do this without you. We need you to fight the world, remember?”

“Us forever,” Tubbo and him whisper back—and fuck, they’ve grown up a lot, haven’t they? They’re not who they used to be.

When they first met, Ranboo and him were just two unwanted kids thrown into the basement of a group home because the caregivers didn’t know how to handle hybrid kids and the system didn’t pay enough to care. They were bruised and lonely and when they found each other, they discovered a type of love they didn’t need a mom or a dad to give to them.

They had each other and even if they were taken away, they always came back together.

When Tubbo pushed his way into the mix, he was just as starved and just as scared. He’s the one who taught them how to survive better. He taught them to fight back, to dance in the rain instead of cowering under the downpour.

They were three hungry kids with dirty mouths and dirty hands who scraped together enough to live, to stick around until they became stubborn teenagers with foul words and busted knuckles and broken hope—a little less hungry but no less determined.

And now here they are, almost adults.

They’ve been through so much but they’re alive and they’re together. They’re so different from the kids they used to be—but Tommy’s okay with that.

As long as his best friends are by his side, anything’s possible.

It takes a week before the villains let him get out of the nest without hovering and another two days for him to be allowed to use the bathroom without one of them following him to the hallway.

Clingy fucks.

“Let me get this straight,” Wil presses his lips together, eyes narrowing at him over his plate of waffles. “You knew who we were for months ?”

“Yep,” Tommy nods, happily eating his breakfast while his brother has a whole meltdown. “Like, for three months before the whole kidnapping thing.”

“Huh.”

“I figured,” Techno snorts, eyeing him with amusement. “You’re way too smart to not make connections like that.”

“ Or ,” he offers, grinning, “you guys are just really fucking bad at hiding your identities.”

“Little shit,” Phil laughs, pointing his fork at the fledgling. “No one else figured it out.”

“To be fair, you don’t spend nearly as much time with other people as you do me.”

“True,” he muses. “Now finish your food.”

“Yes, dad ,” Tommy rolls his eyes, grabbing his fork. He waits for the rebuttable, the usual banter, but when he looks up—the avian is just staring at him all starry-eyed. He frowns. “Phil?”

“Tommy,” Wilbur giggles, pressing a hand to his mouth. His dark eyes are positively gleeful when he looks over at the man. “You broke him.”

“Wha—I didn’t do anything!” He spits out, mouth tugging down further.

“Just wait,” Technoblade sighed, eyes bouncing between the fledgling and Phil in amusement.

“For what?” Tommy asks, eyeing the oldest warily—he was still looking to be rather ‘no thoughts, head empty’ but in a way that he was happy with it. He pokes him. No reaction. He does it again. Nothing.

He tilts his head, edging closer, then—stupidly, foolishly—Tommy peeps at Phil, just a small little hello?

And holy fuck , does that set Phil off.

The avian is a whirlwind of black feathers and warm limbs as he literally scoops up the blond, tugging him close and wrapping both wings around him as he chirps back. Hello, hello, hi!

“What the fuck,” he splutters, cheeks red as he wraps his arms around his waist. “I didn’t—yes, hello, hi—" Phil coos as him, nudging their heads together. His wings fluff up as he softly coos back, glaring at Wil as he does so. “Not a word, bitch! I don’t even know what I did!”

And Wilbur just cackles like the evil bastard he is.

“Theseus,” Techno decides to be helpful. “You called him dad.”

“I—what?” Tommy blinks.

Oh. Oh no—his cheeks are far, far too warm. That’s… that’s it. He’s going to burn to death via a blush. He’s just going to fall right to the floor in a puddle. Poof, he melted. No more Tommy Innit.

He’s just going to curl up and die now, thanks.

“Awe,” Wilbur coos, leaning forward with his head in his hands. “Is little Tommy embarrassed? Is he going all red? Cute.”

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” He hisses, hiding in Phil’s chest, wings twitching with the urge to fly the fuck away. “I’m not cute and I didn’t—fuck you!”

It’s okay, it’s okay , Phil coos at him. The anxiety encasing his lungs leaps up to his throat at the noise, it takes that reassurance and makes tears sting against the corner of his eyes. Baby bird, it’s okay. Safe, safe, safe.

Tommy sniffles and the other two villains fall silent.

The avian holding him presses them together tighter, a soothing warble echoing from his chest.

“Sorry, Toms,” Wilbur sounds smaller than he’s ever heard before. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I just—” How can he properly explain the longing in his chest? How can he dare to hold it out to them and hope they won’t crush it? “I didn’t expect… I don’t like it when you—when you joke like that. When you pretend to see me like a brother.”

Phil coos at him, sharp and upset.

“Pretend?” Wil sounds so hurt. "You think those are just jokes?"

He nods.

“Tommy… those aren’t jokes. I really do see you like a little brother, so does Tech. Phil goes all dad mode on you for a reason; you’re his son. You’re family.”

And god , if that isn’t everything he's always wanted to hear.

He doesn't reply, too overwhelmed.

Softly, Technoblade asks, “what did you think being ours meant?”

“I-I, I didn’t—you guys—” Tommy tries so hard not to cry, but it doesn’t work. The tears won’t stop coming, they just won’t. “No one’s wanted—I didn’t… I’ve never been a part of a family before, one with more than just Tubbo and Ranboo. I didn’t think anyone—I didn’t think that you wanted me like that. I just, I just didn’t.”

What more is he supposed to say?

What more can he even do to get his point across?

How is someone meant to explain that all their life, they’ve never been someone’s? That they’ve never been a son or a brother—that the titles they’ve already got, the titles of child and best friend, they’ve had to fight to keep? How does someone say that without also saying here , here are all the ways I’m not worth it—how is he meant to explain?

But he doesn’t have to.

For them, that’s enough. He’s enough.

Mine, mine, mine , Phil is chirping at him, large wings covering his own. “You’re family, little crow. You’re ours.”

“Big brother Wilbur to the rescue,” Wil weakly jokes. “Clearing up miscommunications one step at a time.”

“Yeah,” he sniffles again. “Big brother to the rescue.”

They want him.

They want him .

They’re his—officially, they’re his family?

“Dad,” Tommy cries, clutching onto his father harder, shaking as the realization hits. All those months worrying, all those days he spent stuffing down the words, keeping himself from slipping up—they’re not going to be repeated. They’re family, they’re family .

“You’re okay, little love,” Phil brushes a hand through his hair. “We’re okay.”

“We’ll prove to you how wanted you are,” Techno vows. He steps around the breakfast aisle and wraps them both into his arms—snorting when Wilbur wiggles his way into the hug too, pressing against the fledgling in the middle. “We’ll always love you.” Then: “Even if you’re a nerd.”

And it’s such a Technoblade thing to say, to do, that Tommy laughs.

“I love you guys,” he grumbles, wiping his tears a bit. “Even if Wilbur’s a bitch.”

“Hey!” The brunet bonks their shoulders together. “You’re one to talk, gremlin child.”

“Little shits,” Phil chuckles fondly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Wil kicks his shin when Tommy accidentally elbows him trying to get a better hold on their dad and that’s that—it doesn’t need further discussion.

Outside, past the soundproof walls, there’s a storm raging. The sky cracks open with a peal of thunder, like an ancient giant bore it’s teeth just to laugh instead of bite, loud and ringing and bright enough to hurt.

Inside, there is a boy surrounded by his family—and he is loved.

The storm can't touch him here.

( This is the truth .)