Chapter Text
It’s a fine day to be on the streets. It’s cloudy, sure, but sun is rare in the southern tip of the kingdom, and even rarer in the abandoned outskirts of its capital city.
Wilbur wraps his ratty coat around him, frowning at the cool wind. He knows winter is around the corner, but now it’s walking in his shadow. He needs supplies, and fast. Blankets, non-perishable foods, anything he can get his hands on.
He turns the corner and the abandoned factory comes into view. It’s the biggest (stable) space they have, so it’s used often. Today, it’s a trading centre, somewhere to pick up everything they’ll need for the winter.
Wilbur slips in through a side door and smiles.
He loves the winter trading market. It’s bustling, warm and alive and full of colours and smells. It’s a good break from the constant bite of the cobbled streets, and it brings up memories of laughter and gingerbread, from back when everything was nice. Even in the evenings, when most of the temporary stalls are abandoned and dark.
He really loves the winter market.
Today is one of the last days of the winter market. By the end of the week, all the stalls will be gone, and the factory will be turned into a hub where everyone can huddle together and share their resources, especially on the coldest nights of the season.
He walks through the other homeless, searching for stalls or vendors he recognises. He does spot a couple, but they look crowded and Wilbur performs best when he’s alone. Finally, he catches a familiar flash of brown hair and grins.
He slides over to the stall, leaning on the empty rickety surface, and smiles. “Grian!”
“Wilbur!” Grian greets him, smiling back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Wilbur admits, before glancing around conspiratorially. “What’ve you got this year?”
Grian is part of a group of hermits, who migrate around the empty sections of cities all over the country to avoid the bite of winter. They pick up all kinds of stuff, usually of much better quality than can be found here. But they only trade if they know you - an odd rule, but here it works in Wilbur’s favour.
Grian pushes Wilbur a slip of paper, and eagerly he snatches it up. It reads:
1. Wool blanket x 5
2. Cotton blanket x 3
3. Holy bell x 1
4. Arrows x 20
5. Knife x 2
6. Sword x 1
7. Bow x 2
8. Leather boots x 1
9. Used coat x 4
10. Pumpkin pie x 1
11. Concrete powder (not dyed)
12. Dead coral
13. Used fishing rod x 1
14. Wooden bowl x 3
15. Green dye
Wilbur studies the list, eyes widening at some of the items. A holy bell?! Those are rare, even among the wealthy. How did Grian get his hands on that? He shakes his head as the man in question smiles at him.
“Uh, one, eight, nine.. fourteen, and… well, we’ll see how much I’ve got,” Wilbur says, pulling one of his bags around to his front.
Grian nods. “Thought you might want those. I’ve got a few spares I can give you for free, with one and fourteen, I mean. Got some that broke on the way here.” He explains, and Wilbur fights the urge to protest. If Grian is going to give him free stuff, he isn’t going to complain.
“Right. Thanks.” He clears his throat. “Here’s what I’ve got,” He heaves a bag onto the stall front, pulling out ageing books and weathered journals.
Grian runs his fingers along the spines reverently, checking the titles of the books and flipping through the first few pages of the journals. Wilbur waits patiently, drumming his fingers lightly against the wood.
Grian picks up a thick black leather journal, the most worn of the lot, and tentatively opens the front cover. Wilbur watches as his eyes widen in disbelief, and his jaw drops. “Wilbur, where did you find these?”
Before Wilbur can answer, he’s picking up another one, holding the two together, comparing handwriting. He sets them down on the table, starts opening every journal. Most of them match up, a neat looping scrawl that Wilbur can’t read. Some don’t, and they’re placed gently in a pile on the edge of the stall.
“I-- I just, it was a library, abandoned. I thought it was-- a-- an old toolsmith at first, the front room was full of iron things, but then I found all these in the back.” Wilbur stammers, confusion rising as he watches Grian run a hand through his hair, brows furrowed in disbelief.
“Wilbur-- these. These belong to the old king. They’re handwritten.” He takes a deep breath. “And-- and you said they were hidden in the back of an abandoned toolsmith?” He asks, full of energy, and Wilbur nods, slowly.
He doesn’t get it. Sure the old king wrote it, but what did that matter to the hermits? What were they going to do with a dead king’s journals?
Grian grips the edge of the stall with both hands. He surveys the open journals and says. “What do you want?”
Wilbur blinks. “But, how much is it all--“
“Anything. You could buy my entire stock with this if you wanted. Not counting the books or those other journals.” Grian looks Wilbur in the eyes, and Wilbur can’t believe it.
But he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Okay,” He breathes, looking back over the list. “Okay. Then-- all the blankets. The bowls, the coats, the boots.” He reads it one final time. “And-- and a knife. Just one.”
Grian nods, sliding four of the six journals back towards Wilbur, he shakes his head. “You’re the only one who’ll take them, no one here wants those.” Wilbur pushes them back. “You keep them. A sign of our friendship, or whatever.” He says.
Grian nods slowly. “Alright. If you say so.”
The journals disappear below the counter, and Grian pops back up with a crate in his hands. Wilbur opens his bag, and together they pack it full of the items, moving on to the next when it’s full. When they’re done Grian grabs one last thing from the crate, pushing it into the bag. “There.”
Wilbur gasps. “Honey?!” He whispers, checking that it is indeed honey. And it is- there’s no mistaking the golden glow of the jar.
Grian nods and flips the top of the bag over. “For-- Just-- Look, just take it.”
Wilbur smiles. “See you-- what, after winter?”
Grian nods again. “Hm. Probably. We’re headed up to Kinoko for the winter, and then we need to head to the Antarctic Empire, so we’ll be stopping by on the way.”
“The Antarctic Empire? Why there? That’s quite a ways south, isn’t it?” Wilbur asks.
“Oh. Haven’t you heard?” When Wilbur shakes his head, Grian continues, “The Antarctic Empire has expanded their borders north, taking kingdom territory. You’re at war right now.” Grian frowns. “How did you not know about that?”
Wilbur sighs, and gestures around him. “Does it look like we get told anything out here? The king just wants to pretend we don’t exist.” It does explain the heightened patrols they’d had back-- what, last year? The homeless that were taken off the streets to be conscripted.
He ignores Grian’s small wince, and asks, “How far north? The Antarctic Empire I mean.”
“They’ve come a long way. Last I heard, they were only a few miles south of here- well, the southern edge of the capital. The Antarctic Empire had just demanded a meeting for surrender terms when I left, but that was a few weeks ago now.” Grian supplies, face grim.
Wilbur shakes his head. “So when do you think the takeover is happening?” He whispers.
Grian looks at the journal in his hand. “Soon. Very soon.”
Wilbur swallows the dread and leaves the stall without another word. He buys the rest of his supplies in silence, only smiling and talking when he’s trying to get a better deal. The walk back to the others is brisk, even with the various bags weighing him down.
The kingdom being conquered by the Antarctic Empire can’t be good. Wilbur’s heard nothing about the emperor, but he does know that the first thing people want to do when they’ve overtaken cities is to get rid of the homeless population. It’s a trend seen throughout the scraps of history he can read.
He frowns to himself as he reaches the residential district, the empty decrepit buildings familiar. Why hadn’t he heard of the war? Surely the Antarctic Empire had raided the city at least once. Wilbur thinks back, but he can’t remember any fires, or alarms, or earthquakes.
He turns down his alley. He would doubt Grian, but the man has never lied to him before, and Wilbur vividly remembers hiding with the kids as patrol after patrol passed them by, combing the empty streets for homeless to force into their ranks.
He walks to his front door and takes a deep breath. He steels himself and opens the door. “I’m home!” He calls, kicking off his shoes.
Immediately there are pattering footsteps, and suddenly Wilbur is surrounded by children. Tommy is digging through his bags on his tiptoes, eyes wide and excited as Tubbo helps him. Jack bounds down the stairs and instantly starts yelling.
“Wil, you’ll never guess what--“ Jack tugs on his sleeve, trying to pull him back up the stairs.
“Jack, no, stop, we’re trying to see what he got--“ Tubbo complains, winding his arms around Tommy’s waist to lift him so the blond can reach more bags.
“But it’s important,” Jack whines, “really, you’ve got to see this, promise it’s good--“
Ranboo slinks out from the living room, and faceplants into Wilbur’s side. Instinctively, Wilbur brings his hand up to cradle Ranboo’s head, burying his fingers in fluffy black hair.
“Jack, fuck off--“ Tubbo shouts.
Wilbur sighs. “Tubbo, what did I say about language--“
“What?! Tommy wanted me to say it!” He protests. Tommy nods absently, fingers fiddling with a tricky buckle.
Jack scoffs. “Well, I want to say fuck too, so fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you!”
“Boys!” Wilbur shouts, and finally, they all calm down. “Tubbo and Jack apologise to each other.” Hastily he adds, “Swearing is bad.”
The boys mumble sorry to each other. After a moment’s hesitation, they hug.
“Alright. Now, where’s Fundy?” He asks, looking around for the familiar flash of auburn hair.
“He’s asleep.” Tubbo whispers. Tommy presses his finger to his lips with a small smile.
Wilbur sighs. How his kids manage to stay alive when he’s out is beyond him. “Okay, fine. Let’s go unpack all this in the living room, okay? Then I’ll go see what you want to show me, Jack.”
Jack and Tubbo agree innocently, Tommy smiles, and tucked into his side (which can’t be comfortable, with all the bags, but Wilbur isn’t complaining) Ranboo nods.
They all shuffle into the living room, where Wilbur collapses onto the dying couch. It gets lower and lower every time he sits on it, but it’s still more comfortable than sitting on the floor, so Wilbur puts up with it. He’s been looking for a new one in the houses he raids, but so far he’s had no luck.
Ranboo sits on his right, waiting for him to heave all the bags onto the floor before sinking back into his side. Tommy and Tubbo sit cross-legged on the floor, holding hands as they eye the bags eagerly. Somehow Tubbo is already holding a can of beans. Jack sits on his right, one foot on the couch, the other on the ground.
Wilbur looks at the pair on the ground, and they stare up at him with wide, puppy-dog eyes.
“Alright,” Wilbur gives in, “You can unpack that one.” He points to one of the bigger bags, the one with the blankets in it. Tubbo squeals excitedly, and Tommy drags the bag over.
Jack leans forward as Tubbo pulls out the first blanket, made of wool and dyed a faint blue. There’s a stain in one corner, but Wilbur knows it’s the best they’ve had for a while.
Jack turns to Wilbur. “Can I ‘ave that one, can I? Please?”
Tommy rolls his eyes, clearly expecting Wilbur to say no.
Wilbur smiles. “Sure.”
Jack’s jaw drops. “Wha’ really?” He says, looking at the blanket in awe. Tubbo hands it over, grumbling, and Jack throws it around his shoulders. Wilbur’s heart squeezes with how soft he looks.
He smiles down at the duo. “Don’t worry, there’s more.”
Tommy gives Wilbur a confused look before reaching back into the bag. His eyes widen as he pulls another one out, this one pink (it was red once, Wilbur is sure). He looks up, face hopeful.
Wilbur chuckles. “Yeah, you can have that one.”
Tommy gasps silently, tugging the fabric to his chest. Tubbo frowns. “Is there one for me?”
Wilbur nods. “Should be one for everyone.”
Tubbo pulls out a white one, with several obvious stains. He studies it before throwing it at Ranboo, who jumps. “You can have that Boo,” he says magnanimously, and with a haughty sniff adds “White’s your colour.”
Ranboo mumbles his thanks, and Tubbo smiles up at the teen. He finds another pink one before digging the last wool blanket, a dark green one, out from the bottom of the bag. “I want this one!” He demands, and Wilbur nods agreeably.
Never say no to Tubbo. Only pain will follow.
Tubbo’s smile drops as he spots the last thing in the bag. “Is…” He pulls out the jar and gasps. “Honey!” He shouts, and Wilbur winces at the volume. He would be very surprised if Fundy was still asleep.
Tommy claps his hands, reaching for the jar. Tubbo nods, “Yeah, absolutely, lemme just open it-“ He clamps his hands around the lid (and Wilbur does not melt at the sight of his tiny little hands around the lid of the jar, shut up--)
Wilbur leans forward and plucks the jar out of their hands. “Absolutely not. You are not eating honey with your hands on the floor.”
“But Wilbur--“ Tubbo whines. He falls silent when Wilbur shoots him a look.
“No. Now, how about we open another bag?” He suggests, placing the jar in Ranboo’s outstretched hands. He gives his black hair a soft ruffle as Tommy and Tubbo grumble. Tommy silently, but still.
Ranboo fits the jar between his two hands and holds it. Just holds it. Wilbur has long stopped questioning this habit. It calms him down and seems to genuinely bring him comfort, so he lets him. At least he trusts him not to gorge himself on honey the first chance he gets (unlike the younger gremlins).
They all dive into the next bag. They pull out the bowls, the boots, the thinner cotton blankets and the knife (which Wilbur promptly snatches away) from Grian. They’re just discovering the small pile of books Wilbur got when Fundy comes around the empty door frame.
He looks tired, and a bit grumpy. “What’s going on?” He grumbles before his eyes light up at the bags. “Oh! I can help unpack?”
“Sure,” Wilbur agrees, gesturing for Tommy and Tubbo to shuffle so Fundy can sit next to them on the floor.
Fundy, for some strange reason, always prefers sitting on the floor. When he was younger it was a battle to get in a chair for meals. It was frustrating, especially when someone was screaming in the background more often than not, but Wilbur wouldn’t trade Fundy or any of his kids for the world.
They are his world.
Tubbo presents Fundy with his pink blanket, and Fundy is sceptical. “Are-- are you sure?” he glances at Wilbur, who smiles reassuringly.
“It’s okay. We all have one.” He says, and Fundy looks around the room, at the blankets everyone is holding.
“Thanks.” He whispers, burying his nose in the thick wool. Wilbur melts.
They unpack the rest of the bags with little fanfare. Most of it is food, but there are a few extra things like the worn coats that are far too big for any of them (bar Wilbur) but they wear with pride anyway.
When the bags are all empty, Wilbur stretches. “Alright, Fundy, why don’t you take Tubbo and Tommy to play while Jack shows me what he wanted to show me.” He yawns, and when he opens his eyes the trio is gone, laughter disappearing up the stairs.
Wilbur stares at the doorway. Tommy is- Well. Wilbur isn’t sure what made Tommy mute, but he knows he’s going to make sure it never happens again. He found Tommy and Tubbo together, Tubbo defending the catatonic blond while the rain poured down around them.
That was an eventful evening, for sure.
Ranboo curls up into his side, and Wilbur drapes his arm over him. Ranboo likes touch, too. As much as he can get. The boy is still holding the honey, and Wilbur makes a mental note to pack that away as soon as he can, lest he forgets about it and it ends up somewhere he’ll never find it.
Jack leaps off the couch, and stands before Wilbur, only reaching his shoulders despite the fact Wilbur’s sitting on the lowest part of the couch, practically on the floor.
“Look! You’ve got to look really closely, okay? Are you looking?” Jack starts rambling.
Wilbur hums. “Of course I’m looking.”
Jack frowns playfully. “Well, look harder.”
“Alright, alright, I’m looking really hard,” Wilbur promises with a chuckle.
Jack narrows his eyes. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Wilbur says, curious. Jack is never nervous. He bounds through life with the biggest grin Wilbur has ever seen, and it never falters.
“Okay, ready? Are you ready?” Jack breathes, and Wilbur finds himself swept up in the excitement. He nods eagerly.
Jack takes a deep breath, and his face falls uncharacteristically calm. There’s total silence, not even the background ruckus of the boys upstairs. The whole world stills.
Wilbur instantly thinks of the last time he felt like this. When his whole world stopped in its tracks.
Jack closes his eyes, and Wilbur’s heart freezes. They open, and Wilbur’s breath hitches.
Jack’s eyes are white. A shining, glowing, white.
Tears well in Wilbur’s eyes, because he’s so proud. Jack has magic. The universe has decided his boy was so special that it blessed him with magic.
He’s also terrified. He can’t believe this. What are the odds? What are the chances? He’s already-- and with-- and not to mention the list Quackity gave him late that one night--
Wilbur clings to Ranboo, who seems to have fallen asleep, and stares. He tries to order his thoughts, tries to make sense of anything, of the incredible, wonderful thing that has happened. He tries to slot it with the others, but this feels- too much. Like Wilbur’s gotten too lucky.
Magic is-- magic is rare. Unbelievably so. There’s a reason the patrols are so deadly to their little group-- if they were found, if the king knew some of his boys had magic, Wilbur would never see them again. He’s heard of the homeless that manifested, that trained until they could defend themselves. He’s heard that they were dragged away screaming, forced into the king’s ranks of mages.
And then the moment breaks. Snaps. Suddenly Jack’s eyes are brown again, and he’s swaying on his feet. “Here, c’mere,” Wilbur murmurs, pulling Jack onto his lap.
The boy beams up at Wilbur, hope and nervousness shining through the wave of exhaustion Wilbur knows he’s feeling. “I-- Are you--“ He asks.
Wilbur smiles, tears finally falling down his face. “I’m so proud of you,” He whispers wetly, pulling Jack into a hug. “That’s incredible darling. Amazing.”
Jack sniffs, and soon they’re both crying. “It’s not-- I’m not weird, right? Nothing’s--“ he drags his hand across his nose, “nothing’s wrong with me?”
“Of course not sweetheart, no, never,” Wilbur whispers into the crown of his head, “it’s-- a gift, a blessing. You’re-- you’re so special, Jack. This is-- amazing.”
Jack swallows wetly. “But the others don’t, apart from--“ Jack hiccups, “and I don’t want them to feel-- b-- bad because I’m special-“
“They’re special too,” Wilbur promises. He rubs his hands along Jack’s arms, trying to soothe them both, “You’re just-- special in a different way. You know-- Tommy’s special. Fundy can walk so quietly you can’t hear him. That’s special!”
Jack nods, wiping his eyes.
“And-- And Ranboo, he’s-- well, he’s the oldest.” Wilbur continues. “Tubbo-- Tubbo gets everything he wants, ever--“
Jack laughs. “That’s because he bullies you!”
“Yeah, well,” Wilbur waves it off because technically it is true. “you get the point. You don’t have to worry about that, sunshine.”
With a sniff, Jack nods, and Wilbur can see the exhaustion on his face. “Alright. How about you take a nap, yeah?”
Jack nods again, and carefully Wilbur extracts them from Ranboo’s grip. He lifts Jack so he can cling to his front, and Wilbur feels thin legs wrap around his waist. He carries him up the creaking stairs, passing the room where Fundy is trying to teach Tommy and Tubbo a card game (which has never gone well since they’re missing quite a few cards from the deck). Finally, he deposits Jack on the bed, before bringing Ranboo up to join him.
No one in the house can sleep well alone. Wilbur included.
Wilbur watches his boys sleep for a moment.
He knows nothing about magic. Ever since that fateful day in the middle of summer, Wilbur has searched desperately for books about it. He’s found a few, but they haven’t told him much. Magic is rare. When magic first manifests is when it’s most dangerous. And that’s about it. He’s guessing that the reason newly manifested magic is dangerous is due to the lack of control, but he’s never encountered that problem before.
He tugs a hand through his hair. He really has no idea. He takes a deep breath and swears he feels his ribs rattle.
He’ll protect them. He’ll protect Jack and Tommy. He’ll protect Ranboo, Tubbo and Fundy. He’ll protect his kids with every bone on his body, he’ll protect them to his dying breath. He’s hidden them from patrols for years. The stakes have just risen a little.
He sticks his head into the card game, just in time to see Tubbo throw his hand at Fundy, who’s clearly just explained a rule he conveniently forgot.
“Why don’t you come downstairs and keep me company while I cook dinner?” He whispers. “The others are taking a nap.”
The boys nod, and they all go down to the kitchen, where Wilbur’s managed to hook up the water system, with a little help from Quackity. There’s a fire-powered stove, and Wilbur lights it using the dried planks from the neighbouring houses and a flint and steel he traded for years ago.
He rustles something up, and both of the sleepers come down before he’s finished. They eat dinner together at the table, the boys fighting over the best chair. It’s the only one that doesn’t wobble, and it’s got padding on the seat (it’s probably mouldy, but the kids like it so Wilbur leaves it alone). Tommy wins tonight, a victorious expression on his face as the others nurse their wounds and pick the next best chairs.
Wilbur takes his usual seat on the chair with three legs and a length of pipe, because it’s the worst one, and he’ll always take the worst if it means the kids get something better.
Dinner is chaotic as usual (somehow Tubbo manages to wage war on Jack and Fundy), and when he’s collecting plates he remembers. “Right, we’ve got a meeting tonight. Everyone go clean up and get ready, okay?”
Fundy and Ranboo dutifully hop down to start putting on their coats and shoes, but Jack rolls his eyes.
“Why d’ we hafta go?” He whines, and Wilbur runs a hand over his shaved hair (he’d had lice the other week) as he passes him. “It’s boring.”
“Because I can’t leave you here all alone at night, now can I?” Wilbur says as he rinses the bowls. He’ll clean them properly later when everyone’s in bed. “Come on, go get ready.”
Jack huffs, but finally, he and the duo leave the table.
They layer up, Wilbur fastening buttons, handing out beanies (they all have holes, but it’s better than nothing), rolling up sleeves, and soon enough they’re all kitted out. They leave the house in a small group, the kids all holding hands while Wilbur leads the way, Ranboo clutching his sleeve. They wind through the alleys and trek through the streets, before ending up at the factory.
Wilbur pushes the door open, and they’re met with a dark interior, the only light coming from the centre of the abandoned market stalls. They slip between the shadows, and emerge in a clear space, with a long wooden table in the middle.
On it is a strange collection of candles, lanterns and other light sources. They illuminate large rolls of paper. Maps, detailed maps, each of different sections of the city, or the kingdom, or the continent. Wilbur knows most of them are outdated, with scribbles and annotations to show what’s changed.
Around the table are a few people, talking quietly. They all look up when Wilbur comes out into the open. Quackity is the first to break the silence, a grin on his scarred face.
“Wilbur! We were waiting for you man,” He elbows Wilbur playfully, and he snorts.
“Well, it isn’t easy wrangling this lot together, is it?” He looks at the small train of children behind him and smiles warmly.
Ranboo squeezes his hand. Tommy is behind him, with Tubbo close to his back (of course). Jack clings to Tubbo’s hand and Fundy brings up the rear, eyes alert.
His kids. Wilbur’s smile grows, and next to him he can feel Quackity soften.
“Yeah, yeah. Now go send ‘em off with the others so we can start.” The shorter man jerks his head to the other kids (plus Karl), who’re waving excitedly at Wilbur’s following.
“Off you go,” He waves them off, and immediately they all run towards the others, even Ranboo. Predictably, Fundy collides with Charlie, and they duck into the shadows, matching grins on their faces. Ranboo latches onto Karl’s side, who sleepily pets his hair as he watches the smaller kids tumble together. Tommy and Tubbo have cornered some poor kid who looks like he’s about to cry. Jack is-- well, Wilbur can’t see Jack anymore.
Those are his kids alright.
Quackity claps him on the back. “Let’s get down to business then!” Wilbur follows him to his usual spot around the table, and Quackity falls into the circle opposite him.
The people surrounding the maps are leaders in their own right. They each have people to care for, mouths to feed, supplies to gather.
Wilbur has the least people but the most children. Quackity has the most people total and acts as the leader among them for the most part. H is looking after the entire western sector of their abandoned territory, and that includes the large but polluted river. Ant has a friend in the palace.
They all have their place, and they make decisions together. They run like their own small kingdom, tucked away in the wastes that the rich have shunned and forgotten.
“I heard some news of one of the hermits this morning,” Wilbur starts. His news is quite important after all. “Apparently we’re days away from the Antarctic Empire taking over the kingdom and this city.”
Everyone looks up at him. “How?” H asks incredulously. “They’re so far south-“
Quackity nods grimly. “They were. Foolish’s brother told him that the Antarctic Empire was headed our way, but…” He looks at Wilbur.
“They’re only miles away, and the last news the hermit got was that the emperor was demanding a meeting for surrender terms. That was weeks ago.” Wilbur continues.
“Fuck,” Ant spits, “so it’s really any day now.” They all shift in the silence. “What are we going to do? Does anyone know anything about the new king?”
Wilbur, like most around the table, shakes his head, but Quackity speaks up. “I know a bit. Those under him say he’s fair and kind, the best emperor they can imagine.” His fingers tap on the table. “But their enemies speak of monsters and an emperor so brutal he wipes out entire armies on his own.”
Wilbur drags his hand down his face. “So we can’t assume. We stay hidden, avoid patrols. Look for any sign that they’re about to come down on us.”
“What, hide? We can’t do that forever.” Someone calls.
“We’ve done it for years. Eventually they’ll forget about us. Surely.” Wilbur reasons, finding half of the table nodding.
Someone else sighs. “We can’t rely on that though. Most of our supplies will be cut off with the changes, especially if they replace palace staff, which is likely.”
Wilbur bites his lip. “We’ll find a way. We can’t just-- give up, turn ourselves in.”
The woman nods. “I’m not saying that, but we’ll have to establish new sources of just about everything, without being detected. It’ll be hard.”
Quackity grins. “When has it not?”
Eventually, they decide on nightly meetings to keep updated and to keep together. They’ll make emergency plans, start mapping out the old sewer systems, and store as many resources as they can muster.
When they split for the evening, Wilbur finds the kids sleeping in a big pile, all tangled together. He smiles fondly, drinking the image in before trying to dig his five out of the pile.
Ranboo is easy- he’s still curled up against Karl. Fundy has to be peeled off of Charlie, who doesn’t even stir. Jack is buried under another, smaller child, but he wakes easily. Somehow, Tommy and Tubbo are at the very bottom.
When everyone’s awake and counted for, Wilbur waves goodbye to Quackity, who is hoisting Charlie over his shoulder. Karl waves back, and after a moment Quackity joins him.
“Did everyone have fun?” Wilbur asks as he grabs Ranboo’s hand and they all assemble into line.
Jack practically jumps out the door. “Mm-hm, me ‘an this other kid, wasshisname, we were looking for rocks and we found some really cool ones, look, here-“ He tries to grab his rock without letting go of Fundy’s hand, which makes the older boy stagger forward.
“Well, Charlie and I found this old vent system, and we were crawling all over the place,” Fundy says smugly, and Wilbur silently sighs. At least that explains all the dust on his clothes.
“Me ‘an Tommy were trying to get this kid to give us his stuff,” Tubbo says. Tommy nods solemnly.
Wilbur grinds his teeth. “Did you manage it?” he asks, genuinely curious. Tubbo just gives him a haunting smile.
“How about you Ranboo?” He moves on. Ranboo glances up, green eyes shining.
“Karl. Um, he told me stories.” Ranboo mumbles, a small smile on his face.
Wilbur smiles back. “Yeah? That sounds nice. Were they good stories?” Ranboo nods, squeezing Wilbur’s hand.
By the time they get home, everyone is exhausted. Even Tommy and Jack, who are bouncing off the walls at all hours of the day are yawning, Tommy silently and into Tubbo’s back.
Wilbur herds them upstairs and into bed, promising to be up shortly. He cleans the dishes, tidies some things away, and then finally, falls onto the mattress.
Ranboo lies along the side of his body, tucked under his arm. Fundy hugs Wilbur’s waist head pressed against his hip while above him, Tommy scrunches into a ball to fit under Wilbur’s other arm. Tubbo lies solidly on his chest, and over him is Jack’s leg, the boy himself sprawled over all of them.
With each child covering themselves in their new blanket, the bed is almost too hot, but Wilbur wouldn’t trade it for the world.