Archive of Our Own ^beta

Most of the time, there’s nothing Tommy loves more than being a vigilante.

Helping people is one of Tommy’s favorite things to do. He knows what it’s like to be helpless, to be waiting for someone, anyone to come and save you. So Tommy is that person, now.

And he’d argue he does it pretty well.

“Give up, Flare!” One of the criminals yells, a large bag filled with diamond necklaces and gold bracelets like they’re some sort of cartoon villain. “We prepared for you!”

Tommy frowns. They’re all wearing sunglasses, grinning victoriously.

“Man, this is a shit plan,” Tommy comments, and he flicks off the nearby light.

The thing about wearing sunglasses in the dark—they can’t fucking see. Well, not until the vigilante Flare knocks the two men’s heads together, flashing a quick, bright beam of light into their eyes just to make sure they stay down. They won’t be blinded or anything, just disoriented! Tommy could have, if he wanted to, but these wanna-be thieves are so pitiful, all Tommy can really do is laugh. Well, that, and tie them up. Which is probably more important than laughing.

Tying off the knot, Tommy is quick to brush his hands off, a smile wide underneath his mask. “Well, that was fast. Looks like it’s time for me to…go…”

The shadows surrounding Tommy’s feet begin to flicker and loom. They twist and shift slowly, silently, seeping into the room like thick oil.

There are heavy footsteps from behind Tommy. A hulking, bulky body, so massive each footstep hits completely solid on the ground. The low, rolling timbre of a voice. “Flare.”

Tommy doesn’t even have to turn around.

“Ah, shit.”

It’s all Tommy can get out before the shadows pounce. They rise like a wave before crashing downward, and Tommy only just manages to throw himself out of the wave with a quick flare of light pushed towards the darkness.

“Blood God!” Tommy greets, dancing and weaving around the shadows that twist and lunge at him. The ones that get close get a quick shot of bright light, and Tommy can always hear the hiss of shadows burnt by light. “Not super great to see you again, I can’t lie!”

Blood God, the bastard, doesn’t even move. He stands sturdy in the doorframe, hair whipping in the wake of the shadows, eyes burning from beneath the bare skull of his own mask.

He’s blocking the only exit, damnit. How is Tommy supposed to make his brief and heroic escape into the night?

Tommy shoots a bright beam of light at one of the shadows, then immediately throws himself back just before an eager shadow manages to bite at his outstretched hand.

It’s less of a dance and more of a fucked-up round of fencing.

That’s the problem with Flare and Blood God. It’s a constant game of fighting fire with water, right before the fire becomes so big all of the water evaporates into thin air.

Tommy shoots off an array of light and the shadows push backwards with a twisted scream.

More shadows come together and crash over the light with abandon.

Too much light, and there is no room for the shadows.

Too many shadows, and any light is shrouded before it even gets a chance.

It means they never truly get anywhere. Tommy puts on a light show that could rival the greatest of firework displays, and Blood God silently commands his stupid little legion of darkness. It’s the most frustrating push and pull Tommy has ever experienced in his sixteen years of living.

Really, an army of shadows. Who does Blood God think he is? Even his name is pretentious!

“Have you ever thought of changing your name?” Tommy calls as he rolls out of the way of a stray shadow, wincing as he goes over the broken glass from the windows. “I mean seriously, it’s such a fucking mouthful! I’m trying to have a concise inner-monologue, here!”

Blood God doesn’t respond, because he never does. Just shifts one of his hands upward as he drags the shadows up, up, up. Then his hand is thrown downward, and Tommy can feel the shadows brush his hair as he just manages to frantically tuck his frame behind a tall jewelry stand. The shadows crash down on both sides of him.

Which, okay, okay, good that he managed to evade them. But so, so bad that he’s still, well—here . He needs to be out—needs to be home.

With the brief reprieve of the shadow attack as they shoot around both sides of the jewelry stand, Tommy frantically takes in his surroundings.

It’s dark—and shit, does Tommy fucking hate the dark—but Tommy still frantically scans the room for anything he can use to his advantage, anything he can use to distract Blood God for even a second.

As the shadows falter and thin, Tommy manages to see it: A single mirror, small and square at the top of one of the jewelry stands. Meant for modeling sunglasses or something equally as unimportant, because the only important thing is that in the brief spare seconds Tommy can see the mirror, he can see the Blood God.

Blood God hasn’t even seemed to notice yet. His eyes are still focused on the jewelry stand Tommy hides behind.

Licks of hot light and flares spark between Tommy’s fingers.

Fear makes the light spark with heat, fire—a hit that would hurt . A hit that would certainly capacitate Blood God for long enough that Tommy could beat him. Really beat him, not just the pitiful slips of light and occasional harsh word that Tommy has gotten on him before.

Tommy clenches his fist to settle the light into something easier—still bright as hell, but not serious. Not dangerous.

The light is just enough to do this.

With a flash, Tommy pushes the brightest beam of light possible towards the mirror. It reflects and hits its target—the eyes of Blood God’s mask.

Tommy takes the chance for what it is—the chance to run.

The single second that Blood God takes to throw his arm up is enough. Tommy is off as fast as a lightwave, ducking around Blood God’s form and shooting out of the door.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tommy mutters, running until his legs burn at the same heat his hands do.

The Blood God is not subtle—his shadows move and creak like the living dead. His footsteps pound against the ground under his weight.

The shadows around Tommy are still as he sprints through the lamp-lit streets. There are no hulking footsteps that echo around the sound of Tommy’s own. He knows he isn’t being followed.

Still, he doesn’t stop running until he reaches the fire escape that scales alongside the tall brick flat on the edge of town. Tommy can’t pull himself up fast enough, can’t climb the escape and shove himself through his open window with enough fervor.

It’s not until the window is closed—and locked, as if that could prevent any shadows from getting to Tommy anyway—that Tommy finally takes stock of himself.

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, his chest heaving as he leans over his knees. “Holy shit.”

Tommy’s not truly injured beyond some scrapes, thankfully, but there are bits of glass in his hoodie—which is so annoying to deal with. So annoying, in fact, that Tommy throws it into his hiding space—a small black backpack that rests underneath his bed—and decides to deal with it some other time. Maybe when his hands finally cool from earlier’s disaster, or when he’s finally finished thinking about how Blood God is a fuckin’ bitch, I hate that guy. I could have sworn he wasn’t supposed to be on patrol today! What an absolute bastard—

The adrenaline from earlier quickly slips from Tommy’s body. He’s still upset, sure, could probably go on cursing for days, but most of all he’s just tired. After changing, he leaves his room and collapses on the nearby sofa.

The quiet of the room is what finally lets Tommy’s body relax. There are no shouts, no shatters of glass breaking.

Just the white-noise of a nearby fan.

The low hum of traffic from outside the window.

A slow creaking of an opening door.

Heavy footsteps.

A hulking, bulky body, so massive each footstep hits completely solid on the ground.

A low, rolling timbre of a voice.

“Hey, kid.”

Tommy doesn’t even have to turn around.

“Hey, Techno.”

Tommy doesn’t have to turn around, but he lifts himself up and drapes himself over the back of the sofa—back to the cushions, so he’s hanging upside down—to watch Techno amble into their flat anyway.

Out of his hero-gear, Techno should look just as intimidating as when he’s in it. He’s still absolutely massive, built in such a way that he could crush someone’s skull with just one hand. The absence of a mask means nothing, either, not when it gives direct access to stoic eyes, or the scars and battle wounds that nick at Techno’s jaw and stretch down the side of his nose.

Besides. Techno doesn’t need his costume to demand the obedience of the darkness.

Still. Still.

Tommy can’t be scared—not of this. Not when Techno’s hands are occupied with takeout bags, or when he’s wearing glasses low against his nose, or when his eyes meet Tommy’s and the corners of his mouth lift slightly. “Got takeout.”

“Did you really?” Tommy asks, even though he can see the bags right in Techno’s hands. “You said yesterday you weren’t going to.”

Techno raises a dry eyebrow. “You don’t want it?”

“Fuck no, I never said that,” Tommy quickly rectifies, rolling off of the sofa and scampering into the kitchen. He snatches his container out of the bag and flops down into the nearest seat.

Techno is much slower about it—he takes his time settling down from patrol. His jacket is draped over the back of the sofa, and his bag is placed similarly on the cushions. When he comes back, he sits in the chair across from Tommy’s and pulls out his own food. Blood God’s slow gait drips with intimidation, menace. Techno’s amble is leisurely, comfortable. Tommy always makes sure to watch Techno when he gets home. It’s easier to separate him from Blood God like this. It’s easier to remind himself that this version of Techno isn’t the same one that hates him.

Or at least, it would be easier, if Tommy didn’t suddenly remember how much of a pain in the ass it’s going to be to pick the glass out of his hoodie.

“So where were you?” Tommy asks, as if he can’t recall exactly where Techno was earlier tonight. “I thought you didn’t have patrol.” Tommy knows he didn’t; Blood God absolutely should not have been out at the same time Tommy was. He had been trying to avoid a confrontation, here!

Techno shrugs with a grimace. “Got a report.”

“Oh.” Tommy shouldn’t push—doesn’t need to push—but irritation burns almost as hot as his hands do. “Was it Flare?”

Techno just shrugs again.

Tommy wants to push—wants to guilt him into thinking Tommy was waiting at home, wants to ask him why—out of everything— Flare is the one thing Techno seems to care about.

But sitting at opposite ends of a table, Tommy is achingly aware of the unaware. Of the unspoken, of the tense tightrope of both their livelihoods.

When Tommy had first escaped, Techno had been the one to find him frantically pleading for help. Techno had done more than just help—he had brought him into his home. He had made up a guest room and placed Tommy in it, promising protection, shelter, food, as they sorted out the issue of his captor.

Then they had found his captor and brought him to Pandora. And Tommy had stayed at Techno’s home, even as the television screen flickered with scenes of Blood God pushing a ram-headed man towards the maximum-security prison.

Then Techno returned home.

And Tommy still stayed.

Techno never said anything about where Tommy was meant to go next. Never uttered a word to leave, never muttered a passing statement about Tommy’s next home.

It’s tentative at best, and extremely fucking rocky at its most realistic.

Tommy makes sure to never speak a word of it.

It’s easier this way. Selfish, maybe, in a way that makes shame curl into his heart. It’s easier to just let it go—it’s also easier to imagine a vast array of scenarios that Tommy is fucking certain aren’t true.

Maybe Techno likes me being here as much as I like being here, Tommy imagines. Maybe he hasn’t said anything because he wants me to stay.

Whatever the reason, Tommy decides certainly that it’s better not to rock the boat.

It’s why Tommy had said, about a year ago now, new to Techno’s flat and desperate for shelter, that the Ram had drained him of all his powers, leaving him just as average as passersby on the street. He couldn’t let his own powers oppose Techno’s. He could’ve been abandoned.

It’s why, instead of interrogating Techno, Tommy falls back in his seat to eat.

It’s why Tommy bites down any talk of Flare, flexing his fingers to rid them of the warmth.

When Tommy wakes up, he is already kicking and screaming.

Sheets wrap around his limbs like shackles, his blanket weighs on his chest like someone kneeling into him, he needs to get free, he needs to find help, he’s in danger, he’s in danger—

In the midst of Tommy’s panic, he hardly hears the door click open. Still, he clenches his fists as tight as he can, knowing that he cannot risk a single beam of light getting out. Even he, in his frantic fervor, can remember that.

The dim lamp in Tommy’s room illuminates Techno as he pulls a chair forward. Techno had gotten it for him, after one too many nights of waking up not knowing where he was. Tommy makes sure to turn it on every night.

“Hey,” Techno rumbles, voice low and soothing like a weighted blanket, “you’re okay. You’re at home. You’re safe.”

Tommy has never told Techno what his dreams are about—Techno just knows. He’s always just known.

Tommy gasps for breath. It’s hard, trying to gain his sense of surrounding, even with the light. Every blink brings him back to white rooms, sharp needles and training rooms, his own blood dripping onto the floor. It’s almost impossible for Tommy to calm down. He blinks and he’s captured, he blinks and he’s kicked the shit out of, he blinks and he—

“—so Hermes, tired of his dull life at the top of the mountain, decided to go out and explore. During his adventure, he found a turtle, one with a large shell. Curious, Hermes…”

Tommy gasps, again, then again.

It’s all routine. Techno keeps his small mythology book in Tommy’s room now, right on top of his bedside drawer, next to his lamp. It’s easier this way—he doesn’t have to leave to go grab it, and Tommy doesn’t spiral during his absence.

Techno’s voice is what draws him out of his spiral. Trapped in captivity, the Ram would let him watch broadcasts of hero fights. It was meant to be a taunt—this is how you should be performing, he’d sneer, jabbing towards the television. Not in the shitty way you have been.

Tommy never took it like that, though. He’d watch in yearning, looking at the heroes twirl and taunt through the screen.

His favorite was always the Blood God. He was strong, sturdy, and Tommy always thought he’d look the coolest. When Tommy was younger, he would imagine the Blood God coming to save him—to save them all. The Blood God would tear down the door, and he’d be so strong that the Ram would go down in a single hit. Then he’d laugh, low and rumbling, as he rumbles, “Blood for the Blood God!”

Blood God never did come find them. Tommy had to be the one to find him first.

Even now, hunted and bruised by him, Tommy still thinks Blood God is cool. Because—despite Tommy having to escape, to seek him out—Blood God still saved them.

Blood God saved them, and Techno brought him home. So Techno’s low rumble doesn’t frighten Tommy. It soothes him, reminds him that he’s made it out. He was saved. His hero is here.

Techno continues to read, even after Tommy is soothed. He’s calm, but exhausted, so he lies wearily back on his blankets. He wraps them tightly around himself and closes his eyes. With the weight of the blanket, and the continuous drone of Techno’s voice, he could almost pretend that Techno is the one holding him. It’d be even safer in Techno’s arms. Not even the shadows could touch him there.

Flare, as a hero, may be flashy—it’s a part of the power! He beams his bright lights and creates spotlights, and he practically glows as he fights in the night (and it’s not just his natural charm and smooth complexion).

Not every night is showy, though. Which Tommy likes. It’s not about being flashy, despite what the Ram may have told him again and again and again—it’s not about fame. It’s not about power.

It’s about helping. Helping, no matter what the scale. No matter who needs it.

So when Tommy hears the cries of a small child, he immediately perks to attention.

“Hello?” Tommy calls out, briefly spinning as he tries to locate where the kid is. Another wail rings out down the city, and Tommy runs to follow it.

The cries lead him to a small park. It’s the middle of the night, so of course it’s completely empty—aside from the small child at the bottom of the playset, sitting on the grass and crying into his hands.

“Hey,” Tommy says gently, leaning down so he’s eye level with the kid. “You alright, buddy?”

The kid cries again, running his hand underneath his nose, collecting all of the snot—which, ew, by the way. But it’s nothing that Tommy isn’t used to.

“Why are you out here, bud?” Tommy asks, moving to sit next to the kid. “It’s pretty dark out. Very dark out, even. Middle-of-the-night kind of dark, I’d say.”

The kid takes a gasping, trembling breath. “I—I fell,” he says. With a lookover, it’s immediately true. His knees are a little scraped. When his hands lift away from his face, his small palms look a little bloody.

“Awe,” Tommy sympathizes, “That sucks, man. I’m sorry. Where’s your parents, bud?”

The kid sniffles wetly, shrugging his shoulders with an outpour of tears. “I don’t know!”

Tommy’s heart dips in his chest. “You don’t know?”

A new round of tears start up, but the kid looks more guilty than upset. “I—I wanted to go to the park. So I—I went outside and I didn’t tell ‘em.”

Tommy frowns. “Not a great thing to do, admittedly.”

The kid’s bottom lip trembles, and Tommy stutters to rectify. “But that’s alright! Really, buddy, it’s okay. We’ve just got to get you home. Do you know where you live?”

The kid looks left, right. His face drops as he shakes his head.

Damn. Alright. This might be a bit harder than Tommy thought. “Is there anything near your house? Maybe a restaurant, or…or a library, or something?”

The kid shrugs, but his face twists in an exaggerated display of thinking. “There’s…my school,” he finally says, pouting over his knees.

“Your school,” Tommy  breathes. Thank fuck. That’s something he can work with. After getting the name of the school, Tommy stands, brushing his legs off. “Alright. How about we get you home, huh?”

The kid frowns with a tilted mouth. “But I’m hurt,” the kid whines.

Hm. True. “Alright,” Tommy says, “I’ll carry you, then. So you don’t have to hurt your legs more.”

The kid thinks for a long moment about it, but then stretches his arms outward, opening and closing his fingers over again.

“Alright, alright, hold your horses,” Tommy mutters. The kid is light—he’s tiny enough, for certain—and Tommy starts making his way towards the school.

“Is this your home?” Tommy asks occasionally, pointing to a lone house, or a line of flats. “What about this one? What about—”

“Alfie! Alfie!”

Both Tommy and the boy in his arms momentarily freeze. A woman comes flying out from one of the tall flats, spinning wildly around. “Alfie?”

The arms around Tommy’s neck momentarily tighten. Then, there’s a wet hitch of a breath in Tommy’s ear. “Mum!” The kid cries out, reaching one of his hands away from Tommy’s neck and out towards the woman.

“Oh god,” she breathes. In just a second, she’s running towards them, reaching back out towards her child before bringing him to her chest. “Oh my god. Alfie, where were you? What happened? What—”

“I fell,” the boy sniffles, holding out his scraped hands. “Kiss it?”

A laugh tumbles out of her mouth. “Oh, my…yes, of course, yes.” She takes his small hand and brings it to her mouth, pressing kiss after kiss against his hand and his wrist, then up his arm and to his cheeks, until the kid has stopped sniffling and started laughing.

“Mama!” He cries, giggling as she presses a long kiss against his forehead. “That tickled!”

She takes a large breath and holds him against her neck. “That’s what you get, running off like that. What were you thinking? You didn’t tell any of us you were going out.”

“I just wanted to play,” the kid whines, kicking his feet.

The mother sighs, pressing another exasperated kiss to his hair. “Thank you, Flare,” she breathes, turning to Tommy. “Thank you. Seriously. I’m so sorry for the trouble. I don’t—it’s just me and him, I had already put him to bed, I thought he was sleeping. I never would have thought he’d sneak past me like that…”

Tommy waves his hand. “Eh. Happens all the time.”

She squints her eyes. “Does it?”

No, it doesn’t. But this woman looks absolutely exhausted—she’s got dark circles underneath her eyes, and even now, her lids droop just slightly. It’s obvious that she cares for the kid; Tommy’s not going to rib at her for doing her best. “Well,” Tommy says quickly, eager to skip right past her skeptical eyes. “I’ve got to get going! Lot’s of…crime, n’ shi—stuff. Sorry.”

She shrugs. “You saved my kid. You can curse.”

Tommy smiles, even if she can’t see it behind the mask.

After making sure that both are alright, Tommy waves them back inside. They’re both a bit hesitant, but Tommy convinces them to get back in and go to bed—for real, this time.

Then Tommy is left alone. As he walks down the silent streets, it is just him in the dark.

Until the darkness begins to edge forward, quivering as it creeps outward.

Fuck.

Tommy groans, tilting his head back. “Alright,” Tommy sighs, turning to face the Blood God’s looming figure. “Let’s get this over with.”

Fighting Blood God is always so tiresome. It could be the best night ever—the easiest, swiftest patrol that Tommy could ever have—and one encounter with the Blood God ruins it all.

During dinner the next night, Tommy is exhausted. He’s worn out and—sue him—a little upset when Techno sits down across from him.

Immediately, Tommy tightens his lips, staring down his plate with a weary gaze.

For a long while, Tommy thinks this entire dinner might be silent. Techno’s not exactly a talkative guy. Tommy’s fine with that, though—more than fine with that. Tommy can’t bring himself to chat. Not when his entire body aches, and he can still feel the residual burn in his palms.

Across the table, Techno clears his throat quietly. “How was school?”

Tommy shrugs. Irritation flares up with the pain. “Fine.”

Silence. It’s thick and tense, and Tommy would wince if he didn’t know it would send a sharp pang of pain through his skull. Tommy goes back to shifting his food around with his fork.

It’s silent for the rest of the dinner. Maybe Techno got the hint. It’s not until Tommy is putting his dish in the sink that he speaks up again.

“There’s an arcade that opened recently. It’s pretty close to here.”

Tommy nods absentmindedly. “Yeah. Cool.”

There’s another beat of silence.

“Did you want to go?”

That finally catches Tommy’s attention. He looks up with squinted eyes. “What?”

Techno shrugs. “I don’t patrol tonight.”

“Tonight?” Tommy blinks, lets it settle. “Right now ? It’s—it’s late, Techno.”

“You don’t have a bed-time.”

Tommy blinks at him, slack-jawed. “Are you serious?” He asks. “You’d take me right now?”

“We don’t have to go—”

“No, fuck off,” Tommy spits quickly, sitting up in his chair. “You already said we would. We will, right? You’re taking me?”

Techno sighs, but his mouth upturns in a subtle smile. “Yeah, kid. Grab your shoes.”

“Fuck yeah!” Tommy cheers, throwing his hands in the air.

This is why Tommy does it—this is why Tommy is willing to take hit after hit, slash after punch after knock-out from Blood God. Because when he gets home, Techno does not hold him, or kiss the injuries that he doesn’t know exists. But he sits with him, and feeds him, and spends time with him.

It’s worth it,” Tommy thinks, bumping into Techno’s shoulder as they walk down the dark roads. “I’ll kick your ass in all of these games, Techno. I will absolutely demolish you.”

“I’m a master, kid. Your hubris proves you an unworthy opponent.”

“Wh—no! No way! Fuck you, man, with your big words and shit! I’m the worthiest opponent you’ll ever meet, bitch!”

They get to the arcade and begin to play.

Techno beats him in every single game.

At first, Tommy huffs in exasperated anger, but Techno laughs, low and rumbling. “Get good, Tommy,” he teases, and any sense of exasperation whisps away.

Yeah, Tommy thinks. It’s worth it for this.

Techno truly is a solitary man. In all of Tommy’s time at his flat, he’s only ever had one guest over: Phil.

Phil is fucking awesome. He has hair that trails down to his hips, blond just like Tommy’s. Phil smiles widely and laughs easily, and it’s always so much easier to tell what Phil is thinking than with Technoblade.

Even though the two men are so different—Techno, stoic and solemn, and Phil, cheerful and cordial—they get along with a gentle ease. They’ve known each other for a long time—old men, the both of them are—and it shows. Phil does what Tommy is always too scared to do: he reaches out and he touches Techno’s shoulder, or he scorns Techno for working overtime and makes him settle down. Phil will make a joke, and in turn, Techno will smile—a real smile, the kind that Tommy has to fight for.

Tommy would be jealous, maybe, but it’s impossible when Phil’s kindness returns to him tenfold. Phil pats Tommy’s back every time he enters the house, he listens to Tommy’s rambling with attentive eyes and an eager nod, and he always laughs at just the right parts.

Tonight is movie-night, so when a solid knock comes from the door, Tommy trips over himself to scamper over.

“Phil!” Tommy cries out happily, running to greet the man. “My favorite man ever!”

Phil laughs back, bringing a hand down onto Tommy’s head. “Alright, alright. Settle down, mate.”

As he steps away from Tommy, he steps towards Techno, clasping his shoulder. “Doing good?”

Techno shrugs with a roll of his shoulders. “Better than you are, old man. I watched your patrol from last week.”

“Oye,” Phil scolds, but his smile disproves his annoyance. “I’m not much older than you, Tech. If I’m old, we’ll both be a foot in the grave soon.”

Phil and Techno continue to banter as Tommy scampers to his room, throwing open his drawers and digging through his clothes and knick-knacks. Finally, he finds it—an extra shiny ring he found while patrolling the other night, right by the sewer grate! Tommy had brought it home, and cleaned it, and it now shines a nice metallic gold.

“Phil!” Tommy crows again, rushing back out to the sitting room. “Look! Look what I found you!”

The gold immediately flashes in the light, and Phil’s eyes catch on it immediately. “Oh, mate,” Phil crows, eyes wide and pupils blown as he reaches out to take the ring. “This is—this is great, Tommy, thank you.” His wings flutter and puff as he observes the ring, twisting it around his fingers before slipping it on.

Techno leans over, observing the ring on Phil’s finger. “Did you steal that?”

“No!” Tommy shouts. “I would never do such a thing! I am such a law-follower, Techno, I am the most lawful man you will ever meet. They called me Mr. Law, back on the streets—”

“Kid—”

“Leave him alone,” Phil says, swatting Techno’s shoulder. “No teasing over something sweet.”

Techno rolls his eyes but relents. “You and your instincts,” he grumbles, taking a step back. “I suppose you’ll be fussy for the rest of the night.”

“And what if I am?” Phil retorts. His fingers still fidget around the ring. “We’ll be here all night, anyway. It won’t kill you if I make a nest for us.”

“Nest!” Tommy shouts, as if this wasn’t his master plan all along. “Fuck yeah!”

Tommy runs out of the room, scampering from room to room to snatch all of Phil’s favorite blankets. Tommy never knew anyone with wings before Phil, but the man has instincts like he almost can’t believe. It’s why he likes shiny rings, and patting Tommy’s hair, and building a fort of blankets on Techno’s sofa.

Tommy piles his arms up as high as he can. It’s so much he almost trips over the bits trailing at his feet on his way back.

“…can’t.”

“Techno,” Phil responds, and he sounds a bit…stilted. “It’s supposed to be your night off tonight.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Tommy asks, peeking his head over his pile of blankets.

Phil frowns. Techno just looks away, stepping across the room.

“I got an alert on Flare,” Techno rumbles, grabbing his work bag.

Tommy’s stops in his tracks. “Huh?” It’s obviously not him—Tommy is right fucking here, ready to eat dinner and watch movies. “So you’re leaving?” Tommy asks, irritation lacing his tone.

“Phil will still be here.”

The irritation twists from a light lace to a thick rope. “Fuck Phil, man—no offense, Phil. It’s supposed to be our movie night, you can’t just dip out on us!”

Except Techno can, because this is his house, and he continues to grab everything he needs for work.

This is so fucking annoying! Techno is leaving their hang-out for Flare, and Flare isn’t even fucking out there! He’s in here! About to kick Techno’s ass!

“Techno, come on,” Tommy whines, clutching his fists around the blankets. “It probably isn’t even him! You get false reports all the time! Probably just some fucker out there with a flashlight, or…or a lighthouse, or some shit!”

Techno grunts. “I’m leavin’, Tommy. Phil will be here.”

Tommy’s arms sag. The blankets start to fall out. “Seriously?”

“Be good for Phil,” Techno rumbles, and then he’s gone. Right out the door. Going out to hunt a vigilante that isn’t even fucking there.

“God,” Phil sighs, pinching at his brow. “He just doesn’t know how to relax, does he?”

It’s supposed to be lighthearted, but Tommy’s heart feels the opposite of light. It feels like stones, sinking down to disappointment in Tommy’s chest.

“I’ll finish making dinner,” Phil soothes, brushing past Tommy and into the kitchen. “Why don’t you get everything set up?”

“Yeah,” Tommy mutters, scooping up the blankets with somber arms. “Sure.”

The food is fine. The movie is fine. Even the nest is just fine.

But the nest of blankets only spreads across two seats, rather than three. Tommy hides his disappointment in the cushions and pretends he doesn’t mind.

Tommy by no means is weak—the Ram made sure of that. Tommy has been pushed to the brink with his powers again and again and again, fighting and defending and practicing until his hands burn like fire, even hours after Tommy finally collapsed.

Still—even powers don’t make a man invincible. Not even as big a man as Tommy.

A few pitiful criminals, unprepared and caught off guard? Tommy’s got it, no fucking problem.

A large group of seven, all armed with weapons and masks and fucking traps?

Yeah. Tommy was in deep shit.

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers as he limps towards the nearby playground.

Everything hurts. Everything hurts fucking bad . Tommy’s got cuts and bruises lining his arms and knees, an ankle that screams in anguish with every step.

Tommy’s a big-man, damn it, he’s Flare! He’s supposed to be strong, powerful, he’s supposed to be—

The tears come anyway.

Fuck.

Tommy stumbles towards the large playset, barely catching himself as he falls towards the wooden climbing wall.

“Holy shit,” Tommy breathes, every blink causing the echo of a gunshot to shoot through Tommy’s ears. His arm stings. He thinks the bullet scraped him. “Holy shit.”

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. But it’s over. It’s over, Tommy can rest.

Until the sound of heavy footsteps start to pound from down the street.

A sob almost tears through Tommy’s chest. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to fight Blood God. He wants to go home and pass out, for so hard and for so long he doesn’t wake up for two months. He wants to patch himself up with his tail between his legs, pitiful and shameful but fuck, at least he’d finally be home. At least Blood God would turn to Techno, and maybe Tommy could scrape some pitiful comfort from Techno’s hands.

Techno isn’t here right now. Blood God is.

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. “Alright. Alright. C’mon, Flare, you can do it. Just one more. Just one more. Just one more fucking fight.”

Tommy doesn’t want one more fight.

Blood God looms, and Tommy doesn’t have a choice.

Dinners with Phil are typically fantastic.

Tonight, though, Tommy thinks he might just lose his mind.

By the time Phil makes it to the flat, Tommy is still working on his English homework from earlier. He’s got papers, notes, and annotations spread across the entirety of the table. Just looking at them gives Tommy a headache.

A headache that is not helped, by the way, by all of his stupid injuries from fighting shadows, or by the consistent buzz of the news from across the open room. It drones on and on, some stupid news story about Flare.

“This looks like a lot, mate,” Phil says, picking up a random sheet of notes and looking through it. “Is this all for one assignment?”

Tommy grunts. “Yup,” he grumbles angrily, even though Phil hasn’t done anything, and doesn’t deserve to be snapped at. But that just reminds Tommy of someone who really hasn’t done anything. Someone who said they would. “Techno’s supposed to be helping,” Tommy grumbles again, and he fixes his harshest glare on the back of Techno’s head.

The vigilante, Flare, has once again been spotted downtown. Police reports have stated…

“Techno,” Phil calls halfheartedly, picking up another paper and looking it over. “Come over here.”

It is currently unknown at this time…

“In a minute,” Techno mutters.

Witnesses state that Flare fled west from the scene, disappearing from view around…

Tommy clenches the pencil in his hand. “Techno.”

The suspects have been apprehended by police force and brought into custody. When questioned, neither of the suspects had information on Flare’s identity…

Heat begins to simmer in Tommy’s chest. “Techno,” he says again, harsher this time. He wills it to hit Techno as hard as his light beams do.

Heroes have been doubling down on the appearance of vigilantes. A reward has been offered for anyone who has information on…

Techno just grunts. He doesn’t even turn around.

It’s enough for Phil to put the paper down, looking at Techno with a frown. “Mate.”

Even Phil calling isn’t enough. Techno doesn’t even answer this time.

Tommy clenches the paper in his hand so hard it practically tears underneath his nails.

Fuck Techno. Fuck Techno, and fuck Flare, and fuck the news, and fuck Techno again—

Tommy’s so caught up in his storm of mental-cursing, he startles as Phil walks to the sofa. He grabs the remote from the cushion, the screen going dark as Phil presses a button.

When Techno turns, he’s practically snarling. “Phil, I was—” Then he stops. Phil meets his scowl with a stern gaze. It’s only a centimeter—only the smallest of flick—but Phil’s head motions towards Tommy on the chair.

Techno’s brow furrows. With the same subtly, his eyes flicker to Tommy on the chair.

Subtly doesn’t matter—he can see the pricks look over at him.

Tommy stands from the table and snatches his papers up in one hand. “Whatever,” he glowers, rolling his eyes and stuffing all of his work back into his bag.

“Tommy—” Techno starts, but Tommy doesn’t hear fucking any of it. He storms to his room before he can hear any of the bullshit Techno tries to sprout.

The bag of school shit is thrown to the bed. Wasting absolutely no time, still fuming with an embarrassed-angry-shameful heat, Tommy opens his window and crawls out onto the fire escape. Not as Flare—fuck Flare, and fuck Techno, and fuck being a vigilante.

Huffing angrily, Tommy makes his way to the top of the roof. He lets himself drop at the edge, seated with his aching legs dangling over the side.

The wind is bitter, just like Tommy, but cold, which soothes the angry flame in his cheeks. Tommy flexes his hands open, closed, willing himself to push down the glowing light that threatens to come out of them.

Tommy is more than willing to sit out here as long as he needs. He’ll sit out here until Techno feels as guilty as he possibly can. He would deserve it. But, because of fucking course Tommy does, he eventually hears the metallic sound of footsteps from the fire escape, and the grunt of Phil pulling himself onto the roof.

“Getting a bit too old for that,” Phil says with light-hearted groan, as if he isn’t the fucking Angel of Death. He does harder shit than this every single night. If he had used his wings? A fucking no-brainer.

Phil sits next to him, and Tommy grits his teeth. He’s not in the mood to entertain this tonight. Maybe some other time, Tommy would joke and push Phil around and dangle himself over the edge just to see Phil’s wings flare up, but tonight Tommy is fucking sick of it. He never wants to think of heroes, or vigilantes, or anyone ever again.

With Phil already sitting next to him, it’s not really like he has a choice.

“It’s nice up here,” Phil mentions, staring out towards the city. “You hang out up here a lot?”

“Fuck off, Phil,” Tommy grumbles, wrapping his arms around himself.

Phil hums, but doesn’t push any further. He lets silence fall, only the hum of the night between them.

“Techno’s sorry. Even if he won’t say it,” Phil eventually says, still looking outward. His hair drifts back with the wind. “He’s been a bit shit recently, hasn’t he?”

Tommy scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He always is. He’s a bitch.”

Phil hums again. “I know. Techno’s never been…the greatest, at this sort of thing.”

Tommy scoffs again, but anything from his mouth would be absolutely sour with bitterness, so he bites his tongue and glares off into the distance.

Next to him, Tommy hears Phil shift. “He’s trying, though. This is his first time handling something like this. He’s never had someone like you.”

Tommy’s heart skips a beat. Oh fuck. “Someone like me?”

Phil shrugs. “A mentee. A kid.” A beat. “His kid.”

Tommy’s heart wrenches dramatically in his chest. “Fuck off, Phil, seriously.”

“Look, I know it’s hard to understand. Techno is difficult, and he’s stubborn, and he can be a little shit sometimes. But he’s doing what he thinks is best. He cares about you.”

“Techno doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” Tommy bites, and he ignores the angry sting that’s beginning to stab at his eyes. “Himself, and—and fucking Flare. I just—I don’t understand! I don’t get it!” Tommy turns to Phil, angry and fuming and fucking desperate. “Why? Why does he hate Flare so much, why? Techno fucking hates systems of control! Hates them! You two were vigilantes, a thousand fucking years ago! So why—what changed? Why does he suddenly hate them all?”

As Tommy speaks, he watches Phil’s face slowly shift. His eyes are low, and his brow just slightly furrowed, and holy shit, Tommy might finally get some fucking answers. Please, please, please…

Then Phil’s face shifts, and his eyes dip back to the city. “Tommy, I don’t…”

“Please Phil?” Tommy is practically breathless. He needs to know, he needs to know why Techno hates Flare. Why Techno hates him.

But Phil sighs, and when he looks back up at Tommy he’s back to resolute. “If Techno hasn’t told you, I don’t know if I should, mate.”

Damn it. Fuck. Tommy can feel his chest pull apart. This might have been his only chance to get answers, and if Phil won’t tell him…

“Why?” Tommy pleads, leaning forward. “Why not? If it’s making Techno be a bitch, I want to know.”

Phil shakes his head. “Just trust us, mate. We’re not keeping it a secret to punish you. We don’t want you to be worried about something that isn’t yours to worry about.”

Fuck that. Fuck that. “Fuck that,” Tommy growls, folding into himself and turning his glare back outward. “If you’re going to be a bitch, Phil, go do that somewhere else.”

“Tommy—”

“Leave me alone.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Tommy grips his arms with shaking hands, willing the hot burn of tears to stay behind his lids.

“Okay,” Phil finally says. “I’ll be in for a while, still. If you want to see me.”

“Fuck. Off.”

The tears finally fall as Phil steps away. They’re embarrassing, though, and fucking stupid, so Tommy digs his palms into his eyes until the tears recede back in.

This sucks. This fucking sucks.

The aftermath of the non-conversation leaves Tommy feeling completely drained. He feels dry, lifeless, like a single strong wind could push him right over the edge of the building. Better to go inside, then. He’ll slip right back through his window, and he won’t even have to look at Phil or Techno’s ugly fucking faces.

As quietly as he can, Tommy does exactly that. He sneaks back into his room, sniffling silently as muffled voices float from down the hall.

“…tell him, mate, but he’s upset about it.”

“I know.”

“I understand what you’re trying to do. I get it, Techno. But you’re hurting him in the process—”

“I’m not.” A beat. “I won’t be. He just doesn’t understand.”

“Well, you’re not really helping with that, are you?”

“I am helping. You know it. It’ll be fine. Once Flare is gone, then…”

Phil sighs. “Yeah. Seriously, though, Techno—”

“I know. I know.”

It goes silent, then, and Tommy waits with bated breath by the door.

“New arcade opened up down the block. Have you been yet?” Phil says, and Tommy swears underneath his breath.

Fuck. He missed it. They were talking about him, talking about Flare.

The feeling pulls Tommy’s heart into the depths of the water. It feels like when the shadows curl over him—dark, dreadful.

Still, even with the conversation over, Tommy stays pressed against his door, listening to the ambling conversations down the hall. It’s almost like listening to the television, a static white noise as Tommy fights his drifting sleep. Eventually, the conversations lull, and Tommy hears the jangling of keys.

“I should head home,” Phil’s saying. “Got a long day tomorrow.”

“Right.”

A beat. “Talk to him, Techno. I know you hate it, but…”

“Sure.”

A sigh in response. “Alright. Have a nice night, mate. Text me tomorrow morning.”

Techno hums, which is as much of a goodbye as Phil is going to get. The door creaks open, and then subsequently clicks shut, and all that’s left is silence.

Techno begins to walk through the house, and Tommy shifts towards his bed, crawling under the covers and waiting for his door to open.

It doesn’t. Tommy spends so long waiting he drifts to sleep, staring at a door that stays shut the whole night.

Objectively, Tommy’s never had great luck. He’d say that getting kidnapped, abused, and used for his powers for years of his childhood proves he has pretty shit luck, actually.

Today hasn’t proven his luck to be any different.

He was supposed to be grabbing a coffee—he had even asked Techno if he could. But then, just as the sun was setting and Tommy was preparing to go home, of course some idiots decided to play criminal.

Tommy dealt with them, sure, but they got a few hits in. Tommy hasn’t seen himself yet, but surely he looks like shit. For a moment, he hadn’t even been able to breathe in his mask, the blood from his nose soaking into the fabric.

Even worse than that? Tommy’s window won’t budge open.

Fuck. Damn it.

The only thing Tommy can do to prepare is change in the darkness of a nearby alley, shoving his bloody costume into his schoolbag. The only thing left to do after that is face the music.

Techno is completely silent as Tommy shuffles through the front door. His hood is up, but not like that’s going to do shit about the way his face looks. It’s not going to cover up the bruising around his eye and up his cheekbone, or the blood that’s dried and cracked down Tommy’s cupids-bow.

It’s absolutely useless to try getting away. Not when Techno is already looking at him from across the room, body turned on the sofa. When he stands, his shoulders are tense. His fists are clenched. He walks towards Tommy with a gait that has the boy wincing—if Tommy squints his eyes, or maybe shuts them and lets his headache take over, he could practically envision Blood God right in front of him.

For a moment, Tommy’s eyes slip shut to give way to the vision. Heavy footsteps, a bulking figure. Dark, dangerous eyes coming closer and closer.

But when Tommy opens his eyes, the vision fades over Techno’s real face. His eyebrows furrow, and his eyes, dark, but not dangerous, flicker and survey Tommy’s face.

“What happened?” Techno rumbles. It’s low, gruff, and through the intimidating anticipation of anger, Tommy lets the low tones soothe his headache.

Tommy shrugs in response. Pain tugs at his shoulders. “Mugged.”

Techno’s brow furrows further in response. “Mugged?”

Tommy just shrugs again. He tries to keep his eyes on Techno’s, tries to make this seem like a convincing lie, but he can’t help it; sound and light flash from across the room, and Tommy lets his eyes slip from Techno’s face to the television.

It’s the news—because of course it fucking is—and it’s playing a news story about Flare—because of course it fucking is.

Heat begins to simmer in Tommy’s chest. He’s sick of hearing about Flare—he’s beaten, tired, aching. But Techno leads Tommy to a chair, then heads back over to the sofa, and the heat could just about come up as vomit.

Of course Techno’s going to ignore him in favor of fucking Flare news. Going to sit his ass down and glare at the screen while Tommy…while…

Oh, Tommy thinks as the screen goes dark. The sound is abruptly cut off as Techno holds out the remote, turning the television completely off.

Then Techno’s gaze turns and finds his. Eyes still dark, jaw still clenched, but not at the news. Not at Flare. Not tonight.

There’s a moment where Techno briefly disappears down the hall. It is a moment of almost-weightlessness, a strange teetering on the jagged edge of anticipation as Tommy holds his breath.

When Techno returns, he’s carrying a small first aid kit and a wet cloth. And when Techno raises a hand to wipe at the blood on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t flinch.

If he squints his eyes, or maybe shuts them, he could envision a large, bruised fist swinging towards his unguarded face.

Tommy doesn’t. Not even for a second. He keeps his eyes wide as a newborn deer, floating on anticipation as he waits for what happens next.

What happens is Techno pressing the wet cloth underneath Tommy’s nose. For all the fight that Tommy knows Techno has in him, he is gentle with this. The cloth is pressed, then wiped, then pressed again.

Tommy ignores the minute trembling in his bones as Techno’s warmth seeps from his hand through the cloth to Tommy’s skin. Yearning wraps around Tommy’s heart and squeezes like a cobra—the same kind of yearning after Tommy has nightmares, or after a rough night of getting the shit kicked out of him.

Maybe if he just—reached out. Maybe if he grabbed onto his wrist, Techno would understand. They wouldn’t have to talk about it—they would never have to address it. It would be just like the nightmares, where Tommy doesn’t say a word, but Techno knows what he needs anyway.

Tommy can’t bring himself to.

“Who?” Techno asks gruffly, glaring at Tommy when all he does is shrug.

“What?” Tommy asks, and though he snaps in annoyance, he is grateful that he doesn’t have to lie about this. “It’s not like I asked while they beat the shit out of me.”

Techno grunts, but he takes the answer. The cloth is removed from under his nose and wiped against a cut instead. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Tommy goes to shake his head, but in fear of making Techno move away, just hums instead. “No. Just the face.” Then, a weak smile. “They tried making me ugly, Techno.”

Techno gives a dry laugh, but the jest is left without a retort. His focus stays on the dark marks pooled on Tommy’s skin.

Once the cloth has been significantly covered in Tommy’s blood, and Tommy’s face has been significantly cleaned, Techno steps away and returns with a bag of cold peas.

“Really?” Tommy says in exasperation. “You’re a superhero, and the best damn thing we have for this is a bag of peas? Not even an ice pack?” Tommy scoffs lightly, pressing the pack to his face and trying not to wince. “Real quality service we have, here.”

It’s another joke that falls flat. Tommy waits for Techno to joke back. He doesn’t. When Tommy looks up, Techno just stares back, eyes low and shaded.

There is a long moment in which the two simply stare at each other: Techno flicks his eyes over Tommy’s face, his face stoic in a sort of emotion Tommy can’t quite place. Tommy wills himself to keep looking into Techno’s eyes, and wills himself even more to not fall into Techno’s chest.

“Are you alright?” Techno finally asks.

The shock of the questions almost knocks the air out of Tommy’s lungs. “Yeah,” he breathes, because they’ve never talked about how the other is doing.

Techno’s mouth twists, and for just a second, Tommy thinks that might change. Then Techno takes a breath, releases it, and Tommy knows it’ll stay the same. “Okay.”

It’s cold as Techno takes a step back. Tommy misses the warmth of his palms.

And maybe—maybe, just twice—Techno just knows, just as he knows his nightmares, because he rumbles, “We watchin’ a show? Any movies you’ve been achin’ to see?”

“It’s a school night,” Tommy reminds him weakly, ignoring the way his protest grates against his throat and desperation tears into every artery of his heart.

Techno glances at him with low brows. “You were mugged, kid. You can skip school tomorrow.”

This entire night has thrown Tommy entirely off of his feet. He feels like he’s stumbled into a whirlwind, emotion and comfort and warmth pushing him side to side worse than any low-level thieves ever have. The ground has never felt more unsteady, the metaphorical-boat that he and Techno sit in rocking unsteadily.

To accept more of Techno’s comfort could capsize them both. It dunk them into the cold, harsh water of reality. It could ruin them.

But Tommy is selfish, and the frigid salt-water hasn’t come up yet. Tommy risks pushing the boat over. “Hell yeah. Can I skip school every time I get mugged?”

“No,” Techno deadpans. “Don’t get mugged again.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be doing it on purpose,” Tommy mutters, except he kind of would be.

Tommy falls asleep on the sofa that night. When he wakes up, his body is sore and there’s a crick in his neck.

Still, when Tommy turns, Techno is sleeping on the sofa right across from him, and Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever felt better.

Tommy hates going out as Flare in broad daylight.

For starters, he looks way less cool in the sunlight. Where is the mystique? The drama?

Not to mention that, in the sun, everyone wears sunglasses. How is Tommy supposed to blind criminals if they’ve got damn shades on? And they always know that he’s coming, because it’s daylight out, and he’s the only one around wearing a stupid costume. It’s harder to be discrete—to hide. To stay unseen.

That typically applies to other humans.

But as Tommy tugs on his Flare hoodie, he hears a sharp hiss of a gasp from behind him.

Tommy whips around, ready to flash-bang some random civilian, preparing to send a seering beam of light towards any phones or cameras—

There is no civilian. There are no cameras.

Only a dark, hazy conglomeration of raised shadows.

Tommy freezes as though there’s a gun on him.

There isn’t. Not really.

(There is. Techno’s shadows are here. They know who he is. His life is over. Unless…)

“Don’t tell Techno,” Tommy pleads, still rigid in his stance, hoodie half-pulled on over his head, his arms raised and stuck in the fabric. “Please, please don’t.”

The shadows hiss and murmur and shift where they stand across from him. Tommy can’t hear what they’re saying—only the Blood God can differentiate their voices, can truly understand their cacophony of speech—and Tommy has never hated it more than he does now.

“Don’t tell him,” Tommy hisses back, a mixture of panic and demand in his tone. “Seriously, please, please don’t. He hates me, you know he hates me!”

The shadows chitter, and Tommy might be going crazy, but they sound displeasured.

“Ugh—whatever, he hates Flare! You get what I’m saying! Come on, don’t be snitches! Please, shadows, please, seriously. I’m begging you, please don’t—”

A high-pitched scream comes from the direction of the bank. Goddamnit, Tommy doesn’t have the time to argue!

“I’m serious!” Tommy calls, finally tugging his hoodie the rest of the way on before quickly pulling on his mask. “I’m serious, don’t tell him! I’ll know if you do! I’ll fuck you up if you do! Don’t tell him!”

Tommy sprints out of the alley before the shadows can signify any kind of response.

The entire fight, Tommy focuses more on the feeling of sick than anything going on in front of him.

The thought of the shadows telling Techno sends panic spiking through Tommy’s chest. What will Tommy do then? Techno will kick him out, or arrest him, or maybe even kill him. There’s no way he should go home. Techno probably already knows. Techno is probably donning his Blood God gear at this very second, ready to fucking strike while Tommy is thrown off his game.

“Are you doing okay?” One of the cronies asks as Tommy absentmindedly dodges a punch. “You seem a bit distracted.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Tommy mumbles back, not really hearing what he even said.

It would be best to just skip town before Techno can track him down. Maybe he can sneak back into the house to grab a few of his things before he has to go.

Tommy’s heart squeezes tightly in his chest. He could practically cry. He doesn’t want to leave Techno’s place. He doesn’t want to sneak off in the dark of night, running from someone that may-or-may-not know Tommy’s secret identity.

“Wow, he’s not even joking around,” one of the robbers grunts, throwing a chair in Tommy’s direction. “Something really is going on. Hey, do you want to talk about it—”

Tommy blinds them with a sudden flash of light before kicking them while they’re down.

The sun is still up by the time Tommy ties them up and runs out. Still, Tommy glances down every alley and shadowed wall, watching for any kind of movement.

There isn’t any, but Tommy knows better than to take the chance.

Though Tommy is supposed to be coming home from school, he doesn’t walk through the front door. Not yet, not while Techno could be sitting at the dining room table waiting for him. Instead, Tommy quickly shifts out of his vigilante-garb in an alley, shoving it into his backpack before climbing up the fire escape leading to his room.

Slowly, silently—something Tommy is definitely not known for—he slides the window up. He gets it just enough to crawl in, making sure his feet hardly make a sound as they hit the carpeted floor.

It’s a fucked up game of balance after that. Tommy can’t go too fast, can’t risk bumping his bedframe or closing a drawer too hard, lest the sound make it to Techno and alert him. On the other hand, Tommy needs to get ready. Quickly . Every second he spends in this room is another second that Techno could march in and see him. So, as quickly and quietly as he can, Tommy pours his school supplies onto his bed and replaces it all with his personal belongings: clothes and chargers, and a few snacks he’s kept hidden away. Then Tommy is crawling back out his window, just to go through the front door of the flat and to Techno’s door.

Fuck. Tommy’s hands are shaking as he reaches out for the doorknob.

The door clicks open and swings silently. Techno is seated at the dining table, pencil and paper in his hand, and Tommy can’t breathe.

Tommy takes a single step in. Two.

Techno doesn’t look up. “Hullo.”

“Hi,” Tommy tries, then coughs when the words catch in his throat.

Still, Techno doesn’t look up. “You’re home late,” he rumbles, but his pencil taps on the table and his eyes continue to stare at the paper in his hands.

“Oh,” Tommy says. “Yeah. Sorry. I was…”

Is this some sort of test? Is Techno waiting for Tommy to crack under the pressure? Is he trying to see if Tommy comes clean first?

If Techno is waiting for any of that, he’s going to be waiting a long fucking time.

“I was grabbing a coffee. You know me,” Tommy laughs awkwardly.

Techno finally looks up. The corners of his lips are downturned, but his face otherwise doesn’t look any more stoic than it usually does. “Message next time. So I know you’re not getting mugged again.”

Tommy’s breath catches in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I—sorry.”

Then Techno turns back to his papers.

Holy shit. Holy shit, forget anything bad Tommy has ever said about the shadows ever—they are officially Tommy’s best friends. Family, even.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go—piss,” Tommy says hastily, practically vibrating as he tries not to run across the hall in relief. “Bye, Techno!”

Tommy shoots into his room feeling lighter than ever. Techno doesn’t know a thing! The shadows didn’t snitch! They kept his secret!

The shadows don’t really work like this—they don’t just wait around in the nooks and crannies of Tommy’s room like creeps—but Tommy kneels into the closest shadow patch and breaks into praise anyway. “Thank you, thank you, thank you . Holy shit. I owe you all one. Oh my god. I thought for sure—” Tommy takes a gasping breath. “Thank you. This makes up for all the time you were pieces of shit to me. I don’t even care about that anymore!”

The relief Tommy feels is better than anything he’s ever felt. Better than takeout, better than finally finishing a long homework assignment, better than…drugs, probably! Probably far, far better than drugs.

“Thank you,” Tommy breathes one more time, letting himself fall onto his bed. “Thank you.”

For once, Tommy doesn’t fear the darkness in the corners of his room. Just once, the shadows are on his side, and Tommy will take what he can get.

Heavy footsteps resound from behind where Tommy sits on the rooftop, and for a moment, Tommy is so annoyed he genuinely considers throwing himself off of it.

“Are you serious?” Tommy groans, turning to face the Blood God. “I’m not even doing anything!”

Blood God doesn’t answer. Just glowers from the other side of the rooftop, the prick.

“Alright, well, if you’re just going to be dramatic, I’ll go ahead and be on my way—”

“No,” Blood God growls. It’s low and threatening, and even though Tommy should be used to it by now, he isn’t. He stills where he steps, watching with anxious feet as the Blood God continues to loom ominously. “You’re done runnin’. Turn yourself in.”

Tommy scoffs nervously, his eyes flicking back and forward.

The problem with rooftops, really, is how fucking empty they are. There’s nothing for Tommy to hide behind. Tommy’s best bet is going to be running, but against the shadows—against the Blood God…

Fuck. Tonight is going to suck shit. 

Tommy shifts his foot back, just a single centimeter. Just enough that he should be able to bounce backward and off of the building before Blood God can get to him.

Blood God sees it, because of course he does. He grunts with a low snarl, taking a step forward and—

And almost raising his arm upward.

He manages to lift it just enough that a wave of shadows rises from between buildings. But then the rise…stops.

Even Blood God looks surprised, despite his mask. He whips his head around to look at the shadows, body tense where he tries to puppet them.

Tommy watches as Blood God tries to raise them one, two, three more times. The shadows tug upwards like molasses. Blood God grunts angrily, and Tommy watches as his arm trembles under the strain of trying to raise his shadows.

The entire sight becomes distinctly eerie. The shadows begin to hiss and wail, a cacophony of horrid sound that begins to ring in Tommy’s ear. The ringing drones with a harshness, Tommy feels sick, Tommy feels confused, Techno tries to raise the shadows but they just keep pushing themselves backward—

Blood God turns to Tommy with an angry grunt. Everything stills once more. Then Blood God stops trying to call for his shadows. In one fluid, angry motion, he pulls out his sword.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Blood God lumbers forward, steps so heavy they practically shake the rooftop. Tommy is still frozen in fear, in confusion, and his heart beats faster, faster, faster as Blood God gets closer—

Then the shadows rise like a tidal wave. They build up far above Techno’s head, like a solid wall.

The ringing intensifies, before it reaches its peak.

For once—just once—the shadows all speak in unison. Even Tommy can hear it.

RUN.

Tommy does. The hissed words kick him into gear, and he turns and begins to sprint as the shadows curl in the sky.

“Fuck,” Tommy hisses, jumping from the building’s edge onto a nearby awning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck this, fuck this, fuck this—”

The second Tommy hits the pavement of the street, the shadows come crashing down around him. Tommy screams, but it’s quickly drowned out by the rushing of shadows. Shadows that—to Tommy’s surprise—don’t hurt him. They push at his heels and urge him to go faster, and fuck, Tommy was already planning on doing that!

With the shadow’s help, Tommy careens forward. He can’t imagine what this looks like for Blood God, if he can even see them by this point. The shadows are thick and plentiful, piled on top of each other as they writhe and move forward. When Tommy turns his head back, all he can see is darkness. Not like it matters—the shadows hiss their displeasure at Tommy’s lookback, so he turns his attention back to the street ahead of him.

Fear, confusion, is overriding any sort of pain that Tommy feels. The burning in his legs? The stitch in his side? Doesn’t fucking matter, any of it. What are the shadows playing at? What the actual hell is going on here?

“Alright, fuckers,” Tommy gasps, stumbling as a group of slithering shadows pushes a little too hard at his heel. “What the hell is our—” Tommy yelps as he’s suddenly grabbed. He immediately begins kicking, but the cacophony of hisses and wails sound off by his ear, and Tommy realizes it was the shadows that grabbed him. They tug him into a nearby alley, pressing him firmly into a corner. Tommy can hardly breathe—they’re pressing too hard, the rough edge of brick is scuffing up his back, he’s squished, it hurts—but he doesn’t dare voice his displeasure. Not when he can hear the pounding footsteps of Blood God right outside his alley.

Darkness completely surrounds Tommy. Please, please say Techno can’t see me, Tommy thinks, willing it to be true with all of his might. Please pass me, please, please, please…

The footsteps stop. Tommy holds his breath.

Then, a harsh, angry grunt. There’s a loud crash, and then another one.

“What the hell?” Blood God hisses, and Tommy flinches at the sound. There’s yet another loud crash, followed by several pounding footsteps. “What the hell was that? He was—he was right there. I don’t—” A harsh breath. “You all are mine. Mine. Whatever you’re tryin’ to do…” Blood God trails off.

Hell, Tommy doesn’t blame him. Tommy doesn’t even know what they’re doing. Sure, they know who he is now, but Tommy isn’t in charge of them! Tommy isn’t their boss!

Yet, they still keep him tucked away. Even when Techno makes another threatening, angry grunt, even when Tommy can hear him march away, muttering curses under his breath.

It’s not until the alley is completely silent that the shadows finally shift back.

Tommy stumbles away from the corner. His knees feel weak. He practically stumbles like a little baby deer.

“That…” Tommy can’t even get a breath out.

That was close. Too close. His hands shake. His chest aches.

Tommy hates when Techno fights himself. Hates it. It’s harder to detach himself that way, harder to pretend like it isn’t happening.

At night, Tommy can convince himself that it’s the shadows’ doing. It’s their fault he’s aching, it’s their fault he’s writhing in bed in pain, waiting for the aches to be soothed by two things of Tylenol.

When Techno fights? When Tommy’s memories flash with brutal fists, a long, tusked mask, a sword long and thick?

It’s harder, then. Harder to pretend. Harder to act like everything is okay. Harder to act like Techno would still look out for him if he knew the truth.

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, and he leans over his knees. “Fuck.”

The shadows seem to realize that he doesn’t plan on walking any time soon. They start to lightly nudge him, pushing him in the direction of home. Tommy doesn’t want to go home—not yet, not so soon after what’s been a bad night for Blood God, but he doesn’t know how long he’s already been out here. He needs to get moving.

The shadows push until they’re standing right outside Tommy’s window. Even then, they try to boost Tommy as he begins to crawl up the fire escape.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Tommy murmurs, waving them off. “I don’t need help with everything.”

The shadows murmur their own disagreement. Still, they finally recede, pressing back into the normal shadows of the street. They still waver, still shift unnaturally from the corner of Tommy’s eyes—they’re watching him climb up, making sure he makes it inside.

It’s kind of them, but too much, so Tommy opens his window and slips inside without any further argument.

Tommy can hear voices the moment he steps into his room. They’re muffled through the door, but Tommy creeps over and presses his ear against the door.

“Mate,” Phil is saying, and hey, isn’t that a surprise. When did Phil get here? “There has to be a reason. It doesn’t make any sense that your shadows would just…stop working like that.”

“I know that, Phil,” Techno grumbles back. “I just…someone needs to be out there while I’m not.”

“Techno…”

“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to fix my shadows. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I can’t risk Flare being out there while I’m out of commission. Not if it takes me long.”

There’s a beat. Another. Tommy’s heart threatens to give out in his chest.

“Jesus, Techno. Alright. We’ll see. I just…your shadows have never fought back like that. The fact that they were stubborn this time…”

Techno lets out a low breath. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you will, mate. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

There’s a beat. Two. Then, shuffling. Techno lets out another low sigh. “I’m going to check on Tommy.”

Fuck, shit, piss. Tommy is supposed to be in bed right now!

As quickly as possible, Tommy tears his mask off, shoving it underneath his sheets as he slams into his bed. He just manages to lie with his back to the door, tugging the blanket up to his shoulder to hide, when—

The door clicks open. Tommy almost holds his breath.

For a long moment, Techno just stands in the doorway. Tommy strains his ears, waiting for some kind of notion of what Techno’s doing, but there’s nothing. Not until Techno sighs, and footsteps make their way to Tommy’s bedside.

There’s a small click from Tommy’s nightstand. Then the footsteps leave, softly closing the door behind him.

When Tommy opens his eyes, his lamp is on.

It’s not enough to send Tommy to sleep. Instead, he stares into the dark corners of his room and wonders, now that the shadows are helping him, if Techno hates him all the more for it.

The next time Tommy is cornered, he’s not expecting it.

Listen, it’s hardly Tommy’s fault that the Angel is—for lack of a better term—quiet as fuck. Tommy is used to Blood God’s heavy footsteps and low snorts. That means that Tommy realizes far too late that Angel is occupying the same rooftop as him.

Tommy startles with a slip of a curse, and Angel…raises his hands. Only a little, but it’s slow, cautious.

Tommy doesn’t relax, but he stills. It’s stupid, he should be running his ass off, but the Angel stays on his side of the rooftop, just as Tommy stays on his side.

“Flare,” Angel greets. It’s methodical, slightly cold. It’s so different from the warmth that Phil usually speaks in.

“Don’t come any closer,” Tommy warns, taking a step back. “I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You won’t.”

Tommy falters. The Angel continues to look at him with a tilted head. Then, “I won’t hurt you, either.”

Tommy lets out a breath. “Oh, well that—”

“As long as you do what I ask.”

Tommy bites down the rest of his original sentence. “Asshole,” he grumbles. “Doing the ol’ bait-n-switch.”

Phil would laugh at that. The Angel doesn’t. Just tilts his head a little further, as if analyzing what he sees in front of him.

“You already know what I want,” he finally says, his voice odd and mechanical with his voice changer. “If you turn yourself in, we can make it easy.”

“Ugh. Seriously?” Tommy complains, throwing his hands upward. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? You’re so obsessed with my identity! Reveal yourself, turn yourself in, mi-mi-mi-mi-mi. It’s annoying is what it is!”

“Flare.”

The breath catches in Tommy’s throat at the low tone. “I just—” he stutters. “I just don’t understand.” Tommy tries to exude Flare, tries to exude annoyance rather than the desperation that he feels. He doesn’t know if it works. “I haven’t done anything to you. To anyone, aside from criminals! Sure, I’m doing something—you know, illegal—but hardly anyone cared about that before! Certainly not you two assholes! What the hell changed? Why do you care that badly?”

The Angel stares. He stares for a long, long moment. Long enough that Tommy begins to tense up, readying himself for when the Angel pounces at him from across the rooftop.

Instead, the Angel hums. “Do you know about the Ram? He was an old vigilante, almost a year ago. He was put in Pandora not too long ago.”

The name knocks all of the wind out of Tommy’s core.

Holy shit, does Tommy know about the Ram. Tommy knew the Ram, personally. Tommy was his stupid little guinea pig. Tommy suffered under his hands the worst out of all of them.

“I've heard of him,” Tommy breathes, tone filled with faux nonchalance. “What about him?”

The Angel’s head tilts once more. Just slightly. Just a centimeter. “He was a vigilante. We never looked into him. He did good for the city, and we decided to leave him be. We even worked with him a few times.” The Angel’s fingers clench. “Turns out, his powers weren’t his own. He had stolen several street-kids to experiment on. He would take their powers and completely drain them of all that they had. He trained them, made their powers stronger, and then…”

Yeah. Tommy knows. Tommy knows intimately. He was with the Ram for a long time. Long enough that he saw several kids, like him, get overworked. That he saw several kids wail as all of their powers were taken. Long enough that he could have been next in line.

“What does that have to do with me?” Tommy rasps, fighting against the memories that threaten to take him under.

The tension is thick as the Angel stares back at him. Then, finally, “You showed up around the same time we took the Ram in. Only two months after.”

Tommy lets that settle. For a moment, he thinks he understands—They know it’s me, he thinks, they know I’m one of the kids. Then it finally makes it past the fog in his head, and he actually understands this time. They think I was with him. They think I’m his successor.

“Fuck off,” Tommy breathes. The thought is fucking disgusting. “I’m not—I would never do that shit! I help people! You don’t really think—”

“I think,” The Angel interrupts, raising his hands once more. “That we can’t risk it. Not anymore.” Now, the Angel takes a step forward. Tommy tries to take one back, but the revelation has made his legs weak. He can hardly do anything but shudder in his spot. “Listen, mate. You only have to come with me one time. I’m not trying to jail you, or get you in trouble. We’ll get your identity into the system, run a background check, and then…”

God, Tommy feels pathetic. He feels disgusting. He feels scared shitless.

“I can’t,” Tommy says, and it comes out trembling.

The Angel hears him anyway. “Why not?” He presses, taking another step further. “We won’t force you to join the Heroes Society. We won’t be on your tail, or in your space. We just need to know who you are. We just need to make sure that something like that doesn’t happen again.”

Tommy just shakes his head.

He gets it. He knows. He understands.

He can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Why not?” The Angel presses again, tone thick. “I can promise your safety. Is there someone threatening you? Someone who would be endangered if you gave up your identity?”

Yeah, Tommy thinks pathetically, Me. I would be in danger.

He can’t say that. Not to the Angel—because the Angel is Phil, and Blood God is Techno, and Tommy is a fucking liar. Tommy is a liar, and he is selfish, and he can’t bring himself to tell the truth, not even now.

“I can’t,” he says again. “I can’t.”

The Angel takes a second to look over him. Then he straightens, rising to his full height. “Last chance, mate. Make this easy on yourself.”

It’s a joke. Nothing in Tommy’s life has ever been easy. Not when he was on the streets, not when he was kidnapped, not when he was pressed underneath the Ram’s thumb, starved and beaten and overworked. Not even when he got out, and he lied his way into Techno’s protection.

It’s not about to start being easy now.

Tommy nods slowly, pitifully, taking a single step forward. “You can keep me safe?” He asks weakly. Pitiful people are Phil’s weakness. It’s why he became a hero in the first place. Tommy can only hope he’s pitiful enough that it’s a weakness for the Angel, too. “No one will hurt me?”

The Angel comes closer. He’s practically within arm’s reach, now. “I promise. Now, let’s get you—”

He doesn’t get to finish. Tommy flings his arm forward and beams light directly into the Angel’s face. Angel rears back, one of his wings flinging up to cover his eyes, and Tommy takes that as his chance to run.

Tommy’s in trouble. Big, big fucking trouble, because already he can hear the rustle of feathers, the flapping of ginormous wings.

The Angel of Death isn’t like the Blood God. Tommy is smaller, faster than Blood God, but the Angel?

Tommy needs to be smart about this one. He needs cover, needs somewhere where he’s not a fucking mouse running from an owl.

Tommy runs close to the store walls, keeping under awnings and canopies. The Angel is practically right above him, fuck, fuck, fuck—

Blindly, Tommy throws a beam of light towards one of the windows on the opposite side of the street, hoping the reflection will send the light right back towards Phil.

Tommy doesn’t see if it works, but the flapping of wings stays consistent behind him.

Dread is starting to tug at Tommy’s heart. Tommy is going to run out of awning at any second now, and the Angel will be waiting to swoop in with his stupid talons and his stupid wings.

Tommy needs somewhere to hide—seriously, this time, not just the occasional strips of fabric that’s covering him right now.

A plan forms in Tommy’s head. It’s absolutely bare bones, no muscle or anything, but Tommy’s running on empty, here, sue him!

He runs before quickly turning onto a side road, one that’s completely open. Angel is close behind him, talons flared, wings brushing air right onto Tommy’s neck—

Finally, Tommy is exactly where he needs to be. He sends a sharp beam of light towards the window of the jewelry store.

The silver and gold inside shine and shimmer with Tommy’s light.

Phil falters, just for a second. Just enough that his head snaps to the side, and his wings ruffle and stutter in the air.

“Sorry,” Tommy gasps, readying a beam of heat in his hands. “Sorry!” Tommy can’t stop running, can’t risk losing the distance he’s already gained, but he turns quickly on his heel, blindly stretches out his hands, sending out a shooting beam of heat—

There’s a sharp hiss as Angel falls to the ground. Tommy doesn’t stick around to figure out how badly he might have just hurt Phil. He runs and he runs and he runs, ignoring the way he can still hear the Angel struggling behind him.

Tommy sprints until stone streets give way to grass. Even that isn’t good enough—Tommy runs, runs, runs, runs until he reaches the base of a tall pine tree. The needles stab at Tommy’s hands and fingers as he climbs, but fuck it, he can’t be caught, not now.

Midway up the tree, Tommy finally stops, pressing himself as hard as he can against the rough trunk. He curls up, tucking all of his limbs into the thick of the pine.

After a minute, there’s a strong flapping sound from above. It stays for a long moment, and Tommy imagines bird-eyes stalking from above.

It’s only another minute before the Angel begins to fly away. The beat of his wings go further and further. Tommy stays tucked into the tree for an hour.

When Tommy comes down, he’s tired. He’s aching. Guilt tugs at his chest and pierces through his ribcage—I might’ve hurt Phil , he thinks, over and over again on the way home. I might’ve hurt Phil. I might’ve hurt Phil. They think I’m with the Ram. They think I’m a villain. Holy shit, they think I’m with the Ram.

Tommy makes it through his open window and practically collapses onto the floor. He’s quick to rip off his shitty costume. Tommy used to be proud of it. Now, the fabric burns him.

“Fuck,” Tommy whimpers, shoving the costume into his bag with wreckless abandon. He’s quick to climb his way into bed, pulling the covers all the way over his head as if it can fix things, as if it can save him from this.

This isn’t some sort of bogeyman, or any kind of monster waiting in the darkness of the closet.

This is real. Tommy can’t hide from this, can’t hide from the fact that everything is falling apart around him.

The tears start falling before Tommy can stop them. He tries to stop them, but a choked sob rings out loud across the room, and Tommy can only muffle his cries as his door clicks open.

“Tommy?” Techno asks, and his voice is a rumble, far from the growling anger of the Blood God. It only serves to make Tommy cry harder.

Techno hates him. Or, will hate him, once he figures out who he is. Tommy has been lying to him this entire time—about his powers, about his identity. Techno thinks he’s working underneath the Ram—and Tommy can’t do anything to disprove it. Techno is going to hate Flare forever, and when he learns Tommy’s identity, he’s going to hate that too—

“Alright, kid. You’re safe. You’re alright. You’re home. You’re home with me, Techno. There’s nothin’ to be afraid of. Everythin' is alright.”

It’s not, it’s not, it’s not, and Tommy hides his face in his knees and cries harder for it.

It’s unfair. Tommy never asked for this, Tommy never asked to be orphaned, or taken. Tommy just—Tommy just wants—

“—and Hermes had come across a herd of cows. He knew that they belonged to the sun-god, Apollo. Still, he decided to steal the cows, hiding them away…”

Tommy takes a gasping breath.

Techno thinks he’s having a nightmare.

He is. He’s living one, right now.

Still, the low rumble of Techno’s voice eventually soothes his cries, even if his chest still aches with a gripping pain.

Tommy has this, for now. Even if it all breaks apart. Even if Techno eventually destroys him. Tommy will take it as greedily as he can.

Techno continues reading, even after Tommy has finished wiping away his tears. Tommy would be embarrassed, maybe, if he weren’t just exhausted.

Techno stays seated on the chair. He’s holding the small paper book with one hand.

As Tommy falls to sleep, he imagines Techno reaching his free-hand out, pressing it against his hairline.

Reach out , Tommy thinks, letting his eyes flutter closed as the vision overtakes his weary mind. Please. Please.

Techno’s low, ambling voice lulls Tommy to sleep.

His hand stays right where it is.

For two weeks, Flare effectively disappears.

It’s not worth it, Tommy had decided. The thought of putting on Flare’s gear made him want to throw up. He doesn’t want any sort of relation to the Ram—he’s freed himself, he ran away, he’s safe now—but the connection makes him feel completely ill.

He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s connected to that bastard. Especially not Techno, especially not Phil.

So Tommy keeps his suit tucked away underneath his bed. He lets the shadows walk him home from school (they still follow him home, even after the “mugging” situation. Tommy’s not sure if Techno told them too, or if they’ve taken their own liberties with it). He greets Techno as he comes home from a meeting and relishes in the dry chuckle that he typically gets from the man. Then he watches as Techno leaves for hero work. Tommy always stays behind.

Tommy thought that Techno would like the change in Flare activity. As it is, he seems…conflicted. At the very least, he stops talking about it during dinners, which is greatly fucking appreciated. But when Phil comes over, and when he thinks Tommy has gone to bed, Tommy can hear them talk through the wood of the door.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Techno will grumble. “Flare’s not the type to just disappear.”

“Maybe he finally took what we said to heart,” Phil will reply. “Maybe he’s decided that it’s not worth the trouble.”

“Flare is the trouble,” Techno will grumble.

And each time it happens, Tommy will stay in bed, gripping his blankets and staring at the light of his small lamp.

As always, Tommy has nightmares of white rooms, of needles, of twisted horns and a twisted laugh.

Recently, when the horned man turns around, he’s wearing Tommy’s face.

But Techno is still there, still seated by Tommy’s bed, not reaching out but close enough, and Tommy tries to convince himself that that is good enough. He can live this lie, he can put it all behind him and pretend that he is just a normal, powerless boy. Maybe it would be better that way. Maybe he ran too soon. Maybe if he’d run after he’d been drained, he’d be exactly what Techno wants him to be. Exactly what Techno knows him as.

For those two weeks, things are alright. Tommy goes to school, and comes home, and stays home, and he is happy. He is happy.

But only when Techno is there. And right now, sitting on the sofa, staring at the broadcasted news story, Techno is decidedly not there.

Techno was called in earlier tonight. Some sort of strange villain, who single handedly brought down two heroes in an instant, all on his own.

Anxiety had grasped Tommy’s heart as Techno got ready to leave.

“Do you have to go?” Tommy had asked. Does it have to be you?

Techno had shrugged. “I’m not worried. You don’t be, either.”

It’s impossible for Tommy to listen. It’s impossible for Tommy to do what Techno wants: don’t worry. Stay safe. Not be Flare.

But Tommy is Flare. As he suits up in his bedroom, frantically tugging on his hoodie, his mask, he knows he’ll have to disappoint Techno again.

Disappointing Techno for Techno’s own wellbeing, though. It’s something Tommy is willing to give up.

Tommy sticks to the shadows, running along the edges of buildings and skipping around any obstacles.

It’s obvious enough when Tommy gets close to the scene of the crime. Several police cars line the road, lights flashing with blue and red. Tommy can’t see the villain anywhere, but he can see the Blood God, talking to a group of other heroes.

Tommy cringes. Shit. He can’t risk being seen. Not here, anyway, he’d be arrested before he even got to help.

Subtly, Tommy presses himself into an alley, until his heels are at the shadows.

They’re still, unwavering. They must be busy with Techno, surely shifting and nipping at his heels already.

Tommy snaps his fingers into the darkness. They still don’t move.

“Hey,” Tommy hisses, snapping his fingers once more. “It’s me. Flare. Tommy.”

The shadows still stay quiet. Damn it. They’re too focused on Techno.

Tommy peeks his head out of the alley and towards Techno’s group. There the bastards are, right where Tommy thought they’d be.

“Alright,” Tommy mutters, bringing his hands together. He creates a tiny hole between his thumbs, willing light into his palms. “Don’t see, don’t see, don’t see, don’t see—”

Tommy fires off a quick, thin beam of light into the shadows. Tommy watches them flinch backward, and Techno looks down with a frown, but Tommy has already flung himself back into the alley, snapping his fingers once more.

“Yes! I’m here! I’m right here! Come out already—”

Finally, the shadows in front of him begin to waver like oil.

“Finally!” Tommy crows, ignoring the way the shadows nudge at his shoulders and nip at his legs, as if saying Why are you here? Tommy just waves them off. “Listen, I don’t have time to explain. I need your help getting to the villain out there.” The shadows immediately begin to hiss, but Tommy waves his hand again. “I have to! Look, I know that Techno is your boss or whatever, but just—just do this for me, okay? Please?”

The shadows don’t have faces, but Tommy swears they’re looking at him weird. Damn it.

“Alright, fine,” Tommy says dramatically, turning his back to the large patch of shadows. “I guess I will just run out there all by myself! All on my lonesome! Probably get attacked, or arrested, or…or drugged, or some shit. All alone. All—”

The shadows shove at Tommy’s shoulder as he tries to leave the alleyway.

Score . Tommy’s got the fuckers!

“So you’re with me?” Tommy asks, leaning forward.

The shadows shift back and forth. The constant sound of screams and wails turn to the sounds of breaking bones and low grunts in Tommy’s ears.

“Right. Techno.” Tommy frowns. “I don’t want you to leave him. He needs you more than me. Especially if he’s planning on fighting.” The shadows hiss in displeasure, but Tommy’s not willing to budge on this one. “Plus, it’ll be suspicious if you guys aren’t there anymore! He’ll know that something is going on! Just help me sneak past everybody, then go back. Okay? I can take this guy on my own, I’ll be fine.”

The shadows begin whispering in a rough chorus of cries and accusations and howls. Sure, Tommy can’t make out their individual whispers, but he doesn’t need to in order to understand what they’re probably saying. No fucking chance he’s fine.

“Just trust me,” Tommy says, putting on a blinding smile. That the shadows can’t even see under his mask. Fuck. How is Tommy supposed to convince them when all of his charm is hidden away?

The shadows shift, waver, flinch. Then, finally, just as before, they flank him like bodyguards.

Yes! The Tommy Innet charm was enough! His aura is so good, people don’t even need to see him!

“Alright!” Tommy cheers silently, letting the shadows manhandle him to the wall. “Get me out there, fellas!”

The darkness is so overtaking, Tommy walks practically blind down the street. But that’s alright—if Tommy can’t see them, they can’t see him. He trusts the shadows. They’ll get him where they need to be.

They walk for a few minutes before the shadows finally slither back. Tommy stands in the middle of a dark street, looking upwards towards a tall brick building.

“In there?” Tommy asks skeptically, turning around to face the shadows. “You’re certain?”

The shadows hiss and scream. Heartbeats and cracking echoes through his mind.

Yeesh. Tough crowd.

“Okay, okay, I believe you,” Tommy says, waving them backwards. “Now get back to Techno, quick. If he realizes I’m here, it’s all your faults!”

The sludge of shadows moves forward, and a pressure places itself on Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy stares. Narrows his eyes. “Thanks?”

The acknowledgement is enough for the shadows, who go rushing backwards.

Then Tommy is alone. Just him, the dark street, and the building in front of him.

And the villain inside. Right. Fucking great.

Tommy takes a deep breath. Carefully, he crouches low to the ground, hands flexing at his sides. He doesn’t even know what he’s up against. If he managed to down two heroes already, he must be strong, though. Maybe he’s got some kind of super strength, like Techno. Or maybe something cooler, like telekinesis, or invisibility or some shit.

Tommy spends his time searching the building envisioning any sort of scenario. He has to prepare himself, has to be ready for anything. Any open window becomes a note of escape. Any chair or table weight becomes a potential weapon. Tommy imagines how he’d attack a large, bulking figure, or maybe a tall, lithe body. Maybe it’s someone with a crazy power—stone skin, or large fangs, or…or…

Or just a dude.

The villain looks normal enough. He’s searching through books pretty thoroughly, combing through titles and pages before tossing it whenever he doesn’t find what he needs, but otherwise…

“You know,” Tommy calls, entering the room and leaning against the wall. “If you wanted to read, you could’ve just gone to the library.”

The man jumps, clutching the book in his hands, before spotting Tommy and frowning. “Another one?” He asks, eyes narrowing just a tad.

“Yeah. Had to save the best for last, right?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Last?”

Tommy grins. “The last person you’ll be seeing tonight.” Throwing a hand out, Tommy sends a rapid beam of light towards the man’s face. The villain has a quick reaction time, bringing the book upward to cover his face. The man leaps out from the bookcase, throwing a thick dictionary towards Tommy’s neck. Tommy shifts and grabs the book, twisting to send it careening the other way.

“Really, is this it?” Tommy asks as another book is thrown at him. He throws a searing beam of light back, but the man manages to drop out of the way in time. “What are you even looking for?”

The man grunts, rolling his eyes. A hand comes up to pinch at his nose. “Shut up already,” he says, and then his eyes roll back, and his mouth hangs open, and…

Huh. That certainly is smoke.

Shit. Tommy’s mask covers his nose, sure, but it’s not high-tech or anything like that. It wouldn’t do anything to cover—poison-smoke? Tommy has to end this battle, and fast.

Tommy sends another beam of light directly into the man’s eyes, but quick reflexes have gotta be a part of his smoke-powers, because he sends a hand upward and covers his own face.

Fuck. The smoke is spreading into the room faster than Tommy can keep up with it. He’s got to escape, got to lure the man outside.

Tommy lunges for the door, but the man is quicker. In a motion, one of the bookshelves is tilted over, falling with a bam! in front of the door.

The thud only brings the smoke up higher. It’s getting harder to see, and Tommy’s eyes are beginning to water, and fuck, is it getting dizzy in here?

Tommy falls to the floor and to darkness before he can even answer his own question.

The ache in Tommy’s head threatens to break apart his entire skull. Tommy grits his teeth and pinches his eyes shut tighter. Holy shit, he feels horrible. Like a sledgehammer has been brought down upon his temple over and over and over again. Desperate to relieve some of the pain, Tommy brings his hands up to rub at his eyes and forehead. It still hurts. Fuck, what the hell happened? Where the fuck is he?

With a sharp breath, Tommy forces himself to open his eyes.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Tommy opens his eyes, and suddenly the pain in his head doesn’t matter. Maybe it is trying to kill him.

It would be better than being here.

Here, in a white room, with a thin mattress and tattered blankets.

Tommy’s world begins to crumble underneath his feet. Like a tidal wave of shadows, Tommy is suddenly drowning. He is plummeting as a baby bird falls from the nest: desperate, quickly, and doomed. The sort of birds that snap their neck and die at the bottom.

Because Tommy has died. He is breathing, and his heart is beating, and he has died. He has already died if he is back here.

“No,” Tommy breathes, frozen to the shitty mattress beneath him. “No, no, no—”

The door clicks open, and it might as well be a gunshot, because Tommy already knows exactly who’s behind it.

For only a second, he tries to kid himself. For only a split moment, he allows himself to think, Maybe I’m being saved. Maybe I’ve already been found.

Then long, twisted horns make their way through the door, a similarly twisted smile around a bearded face, dark hair slicked back, and Tommy knows it’s over.

Fuck. It’s over.

“Hey, Tommy.”

His life is over.

“Nice to see you again!” The Ram crows, sauntering into the room with his hands in his pockets. “Been a while, huh? Would have tried to see you sooner, but,” he brings a hand out to wave around lazily. “Prison and all that. You would know, huh?” The smile turns into a leer. The Ram plays at a faux happiness, but Tommy isn’t the same naive child snatched from the streets. “ Right, Tommy?”

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, “Fuck you. How—how am I here? What did you do?”

The Ram shrugs, digging his hands back into his pocket. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? What, you want me to list out my escape? How I found you? How I brought you right back to where you belonged?”

Tommy shakes his head wildly. “I don’t. I don’t belong here, I don’t. I—you bastard!” Tommy stands on frantic, shaky legs, pressing himself as far away from the Ram as he can. “I don’t belong here,” he gasps again. “Someone will come for me. Someone is coming for me—”

The Ram laughs, long and loud and absolutely wicked. “Who, Tommy? What, you think Blood God is coming for you? Coming for Flare?” The laughter dies out into a scowling grin. The Ram brings a cigarette out from his pocket and then to his mouth, letting it hang loose from between his teeth as he lights it. “No, kid. Better to stop being optimistic, now. Otherwise you’ll be crying out for papa for far too long. Nothing more pitiful than that.”

Tommy’s heart sinks in his chest.

God. Techno wouldn’t come for Flare. He wouldn’t. Tommy doesn’t even remember what happened to him, doesn’t remember anything past a brick building, a lone standing man, smoke…

Tommy can’t stand to look at the Ram anymore. He turns desperate eyes to the floor instead. Maybe if he stares for long enough, he can burn a hole directly through the floor. Tommy is desperate enough that, by tonight, at least—the concrete floor will have claw marks from where Tommy tried to dig at it.

“It’s going to be a long time for ya, kid!” The Ram says cheerfully. From the corner of Tommy’s eye, he watches him breathe out a long puff of smoke. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d offer some food, a drink maybe, but…” One of his hands come up to push the light curls out of his face.

…Light curls?

Tommy flinches backward, wrenching his head upwards towards the Ram.

He looks normal. Dark, slicked hair. A goatee. Twisted horns.

Tommy hadn’t been looking at him. Tommy’s vision had been going out from a mixture of fear and panic, yet…Tommy thought for sure…

“Hey, don’t look too upset.” The Ram takes the cigarette out from his teeth, running his tongue over his teeth. “You’re with me, now. Hell, you’ll be even better off than what you had before. I’ll give you more than that bastard Techno could have ever given you. Heroes have a thing about—about humility. But I can make you stronger, Tommy. I can bring you to your full potential.” The Ram takes several sauntering steps towards Tommy. When he reaches out, Tommy knows better than to fight back. The cigarette is pressed into Tommy’s forearm. “Glad you’re back, Tommy.” His breath is absolutely rotten. It smells of smoke, it smells of death. His smile curves like a demon’s.

Even as the man steps back, Tommy still doesn’t breathe. It’s impossible.

This is the end. The world crumbles from underneath Tommy’s feet. It’s unreal. This is all unreal. It’s horrid, it’s dreadful, it’s almost like…

“How did you know his name?” Tommy breathes, right as the Ram begins to open the door again.

The Ram pauses. Sneers. “Stop asking questions, kid,” he scowls, closing the door behind him with a click.

It’s almost like a bad dream.

Desperation takes ahold of Tommy like the fucking walking dead. Tommy scrambles forward, the world tilting beneath his feet.

But this isn’t right. None of this is right, none of this is right, please say none of this is right—

Tommy practically crumbles onto the floor, digging his hands underneath his mattress.

All of his secrets are still there. An old picture, an expired granola bar, a small mirror.

I destroyed that, Tommy thinks, gripping it so hard he’s almost surprised it doesn’t shatter. I smashed it on my way out.

Tommy brings the mirror up to his face in one frantic movement.

The face of the Ram stares back at him.

Just like his bad dreams.

Just like his fucking nightmares.

“I’m dreaming,” Tommy whispers, dread and hope and desperate tugging his heart in all different directions. “I’m dreaming.” Louder, “I’m dreaming!” Breaths come to Tommy in large swells, he’s fucking floating, his brain screams and aches and cracks, his skull is exploding, Tommy is exploding—

Tommy wakes up.

Tommy wakes up already screaming and thrashing.

This time, Tommy knows exactly where he is. The floor of an old brick building, trapped with a twisted fucking villain. This time, Tommy doesn’t have to hold back.

In his thrashes, Tommy throws reckless beams of light and heat and energy outwards. They arc and burn and Tommy can hear someone curse from across the room, but Tommy can’t stop. He fights like he fought to get out the first time: desperate, hungry, a starved fucking dog.

Tommy screams. He screams and he yells and he squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, because if he opens them he might be back. He might be with the Ram, he might be with white rooms and needles and—

“God, you’re so annoying.”

Lightheadedness smacks Tommy upside the head. Tommy drops into sleep on his way back down.

Tommy’s brain hurts. Aches.

All of him aches.

When Tommy opens his eyes, he is in a white room, lying on an old, stiff mattress.

Tommy is back. Tommy is back, and he—he must be—

The door clicks open. Tall, twisted horns peek through the door. “Hey, Tommy.”

Any air dissipates between them. Tension is thick, twisted. Tommy stares.

The Ram looks…he looks…

Something isn’t right. Something isn’t right, something isn’t—

Tommy has done this before. Before, before he escaped, before he found his favorite hero, before, before, before—

He had done it again. Again, he had done it again, when had he done it again—?

Tommy whines with an angry groan, bringing his head down to his chest. His hands pull his hair so hard it could come out in chunks.

“Don’t act so pitiful, kid.”

Kid. Kid, kid, kid.

Tommy wants to throw up. He’s sick. He feels sick. He wants to throw up.

Tommy wants to turn his bedside lamp on, wants Techno by his side. Wants him to reach out, to wrap him up and hide him away. Tommy wants him to drone on in his stupid monotone voice, anything to distract him from this waking-nightmare.

This nightmare.

This feels like…

This is…

Tommy looks up. The walls melt. The Ram’s cigarette burns like a fucking star.

“You’re pathetic, Tommy. You really think Techno would come for you? You think he’d care about a low-life, filthy liar like you?”

“Get me out,” Tommy grits, clenching the tattered blankets in his tight fists. “Get me out!”

The Ram brings his cigarette to Tommy’s skin. The shadows in the corner of the room shift and bend and creak. The Ram’s eyes look like Techno’s.

Tommy wakes up.

Tommy screams. The room erupts into blinding light. Even with his eyes clenched shut, the light practically blinds him. Still, Tommy doesn’t stop. He stands on unsteady feet, swinging his arms out wildly, blasting beams into every fucking corner, into every book and building and person. He screams until the building begins to shake, and Tommy needs to get out. He needs to get away, he needs to get out, he needs to escape—

Tommy stumbles his way out of the building just as it collapses. Tommy’s lungs collapse at the exact same time. Sobs catch in his throat, his hands shake, he needs to get out. He needs to get out, he needs, he—

He needs to throw up. Holy shit, Tommy’s got to throw up.

Several people sprint past Tommy. There are sirens, and flashing lights, and Tommy’s going to be sick.

Tommy manages to stumble his way to the nearest alley. Tucked against the darkest corner he can find, he tugs his mask up to his nose and immediately vomits. Again, then again. He pukes until there’s nothing left aside from the choked sobs still dropping from his lips next to the sick.

Tommy had been back. Just for a moment, just in his mind, but he had still—Tommy thought he had been—

“Flare?”

A low, rumbling voice. Heavy, echoing footsteps.

Tommy’s just had a nightmare. Tommy’s just had a nightmare, he doesn’t know what’s going on, he’s scared.

Tommy wants help, protection. Please, please, Tommy wants—

“Dad,” Tommy whimpers pitifully, stumbling his way into Techno’s chest.

The body tenses underneath Tommy’s weight. No arms come to hold him back. Tommy sobs.

Then—slowly, stiffly—hands press against Tommy’s shoulder. One of the hands—cautiously—brings itself to Tommy’s head. Not in an embrace, but an investigation.

Techno must find what he’s looking for.

“Oh, kid.”

Tommy almost chokes on another sob. He can hardly breathe, and Techno isn’t hugging him back, but he’s here and Tommy is safe, Tommy’s made it out, Techno’s here for him, he—

He’s pushing him backward.

“Wha—” Tommy warbles, drool dripping from his mouth in his messy sobs.

Techno—long, tusked mask, hair tied up, body still tense—quickly looks in the other direction. “You need to go.”

Tommy’s heart stutters in his chest, right before it shatters. “What?”

“Go, Tommy,” Techno whispers harshly, pushing him back again. “Get home, go.”

Tommy wants to wail, wants to slam back into Techno’s chest like the baby he is. “Please—”

“ Go.”

It’s a demand, and the severity of it sends Tommy stumbling backward. The shadows are there, suddenly, lifting Tommy upwards and over the chainlink fence that separates the alley in half. They shove and push him forward, even when Tommy tries to turn and look behind him, tears flooding in his eyes.

The shadows don’t give up. They’re relentless. They carry Tommy until they’re standing outside of Techno’s flat. When Tommy stands completely still at the entrance, a tingling numbness taking over his chest, they nudge him towards the fire escape, lifting him up on shadowed limbs.

Outside of his window, Tommy finally finds the energy to move his limbs. Despite the overwhelming numbness, he still shakes as he reaches out and pushes his window upward, crawling inside to his room.

The room. Not his. Tommy isn’t optimistic enough to believe that.

Methodically, with the creeping dread of deja vu, Tommy begins to pack up his backpack. As much of Tommy’s life as he can fit in the bag, he puts in. He puts in his charger, and clothes, and the worn mythology book—it belongs to Techno, but if he already hates him, maybe this one extra thing won’t matter. Then Tommy goes to the kitchen, grabbing any non-perishable food he can get his hands on before shoving them in as well.

Tommy swings his backpack onto his shoulders. His shoulders ache under the weight. It’s the weight of Tommy’s entire world.

Then Tommy is ready, and it’s done. He clenches his backpack in his fists, going to the front door, and…

Stopping. Tommy’s hand stills on the door handle.

Tommy…can’t.

He can’t.

He can’t bring himself to open the door.

Tommy must be insane. He has to be. Techno is going to hate him, Techno is going to come home furious, and who knows what he’ll do after that. Techno could give him up. Techno could arrest him. Techno could kill him.

Tommy still can’t open the door.

Tommy walks across the room, back into the kitchen. He pulls out a chair, one facing directly towards the door. His backpack is taken off, though he keeps a loose grip on one of the straps from where it sits on the floor.

Tommy waits. He can’t do anything but wait.

It feels like Tommy is in a nightmare all over again. A different kind, the kind that Tommy’s desperately tried not to think of.

It’s a long, long while until the doorknob twists. Anxiety shoots through Tommy’s veins. He goes rigid, waiting as anticipation threatens to push him over.

When Techno enters, he isn’t wearing his hero costume anymore. Just an old sweatshirt. Just his thin-wired reading glasses. Just an old pair of sweatpants.

Techno enters the door, but freezes as he makes eye contact with Tommy.

Both stare at each other. Just like always, neither say a thing.

Techno’s face is unreadable. Then his eyes drop to the black bag on the ground, and his face flickers. “Tommy.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy immediately breathes, and suddenly it all spills out like blood. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know—I know I lied, I know I told you I didn’t have powers, but I just—I was worried, see, that you might have—”

Techno takes a step forward, and all of the numbness from before is zapped out, completely overrun by overwhelming fear.

“Hold on,” Tommy stutters, shooting upwards in his seat. Techno still comes towards him. “Hold on, stop, just stop a second, please—”

“Tommy.”

“Okay, fuck, stop! Stop, Techno, stop! Stop!” Tommy is screeching now, panic overriding every single sense as Techno is suddenly right in front of him. Then his hands are reaching out, and Tommy begins to scream.

“Stop!” Tommy screams, throwing his hands and feet wildly. Techno’s got his arms around him now, trapping him, and Tommy swings his fists and kicks his feet and fucking pleads for mercy. “Let go of me, fucking bastard! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I said I’m sorry! I—”

Oh god, Tommy can’t breathe. He’s losing it. His vision is starting to go blurry, Techno is saying something but it’s fucking lost to the water of Tommy’s panic.

“—ommy—”

Tommy’s fist connects with Techno’s jaw, but still, Techno doesn’t let go. Tommy continues to thrash violently, but even now, he does not let a single beam of heat escape his hands. Even if Techno is going to hurt him, he can’t hurt Techno back. He doesn’t want to, he didn’t even want to hurt Blood God, but he had to, he had to in order to survive, but holy shit. Tommy is done for, Blood God is going to kill him, Blood God has learned who he is, Tommy is—Tommy—

“—so Apollo went searching for his cows, yet he couldn’t find a single one. Eventually, Herme’s mother told Apollo where they were, and Apollo set off to find Hermes and get his cows back. But by the time he found the cows, Hermes…”

Tommy takes a gasping breath. In Techno’s chest, the words vibrate and rumble right underneath his ear.

“…was mad, but then he saw the Lyre that Hermes had crafted from the turtle. Apollo decided that, as payment for the two slaughtered cows, Hermes would owe him this new lyre. Still, Hermes had to face Zeus to gain punishment for his thievery. However, Zeus was so interested in Hermes, he…”

Wrapped in Techno’s arms, underneath the rumble of his voice, the panic finally stutters.

Tommy isn’t hurt. Techno isn’t hurting him. Techno’s arms are wrapped around him, pressing him tightly to his chest—a pressure that loosens as Tommy slowly stops fighting.

Techno is holding him.

Once Tommy is completely still, Techno’s voice trails off. For a long moment, it is silent. Techno keeps his arms around Tommy. Tommy lets himself savor it, shaking in the residue of panic, in the face of uncertainty.

Slowly, Techno draws back from Tommy. His face is back to unreadable. “Sit,” he instructs gruffly, and Tommy—weary, aching, tired—falls to the chair without argument.

Techno walks away, briefly disappearing down the hall. When he returns, he’s carrying the same first-aid kit that he had used on Tommy back when he was mugged.

Tommy can’t bring himself to crack a joke this time. He just lets Techno work silently, somberly.

Techno is strong, big, brutal. Tommy has seen it. Tommy has witnessed it. Tommy has been the target of it.

Bandaging cuts, brushing over bruises, Techno is slow, ambling. Tommy should be scared. He just feels tired.

Eventually, Tommy is all bandaged up. Still, Techno stays kneeled on the floor. He doesn’t look at Tommy. He stares down at Tommy’s hands instead.

Slowly, Techno brings his hands out, catching Tommy’s wrists. He shifts Tommy’s hands so his palms face upward. Both hands are tapped on once, twice. When Tommy doesn’t answer, Techno briefly lifts his eyes, meeting Tommy’s own and tapping again.

Oh. Oh.

It feels wrong. Tommy has used his powers in front of Blood God, but not in front of Techno. Not in his flat.

But Techno has asked, and Tommy is tired of disappointing, so he lets a gentle glow light up in his palms.

For the brief moment Tommy can see it, Techno’s face breaks. It crumples in on itself, and Techno crumples too. His head turns downward, his forehead pressed against the warmth of Tommy’s palm. The light only makes the shadows under Techno’s eyes worse.

It’s another long moment as Techno stays there. His hand shakes where it’s still holding onto Tommy’s. Tommy’s never seen it do that before.

It’s odd enough that Tommy is finally pushed to speak. “Techno?” He tries quietly.

Still kneeling, still pressing his forehead against Tommy’s hands like a sinner might do to a saint, Techno shakes his head. “I told you you’d be safe here,” Techno says gruffly. “I promised.”

“I am,” Tommy says shakily, “I am safe here. You saved me.”

Techno shakes his head again. “No. No, kid. I…” There is a long, trembling breath. “Why?” He breathes, and for just a moment, Techno’s voice wavers.

Tommy is a vigilante. He is not scared of blood, or criminals, or fucking supervillains.

Techno’s voice wavers, and it’s the scariest thing Tommy’s ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy breathes again, eager to end the new nightmare he’s found himself in. “I didn’t—I was just so scared when I escaped, I didn’t want—I thought you might…”

Tommy falters, but it’s enough. Techno’s back curves inward, and his hands clench Tommy’s wrist.

“It was okay,” Tommy rushes to say. “It was alright. I was fine with it, I just—”

“No,” Techno growls, and Tommy’s fear pitches stronger in his chest. “No, it wasn’t. You thought I would hurt you.” A beat. “I did hurt you. Jesus. I hurt you.”

Tommy wants to refute it, but his words are all jumbled in his throat. He can’t get them all out. He can only murmur, “I didn’t want you to get rid of me.”

That finally brings Techno’s face up. It’s crumbled inward like sand, eyebrows pinched and jaw tight. “Kid. I—I wouldn’t have…” The words seem to catch in Techno’s throat, too. His mouth opens and closes a few times around them. “I thought…I thought Flare would hurt you. I thought he was…” A deep, shaky breath. “I didn’t know he was you. Jesus, if I had known…”

Tommy feels like crying. He really thinks he might. “I lied—”

“I don’t care.” Techno takes a deep breath, and—to Tommy’s surprise, horror—Techno beats him to it. A single tear drips down Techno’s cheek, catching in the scruff of his beard, and Techno grits his jaw even tighter. “I don’t care about that, Tommy.” His eyes flicker back to the faint glow in Tommy’s palms. “I…I don’t…talk. About this kind of stuff. I’m not good at it. I do it wrong.” His mouth pulls as his eyes survey Tommy’s bruised arms. “I do it all wrong.”

The confession sounds all wrong on Techno’s tongue. Techno’s done more for Tommy than he’ll ever know—more than Tommy ever could have hoped for. He wants to tell him, wants to reach out and stop him from crying, but he’s still going.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I…I never meant for this. I thought I was protecting you. I thought if I defeated Flare…I thought he would hurt you. I didn’t…Jesus, kid. I’m sorry. I’m not mad. Not at you. I don’t…I don’t know how to make this better—”

Techno doesn’t get to finish, not before Tommy is flinging himself forward, collapsing into Techno’s chest so they’re both kneeled on the ground.

Tommy knows how to make it better. This. Just this. Because Techno knows, and he isn’t mad, and Tommy is tired of being tired, tired of being hurt, tired of being scared.

Slowly—as if Tommy will flinch away if he goes too fast—Techno brings his arms around Tommy. “Kid—”

“You’re not mad?” Tommy asks, desperate, clinging onto Techno’s shirt with bright, glowing fists.

“No. No, Tommy. You’re…” A breath. “If you still want to be—if you want to stay—”

“I do,” Tommy breathes. “I do, please let me stay.”

“Alright. Stay, then. You can always stay. It’s alright, kid, you’re alright. I'm sorry. I’ve got you. I’ll do it right this time.”

It’s a miracle. It’s a dream, it’s everything Tommy has ever wanted.

Tommy’s powers are the sun—it is light, it is warmth.

In Techno’s arms, Tommy’s the warmest he’s ever been.

And when Techno’s head leans down, pressing his lips into the curls of Tommy’s head, he’s the safest he’s ever been, too.

Tommy loves being a vigilante.

Yes, a vigilante—Phil had apologized profusely when Tommy had come clean, and said that he could be an official hero, if he truly wanted to.

Tommy had turned him down. Being a vigilante is just more fun! And besides—why would he need to be a hero, when he usually has one by his side anyway?

“I bet I can take down more villains than you tonight,” Tommy taunts, flittering by Techno’s heels as they jump from rooftop to rooftop.

“No,” Techno rumbles lowly, not even looking Tommy’s way. “You’ll just end up hurting yourself.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. Ugh. He’s so protective, nowadays. What a bitch.

(Tommy loves it. Rather than hide away injuries in his room, they tend to each other’s wounds, now. If they even get them—the two of them make quite the dynamic duo. Who would have thought?).

Techno mutters lowly, but not lowly enough. “I’d beat you, anyway.”

Tommy whips around. “The fuck did you just say?”

Techno turns to ignore him, but fuck that, Tommy can’t let this slide! “How dare you! Blood God, you are a prick. I am so much better than you, all the ladies say so—”

“Sure.”

“—and you are insanely jealous because everyone hates you! I oughtta—”

There’s a sudden scream from further into the city. They both halt on the city’s edge, looking inward.

For a stiff moment, it’s silent. Then—

“Ten points to whoever gets there first.”

“Wh—hey!” Tommy yells as Techno goes shooting off the rooftop with a dry laugh. “Fuck you, man!”

Techno beats him. Because of course he does.

But when they get home, Techno ruffles Tommy’s hair, and Tommy slaps a Hello Kitty plaster on one of Techno’s injuries, and it’s all been worth it for this.