Chapter Text
When Tommy woke up again the ache in his lungs was gone, chest no longer sore with every intake of breath. A glance to his left showed that the lighting in the room had changed, dimmer than before. He assumed it had become night by now. Lit torches placed on the walls and scattered candles cast a warm glow about the room, shadows soft and strangely comforting.
He tilted his head down toward the foot of the bed, somehow unsurprised to see black and white hair sticking up over the edge of the mattress. It appeared the odd kid from before hadn’t left, despite how unentertaining he knew comatose people to be.
“Do you really have nothing better to do than hover around some unconscious person? That’s creepy, you know.” His words came out all gravelly and dry, and Tommy realized just how thirsty he was.
The head of hair jolted in surprise at the sound, whipping around to stare at Tommy, multicolored eyes gleaming in the low light. “Uh, well-“ the kid sputtered, looking confused, “I don’t think so?”
Tommy smirked. “You don’t think you have anything better to do, or you don’t think it’s creepy?”
“Uh, the first one? I think.”
He laughed dryly. “That conversation shouldn’t have needed that much thinkin’ little man, but alright.” Tommy struggled to sit up, untangling himself from the blankets, pretending he had more limbs to manage than he did. “You have some water around here? ‘M fuckin’ thirsty.”
The kid nodded quickly, jumping to his feet. There was a small leather journal in his hands, which he held tight to his chest. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry Mr. Pirate!”
“I’m not a-“
The kid was already out the door.
Damn, he’s fast, he thought absentmindedly, leaning back a bit and fiddling with his shirt. It wasn’t his iconic red and white one, whoever this “Miss Clara” person was must’ve seen the state of it and done away with the shirt. Strangely, Tommy found he didn’t mind. This one was a nice sage green and soft to the touch, much better than his old shirt. New clothes for a new life, he supposed.
And that’s what this was, wasn’t it?
No one knew where he was. Not his enemies, his friends, his family. Hell, he had no clue. No one here knew his past, the wars he’d started, the mistakes he’d made, the people he’d hurt. Anonymity meant safety, and Tommy would gladly stay away from attention for once. The thought was almost comforting, that idea of being unknown. The only way his old life could find him here was if he made the decision to go back.
And he wasn’t going back home anytime soon, not with his leg like this. Tommy cringed. He’d have to re-learn how to walk, for god’s sake. Even most of the world’s toddlers could one-up him now. (Tommy tried not to think about how pathetic that was.) Hesitating, he lifted the blanket away from his leg to stare at it, unsure how to feel.
How was one supposed to feel upon waking up in some strange place, missing a limb and plagued by some nine-ish year old who keeps insisting you’re a pirate?
He didn’t know.
Tommy was drawn away from his existential questions by the creak of the door, and the kid padded back into the room, gently shutting it behind him. He came over to the bed, offering the glass bottle of water clutched in his hand.
Tommy took it gratefully, wanting badly to chug it but forcing himself to take sips, thoughts brought back to a lecture Wilbur gave him years ago after an afternoon spent too long in the sun.
”For fuck’s sake Tommy, don’t chug it like that. You’ll get sick.”
“Says who?”
“Says science or something, I don’t know, dumbass. I just know that if you’re really dehydrated- No- Tommy, stop. No don’t-“
Cackling laugher rang out, rapidly followed by choking and coughing as the water went down the wrong way.
Tommy pushed the memory aside, not wanting to think about Wilbur right now. Instead, he focused back on the other occupant of the room, who had settled down at his foot. He was sitting cross legged, with that leather book resting in his lap. The kid had picked up a quill from the floor and was intently scribbling in it, tongue poking out from between little fangs as he focused on the words. Tommy nudged his shin. The kid looked up.
“I’m Tommy, by the way. Thought you should know so you can stop calling me a pirate, because I very clearly am not one.”
The kid nodded, glancing away for a second to carefully write something down.
Tommy kicked him again. “What’s yours?”
The writing paused, and he was cast a confused look. “Mine?”
“Your name.”
“Oh. It’s Ranboo.”
Tommy considered this. Strange name, for a strange kid. It seemed fitting. Besides, he’d heard much weirder in his time hopping servers before the SMP.
“Well, Ranboo, would you mind telling me what’s going on here? Mainly, how I got to this place and why my leg appears to be gone?”
Ranboo smiled at him, seemingly happy to share. He set down the quill, blowing on the inked page to dry it before thumbing back a couple pages, squinting at the scribbled words. “Well, we found you about a week ago after that big storm on the beach. Your boat was all smashed up.” Ranboo glanced up, looking concerned. “You didn’t care too much about that boat, right? It’s really broken and I don’t think they can fix it-“
“It’s fine,” Tommy cut in. “Not important.”
Ranboo nodded, worry appeased and continuing to read. “Your lungs had water in them, and your leg was all rotten from this cut on it.” Ranboo’s nose wrinkled at the apparently unpleasant memory. His voice dropped to a whisper. “They brought you in and Miss Clara said it had to go. They wouldn’t let me see until after the whole thing was done.” Ranboo closed the book, hugging it to his chest and looking at Tommy, something akin to sorrow in his eyes.
Boy, does this kid get emotional, he thought, feeling almost touched by how much Ranboo seemed to care about him, despite the fact that they’d hardly interacted at all.
“Question.”
Ranboo nodded.
“Why are you here? Why is some child hanging out with a random patient, or whatever. Don’t you have parents or something?”
The kid’s face fell, and he looked away. “I- I don’t remember,” he whispered.
Tommy paused at that, conscious enough to know that he had struck a nerve. He felt a little guilty, not wanting to have upset the kid. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Was jus’ curious.”
Ranboo shook his head, still looking away. “I don’t- I don’t remember much,” he looked down, taking a deep breath. “That’s why Miss Clara gave me this book,” and he held it up, soft leather glowing dully in the dim candle light. “She told me to write everything down, so I won’t forget. And it works! I remember stuff better now!” He grinned up at Tommy.
“Smart,” Tommy praised, giving little smile of his own at Ranboo’s enthusiasm, and quickly hiding it.
What the fuck?
Why was he proud, he had literally just met the kid.
Damn his too big heart.
Tommy hummed, reaching out a hand. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
Ranboo hesitated, chewing his lip. Tommy waited patiently, deciding not to push him if he didn’t want to share. He knew deeply the importance of an object, the instinct to keep something to yourself to protect it. Slowly, the book was set in his hands, and he shot the kid a grateful smile.
Tommy flipped open to the first page and blinked. He squinted at the writing, bringing it closer to his face to double check that it wasn’t the low lighting tricking his eyes. “Ranboo,” he said slowly. “This is written in Ender.”
He glanced up from the page to see Ranboo fidgeting, giving him a sheepish grin. Tommy studied him, taking in the dark, purplish skin, almost glowing green eye, strange height and clawed hands. It clicked.
“Huh,” he muttered, looking back down at the book. Ender hybrid. Should probably have seen that one coming. He continued flipping through the book, noticing phrases written in shaky English in later pages, with less and less Ender as the book went on.
Ranboo yawned, drooping a little before jerking himself back up, blinking slowly. Tommy glanced at him, debating with himself.
He had just met the strange, mildly bothersome kid, but Ranboo seemed nice enough. He wasn’t about to get attached or anything, though. Tommy couldn’t afford that. Exile had cut his ties for him, preventing him from hurting anyone else. It prevented them from betraying him like they always did over and over because you can’t be betrayed when there’s no one left to betray you, after all. Ranboo seemed sincere, kind even. He was a child, for God’s sake, it shouldn’t be this deep. But the taste of salt on his tongue was too sharp, the memory of being thrown off of obsidian walls was too fresh. He couldn’t get attached. He wouldn’t.
But he could return the favor of Ranboo entrusting him with the memory book. He could pay back that kindness.
It was the least he could do.
With a sigh, Tommy reached behind him and grabbed a pillow, tossing it onto the bed by his foot. He tugged one of the blankets out from underneath him, piling it next to the pillow. Ranboo followed the movement, confusion written across his face.
Tommy jerked his chin toward the pillow. “You’re tired. Get some sleep, I won’t murder you, promise.”
Ranboo’s eyes shone. Beaming at him, the kid let out another massive yawn, jaw unhinging far further than it should go. He practically face planted into the pillow, snuggling into the blanket until only his poofy hair was visible. For such an abnormally gangly and tall kid, he took up only a small portion of the bed with how tightly he had curled up.
Tommy huffed, amused, and returned to trying to decipher the scribblings in the book, basking in the dim flames of the torches and the quiet of the room. Unlike in exile, it was a comfortable silence, one punctuated by Ranboo’s slow breaths and the dry rustle of paper.
———————
The morning after Ranboo slept in his bed, he had met the infamous Miss Clara, a kind, soft woman with eyes that shone like stars and a warm laugh. She had come in carrying a plate of food and a set of crutches, which Tommy had to force himself not to lunge at immediately. She gave him the food while checking on his injuries and making sure Ranboo hadn’t been too overbearing.
“He can be a little over enthusiastic sometimes,” she chuckled.
Ranboo had left when she came in upon request, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled away to go find breakfast, memory book safely restored to its rightful owner.
Tommy gave her a small grin. “He’s alright. Has a funny obsession with pirates, though.”
She nodded, humming. “That he does.” She glanced over at him, evaluating. Tommy tried not to squirm under her inquisitive gaze. “He really likes you, you know. Been obsessed with making sure you’re okay since the moment they brought you in, for whatever reason. I nearly had to shoo him out with my broom at one point so you could heal properly. He’s a curious one, Ranboo.”
Tommy just grunted, looking away. He tried not to feel guilty for his promise to keep the kid at arm’s length. He told himself that it wasn’t his fault some random kid had gotten so attached to him while he was literally unconscious, but his chest ached a little. He ignored it in favor for listening to Clara’s instructions on how to properly use the crutches.
Days passed, and Tommy grew stronger. The medicine Clara provided him helped to ease the tenderness of the new skin, and he quickly learned how to hobble about on his crutches properly. He spent most of his time now out on the front porch of the village infirmary, letting the cool sea breeze wash over his skin.
The building was set up a little ways from the center of the village, but from the porch Tommy could hear the sounds of life carry over the grasses. People shouting and calling to each other, laughing, living their lives. And while he knew none of them, Tommy basked in their existence, glad to be in a place with other people again, to be surrounded by them.
While the pain of his exile and the scars of his past would not fade, the ache in his chest when he thought about home grew duller. He brought out the Tubbo compass less often, opting to leave on the table in his room instead.
Tommy was moving on.
Another week passed. Tommy often woke up to a small body curled up at the foot of his bed, or the scratch of a quill on paper. Ranboo hardly left his side, babbling more often the longer they spent together, opening up.
Tommy would lie out in the tall grass of the bluffs overlooking the ocean, basking in the sun and the cool air, crutches carefully set beside him. Ranboo would sit nearby, sometimes chatting about random nonsense, other times remaining content with silence. The kid would sit and watch the sea birds sail overhead in the pale blue sky, or lean over to whisper about a particular shape in the clouds.
Tommy would hum in agreement and close his eyes, a mantra of don’t get attached don’t get attached don’t get attached playing in his head.
————————
Today, roughly a month since the shipwreck, Ranboo was teaching Tommy how to make a flower crown. Apparently, one of the village girls had taught him and he was trying to get good at it so he could make one for Clara.
So far, the kid had been unsuccessful in making one by himself. Tommy, on the other hand, had made a rough circlet out of the grasses and the small white flowers that grew on the shoreline, and it was currently sticking out of Ranboo’s messy hair.
He watched as Clara came up the path leading from the village, holding an oddly-shaped something in her arms. She reached the house and set it down on the porch, turning to call for him.
Tommy pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his crutches with a practiced ease. Ranboo set aside his poor weaving and jumped to his feet, steadying Tommy as he gained his footing. The two made their way over to the porch where Clara stood, grinning.
He caught sight of what was lying on the step and froze, gaping at it. Ranboo gasped and ran up to it, practically dancing around in excitement. Clara chuckled at Tommy’s gob-smacked expression.
“I commissioned the local artisans to make it for you. It’s not exactly perfection, but I think it’ll do.”
Tommy stumbled towards the step, hardly focusing on his walking, sitting down in front of it.
There, shining in the sun was a polished wooden leg, carefully shaped and carved with whorls and waves. There was soft fur padding the place where his stump was meant to rest, and the straps to hold it in place were a well-worked leather, carefully constructed to make it as comfortable to wear as possible.
It was beautiful.
Tommy sniffled, tearing up as he ran a hand over the carvings. “I-“ he choked out. “Thank you.”
Ranboo bounced up to his side, one hand holding onto his crown to ensure he wouldn’t lose it. “Put it on! Put it on!”
Clara chuckled, hushing him, moving over to sit next to Tommy on the steps. She helped him strap it on, repeating the introductions she was given by the maker so Tommy would remember how to do it himself.
Once finished, she stepped back, and Tommy picked up his crutches, hands trembling. He pushed himself to his feet and took a tentative step, gingerly putting weight on the prosthetic, trying to get a feel for its movements.
Slowly, he began to pick up the pace, wobbling across the yard with an ever-growing grin on his face. Ranboo followed behind, cheering and throwing flower petals he had apparently squirreled away in his pockets.
Tommy made his way over to their spot on the bluff, careful to not trip on anything or overwork his leg. He reached the crest of the hill and let the breeze wash over him, looking out over the rolling waves, watching the sunlight sparkle on the water’s surface.
A clawed hand gripped the back of his shirt, and he glanced down at a beaming Ranboo, hair askew and full of grass and flowers shaken lose by his happy movements.
Tommy closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sky, tears streaming down his cheeks. He laughed, the sound intermingled with quiet sobs.
The sun was warm, and the breeze dried the tears.