Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tubbo has faced down the end of the world so many times he didn’t think it could faze him anymore. He’s lived through too many wars to count, two doomsdays, the deaths of two almost-brothers, and his own execution. He’s got thick skin, Tommy once said. Tubbo is inclined to agree. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here right now.

That’s why Tubbo is fine when Quackity asks him if he can stay late to fix the grill in Las Nevadas. That’s why Tubbo is fine when it takes even longer than expected and he’ll have to stay overnight if he wants everything done in time for the restaurant to open tomorrow. It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened. Ranboo knows not to leave Michael until Tubbo gets home.

And, sure, things were kind of tense between them when Tubbo first got the job, but they’ve… mostly worked it out. Come to a silent understanding. They’ve always been good at that. Even when he messages Ranboo goodnihgt bossman and doesn’t get a response- Ranboo forgets to message back, sometimes. It’s fine. They’re fine. Tubbo is fine.

Tubbo is even fine when he finally gets back home to Snowchester the day after and there’s a wither by the prison and Sapnap says that Dream has escaped and Technoblade is standing on his front lawn.

This isn’t the first time that the last one has happened. Tubbo can handle another inspection. Technoblade’s on his turf, here, even if he is heavier armed. Tubbo knows this song and dance.

Except- Technoblade takes off his armor before talking to him. He says Ranboo is dead. He says Ranboo gave him a photograph, before it happened. It takes Tubbo a moment to realize, when Technoblade hands it to him, but Tubbo knows this photo. He took it himself.

It’s a photo of Michael: he’s smiling so, so wide as he points up at the photo of him and Ranboo and Tubbo. It had been barely a week after they brought him home that they took it. Tubbo didn’t know Ranboo had kept the photo on him- he assumed it went into Ranboo’s memory book.

He didn’t know Ranboo was arrested, either. Gods, he must’ve been terrified. Tubbo should have been there. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t have known. Could he?

Oh, shit, wait, where’s Ranboo’s memory book? Sam must have taken it. Ranboo will need it when he respawns. 

(If he respawns.)

Tubbo has faced down the end of the world so many times before, he- he’s fine. He’ll just go get the memory book from Sam, clear up whatever mess got Ranboo arrested, and then he’ll wait at home with Michael for Ranboo and they can all laugh about this later.

Like when Tommy faked his death? a voice in the back of his mind argues. Tubbo would tell it to shut up, if his throat was working right now. And if Technoblade weren’t standing right in front of him.

“Tubbo?” Technoblade asks. Tubbo hasn’t heard his voice sound that soft since that one time a dog got into the Pogtopia ravine.

Right. Okay. Tubbo has to- Technoblade is here, he can’t get Ranboo’s book just yet. He shouldn’t do that now, anyways. Michael’s been alone for the past day, Tubbo needs to check on him first.

How could Tubbo have left him alone? He’s an awful father, he shouldn’t have left him alone. Ranboo was supposed to be watching him- but Ranboo was arrested. But Tubbo couldn’t have known. But he should have known anyway. That’s what being a good spy-president-father is all about and-

Stop, says the voice in the back of his mind. Wait. Focus. It sounds like Wilbur, back during the revolution. That’s how he used to sound when he was teaching Tubbo how to aim his bow and arrow. You can’t be blaming yourself right now. What do you have to do first?

Tubbo has to check on Michael, first. And Technoblae is still here. Ranboo gave Techno the photo. Ranboo lived on Techno’s land. Ranboo comes home with gifts from Techno sometimes. They’re friends. Ranboo trusts Technoblade enough for him to know who Michael is.

Technoblade killed Tubbo, but Ranboo trusts him. Right now, the latter is what counts.

Besides. Two birds, one stone. Tubbo needs someone to look after Michael while he runs over to Sam to get the memory book. That’s a fantastic solution, Tubbo thinks. He shouldn’t be gone for too long, but while he is, Technoblade can look after Michael. It’s not like he’s an orphan. Tubbo’s alive. Ranboo is…

Well. Tubbo’s alive, so Techno can’t have any issue with Michael.

This is perfect, Tubbo thinks. This is fine. And then he opens the trapdoor to Michael’s room and his world falls to pieces again.

Michael isn’t in his room. Michael is supposed to be in his room. Ranboo and Tubbo take him outside whenever they can, but it’s not safe for a toddler to be outside entirely unsupervised. Tubbo made sure to baby-proof the trapdoor and the ladder and the window.

Tubbo checks every inch of the room- behind the bookcase, under the bed, in the toy bin- and he feels the panic rising in his throat as everything turns up empty. 

How could Tubbo lose his own son? He never should have taken Michael home, he should have given him to Puffy or Eret or Bad or someone who wouldn’t lose their son and their husband and their entire world in two days. Tubbo wasn’t meant for this and he was fool enough to try anyways. He couldn’t spy for Wilbur, he couldn’t lead L’Manberg, and he can’t even keep his own son safe.

What’s even the point of you? Schlatt would ask if he could see him now, because Tubbo has spent months waiting for the other shoe to drop and when it finally, finally did he wasn’t ready.

Tubbo feels a scream building in his throat, but he can’t lose it. Not now. Not yet. L’Manberg is co- Ranboo and Michael are counting on him to keep his head. So he takes a deep breath. Tries to keep his hands from shaking, and lays it all out on the table. He’s Ranboo’s husband. He’s Michael’s father. His son is missing. Technoblade may be the one without armor, but Tubbo feels defenseless.

Which is why it takes him by surprise when Technoblade puts a hand on his shoulder and says he’s going to help find Michael. Technoblade- the man that killed him, the man that destroyed everything Tubbo has ever worked for, the man that stood on his lawn in full netherite armor to inspect his home- wants to help find Michael.

Distantly, he thinks he nods. He thinks Technoblade cracks a joke, and he jokes back. It all sounds like static to his ears and tastes like ash on his tongue. He has to fight tooth and nail to get every word out, to keep his head, and he almost, almost succeeds. But then he sees Michael’s stuffed bear, sitting innocently on his bed. It’s a polar bear Ranboo had taken to calling Steve Jr. at some point, stained blue at the nape of its neck. Ghostbur and Tommy made it together. Michael can’t sleep without it.

Somehow, that’s what breaks Tubbo. Not the death of his husband, not his empty house, not his once-murderer staring at him with something approaching concern. It’s a shoddily-made teddy bear. Tubbo’s vision starts to blur and his words die halfway out of his mouth, because if Tubbo thinks he’s scared, Michael must be petrified. He’s so young, so small. So breakable. Is he in pain? Whoever has him- are they feeding him? Are they getting him to sleep, even without Steve Jr. or the L’Manberg anthem for a lullaby?

(Is he still alive? Tubbo cannot afford to ask. He’d shatter on the spot and there would be no fixing him.)

“Tubbo?” Technoblade asks. “Look, I know that today’s kinda been… a lot. Do you- um-  is there something I’m supposed to be doin’ here?”

A fear seizes Tubbo’s chest. Technoblade is still here. Technoblade is standing in his son’s bedroom, watching him cry. Technoblade could put a firework right through his skull right now and then no one would ever find Michael and Tommy would be all alone, too- and oh, gods, someone needs to check on Tommy, Dream’s escaped- and, and and-

“Get out,” Tubbo says in a hoarse voice.

“What?” Technoblade asks weakly.

Tubbo feels like his heart is going to escape through his ribcage. “I said get out!” He- he wants to grab for his sword. He wants to take Michael’s bookshelf of fairytales and fables and hand-me-down murder mysteries from Eret and cookbooks from Niki and slam it to the floor. He wants to throw the painting on the back wall out the window. He wants to break something.

He wants to go home. He wants home to come back to him. He wants L’Manberg’s walls and Tommy’s laugh and Ranboo’s hugs and Michael’s hands in his.

“Look, I’m just gonna…” Techno starts, raising his hands to show he’s unarmed. “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can strategize then.”

Tubbo doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he can. His words are gone and he needs to find Ranboo’s book and Michael and check on Tommy and he can’t do any of those things because the second the trapdoor shuts behind Technoblade he grabs for the first thing he can see, and tears the sheet off of Michael’s bed so all his pillows and stuffed animals fall to the floor with a thunk that’s far too soft to be satisfying. He wants to tear a door off its hinges. He wants to kill Sam and Dream and everyone that’s ever hurt his family.

He wants- he wants to-

He needs to find Michael. Technoblade will come strategize with him tomorrow. He has to wait. So what’s next? He needs- he needs to find Ranboo’s book, he finally remembers. So he stands on shaking legs, and he drags himself out to the prison. The wind bites at his hair and his cheeks. Or, he’s fairly sure it’s supposed to. He left his jacket hanging on the hook in the house, right next to where Ranboo’s is supposed to be. He doesn’t feel the chill.

Sam is standing by the entrance, looking as lost as that automaton he built for Tommy did when Tommy died. Tubbo wants to run him through with his sword right here, right now, but that wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t bring Ranboo back or trap Dream in the prison again. All it would do is make it harder to get Ranboo’s stuff back.

Sam’s head snaps up when he hears Tubbo’s footsteps. “Oh my gosh,” are the first words out of Sam’s mouth. “I am- Tubbo- I’m-”

Tubbo holds up a hand. He doesn’t care what’s about to come out of Sam’s mouth right now, whether it’s apologies or platitudes or even a defense of his actions. Tubbo didn’t come here for Sam’s side of the story. He came for Ranboo’s stuff.

It takes Sam a moment to understand that. He stares at Tubbo in confusion, as if waiting for him to speak. Finally, he cautiously asks, “Are you here for Ranboo’s, um, things?”

All Tubbo can bring himself to do is nod. If he actually spoke right now, part of him is scared that the only thing to come out of his mouth would be a scream.

Sam nods back, and vanishes in the prison for a long, long moment. While Tubbo waits, he squints up at Tommy’s house. He can make out Tommy’s shock of hair, the tatters of Philza’s wings, and there’s a third figure too far away for Tubbo to identify. The three of them are building walls around Tommy’s house. Black and yellow, like L’Manberg. Good. Tommy needs to feel safe right now.

Part of him aches to help, to get lost in the work. But he needs to get home before Ranboo does. Ranboo cannot, under any circumstances, come home to an empty house. Not without his book, and not with Michael missing.

Finally, Sam returns. Most of it is in a bag, except for Ranboo’s memory book, and his ring. He hands those to Tubbo after he gives him the bag, weighed down by armor and tools that Tubbo only cares for because they were Ranboo’s. When Sam presses the book and ring into Tubbo’s hands, he looks him in the eye. He looks tired. “Be safe, Tubbo.”

Tubbo rips Ranboo’s things out of Sam’s grasp, and marches home with barely a glance backwards. 

The walk home is just as empty as the walk to the prison. It’s starting to snow, and Tubbo can barely bring himself to look at it. Michael loves fresh snow. He’ll have to find him before the next snowfall, to make up for missing this one. He has to. Tubbo has failed so many things, so many people, and he will- cannot not fail Michael.

When he finally stumbles home, the first thing he does is drop the bag of Ranboo’s stuff by the door. It lands with a clatter. Usually Tubbo would wince, afraid of scaring Michael. But Michael isn’t here and Tubbo will have to remake his bed later tonight- he would be devastated to see all his toys tossed to the floor like that. 

After that, Tubbo takes six steps into the living room. Puts Ranboo’s ring on the table beside the sofa. Takes a seventh step. Eighth. Ninth. Then, he sinks to his knees. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t tear anything apart. He just… he sits there, shivering, and clutching Ranboo’s book in a white-knuckled grip.

He should clean Michael’s room. He should light the fireplace before it gets any colder. He can’t bring himself to. Because that would require moving, and moving would require being a person living in the world where Dream is loose, Ranboo has died, and Michael is missing.

Tubbo doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting like that when the front door opens. Old soldier’s instincts have Tubbo throwing himself into the first defensible position he can manage- his back against the ladder, so no one can sneak up behind him, and he can stop anyone trying to get to Michael.

(Where Michael is supposed to be. Where Michael would be if Tubbo wasn’t just as good a father as he was a president.)

Standing in the doorway, stooping a little for a ceiling just barely made too low, is Ranboo. They’ll fix it, Tubbo reminds himself. Now that Ranboo’s here, Tubbo can give him his book, and he can help Tubbo and Technoblade find Michael, and once Dream is recaptured they can all move into the mansion with its high-vaulted ceilings and live happily ever after.

Except as the door shuts behind him, Tubbo becomes aware that Ranboo is dripping. Red and lime, seeping through the tear in his shirt, and dripping onto the floor. “Honey,” the-thing-that-looks-like-Ranboo calls, except its clothes are wrong and its voice is too carefree, too confident to be the man that Tubbo married. “I’m home!”

If this were Ranboo, Tubbo would laugh his ass off. That’s an awful joke, he would chastise. Honey is such a stupid petname, and it makes them sound like they’re from those old sitcoms Tubbo refused to watch growing up. But this isn’t Ranboo, it can’t be. Because whoever this is, they’re dead.

Tubbo curls tighter around the book as the thing-that-is-not-Ranboo looks around their family home. He wants to scream for help. But everyone that lived in Snowchester left ages ago, everyone except for Michael, and Ranboo always came back. But neither of them are here right now. It’s just Tubbo. “Get out of my house,” he finally finds the courage to croak.

The-thing-that-can’t-be-Ranboo startles. “There you are!” he says. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?” Tubbo asks. He prays his voice sounds half as dangerous as he wants it to. He knows it doesn’t. Getting every word out feels like a battle, between his shaking and the way his head has felt full of cotton ever since he got home.

“Because you’re my husband,” the-thing-that-should-stop-pretending-to-be-Ranboo says like it’s obvious. “Or, you used to be, at least. Are we still married if I’m dead?”

“You’re not Ranboo,” Tubbo argues.

He scoffs. “I certainly used to be, thank you very much.”

“But you’re a ghost. Ranboo has two lives left.” He had to. Ranboo would know if he was on his last life, wouldn’t he? Tubbo thinks he would. You don’t just forget dying. Tubbo’s tried that. It didn’t work.  

The-thing-that-was-never-Ranboo makes a face at that. “No he- I didn’t. I just had one. And now I’m dead!” He throws his arms out when he says that, doing something akin to jazz-hands.

Oh, Tubbo thinks. He gets what’s happening here. “You’re not real,” he says. “I’m dreaming.”

“I don’t think you are,” the-thing-that-isn’t-Tubbo’s-husband says. “But then again, I’m dead, what do I know?”

Tubbo doesn’t think it was this hard to breathe a few minutes ago. He’s actually starting to feel the shivers wracking up his arms, except he can’t be because Tubbo doesn’t think you can shiver in your dreams and- “No, no, you don’t get it. I have to be asleep, because if I’m not, then you’re actually dead, and I’m- I’m a widower or some shit. I can’t be a widower.”

“But just think of the inheritance money!” The-thing-that-isn’t-Ranboo grins.

“And- and I’d be a single father, too!” Tubbo continues as he finally lets go of the book, letting it drop into his lap. A shaking hand drags through his hair. “I can’t raise Michael alone, I’ll be terrible at it, and-”

In an instant, not-Ranboo-it-can’t-be-Ranboo is sitting in front of Tubbo, one of his too-cold-to-be-Ranboo’s hands coming to catch Tubbo’s. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly great at the parenting thing, either. We’re doing our best.”

A beat passes. Tubbo wants to take an axe to the kitchen table. He wants to shred his own curtains. He’s heard that before, he’s heard it a thousand times. We’re doing our best, Ranboo says when they put Michael to bed, when Tubbo is scared of being a bad parent, when Michael throws tantrums that stress them both out. We’re doing our best.

“Or,” he muses. “We were, I guess. Tenses are weird, when only one of us is-”

“Ranboo,” Tubbo wheezes, his other hand reaching up to catch the bloodied lapel of his husband’s shirt. “You can’t leave me on my own like this, I can’t- you can’t- please, Ranboo.”

For a second, he can hear a hundred different responses, like I mean, technically, I very much can or I already did or something else that will make Tubbo want to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he starts sounding like the person Tubbo married again. Instead, what Ranboo says is, “Alright.”

“What?” Tubbo croaks.

“I said alright. Now, come on, get up, it’s late, you’re cold, and you probably have work tomorrow or something.” He grabs Tubbo’s forearms, hauling him unsteadily to his feet. The book thunks unceremoniously to the ground, and Ranboo makes no attempt to pick it up.

It feels like a metaphor. It feels like an ending.

“Stop it,” Ranboo says.

“What?”

“I can hear you thinking from over here. Stop it.”

Tubbo lets out a shaking breath. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ranboo parrots back.

Tubbo opens his mouth to say something more, but Ranboo cuts him off with a shush, and a “Nope, no talking, you’re done for the day,” and that’s that. There’s no more arguing over the reality of the situation, no working himself into a panic about Michael, none of that. All he has to do is lean on his sort-of-husband and let him lead Tubbo over to the bed that was sometimes theirs, on the occasion that Ranboo stayed overnight.

The bed is cold, when Ranboo drops him down onto it. The second blanket that Ranboo all but throws at him helps. So does the nervously-offered stuffed polar bear from Michael’s room, retrieved while Tubbo was fixing the blanket.

In the morning, Tubbo will have to contend with being a single father, being a possible victim of Dream, and the mechanics of being married to a dead man. But for now, the ghost of Tubbo’s husband is standing in the doorway. “Goodnight,” he says, and between one breath and the next, Tubbo falls asleep in a too-empty bed.