Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilbur was a good hero.

He wasn’t perfect, God no. He was honestly a terrible fighter, just an awful negotiator. But he could disable a bomb, and he could be a good distraction. His power allowed him to feel and change people’s emotions- or feelings in general. Which meant he could make someone very tired and pass out, and that was… as useful as he got, apparently. The reason he had the #3 spot as hero was only because of the villains he’d captured with Technoblade by his side, his own brother (and maybe the person Wilbur resented the most.)

But Wilbur did his best, and he believed in humanity and his purpose as a hero.

All this to premise, Wilbur was a good hero. But not too good of a fighter. Our story begins, as most things do in this city, with a fight.

“How was your day, Pyro?”

The villain in question threw Wilbur off him with a huff. “Making small talk while fighting?” Pyro stood up from where Wilbur had previously pinned him, brushing off his red and black themed costume. “Not really your style, Blue.”

Blue was Wilbur’s hero name. He was very aware that it was stupid, thank you, but he was fourteen when he chose it, so honestly, he thought someone should cut him a little slack. Not to mention that after his debut as a hero, a new gateway drug popped up in the city of L’manburg known as ‘Blue,’ which was rumored to numb emotional sadness. So yes, Wilbur’s name was stupid and only reminded people of a drug, who cares anymore.

“No?” Wilbur questioned. He went at the villain again, throwing another punch at the man’s jaw. Pyro blocked it by grabbing Wilbur’s arm and twisting, pulling painfully at the joints until Wilbur had to basically wrench himself from the man’s grasp.

“No,” Pyro breathed with a grin, “You’re much more for dramatic rants and poetic banter.”

Pyro was a villain with fire power, not uncommon as far as powers go, but apparently, he was a bit of a pyromaniac (pun unintended). His debut as a villain began when he got his hands on sixteen gallons of kerosene and lit up a cruise ship. 404 was meant to stop that plot, but nobody was aware of the villain’s power at the time, so he went alone and came back with third-degree burns and a cold hatred for boats. Fun times.

Wilbur’s arm ached, so he went to kick the villain instead. The motion landed, thankfully, and sent Pyro stumbling backwards just enough for Wilbur to go in with more punches. The first two hit, and Pyro blocked the third punch, but Wilbur pulled away quickly before Pyro could twist his arm, or worse; use his power. Wilbur huffed, turning his head sharply to feel the satisfying crack in his spinal cord. “Oh, I know. But I do love to throw my enemies off guard.”

“Ah, well, so do I.”

And before Wilbur could ponder what Pyro meant, he felt a body slam into him from the side.

Because of course, Pyro never fights without his bestie, Mask.

Wilbur picked himself up with a grunt, briefly taking note of the pounding in his head. “You piece of shit,” he hissed, and Mask snorted. He wore a glistening green and black armored suit and a green hood, with an ivory mask that bore a taunting smile. Wilbur liked to think that it was drawn on with sharpie, and he had to furiously redo it after every battle to keep the signature mark from fading.

Mask had been working with Pyro since either of them were on record. He was Pyro’s gas supplier and, evidently, his best friend. They rarely work without each other, and Wilbur should have known he was here. The villain’s power was difficult to describe; he simply had a disfigured identity. As far as the heroes knew, it was impossible to look right at his face. It always looked blurry, or glitched out, and you could only sort of see it in your peripheral vision. He didn’t really need to wear a mask, but it retained the idea that he had something to hide.

Wilbur wiped blood from his upper lip and lunged at Mask, knocking the man over. They fought brutally on the ground for a bit, rolling around coordinately.

This was one of the few times they had sent Wilbur alone to fight. According to the information the agency had, it was a low-level villain in an easy heist. If anyone had known that Pyro and Mask would be there, they’d have sent Techno with him- or Techno by himself. Because Techno was strong and fast and resilient, and he fought like a dancer with that goddamn gleaming sword and cape. Wilbur, however, was not that good of a fighter, and he rather stuck to sneakier aspects of being a hero. As stated before, his power didn’t allow for much in combat except for making his opponents fall asleep (Which Techno called cowardly, with a tone that was meant to be brotherly teasing, but Wilbur was never happy with himself afterwards anyway.)

“You fight like a six-year-old,” Mask grunted, digging his knee into Wilbur’s ribs.

Wilbur hated that goddamn mask. He hated it because he could hear the emotion, the frustration and adrenaline in the villain's voice, and he could feel the emotion pulsing in the air around him with his power, but he couldn’t see it. Feeling that anger and seeing a porcelain smile made Wilbur’s mind do cartwheels.

“At least I'm not a blonde. Cringe.” Wilbur broke a hand free of Mask holding it back and promptly messed with his mask. It came off partway, enough for Wilbur’s vision to become distorted by the bottom half of Mask’s face being in view. He blinked a few times.

“You literally have two blonde family members-” he muttered, adjusting the strap.

In the moment of freedom, Wilbur surged forward and grabbed hold of the villain’s head. Before Mask could protest, Wilbur said “You’re too tired. Sleep now.” And watched triumphantly as the man slumped to the ground.

“You bitch!”

Wilbur felt Pyro’s hatred snap though the air like broken guitar strings before he saw the villain charging at him. It was only natural he was so upset; he probably wasn’t aware Mask would wake up in a few days.

Unfortunately, Pyro’s power wasn’t only on command. It also flared up when he got angry (which he most definitely was) so of course, the next punch Pyro threw burned against Wilbur’s jaw. Over the sound of fire crackling and a ringing in Wilbur’s left ear, he could faintly hear the villain cursing him out.

They fought again in imperfect rhythm, and Wilbur realized he was losing. Instead of hitting, he was blocking, constantly blocking, his opponent throwing fiery punch after fiery punch. The man clocked his jaw twice before Wilbur stumbled back in a daze. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Weak,” A voice said, and Wilbur was sure for a moment that Pyro had said it. Suddenly, the villain’s head started jerking around in confusion. Okay, so that wasn’t him.

There were two possibilities; One was that a third villain had approached. This obviously meant doomsday for Blue, but Pyro didn’t seem to know that there would be anyone else coming, so it was unlikely. The second possibility was that the agency had sent backup for Blue. Maybe his brother, maybe 404-

There was a flash of blue and black.

Oh. Or maybe this bitch.

To be honest, Wilbur thought the vigilante looked like an angel in person. It was an awful thought to have regarding someone you should be arresting, but both Wilbur and the vigilante had one goal; apprehend the villain. That made it slightly easier to admit that Wilbur stopped breathing when the vigilante did a fucking front flip over both people’s heads.

His name was Roulette, and his power was acrobatics. He was an avid anti-hero and a giant pain in the agency’s ass. Maybe Wilbur should be glad that Roulette had saved Blue, but honestly, he had lingering resentment for having to be saved. (Philza bandaging his arm, scolding him for trying to spar Techno, You’re too young, you’re too weak-)

All Pyro was able to say before he started sparring with Roulette was “Fuck.”

Loosely, Roulette’s powers were ‘Acrobatics,’ but in general, he had enhanced agility and flexibility (combined with strength of his own training) that allowed for him to fight like he was wearing armor. (Wilbur thought it fascinating he could fight that well in leather pants and a blue top.)

Technoblade was the only person Wilbur had ever heard compare fighting to dancing, and after that conversation he began to see it. Everyone had their style of dance, their genre of music. Techno fought to a slow violin solo (fitting for a man who played that very instrument) that swayed in and out of a bittersweet plot. Phil fought to a folk-rock song, somewhere between Lost on You by LP and Dust to Dust by the Civil wars. Lots of nostalgic guitar and talented harmony. 404 fought to an offbeat, unsettling pop song that likened to Jack Stauber or Teddy Hyde, with plenty of 8-bit and voice changers. Pyro fought to something Wilbur had heard once, a fast-paced rap metal track with remarkably meaningful lyrics.

Wilbur didn’t have a tune or a dance, he was a terrible fighter. Techno had only tried to compare fighting to dancing to help him learn. Everyone always said Wilbur had an ear for music, it was all they ever said about him besides being a good hero.

God, Wilbur’s own thoughts sounded sad sometimes.

Roulette fought to a rough acoustic song with funny lyrics. Something about subways and silver tongues, broken glass and poker chips.

This wasn’t the first time Wilbur had seen Roulette fight. He was there when the agency made the heroes review videos of him, of how he thought and moved. The idea was to learn how to defend yourself against a certain vigilante or villain when they first start making themselves known. Nobody had specified which hero would have to arrest the vigilante, just that it was everyone’s job to keep a lookout, which is pointless because if Wilbur never has a mission regarding a vigilante, then there is absolutely no point in going to find him. He had villains to worry about, like Pyro and Mask, who stole bombs from Nuclear to nuke town square.

It was shockingly easy for Roulette to knock out Pyro, but perhaps he just had the element of surprise. Pyro was on the ground within seconds.

It took Wilbur a moment to process that he was no longer in danger (unless Roulette decided to attack him.) “What the fuck,” he breathed.

“I mean,” Roulette blinked and crossed his arms, standing over the unconscious villain. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice. I just saved your ass.”

The vigilante wore a blue long-sleeved top made of some sort of bulletproof material, as well as black leather pants and shiny black boots. His face was covered by an intricate white and black mask (that looked strikingly similar to Dottore from that one anime game Phil mentioned… Genshin Impact??) and his hair was mostly covered by a blue beanie.

“What the fuck, dude- no no, listen, what the hell am I going to tell the press. ‘Yeah, I had to be saved by a vigilante because I’m useless in a fight.’ Jesus Christ, I’m not ever going to hear the end of this-”

“Well at least you’re not dead!” Roulette rolled his eyes. “I should have expected that your pride is more important to you than your life.”

Wilbur bristled. “You know I should be arresting you as we speak.”

“Then why don’t you do it, bitch?” He had manic laughter in his eyes. What an asshole.

“Because disabling a nuke should be my top priority, actually.” Wilbur brushed past the vigilante (brushed was an understatement, he intentionally pushed him to the side) and moved to the center console to disable the bomb. “Were you just sitting there waiting for me to lose so you could come in and take the credit?”

He received no response as he ran the code to turn off the countdown. When he turned around, Roulette was gone without a trace.

He quickly realized he was alone in a room with two unconscious villains, which he could definitely peg as his own win. Either Roulette was sloppy with tying up loose ends, or he was letting Blue take the credit for this.

Either way, Wilbur needed to tie up the villains. He groaned internally. He could already hear the press stampede; he’d rather die than admit what really happened. Taking the credit didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Except to Dad. Wilbur knew he would tell Phil the truth. He wouldn’t lie to his own family- after all, he was a good hero, wasn’t he?

Chapter Text

The sound of cameras clicking was possibly the worst sound in the world for Wilbur.

He became aware with every step he took, every inch he turned, there was a record of the way he looked in that second and he could never change it. He envied Millennium, who could see the future, as he probably had a better time avoiding encounters when he needed to.

He probably shouldn’t think things like that. Millennium disappeared a long time ago.

This happened every damn time he stopped a heist. He goes home and the press are waiting for him like a hive mind. He wonders if the news stations will ever get tired of asking about every villain and how they were apprehended, if they’ll ever just be satisfied with the information they have. No, there they are, a pack of dogs rushing the first hero to come within ten feet.

He was aware of about five news stations filming him live, eight reporters and journalists, and six cameramen, as well as a bunch of random people with phones. He tried to keep a winning smile on his face while the air filled with questions. It didn’t seem like much, but behind those cameras was half the city watching him with wide eyes, drinking in every word he said.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.

“I apprehended the villains with my power,” he said over the commotion. “All I did was make them fall asleep. They were planning to bomb town square, and I disabled the countdown.”

“Is this not your first time arresting a villain by yourself?”

Wilbur tried to hide his grimace. “Yes.”

“Was The Blade sent with you?”

“No. …We were under the impression that it was a low-level villain. I was sent in alone and did not receive backup.” He internally thought about the split second he’d believed someone had come to help him, and it had turned out to be Roulette.

“Did you end up wounded?”

“A little bruised, I’m fine. Pyro and Mask are good fighters.” There was a punch-shaped burn mark on his chest that stung when he touched it.

“What was their motive?”

“We don’t know.”

“Are they being questioned?”

“I don’t know, I think the police-”

“When will they wake up?”

“I don’t-”

He grimaced. Their questions were overlapping again, too many to handle, they were being so loud.

“Stop, stop. Questioning over.”

Wilbur’s view of the reporters was blocked by a man only a few inches taller than him, with a long pink braid and a flowing red cape, epic as always.

The reporter’s questions only increased in volume.

The one and only Technoblade, here to save his brother. (Wilbur did not want to be saved, he didn’t need to be saved, I’m not a kid anymore-) “Ranboo, get in here now.”

And in a flurry of violet particles, Wilbur was home.

“That’s the third time this month Ranboo’s had to pull someone out of there. Are you alright, mate?”

“Phil,” Wilbur breathed. He shook his head a little, trying to clear the daze in his vision from being teleported. He still wasn’t used to doing it, but it was a useful skill of their new assistant, Ranboo. Very helpful when someone needed a quick escape.

Techno placed a hand on his shoulder, probably trying to ground him. Technoblade’s power allowed him to literally hear everyone’s heartbeat within five miles, so he could probably hear Wilbur’s heart pattering in his chest as though he were running a marathon. Wilbur looked around himself, trying to remember where he was.

He was home. There was Phil, waiting for him to pull together, there was Techno walking over to sit on the sofa and turn on the TV, cape and all, and there was the new assistant Ranboo standing near him awkwardly. The air smelled of cheap lemon air freshener, and the fluorescent lights made the place seem like an office.

“Phil I- Oh my god, Phil, you will not believe what happened.”

“I know what happened, the press jumped you again and I had to send your brother to get you.” Phil scoffed. He was wearing jeans and a loose gray t-shirt, and his majestic obsidian wings were lazily fluttering behind him. “Last time, they got a hold of Tommy, actually. Kid’s not even a hero-”

“No, yes, I get it, that’s not what-” Wilbur sighed and walked over to the kitchen island. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I lied.”

Phil frowned and crossed his arms. “About what?”

“The Villains. The heist, the everything- I didn’t beat them myself.”

“But we didn’t send any help to you,” Phil mumbled.

“A vigilante. A vigilante showed up and he- It was Roulette, dad, that one with the acrobatics power. He beat Pyro.”

The sound of talking from the TV stopped as Techno paused his show. “Roulette? Are you kidding?”

Wilbur shook his head. “No, I’m serious. He just… showed up.”

Phil blinked a few times and shook his head. “Goodness gracious. And now he’s gone?”

And you let him escape?

Wilbur looked away from his father and at the wall instead for no reason he could pick out himself. “…yes. The bit I don’t get is that he let me take all the credit. He didn’t even try to fight me, just-” Wilbur scowled. “He called me a bitch.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Technoblade deadpanned. Wilbur stuck his tongue out at him.

“Huh. Well, the agency has been keeping an eye on him lately.”

“Wait. Wait, what does that mean?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “It means he’s good at what he does, and he was willing to help a hero. We could offer to put him in training, see how he does.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Phil barked a laugh. “I know, okay? Surely, he doesn’t want to be a vigilante his entire life. Some people are better than that.”

Ranboo grimaced.

“I’ll talk to the others about it,” Phil decided. “Go off to the nurse, I’m sure Puffy’s got an earful of berating ready for you.”

"Wait, wait," Wilbur rushed, "Can you not tell the others that Roulette saved me? I just- I'd rather… keep this one." He shocked himself with his own words. Keep this one? What the fuck does that mean?

Phil tilted his head in confusion, but nodded nonetheless. "I won't tell them, Wil."

Wilbur let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

-

After getting healed by Puffy, (and insulted, which stings more than you think it does,) Wilbur found his way back to his family’s floor of the tower.

Wilbur had realized recently that his entire life kind of revolved around being a hero, and that included his home. In the center of the city of L’manburg was a tall tower (Just like the ones in the movies,) which housed the Hero Agency. It was a company owned building. Heroes each had specific dorms in the towers, (while allowed to have their own homes, it was discouraged for whatever reason.) and his family was no exception. Although they did inhabit an entire floor of the spire, being an entire family of heroes.

Phil’s parents had both been top-ranked heroes. Phil and Mum, although she had passed now, were heroes as well. And so was Technoblade, and Wilbur. It was an entire family of legends, highly revered for their skill and strength.

All except Tommy. Because… Well, Tommy was unfortunately born without a power. That was alright, and he was a loved part of the family, but the media and citizens liked to leave him out of the picture when speaking about the family. Tommy made that difficult by jumping in front of cameras whenever possible. (He had a loud voice and a loud heart, and an even louder presence that wouldn’t allow anyone to forget him.)

Wilbur practically fell onto the couch in the living room when he came back. He laid on the left side, and Techno sat on the right, buried under a mountain of fluffy pillows. He had chosen exclusively pink ones.

“Hey, Techno,” Wilbur muttered. Techno gave a half-coherent grunt in return, eyes still glued to the screen. He was watching a cliché hallmark movie with a blonde actress wearing too much eyeliner and a tall brunette prick.

“What the fuck is this,” Wilbur asked, knowing that Techno was too engrossed in the movie to return the hostility.

“It’s- oh- Shhh.” Techno sat forward a little bit. “They’re going to kiss. They- wait.”

The characters pulled away at the last second.

“Fuck,” Techno hissed with grave disappointment. “Fuck this, ughhh! Just KISS already!”

Wilbur made a disgusted face at the screen. “Kill him,” he told the female protagonist instead, and Techno launched a pillow at him.

He wasn’t sure when Techno had started renting all these cheesy hallmark movies. Just that he was always watching them. He didn’t even seem to enjoy them, entirely, he just needed something to do, and apparently screaming at unrealistic romance movies helped. They were all basically the same two people, anyway.

“What do you want, Wilbur?”

Wilbur flopped over sideways and made his best puppy dog eyes at Techno. “Would you believe me if I said I just want to spend time with my dearest brother?”

“We both know Tommy is your favorite.”

“True. I just don’t know where else to go. Do you know where Phil is?”

“Nope,” Techno drawled, popping the ‘p’.

“Ooookay, have you heard news from him?”

Techno winced. “Uhhh, I have, but you might not like the news. He wants to tell you himself.”

Wilbur grimaces. “Oh, god. They’re going to invite Roulette, Aren’t they?”

“Worse. You’re the one who has to carry out the invitation.”

Wilbur blinked once, then twice, an expression of horror slowly taking form on his face. “Fucking what?”

Techno shrugged, as though he couldn’t be bothered to care. “Not my decision. They’re going to arrange a meeting for you with him, everybody else has stuff to do.”

“Well of course you have stuff to do, fucking prick,” Wilbur mumbled, but it didn’t go unheard.

“Maybe you’d have work to do as well if you weren’t such a deadbeat,” Techno maintained direct and hostile eye contact.

“Fuck off, golden child,” Wilbur hissed, standing up and stalking off to his room, emanating anger from every step.

They weren’t the best at this whole brother thing, but that’s fine with both of them. Wilbur has Tommy, and Techno can manage. It’s fine, really.

-

Wilbur’s room was messy.

It wasn’t nearly as messy as Tommy’s, but it still made Phil grimace whenever he walked in. Clothes were sort of pushed into a pile (there was a laundry basket next to them, but that was filled with notebooks and various papers,) the desk was home to empty soda cans and plates (Wilbur ate lunch in his room most of the time, he liked to write while he ate,) and the dresser always had at least one drawer open. There were some cheap glittery makeup products on top of the dresser because he liked to throw them in Tommy’s hair when he wasn’t looking.

Wilbur laid on his bed, a guitar over his chest, lazily strumming the chords to a song he’d long since forgotten. He seemed to forget things a lot.

It had been days since the altercation with Roulette. Phil and the other heroes got in contact with the vigilante earlier this morning, and he knew that he’d have to go on the mission soon, but he could procrastinate as long as he fucking wanted to if Phil wasn’t going to call him out.

So, he hid in his room. Guitar, notebooks, video games, anything to keep boredom away.

He hid in his room a lot when he was a child, and even now when he was a young adult, he would sit here on his bed, or at his desk, and do whatever he wanted to. Normally, his family wouldn’t come in without knocking first (unless he was in trouble.) He didn’t have very much he could call his own, many places or things that meant much to him except this room. He was homeschooled and ended up spending most of his time in the hero tower, a place that a bunch of other people all inhabited.

He remembered vaguely, that when he was very little, he’d go to mum’s room.

Mum didn’t have a room anymore.

He picked a couple of notes on the guitar, and then accidentally hit a sour note. His mind drifted back to Roulette.

He wasn’t… that hurt by needing to be saved, surely. The vigilante hadn’t taken pity on him, most likely- he was just letting Wilbur tire out the villains before he stepped in.

That made the most sense.

Wilbur hated the fact that, in the moment that Roulette beat Pyro, all Wilbur saw for a moment was Technoblade standing over him. But then Roulette made a snarky comment and crossed his arms and… well, that may have helped, because Roulette’s personality was something entirely, entirely different from Technoblade.

Wilbur hated having to be saved by his brother. He also hated being saved by a random vigilante, but it was a nice change of pace.

Wilbur hated a lot of things. ‘Hate’ was never a very strong word to him. Used much too often in much too many places.

There was a knock.

Wilbur closed his eyes and didn’t respond.

The mystery asshole knocked again.

He sighed and yelled, “Who is it?”

The door slammed open and there stood the one and only Tommy Innit.

Innit was the name Tommy used when he left the tower. Most people didn’t know what Tommy Minecraft looked like anyway, so he got by pretty well without being hounded or stalked.

Tommy was grinning wildly, his wispy blonde hair sticking up in all directions. He was tall (thankfully not as tall as Wilbur, that would be insufferable,) and he had a splattering of freckles around his electric blue eyes. He looked like he’d just come out of his room, still in his pajamas and sporting faint shadows under his eyes.

“What dumpster did you just eat from, gremlin?”

Tommy gasped in feign hurt. “Fuck you too. Dad wants you.”

Wilbur groaned. “God, I hate this. Do I really have to do it?”

Tommy blinked. “I don’t know. Nobody told me what was going on.”

“Oh. Uh,” Wilbur set his guitar aside. “I was fighting some villains this morning by myself, and this vigilante- Roulette- came up and beat the villains in front of me. The agency wants to invite him to be a hero, and they need me to carry out the fucking invitation.”

Tommy snorted. “You had to get your ass saved by Roulette?”

Wilbur scowled. “Shush, child. Everything was under control.”

Tommy laughed louder, and Wilbur rolled his eyes, still frowning. Of course, Tommy catches on immediately to Wilbur’s helplessness. It’s a miracle the press didn’t.

Tommy’s laughter died down a little. “...Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Piercing blue eyes met chocolate brown ones. “I know you don’t really take well to… being saved. Whether you were doing okay or not. I just… want to make sure you don’t feel bad about it.”

Wilbur stared at him for a moment.

“Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are, Tommy?”

Tommy wrinkled the bridge of his nose. “I’m not fucking sweet.” He shifted on his feet and looked at the floor. “And no. Nobody tells me that.”

Wilbur smiled fondly, standing up and walking over to ruffle the teenager’s hair. “You little sap.”

Tommy bats at his hand, “Hey! Fuck off, fuck off- I’m not a fuckin’ sap!”

Wilbur laughed brightly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Tommy, thanks.”

Tommy nods rapidly, desperately trying to hide a smile. “Good. Now go see dad. You’ve got to go argue with a prick.”

“I have to go argue with a prick,” Wilbur repeated, engraving the idea into his head. “Pfft. Yeah, alright. Bye, Tommy.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and muttered “Asshole” as he turned back to his room. Wilbur didn’t miss the grin on his face.

Wilbur couldn’t stand, sometimes, the way people treated Tommy’s very existence- there was a lot of confused stares and angry online rants asking why Tommy was even allowed to stay in the hero tower (Because where the fuck else could he go? He’s a human being!) and Wilbur hated knowing that it was just because Tommy didn’t have powers.

Because apparently, he wasn’t worth anything if he couldn’t lift a piano with his bare hands.

“Alright,” Phil clapped his hands together decisively. “So, I’m assuming Techno told you?”

“Do I really have to do this?”

“Yes. I have paperwork to do, Techno’s stopping a drug heist, 404 is interrogating villains and so on. We’re all pretty busy.”

“Ugh.”

“Ugh indeed,” Phil mused, handing him his hero suit. “Sam fixed this up for you, looks like Pyro fucked up the bulletproof coating with his fire or something. It should be okay, just be more careful about it.”

“It should be fireproof,” Wilbur grumbled.

“It should,” Phil agreed. “But the agency doesn’t pay very much to the super suit department. You should thank Sam next time you see him; he always looks pretty tired when we talk.”

Wilbur nodded. “How did we even get in contact with Roulette?”

Phil shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know myself. I told the agency, they did some research and sent us a number. Roulette is willing to meet at an address I’ll send you.”

Wilbur still hates this. Wilbur still doesn’t want any part of this. He’s only interacted with this vigilante once, and that one time was terrible, all sharp insults and off-hand curses. He was an intriguing character, Wilbur would admit, but he’d probably kill Wilbur in cold blood.

Wilbur grumbled again. “This is still stupid.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna complain about this for a long time.”

“I know.” Phil handed him an envelope. “Give him this, let him read it, and then answer any questions he has. If he attacks you, call for backup.”

“I think I can beat one vigilante myself, Phil.”

Phil narrowed his eyes. “Promise me you’ll call for backup.”

Wilbur groaned. “Fine. If things get sketchy, I will call someone.”

Phil gave him a satisfied nod and sent him to change into his suit.

Wilbur got ready for what was probably going to be the worst mission of his life.

Chapter Text

There was a darkness about L’manburg at night, and while most vigilantes helped deal with the stupid fighting rings and car robbers stationed around dark alleys and unchecked crevices of the city, there was one Vigilante not quite doing his job, and that’s who Wilbur had come to see.

Wilbur never really did night missions. Unlike some heroes, he enjoyed sleeping when he had the chance. Techno was out somewhere taking down a mafia kingpin, which to some might seem like the bust of the century, but for Techno, it was a normal Tuesday night. Wilbur never came along with those. To Wilbur’s knowledge, Tommy was back at home either sleeping or playing Minecraft with various friends. Phil was doing paperwork, as he was the night before that and the night before that (It never seemed to stop,) and Ranboo… Wilbur didn’t know anything about Ranboo. Honestly, he found the strikingly tall teenager unsettling.

And Wilbur should be sleeping, but instead, he was standing outside a fast-food joint at 3am, waiting to have a pointless conversation with a Vigilante.

(Mum had once said that this city has an effect on people at night. She’d tell the same story, that the stars over L’manburg were magic, and the darkness was like a blanket that made people calmer and happier. He remembered sitting there in bed, transfixed on the view from the window, her smooth voice drifting around the room and lulling him to sleep. She loved this city. She made him love this city.

Wilbur highly doubted her words now. He felt pretty annoyed under the L’manburg stars... Maybe it was just the light pollution.)

He looked up at the building once again; this was the address he was given. He wondered vaguely if Roulette would simply refuse to show up, which would honestly be wonderful because then he could go home and sleep and never have to think about it again.

That was the third time Wilbur had thought about sleeping in the last minute. He knows it won’t be the last.

The building was closed, and Wilbur was not going to fucking break in if the vigilante was inside, no sir. He would simply go home. He imagined that scenario. Yes, dad, the building was locked, and I couldn’t get inside. I didn’t see anyone, so I just left!

That didn’t seem like it would go down well.

The moon was a sliver of white light in the sky, and it wouldn’t be more than five hours before the sun would rise. While looking up at the sky, Wilbur saw a shadow on the roof.

Oh, fuck.

The shadow leaned over, and there he fucking was, that bitch, silhouetted against the starlit sky with a smile that could kill.

“Hey!” He yelled; way, way too loud for L’manburg at 1am.

“Roulette, you are the most batshit crazy motherfucker I’ve ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.”

“Getting off to a great start, there, pretty boy. Are you coming up or not?” Pretty boy?

Wilbur found himself smiling in an annoyed manner. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

He found a ladder on the back of the building to take him up to the roof. He was halfway sure he’d get tetanus from even touching it, but he was doing his best and someone ought to appreciate it- appreciate it more than the sarcastic applause Roulette gave him when he reached the top. “Wow, the hero can climb a ladder. Riveting.”

“Roulette. What a surprise,” Wilbur grumbled, as though he hadn’t been meaning to meet with the vigilante at all.

The vigilante known best as ‘Roulette’ allowed a smile to play on his lips. “You know me, pretty boy. Full of surprises.”

Roulette wore a white button-down top and black leather pants, along with black gloves and a blue beanie. He obviously didn’t expect to fight anyone. And now that Wilbur was seeing him in a setting that didn’t have him fighting for his life, he finally recognized; Roulette was short. Very, very short. Wilbur bit back a laugh and chose not to comment on it.

“Well, you certainly aren’t dressed for a fight. I’ll suppose that’s a good thing.”

Roulette shrugged. “Just came from a meeting.”

Nevertheless, Wilbur smiled back at him, glad that the tone of this conversation was subtle. The earlier aggression seemed to have died down on Roulette’s side, and while Wilbur was still angry with Roulette, he preferred not to break into a fist fight on a rooftop.

"I believe this is the first time we’ve properly spoken since last night, when you quite literally dropped in on my fight with Pyro.”

Roulette’s grin widened. “I had to step in, you were getting your ass beat. Also, I’d hardly call what happened that night ‘Properly speaking,’ You cursed me out and I was gone before you even realized I was letting you take the credit.”

“Well, it was about more than just credit, starshine. You took my kill.”

“I thought heroes didn’t kill,” Roulette chided, walking closer.

“Not kill, no. I meant my mission- you know what I mean. It’s about honor.”

“Aww, did you get all worked up over it? You gonna call Dadza? ‘Oh, dad, I lost my catch today. Please bring me vodka and crumpets, I must drown my sorrows!!!” It was a purposefully bad British accent that Roulette was doing. It was only a little amusing, mostly aggravating.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “That’s rich coming from a gambling addict.”

“The fuck? I’m not a gambling addict.”

“Your entire motif is casino; your name is Roulette.”

“Okay, at least I’m not named after a literal drug, Blue.”

“It’s the name of a color, how could I have known that Blue would become one of the biggest gateway drugs in the city? I’m a Hero, I stop giant robbery heists and I lock up murderers before they make a kill. I don’t deal with the drug ring. That’s vigilante shit.”

Roulette snickered, and the bridge of his nose scrunched up. “Oh, leave it to me to teach those poor depressed teenagers a lesson.”

They were closer to each other now, and Wilbur could see Roulette’s face better. Wilbur had quickly realized that Roulette’s mask was gone. He wondered why Roulette had shown up knowing he wouldn’t need to fight and knowing that he had no need for a mask. Why would he decide this was safe?

He was very pretty, to say the least. He had one dark brown eye, like a wall of obsidian, and one milky eye that had a giant scar through it. The scar ran from just above his eyebrow to the corner of his lips, it was jagged and intimidating and Wilbur spoke before he thought.

“You have a scar.”

Roulette raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re always wearing a mask on missions. I heard rumors that Roulette had a scar, but I didn’t think it was that big.”

“That’s what she said,” Roulette responded within a second, grinning at his own antics. The smile was infectious, and Wilbur found himself beaming as well. He meant for it to be mocking but he wasn’t sure it came off as such.

The comments on Roulette’s scar didn’t seem to bother him much. Wilbur knew plenty of people with scars, heroes and vigilantes and villains alike, and they all seemed adamant about not showing them, not talking about them, trying to forget them. They were signs of failure, and Wilbur knew the feeling of failure all too well.

Roulette deflected any attempt to get under his skin with ease, and to Wilbur, that made him… sort of intriguing.

“I came here with an offer for you,” Wilbur said slowly, calculating his words.

“Oh?” Roulette replied humorously.

“Yes, despite how I may want to, dear, I didn’t come here just to talk.”

Roulette frowned. “A pity, you seem to love talking about yourself.”

“Very funny,” Wilbur deadpanned. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small piece of paper, and upon closer inspection, Roulette realized it was an envelope.

“A letter,” Roulette stated more than asked, taking it and turning it over to check if there was anything on the back.

“From H.A, the heroics agency. They’ve seen you all over the news, and the villains you beat." Wilbur blinked. "To my knowledge, they don’t know you finished off Mask, though.”

“I know they don’t. If they did, they’d make a bunch of public comments on ‘How far Mask has fallen, to be beaten by a lowly vigilante.’” He chuckled darkly, opening the envelope with surprising delicacy.

Wilbur frowned. “You make us sound pretentious.”

“I don’t need to make you sound pretentious, you’re already pretentious,” Roulette mused.

As he began to read the letter, his eyes widened slightly. Wilbur could see the reflection of the neon city lights in his eyes.

“It’s an invitation,” Roulette mumbled, expression unreadable.

“Yeah. Like I said, they’ve seen recordings of you, and they think you have real potential. They want to put you through hero training.” The words tasted like bitter ash in Wilbur’s mouth.

Roulette met Wilbur’s eyes with shocking hostility. “You mean they want to put me through hell?”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t-” but then he was cut off by Roulette ripping the paper in half in front of him.

Wilbur stared in surprise as the two halves of the invitation floated serenely to the ground, and Roulette took a step back. Wilbur’s expression shifted to one of semi-amusement. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this was probably how Roulette would have reacted no matter what.

“I mean, you could have just said no. That was a perfectly useful piece of paper.”

Roulette huffed. “I have more important things to worry about.”

Wilbur gasped with feigned shock. “More important than the environment?? Impossible!” He picked up the tattered pieces of paper. “I’m going to use these to make an origami crane.”

“It’ll be very small,” Roulette mumbled with a small smirk and raised eyebrows.

Without hesitation, Wilbur looked him in the eyes and replied, “Just like you.”

Roulette flushed with embarrassment. “You’re a fucking bitch, Blue.”

Wilbur laughed at Roulette’s expense. Roulette turned away, probably planning to leave.

“Can you tell me, at least, why you refused the invitation?” Wilbur asked. He didn’t know why he felt the need to ask, he thought he’d much rather get out of here as soon as possible. Something about Roulette had captured him. He wasn’t sure what it was.

Roulette stopped and turned around. His eyes traced Wilbur’s face, searching for something. Searching for a reason to be angry, for a way out.

Wilbur just watched him with pure curiosity.

“I thought I made it abundantly clear earlier,” Roulette mumbled. “I don’t like heroes.”

“What’s wrong with heroes?”

“I don’t know,” Roulette said, but the lilt in his tone said he did know. “They just seem stuck-up.”

“They just seem stuck-up?” Wilbur repeated.

Roulette sighed. “Like you said earlier… you’re a hero. You stop giant robberies and malicious murderers, supervillains and sub villains, you and all your friends act like you’re too good to stop crime you see every day. Like it only matters if it will give you publicity. Another gold star, another cheap action figure, and you’re happy… and I understand not all of you are like that, okay? But sometimes it can get to be a bit much. Sometimes it seems like half of you have forgotten your title.”

Wilbur blinked and crossed his arms. “I guess I get that. It’s not like we actively seek out crime to stop, we kind of just… sit around until we get news that someone is planning something.”

Roulette nodded. “Exactly what I mean. I guess…” Roulette rubbed the back of his neck, frowning, “You don’t seem too bad. Maybe you’re just stupid.” He grinned, losing all the melancholy. “That makes a lot more sense.”

“Well, I’ll take being stupid over being stuck-up.”

Roulette laughed, and Wilbur reveled in the sound.

“You know,” Roulette said slowly, crossing his arms. “You’d be a pretty good vigilante, if you tried.”

Wilbur cocked his head. “Is this an offer?”

Roulette snorted. “It isn’t an offer as much as it is a suggestion,” he said. “There’s no agency, no training to be a vigilante. You just kind of… do it. There’s a lot more freedom to it.”

“I can’t imagine there’s much freedom in being chased down by everyone around you,” Wilbur chuckled.

“You’d be surprised. We’re both technically trespassing on this roof.”

Wilbur looked down at the concrete he was standing on. “Hm. It’s fine for me, I’m a hero. If they find me here, they’ll probably just let me go on terms of ‘I wanted to.’”

Roulette smirked. “And it’s fine for me because I’m a vigilante, and they couldn’t catch me if they tried.”

Wilbur didn’t doubt it. “No, they’d probably take one look at your pretty eyes and let you go for free.”

“Pretty eye,” Roulette corrected, pointing to his scarred, cloudy eye.

“Pretty eyes,” Wilbur insisted, taking the vigilante’s hand in his own. His smirk was filled with mirth, and Roulette had trouble keeping down a smile.

“Fuck you, Blue. Fuck you. Are you some kind of playboy or some shit?” Roulette yanked his hand back, still grinning and if Wilbur saw right, kind of blushing.

“Not a playboy, starshine, just a flirt. There’s a difference, you see-” Roulette began laughing, a bouncy sound, like soda or seltzer water. Bubbly, that’s the word, Wilbur thought as Roulette tried to make him stop talking.

Wilbur didn’t know why he was flirting, or why he was using nicknames like that, or why his chest felt like it was going to implode.

He did know that he hadn’t laughed like this in a while.

-

He found his way home at what must have been an ungodly hour of the morning.

Techno and Tommy were the only people up, and they seemed to be watching Hamilton.

“I’m just saying,” Tommy groaned, “I think his problems would be solved if he just punched Aaron Burr. Like. Just scared him away before the duel.”

“That’s not remotely how that works,” Technoblade mumbled.

“Oh no. Are you guys having Hamilton discourse again?”

Tommy turned from his spot on the sofa and Wilbur saw his diamond blue eyes light up. “The bitch is back!”

“Thank you, Tommy, what an eloquent welcome.” Wilbur set his generic hero mask on the counter. “Hey, Techno.”

Techno didn’t look away from the screen. “How did it go?”

“It went well, I think.” Wilbur flopped over on the couch in between his brothers with a sigh.

Disbelief shone in Tommy’s eyes. “He took the invitation?”

“Oh- no, not at all. He actually, um.” Wilbur held out the ripped strips of paper.

Tommy snorted.

“Yeah.” Wilbur turned to look at the TV. Eliza was singing her final song before death. Techno must have finished his mission quickly.

It took him less time to arrest a kingpin than it did for me to have a conversation. Wilbur didn’t continue that train of thought.

Techno blinked at him. “So then why did you say it went well?”

Wilbur shuffled through his thoughts to think of an answer. “Well, I mean- I just meant that he didn’t try to kill me, so that was good. We just talked.”

“Talked?”

“Yeah?”

“About what?”

“Nothing, really. Just banter.” Wilbur snorted. “I think he’s the only person other than you guys who doesn’t talk up to me. Not figuratively, at least. Man is short.” Wilbur shook his head in exasperation and lost focus on the TV. “He didn’t curse me out either… Called me a name.”

Tommy’s nose bridge scrunched up. “What name?”

“Pretty boy,” Wilbur muttered, and then wondered why he suddenly felt somewhat lightheaded. He rolled the nickname around in his head. Pretty boy.

Techno raised his eyebrows. “Don’t go and get all blushy on us now.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “As if. Go back to your stupid musical.”

“This is a stupid musical,” Techno teased before turning back to the movie. Eliza died. None of them blinked. They’ve watched this at least forty times now.

Besides, Wilbur thought to himself, that was nothing compared to the things I called him.

Tommy hummed. “Well. Which one of us is telling Phil?”

“Not it,” Techno and Wilbur both said at the same time. Tommy groaned.

As the credits started to roll, he wondered why he didn’t mention the scar, or the eyes, or the morality of heroes, or- well, a lot of things he probably could have told someone.

Eh. It probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he’d ever see Roulette again.

Chapter Text

Wilbur showed up ready for a fight.

That was a lie. Wilbur showed up expecting a fight, he was never really ready for a fight- not in the way a hero should be. In the end, it seemed that Wilbur didn’t need to be- Nuclear was a very unique villain. He dealt exclusively with technology and explosives, never fighting, never doing anything physical. Just pushing buttons and talking into a mic. Wilbur didn’t know why he’d expected anything different.

Nuclear was apparently trying to steal back the bombs that Pyro stole, and then the agency confiscated. He had taken over the government facility they held them in and was using it for… something. The agency sent Wilbur in to arrest Nuclear, now that they had his confirmed location- and so far, the mission was pretty easy.

Wilbur had expected guards at the doors, perhaps, or hired goons of any kind to protect this giant facility- but it was empty- eerily so. Wilbur had even begun humming to himself while walking the halls at one point, and no gaggle of henchmen had come around the corners to kill him.

He knew where the main room is, he knew where he needed to get. The thing was, he had no idea what he was going to find when he got there.

Nuclear could be working on any number of things related to bombs and tech- nobody knew much about him. The only hero who ever had a substantial interaction with him was Technoblade. Techno had foiled his plan and chased him down in a dark warehouse, where he reportedly “hunted” the villain until he escaped through a window and disappeared. Other than that, nobody had ever truly fought or spoke with him.

It had been maybe a week since the rooftop meeting with Roulette, and Wilbur had mostly forgotten it. He tried to tell himself that he’d dodged a bullet with Roulette not taking the invitation, because that’s what he’d wanted.

(He’d never been like that before, never been unable to look away from someone before, never spoken like that to someone before. He didn’t know why. He really wanted to know why.)

He shoved the thoughts from his mind and kept walking.

He spared a passing glance into each room, not stopping to check them thoroughly- his main goal was to find Nuclear.

Somewhere along the line, he found a room that was practically filled with mechanical components. Each table was covered in sheet metal, nuts and bolts, motherboards and wires. It had been used recently, since every other room had a thin film of dust on the surfaces, but these tables shined under the rubble.

Nuclear was using this room for something. That meant Wilbur was getting close, which was good- but it also meant he was building something, which was, decidedly, bad.
Everything was set up like a trap. There was no security, no barriers- It was as if Nuclear wanted a hero to find him. Wilbur was aware he was falling into a trap. He was doing it because it was his mission- he could only hope that he could outsmart it before Nuclear killed him.

And that’s the thing- he’s one of the few villains who’s killed people. Not the safest mission for a hero like Blue, but Techno and Phil had something to do (For the thousandth time. Why do they always leave Wilbur with the jobs they know he can’t do?)

He was still walking- It felt like he’d been walking nonstop for an hour now- when he turned a corner and almost slammed face-first into a large steel door.
He heard a mechanical whirring sound from inside.

Bingo.

He rattled the handle for a second. It didn’t budge. There wasn’t a keyhole- the door couldn’t be locked, could it?

A voice came in over the intercoms- a high British voice. “Wait- I’m sorry, just a second.”

Wilbur practically jumped out of his skin. “What the fuck?”

The voice laughed. “Jesus Christ- How long have you been in this building? You’ve passed this door like, four times now.”

“It’s-” Wilbur blinked and looked around wildly for a camera. “It’s a big fucking building! The halls are an actual maze- Where the fuck are you?”

“In your head,” the voice tried.

“Very funny.”

“Calm your tits, I’ll open the door.”

Sure enough, Wilbur heard a sharp click somewhere in the door, and it slid open. The doorknob retracted into the door.

“A fake fucking doorknob?? What kind of maniac are you?”

He received no response.

The room was bland. It looked like at one point it may have been a gymnasium, or a storage room- if it weren’t for the giant garage-esque door on the opposite wall. Wilbur decided not to question what could be behind it just yet.

The voice spoke again. “Are you done gawking yet?”

“I’ll be done gawking when you’re done taunting me,” Wilbur growled.

The voice snorted. “If you weren’t such a complete idiot, you’d have looked around yourself and seen a window above the giant door that gives you a view of the room I’m in.” Wilbur looked up. Sure enough, there was a rectangular window above the door. Nuclear- the actual villain Nuclear, in the flesh- waved to him. He wore a heavy parka coat with yellow and black motifs, and the top half of his face was covered by a mask shaped as a nuclear trefoil sign.

“Congratulations,” Nuclear cheered. “You made it to the trap!”

Wilbur blinked. “The trap?”

Nuclear tilted his head. “I’m not so stupid to give out my location with no defenses. You aren’t here to arrest me- I’m here to mess with you.”

Wilbur blinked at him. It was a trap, yes, that made sense- but he’d though he could evade it. What exactly did the Villain have in mind?

Nuclear’s visible mouth smiled at him, and it came off as one of the most threatening things Wilbur had ever seen.

“Welcome to the show! Don’t worry, you won’t get hurt- or well, I don’t think you will, but that depends on your ability to defend yourself. Despite how you tend to frustrate me, I think I’ll refrain from killing you in cold blood.”

Wilbur scoffed at him. “My ability to defend myself? Are you going to finally fight someone for once?”

“Oh no! I’m a terrible fist fighter.” Well, that was the cleanest admission Wilbur had ever seen. “But I have someone you can fight, if you’re so eager. It’s what the trap was for, anyway.”

Nuclear tapped a button. The large door beneath his window began to retract.

Wilbur had fought villains that acted like cartoons before, but the dramatic reveal of a giant weapon was a new level of ridiculous. And it got even worse when Wilbur realized what it was.

He gawked at the thing. He was shocked more than he was scared. “So that’s it, then?” He gestured to the machine. “Your plan is to see if your giant robot can beat me up??”

The robot was huge- not as big as a transformer, honestly, it seemed to be just a few feet taller than Technoblade, but it towered over Wilbur. It wasn’t fancy, either- just a greyscale of silver gears and rolling iron joints. It seemed to resemble a person, and the barely covered machinations inside the chest we're nothing if not ominous. What could it do? Did it have bullets or blades? Was it just strong?

“Actually,” there was a whirring sound and suddenly the robot came to life. A light shone from a crevice in its chest. “My plan is to see if you can beat up my giant robot!”

“You’ve got the wrong hero for that.” Wilbur narrowed his eyes darkly. “You should have gotten The Blade.”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t be so harsh on yourself! Also, stop talking- you’re not a person right now.” Wilbur could feel Nuclear’s grin even from the villain’s place in the safe zone. “You’re a test dummy.”

The robot, the one Tubbo could apparently command from the control panel he was messing with, swung a threatening titanium arm out at the hero and Wilbur dodged to the side in the nick of time. It was a little slow, but it held a lot of momentum that gave Wilbur the impression it could crush him.

It wasn’t a person he was fighting; it was a robot. It was a programmed machine. Wilbur couldn’t feel any emotion from it, not the raw rage or exhilaration he got from other adversaries, no pain or exhaustion. All he sensed was the metal whirr of gears turning right next to his ears. He could feel nothing from the villain above them- the glass was probably emotion-proofed or something. However that works, Nuclear’s smart, and he’d be the one to figure it out.

Wilbur knew this was meant to get to him- the fact that it was machine, and he couldn’t knock it out with a couple words and a touch. He could only fight, and God knows he’s bad at that. (Nuclear knows too, apparently.)

The machine swung at him again, and he dodged. Okay, Nuclear was using him as a test dummy for his new toy- fine then. Wilbur could tear up some nuts and bolts if he wanted to.

He punched the robot in the back. A bolt dug against his knuckle- Jesus fuck, that hurt.

“Invincible to normal strength attacks, check,” Nuclear muttered.

Wilbur stepped back as far as he could. He needed to turn it off somehow. It seemed that the only off button was in the control panel Nuclear was manipulating, and Wilbur didn’t have time to find the way up there.

He moved out of the way of another swing, and the robot quickly retaliated by throwing out its’ other hand to sweep Wilbur’s legs from underneath him.

“Good thinking,” Nuclear commented, and Wilbur was appalled to think he was complimenting the robot that couldn’t even hear him. What is going on inside his head?

Wilbur fell and a sharp pain shoot up his spine as he fell on his back. Well, fuck.

He got back up, as he had done too many times to count. “Nuclear, it’s invincible, you can’t really expect it not to kill me.”

Nuclear sighed. “It’s not programmed to kill, asshole. As for beating it, just use your brain, unless biology class was lying to me. It’s a machine. Machines have wires. Wires power the thing. So, what do you do with the wires?”

“Okay, I- I didn’t expect you to actually help me. You can stop acting like I’m stupid now.”

“I wasn’t acting.”

And before Wilbur knew it, the robot was swinging at him again.

Wilbur kept within a wide radius of the robot. It wasn’t really covered with anything, nor did it look any kind of visually appealing. Nails, gears, and wires all stuck out from every side. It really should be easy enough to rip some wires out- that is, if Wilbur can even get close enough.

Thinking about it, Wilbur realized that the robot really wasn’t built to kill. It wasn’t protected with anything other than its own punches- Nuclear really was just using Wilbur to test it out. Why would he use such an elaborate trap just to test out a weapon?

He boxed and dodged the robot for a while- it was amazing that he managed to stay afloat for so long, but after a little bit of grasping at wires and bruising his jaw, he started to lose.

It reminded him of his fight with Pyro, which- well, it was weird, since he also lost many other fights the same goddamn way. Soon enough, he stopped punching and started blocking, and then the robot had him pinned.

Nuclear did not say anything. He just watched.

Wilbur struggled to no effect. He was knocked over, and now there was a cold steel gear holding down his chest, and he tried desperately to remind himself it’s not programmed to kill. It’s not programmed to kill. It’s not programmed to kill. It’s not, it’s not…

There was a crackling sound from the intercom, and Nuclear spoke up again. “Hi Blue, I know you’re kind of pinned against a floor right now, but I’d just like to let you know that I can’t quite see the ceiling from my window, and I was hoping you’d tell me if there’s something crawling on the rafters.”

“I’m-” Wilbur almost choked on his own words. “I’m sorry?”

“Is there or is there not,” Nuclear said slowly, “Something in my fucking ceiling.”

Oh, how the tables turn, or whatever.

Wilbur peered around the robot’s head (if you could call it a head) and scanned the ceiling.

To his utter despair, there sat a certain vigilante.

Roulette waved at him. And with a single two-fingered salute, he tipped headfirst off of the rafter and fell.

“Oh my- Oh my fucking- Roulette?” Nuclear sounded as shocked as Wilbur felt. “What the fuck, dude?”

If the robot suddenly jostling was anything to go by, Roulette had quite literally landed on top of it. “Hey Nuclear! Sorry, not this time, buddy.”

And oh, oh dear god, why did Roulette sound so fucking calm? Why did he sound like he couldn’t care less about the situation? I am struggling to breathe, you dumb fuck.

The weight on Wilbur’s chest was released all at once, and he took a wheezing breath. “Oh, what the fuck.”

Nuclear’s voice came clear over the intercoms. He didn’t sound as stressed as he should, “Roulette, why don’t you take fall damage?”

Roulette ripped a couple wires out of the machine’s back. It swayed on its feet a bit before crashing to the ground right next to the hero. Wilbur had been inches away from getting crushed.

“How much time do you spend playing videogames?” Roulette asked the villain in response to fall damage? Is he serious?

Wilbur stood shakily. Roulette turned towards him. They looked at each other for all of two seconds before Wilbur scowled.

“You had to wait until I was about to get crushed to step in?”

Roulette shrugged. “I wanted to see if you could handle it yourself.”

“Oh, wow! Look at this!” Wilbur and Roulette both turned their heads to see Nuclear climbing down a staircase in the same door the robot came out of. Evidently, it led to the control room. He stumbled off the last step and rushed towards the robot. Wilbur felt amazement rush in the air around him. “Look at this! You managed to land on top of it- how didn’t you hurt yourself? - and you ripped… one two, there’s a main cord and a couple smaller ones. Without even disrupting the cage. This was SO worth testing.”

“The cage?”

“Oh, well actually,” Nuclear, still grinning like he’d won the lottery, turned to face Wilbur, and again Wilbur got the feeling of eyes on him that he couldn’t see. “The robot is powered by silverfish.”

Roulette blinked. “Silverfish? Are you fucking crazy?”

“Maybe! But I wanted to find an energy source that didn’t involve gas, or a battery that could run out! So- “

Much to Wilbur’s dismay, Nuclear leaned down and tore a few gears from the robot’s chest- how fucking strong is this man- and opened a compartment that contained- you guessed it- silverfish.

Silverfish. On a hamster wheel.

“You’re actually insane,” Wilbur muttered.

“But did you see how cool it was? It lasted so long! Any machine would only need some silverfish in it to function for days, years- imagine how easy it would be to make cars or something!”

“You have a point, but sadly, not a very good point.” Wilbur took some rope from his belt. “Arresting time!”

“Oh, arresting time.” Nuclear’s face fell. “Hm. Well, every good experiment has it’s casualties- and sometimes it’s a person.”

While Wilbur bound his arms and legs, Roulette looked down at the robot again. “What’s that?”

“What?” Nuclear tried to crane his neck to see. Wilbur sat him against a wall and went over to Roulette. The vigilante leaned down and pulled something out of the compartment. “Oh-” Nuclear saw what it was. “No no, don’t touch that one-”

Roulette held up a weird metal thing shaped like a hammer, and suddenly, the silverfish got off their wheel and ran.

Roulette just jumped to the side, and in comparison, Wilbur fucking shrieked- Not because he was scared or anything, but because one of them literally crawled up his back. “Fuck! Fuck, Fuck, where is it, where did it go, fuck, get it off!”

Roulette just doubled over with laughter. “Blue- Blue, calm down, it’s in-”

“This isn't funny, Roulette, what if- fuck-” Wilbur spun around, and now Nuclear was laughing, and they were both laughing, (and Roulette had that same goddamn beautiful laugh, soda, seltzer water, there is something wrong with my head.)

In the end, Wilbur shook himself vigorously (in a way similar to that of a wet dog, Roulette would point out later,) and a small silverfish went flying from his hair.

“Good fucking riddance,” Wilbur muttered, and immediately fixed his hair.

Roulette wiped a fake tear from his eye. “You are so stupid it’s amazing.”

“What even is that thing,” Wilbur asked instead of responding to the insult.

Roulette held up the metal piece. “Oh. Uh, well.”

“It looks like a hammer,” Wilbur said at the same time Roulette said, “Looks like a banana.”

They glared at each other, and to Nuclear’s astonishment, immediately began to argue about it.

“It’s literally shaped like a banana-”

“You’re ridiculous, it’s metal, it’s obviously a hammer-”

“You’re blind, look at it, it has a stem and everything-”

“Actually,” Nuclear cut in after a few minutes of commotion, “It’s both.”

“…what?”

“Silverfish like bananas,” He explained. “I would have used a real banana as bait for the silverfish to keep running on the wheel, but it kept going bad, so I had a banana hammer imported from Kinoko kingdom. It’s metal, but it’s shaped like a banana, and it can be used as a hammer if I want, too. I thought it was pretty cool, see? Banana hammer! The silverfish can’t tell the difference.”

Roulette stared at him and then tossed the banana hammer over his shoulder.

The villain pouted. “My hammer!”

Wilbur ignored him in favor of turning to the vigilante and asking, “What are you doing here?”

He sighed. “I just saved your life. Again.”

Wilbur crossed his arms with a pointed look.

The vigilante pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to fucking god, if you spout some bullshit about credit and press and honor, I’m going to beat you the same way I did for the transformer.”

“It’s not nearly as big as a transformer,” Nuclear commented offhandedly from where he was tied up. “And- and well it doesn’t really transform into-”

“Is this it, then? You’re just going to show up every time things aren’t going well for me?” Wilbur asked, cutting the villain off.

Roulette rolled his eyes. “It’s not my fucking fault that you keep showing up to heists I’m trying to cover. Usually, heroes aren’t this bad at their job.”

Wilbur bristled. “Oh, you fucking-”

“Have I- I’m sorry, have I missed something??” Nuclear said again. “Have you two met before?”

“Well, starshine?” Wilbur said incredulously. (The nickname slipped before he could stop it, there’s something wrong with his head.) “Are you going to take the credit for this one?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Obviously fucking not!”

Quackity sighed. “Well, pretty boy, then you can take care of it yourself. You’re used to that.”

Pretty boy. Again.

“Are you two flirting now??” Nuclear asked.

“SHUT UP,” They both told him. He seemed to get the idea.

Before Wilbur could retaliate to the innuendo, Roulette had disappeared.

“How does he keep doing that?” Wilbur muttered, running a hand through his hair. He probably has teleportation tech of some kind. A stasis chamber, an Enderman hybrid ally- something of the sort.

Wilbur turned to Nuclear. He could see the villain better now. Nuclear was short, (Short seemed like the wrong word, he was more small than he was short. Like a kid, almost.) He had a head of fluffy brown hair and- are those horns? A goat hybrid?

“My mask is down here, boss man,” The villain muttered, and Wilbur blinked. He wondered if a lot of people stared at his horns like that.

Hybrids weren't terribly common. His own father was an avian, and it was pretty confusing when he had three children and none of them had wings of any kind. Tommy could actually respond to bird noises pretty fluently, but he didn’t have any physical traits. Ranboo was an Enderman hybrid, Puffy was a sheep, Tubbo was a ram (like this villain) and Niki had gills- to be honest, Wilbur really didn’t meet a lot of hybrids in his daily life.

“Sorry,” he apologized, and then sighed. “Speaking of masks, you’re about to get arrested, so this will have to come off.” Wilbur kneeled down to take off Nuclear’s mask.

All at once, Nuclear seemed to shrink into himself, and Wilbur felt a burst of fear pulse in the air. He stopped. The terror was so intense; one would have thought Blue was going to hurt him. It seemed almost childish.

I know they have emotions, Wilbur thought to himself. So why does it feel like I’m just figuring it out?

“…calm down,” Wilbur muttered, his hand still on the side of his mask. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Nuclear relaxed. Wilbur hadn’t even realized he was using his power.

“How old are you?” Wilbur asked offhandedly.

Nuclear did not answer.

Wilbur stood up with a sigh. “Alright, then. The police will be here in a bit to sort you out. Until then, just- I don’t know, don’t annoy me, alright?”

Nuclear nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m sending you to prison. You should just be glad I didn’t try to fight you or anything.”

“Oh, I’m very glad you didn’t try to fight me. You might hurt your wrists.”

“Shut up.”

He did shut up. For all of five seconds.

----------

Wilbur came home through the window this time.

The press was by the front door of the tower, just like every other mission. So, this time, he avoided them. Squeezing through a window of the lobby was hard, but he got all the way to the elevator without a hitch. The press still waited outside, unaware that they had missed their prey.

Wilbur opened the door to his home and walked into the kitchen. The sound of the TV told him that Techno was there.

The kitchen and the living room were separated by a counter, but other than that, you could see across into the other room pretty easily. Looking over, he saw Techno’s pink head poking out over the back of the couch, which confirmed Wilbur’s suspicions.

“How did it go?” The older hero asked.

“Fine. Nuclear is on his way to prison right now.”

“Without any problems?”

“Without any problems.”

Techno smirked. “What, did a vigilante help you with this one too?”

And oh, Wilbur should have said Yes. Yes, he did help me, and I hate it, and I hate you.

But the smirk on his brother’s face pushed him over the edge, and before he could think it through-

“No, actually. I did this one myself.”

Techno stared at him, and Wilbur hadn’t ever spent enough time with him to learn his expressions, but he didn’t seem upset- or happy, for that matter, He just kind of looked on. That was until he smiled. A small genuine smile. He turned back to the television and focused again on his rom-com. “Cool.”

Wilbur didn’t know how to feel about a reaction that small, so with that little white lie, he grabbed a can of coke and went to his room.

Chapter Text

Tommy had been a vigilante for… all of 2 years.

He was sixteen, he could handle it fine! It was much better than becoming a stupid hero, and it’s not like he spent all of his childhood trying to be one anyway.

On that night all those years ago, (That night we don’t think about, we don’t talk about,) he had received a call from a friend.

“H-hello?”

The other boy’s voice crackled through the phone speaker. “Hey, bossman. I have an idea.”

Tommy looked up at the clock. “It’s 2am, Tubbo, why are you awake?”

There was a pause. “Why are you awake?”

Tommy thought for a moment, then sighed. “What’s your idea?”

He had been fourteen. Fourteen when Tubbo told him he should be a vigilante for a night- fourteen when his best friend stole tech from his dad’s lab to give them both armor and weapons.

It was going to be for fun. They would go out one night, alone, and “fight crime.” It was just to pretend they were heroes, Tubbo had said. Just to get a taste.

They were just kids, really.

And Tommy- well, he didn’t really do anything worthwhile, he brandished a gun that wasn’t even loaded to make a guy drop some old lady’s purse, which was fun- but he felt like he was doing something good. He felt like this was helping, he was helping his city- and it gave him this rush of adrenaline he was sure to get high on if he tried hard enough.

This is what Techno feels when he fights. This is what Wilbur feels like when he plays music. This is my rush.

And while Tommy never got his powers, he could still help somewhat, couldn’t he?

So, he kept doing it. One night a week, at least, he’d go out and stop very minor crimes- as time went on, he got stronger, the secret got bigger, a year passed, and then… he saw the news.

His costume wasn’t anything special, just a red hoodie on top of a bulletproof vest and some thick jeans. His weapon- now that’s what was special. Tubbo had specially made him two steel discs with bladed edges- one purple and one green- that he could throw like boomerangs. They were like shaped like records, and always came back to him when he used the magnets on his belt. It didn’t do much good bladed, because Tommy’s goal was to knock people out, not decapitate them- so Tubbo modified them until the blades were retractable. Tommy could use them as blunt weapons or as knives. He loved them to death.

He had been sitting at home with his family at night, they were chattering on about movies and musicals, when the news reporter on screen said,

“A new vigilante has popped up around the south side of the city surrounding the hero tower! They’ve been very active in the last year, and the hero agency has recently classified them in their database.”

Phil looked up at the screen. “Oh, right. We wrote up a new vigilante earlier today.”

Wilbur glanced over at him. “Who?”

“The vigilante goes by the name of Vinyl!”

Tommy spat out his water.

“…They were seen last night stopping a car robber-” footage on the screen showed Tommy, fuck, that’s me, handcuffing a car robber and calling the police. “And the hero agency caught some camera footage. Citizens are recommended to stay away from them, as their power is unknown, and their weapons- two bladed discs- are unpredictable.”

Citizens are recommended to stay away from me. I’m a threat now.

A strange mix of pride and disappointment swirled in Tommy’s stomach. He was glad to finally be noticed, but what was a vigilante without people to protect?

Wilbur had tilted his head. “Huh. Vinyl. Like records?”

“Their weapons look like records, so it makes sense,” Phil chuckled.

Tommy gulped. “Are they really dangerous?”

Phil sighed. “All vigilantes are dangerous, Tommy. Just because they only fight criminals doesn’t mean they wouldn’t hurt citizens when given the chance. They’re much more violent.”

Like many times before, Tommy had the overwhelming urge to yell but they aren’t, they aren’t! We’re just people! We just want to help! And like many times before, he kept his mouth shut and turned back to the screen.

Vinyl’s power was registered as unknown. There were even theories on what it could be. They didn’t even consider he may not have one.

Jack, the news anchor, sported a fake smile as he spoke on about the details of Vinyl’s work.

Tommy thought of the name Vinyl on the spot. He’d had a concussion at the time, and he was staying with Tubbo when he tried to put his blades in a record player. Tubbo had laughed at him, telling him it wasn’t a real vinyl, and Tommy spun around with star eyes to point at him and scream “VINYL! THAT’S IT!” for the next hour.

He had a lot of good memories regarding his vigilantism. Now that the heroes were more aware of him, it was sure to be more difficult, but not as hard as when Tubbo was classified as a villain.

Tubbo had meant to be a vigilante. He wanted to help, like Tommy did.

And then, like any kid his age would, he made a mistake.

If you search the online obituaries, there is an incredible number of people who were killed in villain heists. Two of which were villains who died twenty years ago. One of which was a hero who dies fifteen years ago. Two others were vigilantes. The ten others were citizens, and of those ten, three were killed in a heist staged by up-and-coming villain Nuclear.

Tommy could still remember the look on Tubbo’s face when he read the news report. Fifteen injured, three dead. Fifteen injured, three dead. Tommy had told him that making nukes his motif was bound to have consequences- and yet, he had to watch the blood drain from Tubbo’s face as the facts set in, and the absolute horror in his eyes when he knew the blood was on his hands.

The villain nuclear. The villain nuclear. Not a vigilante.

Tubbo had thrown up that day.

They were both fifteen.

(Tommy wished he could have comforted Tubbo the way Wilbur could. Wilbur’s power allowed him to calm people down whenever they were panicked, to literally change a person’s emotions with a few words- all they had to do was ask. Tommy did not have that power- or any power. He could only stand by and watch his best friend fall apart at the seams.

It was the most powerless he’d felt since…)

And now Tommy was classified in the database as well. As a vigilante, to be precise, but he was still in there.

This brings us to present day, two years after Tubbo was confirmed a villain, one year after Tommy was confirmed a vigilante- and exactly 12 hours after Wilbur lied to his brother about the Nuclear mission.

“Tubbo,” Tommy hissed.

There was no response.

“Tubbo!” He whispered again.

The boy in question jolted, turning quickly to see Tommy hanging halfway out of a vent with a scowl on his face.

“Tommy, Jesus fucking Christ! You’re the imposter?”

Tommy stared at him for a long time before saying, “Get over here so we can escape, and I can slap the shit out of you.”

“You’re so nice,” Tubbo gushed with a fake grin.

He had come to break Tubbo out of prison, which he had done at least twenty times now. Tubbo never stayed long enough for them to force his mask off. Tommy was terrified of what would happen if they did manage to identify Tubbo. He tried as hard as he could not to think about it, but the thought still crossed his mind late at night.

Wilbur would ask if Tommy knew, He would insist he had no idea. But they would find Tubbo’s tech, and vinyl’s costume, and eventually, evidence would trace back to Tommy, a vigilante in a family of heroes, they would be so angry he lied, he lied.

He’s lying by even existing in their presence. It stopped bothering him, eventually.

“Thank god they didn’t get your mask off yet,” Tommy mumbled, wrenching himself out of the ventilation and landing on the floor of the jail cell.

“Oh yeah! I modified it, actually- Doesn’t come off without a key, now.”

Tommy blinked at him. “How does that-” He decides against asking how does that work? Because that’s an answer he’d never understand himself, and instead asks, “That doesn’t hurt your face or anything?”

“Nope. It’s kind of like wearing a snorkel.”

The mask was just a tin nuclear trefoil that covered Tubbo’s eyes and nose. It unsettled Tommy to hear his voice and not see his eyes, especially since that mask was associated with so much destruction, but he took an effort to remind himself that underneath it was his best friend.

“Is the vent really the only way out?”

“No, but it’s the easiest and fastest, unless you wanna go through the trouble of setting off an alarm and alerting the whole city to your escape.”

Tubbo tilted his head. “I would like to alert the whole city to my escape, actually. Shock value.”

Tommy grimaced. “You don’t, trust me. Just get in.”

They clambered into the ventilation system. And Tommy was telling the truth, there are plenty of other ways to escape, but two of those ways involved duping dozens of highly trained guards, and another involved death. So, they’re using the vents.

They were cold, and they smelled like rust, but they made do to hold the teenagers up.

“How’s prison been, big man,” Tommy asked sarcastically.

“Oh, fine, really. The movies make it out to be much worse. 404 came to interrogate me, and I tried to tell him about Roulette, but he assumed I was lying and left to go sleep or something. I don’t think he takes his job very seriously.”

“What about Roulette?” Tommy glanced up.

“Oh, Tommy, you don’t even know! Your fucking brother, y’know, the one that arrested me? He had help from Roulette, the vigilante with the casino motif. You won’t believe it, they were talking like they fucking knew each other, and Blue wasn’t even trying to arrest him! They went back and forth about credit or something for a bit- and Tommy, I shit you not, they were definitely flirting.”

Tommy gawked. “Flirting??”

They came out of the vents in a kitchen area of the prison.

Tubbo nodded seriously. “Flirting.”

Tommy recalled Wilbur’s words the night he’d gone to speak with Roulette. ‘He called me pretty boy.’

Oh. Ew. Ew, ew, ew.

“Ew,” Tommy said aloud.

“I think it’s sweet, honestly- maybe I just read the room wrong. Where do we go from here?”

“Window,” Tommy muttered, pointing to a window on the back wall of the kitchen.

They slipped out easily. The security here is shit. They landed on the ground beside the building, and Tommy straightened up with a huff, brushing off his hoodie. Perfect landing as always.

“Are you going back to your place?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah. Chances are that dad never noticed I was gone. It’ll be hell getting inside without him seeing the costume, though.”

“Right, right. I should get home then, I guess. God, I really do hope that Wilbur hasn’t fallen for big Q or anything.”

“Big Q?”

“I know him,” Tommy sighed. “His name starts with Q, I’m pretty sure- I stared calling him Big Q for fun and it kinda stuck. Vigilantes stick together and all that. Haven’t talked to him in a while though.”

“Ohh.” Tubbo snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that. You should have seen Wilbur just staring at him like he hung the fucking moon.”

Tommy grimaced again. The world was against Tommy today, apparently. …And every day since he was born, but particularly this day as well.

He pulled out his communicator and texted someone quickly. “See you later, Tubs, I have Ranboo on his way to get me.”

“Lucky. Bye bye!”

Out of nowhere, purple particles clouded Tommy’s vision. He could make out a tall figure standing over him, and then it cleared, and he was standing on a street corner.

He shook his head vigorously. The figure that towered over him smiled lopsidedly. “Hi, Tommy.”

Tommy rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Hi, Ranboob.”

“That’s not-” Tommy started walking before Ranboo could get another word in. “Oookay.” He followed close behind. “So, uh. What did you do today?”

Tommy shrugged. “Nothing. Broke Tubbo out of prison. The usual.”

Ranboo blinked. “The usual. Right.”

Ranboo was half Enderman, which was some kind of monster hybrid Tommy didn’t know much about. He had grey and black speckles on the side of his face, and the power to teleport wherever he wanted. Purple particles seemed to follow him when he was stressed. They were there now, but they seemed to just be a side effect of the teleportation.

He knew about Tommy and Tubbo, as their assistant, and he was a great help when either of them needed to make a quick escape. He was technically the Hero’s assistant, but he doubled for Tubbo and Tommy because they were his friends. He promised not to tell anyone anything. Tommy, after being pestered by Tubbo about it, had to believe him.

“Did you fight anyone?”

Oh. And he’s also really awkward.

“No,” Tommy sighed. “No hitches. We went through the vents.”

Ranboo frowned. “I could have teleported you both out of there.”

Tommy waved him off. “You’re always exhausted after you do that. I don’t want to drag you back to the hero tower and explain to Phil why you have scrapes on your head.”

Ranboo grinned. “Awww, you care about me.”

“No, I fucking don’t!!” Tommy swatted away Ranboo’s attempt at a hug. “You only do that to annoy me! You are evil and I hate you.”

Ranboo chuckled, and Tommy rolled his eyes again, as he seemed to do eleven times a day (It’s required as a teenager,) and didn’t stop walking.

The sun had set a while ago, and the roads were filled with streetlights reflecting on puddles. They passed a glowing restaurant with plenty of neon signs that lit up the street with colors, and a large dark building that cast moon shadows in the alley on either side. They eventually made it to the hero tower. Everyone should be asleep.

Briefly, Tommy thought about why Ranboo started helping them. He had applied to be an assistant the day he was old enough to work there (eighteen,) and usually just helped with paperwork and press. He had helped pull Heroes out of bad situations time and time again, and one day, Tommy got into one himself.

He didn’t even know he was being followed that day, but Ranboo teleported him out of a fight before he got his ass handed to him. Ranboo had stuttered, saying he was sorry for following and he wouldn’t tell anyone and blah blah blah- his words started to blend together after a bit. That was when Tubbo suggested he help them. “You can teleport,” Tubbo said thoughtfully. “We gotta make a lot of getaways. You already know about us- It could work!”

Tommy had protested, of course, because this goddamn prick was annoying, awkward, and taller than Tommy (possibly the greatest offense.) but nothing changed Tubbo’s mind.

But he ended up helping. And Tommy couldn’t really complain about it.

Tommy was glad that he wasn’t in costume except for his record-shaped mask, which he handed off to Ranboo to take to storage.

“Bye, Ranboo.”

“Bye, Tommy- be careful.” Ranboo vanished into a cloud of purple dust.

Tommy adjusted his hoodie and sighed, walking into the building. The receptionist, Tina, looked up and beamed at him in passing before getting back to work. Tommy thanked whatever god still watched over him that she didn’t ask any questions.

The elevator took a while to bring him to his family’s floor, and when he stepped into the living room to sneak into bed, he saw Wilbur in the kitchen.

Wilbur, standing there and downing a glass of water, looking like absolute shit.

“Wil?”

His head snapped around. “…Tommy?”

Tommy asked, “What are you doing up?” at the same time Wilbur asked, “What were you doing out?”

Tommy crossed his arms.

Wilbur was still in his pajamas, hair sticking up everywhere. He had slept, or at least he tried, but something happened.

Tommy wouldn’t say he cared about his brother, but he kind of maybe sort of wanted to know what happened.

Wilbur sighed. “I had a bad dream. Move on, please.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “A nightmare? You’re 23, Wilbur.”

“Yeah, yeah. Adults get nightmares too, you little prick.”

“What was it about?”

Wilbur stared blankly at his cup of water for a moment. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

Tommy glanced at the cup. He was… pretty sure it was water. It was a clear liquid, what else-

Oh.

“…That’s not water, is it?”

Wilbur looked up at him. Quick to defend himself, he said, “If you don’t tell dad I drank vodka at 3am, I won’t tell him you were out all night.”

Tommy pursed his lips, thinking. It seemed to be a good deal. His secret was a lot bigger than his 23-year-old brother drinking vodka at night, but maybe it really was a bad dream.

“Deal,” He decided. “You better not be wasted when I wake up tomorrow.”

Wilbur sighed. “I know. Go to bed, little gremlin.”

Tommy scoffed at him and left the room. Techno and Phil were still asleep, thankfully- so he did as Wilbur said and went to bed, praying that nothing happened to Tubbo on his way home.

His last thought before sleep took over was, Big Q better not be making out with my brother.

Chapter Text

That night, (the night Wilbur arrested Nuclear,) Wilbur had had enough of existence.

And yeah, he could have written paperwork or responded to texts or something, but his brother had just given him the most genuine smile he’d seen since he met with Roulette (Stop thinking about Roulette, this is the third time in the past hour) and he didn’t really know how to feel about familial intimacy that wasn’t Tommy, so he wanted to sleep.

Yes, he was tired. Jesus fuck was he tired, he wanted to just sleep for eleven years, he wanted to stop thinking about things and just dream for a bit. But in the back of his head, something nagged at him.

That “something” turned into something different every time he poked at it.

At first, it was Roulette. He’d shown up again, after Wilbur had almost forgotten him- and he’d helped. Wilbur couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he’d stood there, just talking to him, laughing instead of arresting him. Roulette had just been so goddamn distracting, always running his mouth, always taunting in some way, always there to make Wilbur forget everything he’d been taught.

There was this impression of a chaotic, violent, unpredictable vigilante that Wilbur had been taught from birth, and then there was Roulette, who only ever helped, who only ever saved people. He genuinely hadn’t hurt anyone.

And then it was Nuclear, and Nuclear didn’t answer when Wilbur asked, “How old are you?” He was high-strung on adrenaline and excitement and fear, fear that Wilbur had never felt from anyone before. A terror so powerful it made him flinch from being touched. And yes, heroes normally fought villains, but Blue wasn’t going to fight anyone if they weren’t able to fight back. Heroes don’t do that- or at least, Blue doesn’t.

He tried so hard to convince himself that these are bad people, but the idea of a “bad person” has gotten terribly blurry.

Who is he to say that they’re good people, anyway? He doesn’t know them at all. He can’t make any assumptions about their morality- his job is to arrest them because they’re dangerous. But they’re not even dangerous, they’re in danger.

Wilbur felt like everything he knew was falling down around him.

And so, he laid there, completely still, staring at the ceiling of his room, willing sleep to just take him already.

He thought about Techno standing over him, when they were little, wooden sword to his throat, over and over and over. One day, Wilbur won. He was so excited, so goddamn happy he’d finally beat his brother, he didn’t even see his mentor handing Techno some money later. He found out through Tommy, who saw the whole thing.

He thought about Roulette again. (Stop it.) Roulette had also saved him, but he didn’t get anything out of it. Why doesn’t he just walk away? Pity?

Wilbur scowled at the thought of that. Being pitied, nevertheless by a vigilante who was undoubtedly better than him.

Was he distracted by jealousy? Was that it? Bitterness?

(Nobody ever taught him how to combat jealousy. His family didn’t get jealous, as far as everyone else was concerned. Then again, nobody ever taught him how to combat pretty vigilantes with silver tongues, either.)

Wilbur huffed and turned on his side.

He recalled Roulette’s words. “Like you said earlier… you’re a hero. You stop giant robberies and malicious murderers, supervillains and sub villains, you and all your friends act like you’re too good to stop crime you see every day. Like it only matters if it will give you publicity. Another gold star, another cheap action figure, and you’re happy… and I understand not all of you are like that, okay? But sometimes it can get to be a bit much. Sometimes it seems like half of you have forgotten your title.”

“It only matters if it will give you publicity.” Wilbur would do anything to not have the publicity. Then again, he’d do anything to not have to fight anyone either, but it’d never been a choice for him. Only vigilantes ever patrolled.

Without vigilantes, there would be much more petty crime around the city. There simply aren’t enough heroes to fight all of them, either- or well, they could, but they’d have to spend every second of their lives doing it, and Wilbur is already spending too much of his day trying to be the perfect hero for the media.

Wilbur’s eyes drooped.

Vigilantes are needed. But they don’t get much support, do they?

It occurs to Wilbur that the heroes are a community, with a med bay to go back to and an alarm to call for backup and all the support they can ask for. Whereas vigilantes don’t have anything but weapons and suits they make themselves.

When a vigilante gets mortally wounded, they dress their own wound or die. It’s not like they can go to a hospital.

The image of Roulette dragging himself off somewhere to die scares Wilbur more than he’d ever admit.

And that- okay, that’s just human empathy. He doesn’t care about this certain vigilante personally; he doesn’t even know him.

At an ungodly hour of the morning, his mind is too tired to block out the thought that maybe he’d like to know him.

Roulette is… interesting, Wilbur will admit. He’s funny, and thoughtful. He uses his words well, carefully constructing each sentence to have the exact right impact, constantly thinking, always one step ahead, always right around the corner- and fuck, is he pretty.

His eyes.

Wilbur has to actually kick himself to stop from thinking about them.

Those kinds of thoughts… definitely surpassed “human empathy.” No matter how hard Wilbur tried, he couldn’t think of a reason why this would be so trivial for him.

As if to put him out of his misery, his eyes finally drooped closed, and sleep took him.

“You can’t just do this yourself, can you? Fine.”

“Well, you can’t just- you can’t just sit here and expect him to come to you.”

Wilbur huffed. “I don’t! I’m just here for the food.”

The lights in the café were tinted orange, and the smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the minimal area.

“Wilbur. Wilbur, look at me.”

Wilbur glared at his little brother across the table. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“Every other day, you come here and sit in the same chair at the same table, trying to convince yourself to go talk to that waiter.”

Wilbur groaned as Tommy went on. “Now recently, you’ve gotten his name, which is good, and you made small talk, which is good. But for the love of God, I think you could try to get a little farther than the man just knowing you exist.”

Wilbur looked across the restaurant towards the waiter in question, and quickly looked away. “Tommy, will you stop talking so loud?”

“All I’m saying is that you’re wasting your time. Just ask for his number already!”

Wilbur huffed and picked at his food. He didn’t even like it, it was just the first thing he saw on the menu.

“How is school, Tommy?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, Will. I have a test coming up, you know.”

“About what?”

“Editing. Just- Okay, okay, at least tell me what you even know about this guy.”

Wilbur glared at him and then sighed, putting his fork down. “His name is --------. He… Okay, fine, I really don’t know anything.”

Tommy groaned. “Just ask for his number! It’s so simple!”

“Shush, gremlin. You’ve lost speaking privileges.”

“This is a café, Wilbur, it’s made for talking to people. Which you are doing very little of.”

“Didn’t dad want you to pick up something from the grocery store?”

Tommy blinked and stood up. “Oh, yeah. Well, at least he asked me. He didn’t ask you because he knew you’d be too busy being pathetic.”

“I love you too,” Wilbur grumbled. Tommy gave him the middle finger as he left the café. The bell above the door jingled.

Out walked Tommy, and in walked Techno.

“Ugh. Why are you here now?”

“Nice to see you too. Dad sent me.”

“Now all of you are involved in my love life, then?”

Techno took a look around the room and his eyes settled on someone. “That him?”

“You can tell?”

“He’s exactly your type. Short. Dark hair. Big eyes. Nothing new.” Techno looked back to Wilbur. “The scar is new though.”

(The scar.)

Wilbur huffed. “He’s so pretty, Techno, what am I supposed to do?”

Techno snorted. “I’ll tell you what to do.” He turned and raised his hand for the waiter to come over. To Wilbur’s horror, he did.

“Tech- techno, no, put your goddamn hand down, oh my god.” And then Wilbur promptly hid his face in his hands.

“Hey, can I have a water, and uh- and an earl grey for my brother?”

“An earl grey, nice. I’ll have that out soon.” That’s his voice, fuck, fuck, fuck everything.

When Wilbur was sure the angel himself had left, he slowly uncovered his face to glare at his brother.

His brother stared back. “An earl grey,” Techno repeated, “Nice.”

“Please never speak to me.”

“He said it’s nice, Wilbur. What do you think THAT means?” Techno asked, just a lilt of a joke in his voice.

“You’re teasing me. You’re laughing at me. Go to hell.”

“He said nine words. You look like you’re about to implode.”

“Techno, I couldn’t even look at him. You’re actually evil- why would you DO that?”

“Why can’t you speak to him? He’s just a person!”

(Just a person.)

Wilbur straightened indignantly. “I’ve spoken to him before!”

“What did you say?”

“…Hi. And…” Wilbur looked at the table. “…nice weather today.”

Techno’s eyes widened impossibly. “Why would you SAY that??”

“I was nervous!”

“You shouldn’t be so nervous that you say THAT. That’s awful. That’s terrible. He thinks you’re a dork.”

“I AM a dork. I’m an imbecile. I come to this café and literally just look at him- He probably thinks I’m a creep.”

“Then why don’t you leave?”

“Because he’s so fucking pretty, Techno, and I want to do something about it, but my mind hates me!”

Techno shook his head incredulously.

The world swam for a moment, and then Techno spoke up. “You’ve gotta do something about what you’re feeling eventually. You might lose your chance entirely.”

He wasn’t there anymore. He must have walked out when Wilbur wasn’t looking.

That was when the waiter came by again.

“An earl grey, and a… water. Where’d he go?”

“Uh.” Wilbur stared at a spot just to the side of Roulette’s (Roulette? Is that his name?) head. He wasn’t sure if he could look at him. “He, um. He left.”

“Oh. Alright, well, you can have the water then.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Roulette (Not right, not right) nodded and turned away. Time slowed for a bit while Wilbur debated whether he should ask for his number.

“Hey, can I- um.” He coughed.

The person in question turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

Wilbur’s tongue felt like it was made of stone.

“…can I have your number?”

Before Roulette could say anything in response, the world around him faded to black.

“Do you get it yet?”

The first thought that registered in Wilbur’s mind when he woke up was Fuck.

That dream. Oh, my fucking god, the dream.

Wilbur sat up in bed. He was here, at home, in his room, dreaming about oh god.

Why the fuck would he haunt Wilbur’s dreams too?

And it wasn’t negative, it was far from a negative dream, it was a fucking fantasy. Tommy went to school. Techno talked to Wilbur longer than he ever has. Roulette was a pretty waiter at a café.

There were no heroes or vigilantes or villains. Wilbur was just a guy at a coffee shop.

Oh god, oh fuck.

He stood from his bed- the world swam for a moment, forcing him to pause and blink spots from his eyes. He searched in the darkness for his glasses, and when he finally found them, he found the door and left his room without a word.

He checked the clock on the wall. 3am. He had been asleep for all of one hour. Fantastic.

He winced when he turned on the kitchen light. Water. Get some water.

Techno had wanted a water.

FUCK.

Wilbur grabbed a repurposed mason jar from the cabinet to use as a cup.

Why did I have that dream? He tried to force his mind into thinking something similar to a coherent thought. He’d fallen asleep thinking about Roulette, and he’d had a dream about him. That didn’t exactly bode well for Wilbur’s mental state, but there was an explanation for why it involved Roulette.

None of it felt real physically- the lights much too bright, he couldn’t make out what his food was, Techno never walked out the door- it made sense it was a dream, physically. But emotionally? It had felt so real. He truly felt the embarrassment, the frustration, and worst of all, the fucking affection- the affection for Roulette, who he couldn’t even name at first.

And that was the thing, he didn’t even know anything about the vigilante other than how he looked. Wasn’t that just shallow?

Just a fever dream, he decided eventually. It was probably a fever dream.

Can fever dreams happen when you don’t have a fever? Wait, what even is a fever dream?

Wilbur shook his head to clear the thoughts. He was reaching over to the sink to get some water when his eyes caught on something else.

Well.

It couldn’t hurt too much.

Wilbur wasn’t sure why his dad even kept a liquor cabinet- he didn’t really drink, and when he did, it was wine of some sort. But this bottle of vodka had been given to them as a gift, and Wilbur was 23 now, and there was nobody there to tell him no, so… Who cares, really?

He poured some in the glass and put the bottle back in the cabinet.

He grimaced at it. It tasted like spice and citrus- but it distracted him from the dream he’d had, so he took another sip.

In the dream, Wilbur wasn’t a hero. That was another thing he’d noticed. He was a citizen, and everyone else was too- in fact, there wasn’t much implication that heroes even existed. It was nice, for a really weird dream.

That was when the door clicked.

Wilbur almost spat out his vodka in the process of thanking every god above that it was a clear liquid, and anyone who looked would think it was water.

“Wil?”

Wilbur looked up to the front door and saw, to his shock, a blonde teenager.

Tommy stood in the doorway, in a grey hoodie and jeans.

Wilbur said, “What were you doing out?” At the same time Tommy said, “What are you doing up?”

It was 3am. 3am and Tommy had been out for how long exactly? Doing what?

Wilbur sighed. “I had a bad dream. Move on, please.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “A nightmare? You’re twenty, Wilbur.”

“Yeah, yeah. Adults get nightmares too, you little prick.”

“What was it about?”

Tommy telling him just go ask. It isn’t that hard. Techno calling someone over. A pretty man with a scar and an earl grey.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

Wilbur held the glass close to his chest. Tommy’s eyes darted from the glass to the liquor cabinet, and then to Wilbur’s disheveled appearance.

“…That’s not water, is it?”

Of course, he’d guess.

“If you don’t tell dad I drank vodka at 3am, I won’t tell him you were out all night.”

Tommy blinked. “Deal.”

Wilbur wanted to know what Tommy was doing- moreover, he wanted to keep him safe, but Wilbur couldn’t say he hadn’t snuck out a lot himself, when he was Tommy’s age. And that really wasn’t very long ago. Tommy could take care of himself. Hopefully.

“You better not be wasted when I wake up tomorrow.”

Wilbur huffed. “I know. Go to bed, little gremlin.

Tommy shuffled to his room.

Wilbur took another sip.

As though the world had it out for him today, it took a good five minutes of standing and thinking for Technoblade to walk around the corner of the hall. He was also disheveled. He must have just gotten out of bed.

Wilbur glared at him. “And how long have you been up?”

“Thirty seconds,” Techno replied gruffly.

“How did you get out of bed so quick??”

“I woke up and checked all the heartbeats in the house.” Right, his sensing power. “Yours was out of place.”

Does he do that a lot?

“So, you came to make sure I wasn’t doing drugs or something?”

Techno narrowed his eyes at the glass in Wilbur’s hands. “I came to make sure you weren’t doing that, actually. Your heartbeat’s a bit slower than normal. Either you’re drinking, or you’re sleeping on the kitchen floor.”

“It’s water. I’m just very relaxed, is all.”

Wordlessly, Techno walked over and took Wilbur’s glass from him. “So, if I down all of this in one go, I’ll be fine?”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Techno brought it to his lips and tipped the glass upwards.

“Alright, okay, fine, don’t drink it-” Wilbur snatched the glass from him and poured the remaining liquor down the sink drain. “I’ll go to bed.”

“That’s what I thought.” Techno began to retreat to his room.

“God, you’re so fucking annoying,” Wilbur muttered as he walked away.

If Techno paused before walking a little faster, Wilbur didn’t seem to notice.

Wilbur set his glass in the sink and sighed. Well, he’d stopped thinking about the strange dream- that had been the goal, right?

Although now he had a reason to worry about his little brother, a resentment for his older brother that seemed to keep growing, and some alcohol to sleep off. The dream probably didn’t mean anything anyway.

When he went back to bed, he passed out in all of five minutes.

Chapter Text

Many things in life are pointless. For instance, artificial sweeteners. Especially aspartame. It tastes like all-purpose cleaner. There are also swords with moon-shaped blades- according to a rant by Technoblade, they do absolutely nothing. Thin Oreos are an abomination (they went the wrong way. They had the right idea with double stuffed.) And last but most certainly not least, Anteaters. Pointless, creepy fucks.

Wilbur had done many pointless things today. Scribbling aimlessly on a paper counted- not because of scribbling in itself, that’s how many artists work, but because Wilbur had scribbled nothing but lyrics to songs he’d never write because the longer he wrote, the more romantic they turned, and then a scarred face flashed in his mind, and he put the pencil down with a huff.

He scrolled every social media he had. He tried to read one of Techno’s books and gave up when he was met with the word “Sesquipedalian.”

And now he walked the halls of the tower to a destination he wouldn’t ever find. He’d probably gone in a few circles by now, someone was bound to get suspicious soon. The fluorescent lights and cheap lemon air freshener really spelled out “Office building,” and the halls that were painted white and blue definitely didn’t help. Each hall looked the same, each door was the same, each room was the same, all except the hero dorms, kitchen, and lobby.

His eye caught on one of the doors, and before he could convince himself to keep walking, he’d grabbed the handle.

Destination found.

There was one room in the tower that no hero went into unless they were required to: the rankings room. It was where the reporters were escorted when press conferences were held. There were seats lined up in rows facing a podium, like a theater. On the podium was a single microphone, and behind it was the ranking wall.

The ranking wall read the status of every hero in the tower.

There are superstitions that heroes who spend lots of time in this room go insane, or disappear, or die. Most likely, none of them wanted to deal with the reality that is ranking your worth based on the number of lives you save.

The Blade, #1. Angel, #2. Blue, #3. 404, #4. Ram, #5. So on and so forth.

Wilbur thinks there’s a hint of truth to the superstitions. To have your worth laid out on a wall in front of your city… it probably doesn’t do well for your mental health.

Wilbur still remembered the day The Blade took the #1 spot from Angel. Phil hadn’t been upset- or angry, even. He’d been overjoyed that his son was doing so well. Wilbur hated it.

He sat in one of the chairs, glaring up at the wall. Blue, #3.

Blue, #3.

A while ago, Millennium held the fourth slot. Then he disappeared and 404 took his place. 404 was absolutely infuriated that he’d taken the rank, because it meant the agency had given up on Millennium, had stopped looking for him.

Nobody else said anything. Wilbur thought they were too scared.

Deciding he’d had enough thoughts for the day, Wilbur stood and turned to leave the room. But when he looked to the door, he saw someone standing there.

“Techno?”

The hero’s eyes snapped towards Wilbur. He had been staring at the rankings. “Sorry.”

Sorry for what? “What is it?”

“I have a mission soon. Gang leader downtown is running a competition.”

“And?”

Techno winced. “I wanted to know if you could… come with.”

Wilbur paused, studying him. He didn’t seem like he was taunting or kidding. “...why?”

“…Because I’d like some help?”

“Like you need help,” Wilbur grumbled, walking past him into the hall. “What, so I’m doing things right with my assignments, and suddenly you want to do a mission together? That’s what this is?”

“They didn’t let me ask you before.”

“Who’s they?” Before Techno could respond, Wilbur continued. “I’m not going to let you drag me back into your life. I’m busy.”

It was a lie; it was a terrible lie. He had nothing to do, but he’d rather do nothing than go on a mission with his brother.

Anger pierced the air around him. Techno growled, “Why have you been so shitty lately? God, you know, I used to be able to go at least a week without you cursing me out, and now you’re constantly mad for no fucking reason.”

Wilbur snapped. “Don’t you dare make yourself a fucking victim! You aren’t a victim, you’re never the victim! I’m the one who’s hurting, I’m the one who’s having a bad week, and I don’t need you to tell me!”

Techno glared at him. “Why can’t we just have a normal conversation for five minutes,” he said shakily.

“I don’t know why, Technoblade. I really don’t. Maybe if you leave me alone, and use your mind for a split second, you’ll figure it out.”

Techno looked at his brother like the world would collapse if he looked away. And then he did. He turned his back and walked the other direction. The world didn’t collapse, but Wilbur felt like it might have.

It’s not fair to lash out at you because I’m having a hard time. You are the least of my issues right now, and I’m sorry, Wilbur thought at the back of Techno’s head.

Instead of voicing these thoughts, or even continuing that train of thought in general, Wilbur huffed and walked away.

Oh, and arguments. Most arguments, when spurred by unrelated problems, do end up being completely and utterly pointless.

-

Wilbur came back to his floor of the tower late in the afternoon. He was immediately pushed to the side by Phil, who was frantically searching for his keys. Tommy sat in front of the TV, eating leftover mac-n-cheese.

“Uh, Wil, you and Tommy have the floor to yourself tonight,” Phil said as he grabbed his bucket hat. It took Wil a moment to realize he was in full costume. “I’ve got a mission.”

“Oh. When will you be back?”

“Probably very late. Techno won’t be back till tomorrow, though.”

Wilbur frowned. “Is his mission that far away?”

Phil blinked. “No, Techno doesn’t have a mission. I’m doing his, he said he needed to blow off some steam in the training room.” He shrugged. “You know how he is. He’ll probably sleep there.”

He only sleeps there because he doesn’t want to face me.

Wilbur tugged at the hem of his sweater absentmindedly. “Right.”

“Do the dishes and- oh, and don’t put blue in Techno’s hair dye, please.”

“Will do.” Wilbur’s eyes drifted about the living room. He was distracted.

Phil paused. “…Are you alright, mate?”

Wilbur shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“If there’s anything you need, I can give the mission to 404. I know we haven’t spoken much lately.”

There were plenty of things Wilbur could have told Phil right at that second. He could have tried to tell him about the dream, or about the argument, or his worries about the agency, or about Roulette in general, or about Tommy sneaking out at night.

Wilbur shook his head with a small smile. “You know 404 will just butcher it.”

Phil beamed. “Right. I’ll see you later, mate.”

And with the click of a door, Wilbur was alone in the house with his little brother. Like many nights before.

He turned to face Tommy.

“How’s your day been?” Wilbur tried.

Tommy blinked. “You’re going out, aren’t you?”

“You know me so well.” Wilbur immediately moved to grab a beanie.

“Where you gonna go?”

“Away. I don’t know. I’ve been in the tower all day, if I stay here any longer, I’ll go up in flames.” Wilbur felt like he might spontaneously combust with all the lies he’s been telling lately. They collected in his throat until he could barely breathe.

“Can I put blue in Techno’s hair dye?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Tommy, you’re going to be alone in the tower all night. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

Tommy grinned. “Awesome. Take your mask with you, it’ll ward off the press. They’ll all think you’re on a mission.”

“Good idea,” Wilbur mumbled, going to his room to grab it. “You’re my favorite.”

“I know,” The teenager said smugly, turning back to the TV screen.

-

And so, Wilbur was back under the L’manburg stars.

Somewhere along the line, he’d picked up some food (That poor teenager at the front counter looked way too tired for a hero ordering chicken nuggets at 8pm.) and he probably should have just gone home after that.

But with everything going on in his head, he just really didn’t want to go back to the tower.

There was this buzz in his chest, this drive to find a distraction and something to do with himself, because he spent way too long already trying to make sense of a lot of things and he didn’t want to think anymore.

Thinking made him feel entirely and utterly stupid. He hated the constant shadow of not knowing, not thinking, not seeing. He hated being so stupid all the time. Why does everything seem to just go over my head?

Is the agency broken, or has Roulette made me blind? Are vigilantes okay, or am I imagining things?

Questions like those were Wilbur’s equivalent of Is my whole life a lie, or am I just stupid?

Stupid.

As though the world itself wanted to put a stop to Wilbur’s thoughts, he heard a voice.

“No- Jack, I’m telling you, it was Blue. No, it isn’t a lie.”

Wilbur froze because Holy fucking shit. Not only was that the voice of a vigilante, but it was also the one he’s been having a perpetual panic attack over for two days.

He ducked into an alley.

“Yeah- Yeah! I literally just saw him and walked away. He was taking care of it.”

He realized with a start that Roulette’s voice was coming from above him.

“No, I swear it wasn’t- dude, I didn’t do anything this time. Stop freaking out. Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker. Yeah, I know. No, I didn’t.”

He’s on the phone.

The other voice came through. It sounded a little familiar. “You swear you didn’t help another goddamn hero?”

“I swear, dude. He was literally taking care of it fine, he got Nuclear himself.”

Oh my god, he’s covering for me.

Wilbur knew that Roulette was letting him take the credit, but he honestly had a vivid image in his head of Roulette making fun of Blue to all his vigilante friends. That seemed like the most logical outcome.

“You sure? Because the first time you saw-”

“Shut the fuck up, dude, it was fine, I said I wouldn’t do it again! I just felt bad for him the first time, that was it.”

So, it was pity. Something dark curled in the pit of Wilbur’s stomach.

“Did you find out if they actually managed to hold Nuclear this time?”

“No, Vinyl got him out again.”

Roulette sighed. “Little blonde prick. Tell him I’m gonna beat his ass next time I see him.”

“You won’t, though?”

“No, the kid’s got everyone wrapped around his finger. Niki and Sam would both kill me in cold blood.”

“Yeah, yeah. If it makes you feel any better, I also think he’s a prick.”

“Easy there, I’m wrapped around his finger too.”

Did he call Vinyl a kid?

Wilbur slowly raised his head and walked backwards a bit.

There was Roulette again, framed against the night sky, holding his phone up towards his mouth half-heartedly and scanning the skyline. His scar glowed pale in the moonlight.

Oh.

“Quackity, I don’t think-”

“Ah ah, don’t use my name, asshole, I have you on speaker.”

Wilbur jolted, slapping a hand to his mouth.

Oh my god his name. Why is his name Quackity? Who hated their child so much they named him Quackity? Wilbur felt laughter bubbling in his chest. He struggled to keep it down.

“Oh, come on, it’s not like anyone’ll be listening.”

Wilbur snorted.

Quackity straightened and frantically looked down. Within a split second, The hero and the vigilante locked eyes.

Quackity stared at Wilbur. Wilbur stared right back. Neither of them blinked.

“…Quackity?”

Quackity (oh my fucking god) spared a glance towards his phone and then said, “Jack, I’m going to kill you one day,” and then ended the call.

Wilbur burst into laughter.

“You fucking prick,” Quackity said. “How long have you been there?”

“Quackity? Is your name Quackity??” Wilbur could barely breathe. “What was wrong with your parents?”

“Your brother’s name is Technoblade!”

“At least that sounds cool! Yours is just- Quackity! What the fuck?”

Quackity pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight as though he could think away the entire situation. Wilbur just cackled.

“Quackity. Quackity, Quackity, Quackity. Holy shit.”

“I’m going to strangle you.”

“I love it. I love that, Quackity, that’s so cool.”

Quackity scrutinized him from the rooftop. “What are you even doing here?”

“Just taking a walk!”

“Just taking a walk, my ass- with your mask on?”

“Well, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Patrolling, dumbass!”

“Oh my god,” Wilbur breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How did you even find me?”

“I was walking and- and I heard you speaking-“

“So, you decided to eavesdrop?”

“I decided to duck into an alley to avoid you, until I realized the voice was from above me- Why the hell are you always on a rooftop?”

“It’s called stealth, asshole! You almost never consider that the person you’re after is above you. You’re exactly the kind of dumbass I can avoid.”

“Yeah, well, good job avoiding me this time, dickhead.”

“Do NOT make me come down there and beat the shit out of you.”

Wilbur felt the annoyance and frustration sparking in the air, even though he was smiling- both Wilbur and Quackity were grinning like they enjoyed the fight. And, well, maybe he did. He’d wanted a distraction from Roulette, and it seemed ironic that the distraction he needed was the very thing he’d been running from. This was a terrible, terrible thing, and it felt like the best thing to happen to him all night.

“I have to get going, Blue. I hope you have your head out of your ass by the next time we speak.”

Panic twinged in Wilbur’s chest, and before he even registered the words out of his own mouth, “Wait, wait.”

Quackity stopped to glare at him expectantly.

Well, fuck. I didn’t expect to actually say things.

“Can I…” Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck everything. “Come with you?”

“… I’m sorry?”

Wilbur wanted to crawl into a dark pit and die.

“Can I come with you on patrol?”

Quackity stared at him for what was probably a million years before raising his eyebrows and saying, “Can I ask why?”

Wilbur visibly winced. “Uh. Heroes don’t really patrol, usually, but… it’s been brought to my attention that all we do is sit around and- well, and wait to be assigned a mission. Patrolling is a better way to help the city, isn’t it?”

“You could just do it by yourself, couldn’t you?”

Wilbur withered because he literally hadn’t meant to say anything in the first place and he was making a fool of himself and, and- and now Quackity was laughing.

“You don’t- fuck off! You don’t get to laugh at me! Your name is Quackity!”

The vigilante just laughed harder. (Seltzer water.) “You- fuck, dude. Fine! You can like- tag along or whatever, I don’t fucking know. You clearly aren’t going to arrest me yet- just don’t be annoying.”

-

Wilbur wasn’t sure how, exactly, he got here.

He was standing outside his home’s front door.

He’d taken the elevator, thankfully not having to answer any questions from Tina, and had his hand on the door handle when the events of the night caught up with his mind.

He’s gone on patrol… with a vigilante. With Roulette, (Quackity, I know his name, I know his name, I know his fucking name) nonetheless. And they’d talked like normal human beings.

Because we are normal human beings, Wilbur thought breathlessly, In the same city, even though it feels like we’re on opposite sides of the planet.

Time went by so fucking fast, and it was midnight. Quackity had laughed as he said goodbye (Soda bubbles, again), telling Wilbur he’d drop dead if he walked any longer. It felt like the world had tilted just a little. It felt like they were kind of friends.

Wilbur really, really hoped they were friends now.

This was so very against the rules. It occurred to him that he had enough information to find the vigilante and arrest him now- that he had Quackity’s name (look me in the eyes and tell me there’s another person in the city named Quackity, of all things) and enough general information to find a citizen file.

He found that he really, really, really didn’t want to. The vigilante wasn’t hurting anyone, and Wilbur certainly wasn’t going to be the one to put him behind bars.

For the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t care what the rules said, or the trouble he could get in.

If he could remain in this little bubble with this vigilante, he wasn’t sure he cared about anything.

He briefly recalled a conversation they’d had.

…

“I have a question, if I may.”

Quackity did not look at him when he replied. “Shoot.”

“In your opinion,” He began, “Is it possible for a vigilante to be friends with a hero?”

The vigilante paused. “…hypothetically, under certain circumstances. But why would they want to be friends?”

“Well, we’ll say they’re both interesting people, and they like to be near the other. Could they be friends?”

“Maybe. If the hero is willing to give up some of the things he’s been taught, they could be friends.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “Okay… what if the vigilante needed to give up some of the things he’s been taught?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because unlike the hero, the vigilante is right.”

Wilbur huffs. “Okay, fine. What if neither of them need to change?”

Quackity still wasn’t looking at him. It was a little infuriating. “Doubtful.”

“If they both just agree to… ignore their jobs, and put aside their beliefs and talk like human beings, could that work?”

Quackity rolled his eyes. “If they’re both very good at ignoring obvious rifts, yeah.”

There was a small silence, Wilbur trying desperately to think, Quackity trying desperately to go on with his job.

“…What if both of them change, then?”

This time, Quackity was silent.

“Maybe the hero can give up just a little of what he’s learned, and the Vigilante can give up just a little, and they can meet in the middle. Would that be possible?”

Quackity stared at him blankly for a moment. Wilbur shifted on his feet. Had he said something wrong?

Then the vigilante’s expression changed, and his lips quirked into a small smile. “Blue, is this your weird little way of asking if we can be friends? What is this, elementary school?”

“Fuck off, you’ll make me blush.”

Quackity laughed again, pressing a hand to his face (Why does he always have to hide it?) “You’re insane, Blue.”

“Maybe a little.” The hero beamed nervously. “But the hero has… done a little thinking, and a lot of things about the agency don’t make much sense anymore.”

Quackity’s expression changed to something thoughtful. “Is the hero changing his mind?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Is the vigilante?”

“You’re weird.”

“I know.”

“Well- no, I meant- what I was trying to say was- um.” He facepalmed. Wilbur chuckled.

“Look,” Quackity breathed, trying to speak as clearly as possible. “You… are very, very weird- strange in the way where you’re actually good. I’ve spent... what, three years as a vigilante? Trying to convince myself everyone was out to get me. And that every hero I saw was some- some terrible awful person who was just putting on a mask for the public. I thought you were evil, and then I met you, and then you weren’t. So, Blue, you’re just-” He sighed. “You’re weird.”

I thought you were evil, and then I met you, and then you weren’t.

By God, if that didn’t sound stupidly familiar.

“It’s… basically the same for me.”

“I’m sure.” Quackity rolled his eyes and kept walking.

…

That conversation had to mean something, didn’t it?

Or was it pointless?

Wilbur felt terribly lightheaded.

He turned the doorknob and stepped into his home.

The kitchen light was still on, nobody had done the dishes like Phil asked. The TV was still running, playing some cartoon Wilbur forgot the name of. It cast a bright blue light over the couch in the living room, where Tommy lay sleeping with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn.

Wilbur took his mask off and turned off the kitchen light, then moving to grab the remote and turn off the TV.

“Tommy,” he whispered, pushing the teen’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

The teen grumbled and held the bowl closer to him as though it were a teddy bear, popcorn promptly spilling all over the cushions.

“Tommy,” Wilbur tried in a sing-song voice, grabbing a pillow, “If you don’t wake up, I’ll smother you with this pillow!”

Tommy growled, “Bitch,” and reached up weakly to grab at the pillow.

Wilbur took hold of his hand instead and pulled him off the couch. “Don’t make me drag you to bed.”

“This is my bed now. Fuck off.”

“This is the couch.”

“I don’t see anyone sitting on it.”

“Your eyes are fucking closed.”

Tommy blinked his eyes open and immediately hissed at the television screen.

Wilbur chuckled as Tommy rolled off the couch and stood up, setting his bowl on the coffee table. “I’ll kill you, bitch,” the blonde threatened.

“I know. Go to bed.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy said drowsily, before stretching and walking towards his room. “Phil isn’t back yet, by the way,” He called. “Neither’s Techno.”

“I know,” Wilbur said quietly. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“G’night, arsehole,” Tommy replied, and disappeared into the hall.

Wilbur sat on the couch with a sigh. He then promptly took the pillow he was going to smother Tommy with and screamed into it.

Another night he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. And he still had to do the dishes. It’s pointless, anyway- the dishwasher always does a shit job.

Chapter Text

Technoblade had spent more time in this room than anywhere else.

He was sure that at his point he’d been here longer than he ever stayed in the nursery, or his room, or his floor of the tower in general. He knew exactly what always pulled him to this room; he needed a distraction.

The Minecraft family were experts at distractions.

He was sure Wilbur was off somewhere distracting himself with stories he’d never write and songs he’d never play; just as Techno was distracting himself with enemies he’d never have to face.

He’d run the simulation once, twice, three times, of fighting an opponent matched in his skill. Then it was two contenders. Then three, and more, until he was fighting battalions of the machine’s best soldiers and suffering injuries he’d never feel.

He was using a wooden sword.

He had two pale blue holographic swords embedded in his back by the time he was finished with the sim. It disappeared in an instant, revealing no wound. He huffed.

He’d thought this was his chance, actually. His one chance to get closer to Wilbur, and the more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. He blew his chance to stay close before he ever realized they were drifting apart.

He started up the sim again.

One opponent. Parry, parry, thrust. Basic knowledge, muscle memory. (The hologram has no heartbeat.)

When Technoblade was seven, his mother died.

He knew before anyone told him. He’d gotten his powers a year ago, and it was amazing to be able to hear heartbeats. Phil said it was useful and interesting, and the agency did as well. He loved the attention.

They were in the waiting room, waiting for a new baby brother. That was what the doctors said they were getting.

Techno waited anxiously to hear a new heartbeat. Wilbur bounced in his chair.

“I think he’ll look like Mum,” Wilbur prattled on. “Or maybe he’ll be blonde! I think he might be blonde.”

“He’ll have blue eyes, I think.”

“Don’t all babies have blue eyes when they’re born?”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t remember.”

Techno turned his attention back to the room. Still no new heartbeat.

“I can’t wait.”

“I can’t either. Do you know what they’re going to name him?”

“I heard Mom say they’d name him Tom.”

Techno hummed. “How do we know it’s even a boy?”

“Because they said so.” Wilbur tilted his head. “Unless he doesn’t want to be a boy. We’ll figure it out.”

Techno nodded vigorously.

A few beats passed, and then Wilbur frowned. “Um.”

Techno glanced at him. “What?”

“It feels bad.”

“What?”

“It feels bad,” Wilbur said again, grimacing. He shrunk back into his seat. “I can feel it. They’re sad.”

“Why are they sad??”

“I don’t know,” Wilbur mumbled. His eyes were wide and shocked, and he pulled his knees to his chest.

Wilbur had just gotten his power that year- the ability to feel other’s emotions. He would later find that he could change their emotions as well. Phil said it was a wonderful power, and the agency said nothing on the subject. Apparently, a power such as that wasn’t very useful in combat. At that age, Techno thought it was okay if he couldn’t use it in combat- they wouldn’t be fighting anyone until much later in life, right?

“I still hear mom’s heartbeat,” Techno mumbled.

“Mum,” Wilbur corrected.

“Why do you talk like that??”

“I don’t know! It doesn’t matter,” Wilbur cried, burying his head in his hands. It seemed to be less of hiding his face dramatically and more of trying to press away a headache. “I think something’s wrong.”

Techno could hear Phil’s heartbeat getting closer. He instinctually looked up when the door opened. Phil came in, looking disheveled and solemn, and Techno immediately prayed that he would say something good, and everything was fine, and mom was okay. He opened his mouth to speak, but then Wilbur blurted, “Why are you all sad in there?”

Phil snapped his mouth shut and stared at them for a long time.

“Is mom alright?” Techno asked finally.

“Your mother is fine, thankfully.” Phil confirmed, smiling in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring.

“What about the baby?”

“There’s no heartbeat, Wil, the baby isn’t here yet.”

Phil gulped. “He is here, Techno. He’s just- well, it’s- it’s difficult to explain.”

Techno’s eyes widened. Wilbur whimpered.

Tommy had been, in fact, a stillborn.

And later that day, when Kristen knew nobody was near enough to stop her, she would use her power to bring Tommy back from the dead. In the process, she exhausted herself beyond repair.

Techno knew she was dead the moment he set eyes on her. His mother was laying there completely still, just like they said Tommy had been, with no heartbeat in her chest. Instead, was the quiet, weak heartbeat of the boy in her arms.

Wilbur asked if she was sleeping. He didn’t understand. It wouldn’t be the only time Techno got the urge to scream at him.

Parry, parry, thrust.

When Technoblade was ten, he was pulled away from his brothers to speak to a woman from the agency. She had bleached blonde hair in a bun and calculating green eyes. Her heartbeat was normal. There was no threat. (She was wearing very very cheap perfume, though. Techno wrinkled his nose.)

“Blade, you know you’re a good fighter, right? You’ve been doing very well in your combat classes.”

They all called him Blade even when he was little. Maybe they thought it was his nickname, an endearing way to get on his good side. But they said it like it was a title, like he was important- and he wanted to be important so so badly.

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, you’ve also been spending a lot of time outside of class with your brothers,” She began, “And we’re going to be putting you in more classes soon.”

“…Mm-hm.”

She sighed. “And you know… your brother, Wilbur? You know he struggles a bit with combat and some other subjects?”

Techno did know. He’d listened to nine-year-old Wilbur rattle on and on about how they wanted him to do this and told him to do that and he was tired and bored and sad, and he wished he could just play with Techno all day. Techno had seen Wilbur try to fight, too- he was only nine, so it wasn’t a great age to make assumptions, but he kind of moved like a wet blanket.

The agent smiled sheepishly. “Well, because of your new classes, you won’t be able to spend much time with him anymore. In general, me and the agency think it’s best if you… distance yourself from him.”

“…I’m sorry?”

And that was the moment that set Techno on a track to hell.

“You see, we don’t want him to be a bad influence on you. You’re moving to more advanced classes throughout the day to prepare you for real hero training, and you’ll be spending your break in the library-” (Break, not breaks, because they were only giving him one then,) “-and both of you need to focus as much as possible on your studies.”

“I-” Techno blinked and frowned. “I have to stop talking to him?”

“No! Stop talking to him, heavens, no. He’s your brother, you can still bond! Just in the mornings and night, now. You see, Blade-” She beamed reassuringly. “We just don’t want anyone to slow you down.”

Looking back on it, he should have seen something wrong. He should have fought harder, pressed further, asked them if Phil had said anything about it- but at the time, it didn’t seem too bad. Just a few more classes and a little more distance. It should have been fine.

Parry, parry, thrust.

When Technoblade was eleven, just a few months later, he and Wilbur had a fight.

They were alone at that time. Phil was busy putting Tommy to bed.

“Techno,” Wilbur mumbled, “Why don’t I see you anymore?”

“They put me in other classes,” the older replied simply.

“Can’t we play in between them?”

“They don’t want me to. They say it’s bad for me.”

Wilbur scowled and stabbed at his dinner. “It’s because you’re better than me.”

Techno frowned. “I’m not better than you, I just- I don’t know. I’m not.”

“Everybody says you are,” Wilbur continued. “They go Oh, Blade is in advanced classes! He’s so strong! Try to be more like him! It makes me so mad.”

“I didn’t ask to be in a different class!”

“I didn’t ask to be bad at everything, either! You’re doing it on purpose!”

“No, I’m not!”

“It’s not fair,” Wilbur yelled, face turning rapidly pink. “You shouldn’t get all the attention all the time! You aren’t better than me!”

“I know!”

“Then act like it!”

There was a loud thump from the hall of a door slamming, and then a beat of silence.

Every heart in the room was pounding when Phil walked in. Wilbur’s from anger, Phil’s from fear. His shoulders slumped with relief when he knew they were safe. “Boys, what the hell? What’s wrong?”

“Phil, he’s angry at me because-”

“Stop calling him that!” Wilbur screamed. “Stop calling him Phil! He’s our dad, you’re supposed to call him dad!”

The father in question was promptly shoved to the side as the boy ran to his room. He did not come out until the next day at noon.

Wilbur was a hypocrite, but he’d never know it. He started calling Phil by his name six years later.

To Techno, the outburst had come from nowhere. He wondered if anyone ever saw his little brother becoming a ticking time bomb. It had been more than a decade since then and neither of them could handle their emotions any more maturely.

Techno’s skill with a blade was the only thing reminding him he was more capable now, and he wasn’t a little kid trying to hold the world together.

Parry, parry, duck, thrust.

When Technoblade was thirteen, he was put into hero training. He got perfect scores on all the tests, despite being a year younger than the usual age, and qualified for special training. Two years later, Wilbur took the test at fourteen and got scores that Technoblade remembered being called “Adequate” by the agency, which was bullshit because he’d seen Wilbur take the test and he’d done even better than average. (Nothing the agency does is bullshit, they’re managing the heroes well and helping the city and you should be grateful, his overstuffed mind rattled.)

Parry, parry, thrust.

“Mother of ender-”

Techno blinked rapidly. The hologram was gone, and in its place was the assistant.

“Ranboo?” Techno had accidentally pushed the wooden sword against the teen’s throat. He lowered his weapon. “You teleported out of nowhere. Jesus, I need to get used to that.”

Ranboo chuckled nervously. “It’s fine! I’m just- y’know. A little scared out of my mind.”

Techno rolled his eyes and went to hang up the blade. “It’s a wood sword.”

“You once beat ten enhanced bodyguards with your hands tied. I don’t want to be on the wrong end of any kind of weapon.”

Techno did do that. He came out of it with a sprained wrist and several ugly bruises on his back. He treated all of them himself because the last time anyone sent him to the infirmary was months ago.

“Do you need something?”

“Um, yes! There’s some paperwork I have to give you, you also have some emails asking for interview opportunities, and another toy company sucking up for some merch.” Ranboo pulled an overstuffed folder of papers out of his bag and handed them to Techno.

Techno glanced at them once and then tossed them on a side bench. “Great.”

Ranboo grimaced. “Those… need to be done tonight.”

“And I’ll do them.”

“Will you?”

Techno walked to the control panel and stated another simulator with three opponents. “Sure.”

Ranboo teleported to the side when a hologram tried to put a sword in his chest. He seemed more worried about Techno’s procrastination. “You think maybe you should work on them now, actually? Get a head start?”

“I have all night,” Techno grunted, decapitating a hologram.

“Not if you plan to sleep.”

Techno did not answer. He simply huffed and kept fighting.

Ranboo sighed. He teleported away from another hologram with a sword and began to walk away. Before he left, the teen called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back later.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you actually do the work.”

And he was gone.

Techno rolled his eyes.

He wished he could say there was nothing on earth that disturbed him, but Ranboo was most definitely one of them. Generally, anyone with a teleportation power (and it’s not even his power, it’s an upside to being half Enderman and we don’t even know what his power is, which is arguably worse.) People with powers like that could be anywhere at any time, could move people and things without a trace of ever being there, could be listening to any conversation at any moment.

Phil had been tripping over paperwork when he hired Ranboo to help him out- the kid seemed to enjoy busy work and making himself useful. Phil told Techno himself that when he went to the agency with Ranboo’s resume, they were skeptical about hiring someone who “Isn’t entirely human.” Phil glared at them and flared his wings in their direction as if to say Just say you don’t like hybrids. Just say it for once.

Techno tried to be nice to him, but Ranboo just kept showing up at the most inconvenient times- such as on the sharp end of Techno’s sword.

He added two more adversaries to the simulator. At this level of fighting, he didn’t have room to be still or think. Stab, spin, cut that one, kill them. All his validation was stored in the blue lights glimmering out of sight.

And with not much room for thinking, his overstuffed mind still managed to fit terrible thoughts between the cracks of the agency, and of his family, and Ranboo, and Wilbur, until each hologram felt like a thought he had to just stamp out before it took him over.

I’m the one who’s hurting, Wilbur’s voice echoed in the crevices of Techno’s head. I’m the one having a bad time. I don’t need you to tell me.

Then tell me, Techno thought with frustration. Talk to me. Say something before you lash out. Give me a warning, anything.

A hologram came for him with a knife. It looked like Wilbur. Leave me alone, it said. Technoblade tried to kill it, he tried to stamp it out, he reached with his blade.

He stumbled and fell.

Without so much as a sound, the hologram’s knife found it’s way into Techno’s chest. He stared at the turquoise weaponry for a moment and then it disappeared from sight.

Techno lost. The simulator ended. When Techno blinked rapidly, he could see the outline of the dagger behind his eyes.

(He wished and pleaded it was real, for a split second.)

He stumbled to stand up, moving towards the center console.

“Blade?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Techno whispered under his breath, wincing as Ranboo came into view.

“Your brother sent me to give you food.”

“Tommy?”

“Yep.” Ranboo held out the bowl of reheated kraft mac ‘n cheese. “Gourmet stuff.”

Techno stared at it and huffed. It only hit him now how hungry he was, but he couldn’t very much move to grab it because his muscles ached.

“…are you alright?”

“Yep.”

“…You have bruises, Blade.”

He looked down at his arms. Techno did, in fact, have red splotches down his forearms.

“…Oh.”

“You’re fighting holograms, how does that happen??” Ranboo set down the bowl of food and took a step forward.

“Blood vessels pop under pressure and the blood cells pool under the skin. Intense exercise,” Techno murmured, repeating words that doctors had told him once, twice, over and over.

He reached to restart the sim, and his knees promptly buckled beneath him.

He saw violet dust swirl in his vision.

“Why the hell did you do this?” Ranboo hissed. “This is the third time you’ve passed out during training.”

“I need to keep going,” Techno grunted.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Tommy is going to kill me,” Ranboo said. “Wilbur will too.”

“Wilbur could not possibly give less of a shit.”

“I’m going to teleport you into the sun.”

Instead of to the sun, Ranboo teleported them to Techno’s room. His head swam.

“You have to know when to quit,” Ranboo insisted.

“I’m not a quitter,” Techno mumbled in return, because he wasn’t. I’m not.

“Just- get some rest, please.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Blade, you’re being a child right now. That’s what’s happening. You never learned how to properly deal with conflict, and now you’re overworking yourself to prove your worth, and this is the result,” Ranboo ranted, but it sounded like he was saying it more to himself than to Technoblade.

Techno practically fell onto his bed. “Would it kill you to just call me Techno?”

Ranboo blinked. Before he could respond, a notification sound rang through the room. He checked his phone.

“Extra large coconuts,” Ranboo read in a monotone voice.

Techno squinted at him. “What?”

“A friend texted me. He has a concussion.”

“Ah.”

Ranboo pocketed his phone with a sigh. “If I leave you here, can you promise you won’t try to hobble back to the training room?”

“I will attempt to try to want to stay here and lie around like a lazy ass.”

“Good enough. Tommy’s in the living room if you try to escape.”

“He can’t stop me.”

Ranboo opened his mouth to respond, but a voice behind them exclaimed, “Yes I could!”

And then there was Tommy, tousled hair and all. He looked like he was going to bed. Techno scowled at him. “So, you’re ganging up on me?” His head lolled to the side, and he frowned dramatically at the ceiling. “This is tyranny. Treason. Anarchy, even.”

“Why do you have red on your arms??” Tommy stepped halfway into the room, looking over the scene.

“He fought so hard he broke his veins or something.”

“Blood vessels,” Techno growled, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over himself. He felt somewhat self-concious.

He had been so cold for so long, and his bed was so warm, and Ranboo was shaking his head.

“Yeah, you’re not getting up any time soon.”

“He’s like a cat,” Tommy remarked, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, and Wilbur’s in the living room. So.”

Techno groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Tommy, Tubbo has a concussion.”

“Aw, fuck. Alright.”

Their voices disappeared.

It occurred to him, between berating himself and dreading Wilbur eventually finding him, that he had just been forced to take care of himself by the hero assistant.

His last thought before he passed out was, the kid is alright.

Chapter Text

Blue light pierced the darkness when Quackity turned his phone on. He hissed at the assault to his eyes and squinted at the screen.

“I have an hour, I think,” he said aloud.

“Your loss. I’m leaving now.”

“Stop, you asshole, I’m trying to find my costume.”

“If I wait much longer, my brothers will wake up.”

“Then go sit somewhere and let me get my stuff!” Quackity turned on his bedroom light. “Prick.”

“Remind me again,” Blue said from the other side of the phone call, “Who knows your name and has all the evidence necessary to start a police search on your ass?”

“They’d find it in an instant, my ass is amazing,” Quackity mumbled, too tired to focus on the threat which probably didn’t even mean anything. “You woke me up, you know.”

“I know. You’re lazy.”

“I’m not lazy, I was watching a tv show and I got tired! Big whoop! I’ve slept a total of five hours this entire week, caffeine flows through my veins as we speak, and that fucking rhymed and I’m a-”

“-fucking god, yes, you keep saying that,” Blue laughed, “And yet a sprained ankle says otherwise.”

“You can get crushed by a robot, but I can’t get a sprained ankle? Fuck you.”

“Hurry up.”

Quackity grabbed his mask and gloves. On his way out the door, the chilly night air swept over him. Fall was coming. Barely any stars watched over the city tonight, probably because Quackity couldn't see any from his neon-lit section of central L'manburg. He shivered and started walking.

“Don’t rush me. If my hacker was able to get your phone number, she can get your third-grade crush and all the embarrassing things you did as a child as well.”

“Unfortunately for you, I was homeschooled. L plus Ratio.”

“Right, I forgot you’re a rich fuck,” Roulette murmured. “Where are you?”

“Outside the tower.”

“You know there are cameras there.”

“They’re broken. They don’t tell anybody that the cameras are broken but most of the cameras on the outside of the tower are very much broken.”

“Why don’t they replace them?”

“Not enough money to the tech department. I don’t know- just get here already, I’m bored.”

Quackity rolled his eyes.

When he’d first gotten Blue’s phone number, he’d tried not to text him unless he had to. (There was nothing more difficult in life than having Blue’s phone number and not prank calling him.) The contact sat in his phone for about a week before he finally gave in and asked him to patrol again.

He dared to say he was friends with the hero. Blue was difficult sometimes, but even more difficult to leave behind, because he was constantly smiling and talking and smiling and talking about anything and everything. Quackity played along to the illusion that it was annoying, and he hated it, but secretly he was starting to think he could talk to him for days on end and never get bored.

Pathetic.

When he’d first saved Blue, it had been a split-second decision.

He saw that Pyro and Mask were at large and went to check it out. He should have known, logically, that a hero would be there too, but he’d woken up five minutes ago and Nightshade was insistent that someone go figure it out, so he said he’d do it.

Blue was getting beat into the ground. Literally. He fell over twice, and Quackity was genuinely concerned as to why the agency would send a beanpole to fend off two of the city’s biggest threats.

He couldn’t let the villains get away with it. That was his reasoning in that moment. In the end he realized he could have waited until Pyro knocked out the hero and then stepped in, but… well, Quackity was tired and impatient and also a little empathetic towards Blue’s impending failure.

He stepped in, and Pyro was already weak, so it seemed easier than he thought it’d be. In fact, the hardest part about the whole mission was arguing with Blue afterwards, because the pompous bastard had some kind of a savior complex- further reinforcing Quackity’s hatred for heroes and their agency.

Blue wasn’t actually like that, though.

When they met again and Blue gave him the invitation, Quackity could fucking tell he was angry about being put in this position. He didn’t want to be anywhere near there, and Quackity could say the same.

But they talked. And talked.

He was funny, and sarcastic, and witty and charming. All in all, he was fun to talk to, and he didn't talk down to Quackity like some heroes would in a fight.

Quackity found that, at some point, he began to wish they could keep talking.

Pathetic.

And he saved him again. With Nuclear, and the giant robot, and texting Nightshade with the words Blue was there again. Why do you send me for these heists? Is this on purpose?? Do you enjoy my suffering??

She never replied. Nightshade, otherwise known as Minx, couldn’t give less of a shit about anyone other than herself and the city. Quackity supposes that’s what makes her a good vigilante. Widely considered to be the best vigilante, actually.

And, now, again.

A couple days after Blue’s awkward conversation where he asked to patrol with Quackity, he saw the hero again and saved him. Like usual. And Blue argued, and it was annoying, and he texted Nightshade again, and there was no response. It seemed like his life was just a game of repetition and hopeless heroes and teasing vigilantes and stupid villains asking if they’re flirting. (Which we fucking aren’t, shut the fuck up.)

And they kept patrolling together. Again and again. He was mildly annoyed by the whole situation, but he couldn’t lie- he was a little glad he met Blue. Just a little bit.

Because for some reason, Blue was different.

He didn’t really match the idea of a perfect hero that Quackity had in his head. He was loud and charming and overwhelmingly good. It made Quackity want to punch him in the face. He still had pride like a hero, though. He complained about being saved, always, every time. This also made Quackity want to punch him in the face.

Quackity isn’t going to go through life without having punched Blue at least once.

Blue was patrolling with him because it was a better way to help their city, he said. He could do it on his own, but Quackity didn’t want him to, for reasons he’d never let see the light of day.

The sad part is, even though Quackity wants to be around Blue, he can't bring himself to trust him. Even though Blue hasn't arrested him, even though he has all the information and means to arrest him and still hasn't, even though he's promised to not even hurt Roulette, Quackity can't trust him. He's a hero, and old habits die hard. I can't change all my beliefs for some guy with a savior complex.

And yet here he was. Walking to a patrol with a hero.

He went over the patrol schedule in his head.

He was doing central city, Hydrogen was doing west, and Glacier was doing east. Razor was doing the outskirts. Someone was doing south. Who's doing south?

He pulled out his phone. “Just a sec, I’ve gotta send a text.”

“Mhm.”

--

Roulette: whos taking the south side tonight

Gunpowder: I’m busy

Roulette: wdym you’re busy

Gunpowder: I’m busy!

Roulette: Doing what? You spend all your time making little fuckin robots and shit

Gunpowder: I have a date

Magma: What

Roulette: of fucking course

Gunpowder: I have a date!! Can I not have a date?

Roulette: Not when you’re YOU

Glacier: You once got scared of asking a waiter for more ketchup. How did you ask someone out

Roulette: You're bald you can’t fucking talk

Glacier: You have a dumb name

Roulette: It’s better than JACK

Glacier: IT ISN’T THOUGH??

Hydrogen: Jack you have a very nice name!

Glacier: When niki says it then you know it’s right

Hydrogen: But Quackity is kinda cool tbh

Roulette: HAHAHAH SUCK MY DICK

Glacier: FUCK OFF

Nightshade: I’m trying to fucking sleep I hate all of you stfu

Magma: Put the chat on silent then???

Nightshade: Can we get back on topic then???

Roulette: Fuck right yes someone needs to take the far south city

Magma: Sam tell us abt the date

Gunpowder: Omg hold on I can’t wait to spill this hold on

Glacier: Oh my fuckign god

Gunpowder: So I met this person the other night he’s like a gardener or a florist or smth with plants idk they use all pronouns

Hydrogen: Aww cute!

Gunpowder: SHE’S SO <333 she’s black and with blonde hair and like. Really pretty brown eyes omg

Magma: Oh

Magma: Do u know his name or??

Gunpowder: PONK

Gunpowder: THEIR NAME IS PONK ISN’T THAT THE CUTEST FUKCING THING

Roulette: Sounds trans, yeah

Gunpowder: We’re gonna see a movie I’m so <33

Glacier: Don’t fuck it up

Gunpowder: I’m gonna fuck it up probably but like. A guy can dream

Hydrogen: Aww have hope! You’re a very handsome man sam <3

Gunpowder: That’s the only compliment I’ve ever gotten in this chat. Thank you niki

Magma: I think ponk will like you, sam

Roulette: Can we please get back to the goddamn topic I just left for patrol and I need a decision nowww

Nightshade: Why can’t you take the far south as well as central? Just a little extra work. coward

Roulette: I can’t

Nightshade: Why?

Roulette: I can’t

Roulette: I’m. meeting someone

Hydrogen: oooooooo

Glacier: what the fuck? I knew something was up when somebody wanted to date Sam but YOU?

Roulette: NO EW STFU NEVER

Roulette: Just uhh

Roulette: Somebody I’m talking business with. He’s gonna pay me for something

Gunpowder: Oooo what’s the job?

Roulette: idk yet

Gunpowder: wow okay

Nightshade: Wait is this the same guy you’ve been meeting with the last couple patrols??

Roulette: no

Magma: Q you aren’t subtle

Roulette: Can someone PLEASE take south side I’ll legit cry

Magma: I’m taking the night off I’ve patrolled for three days straight bc Nightshade paid me

Nightshade: You said you needed the money to take someone out

Magma: Stfu

Hydrogen: Take someone out as in kill them or fuck them?

Magma: NEITHER??? NIKI????

Hydrogen: You won’t tell us ur NAME or even your BIRTHDAY and it’s been a YEAR and it’s tearing me apart bc I HAVE TO MAKE YOU A CAKE, MAGMA! I’M GOING TO ASSUME THINGS ABOUT YOUR PERSONAL LIFE IF I DON’T KNOW THEM!

Roulette: I’m begging you assholes to make a decision I’m gonna pass away

Gunpowder: Niki can you take southside?

Hydrogen: Oh no, sorry!! I’m doing west <3

Roulette: I’m going center city

Nightshade: You always go center city.

Roulette: Why do you know things about me

Glacier: I’m taking east already

Roulette: Wait who’s doing north?

Nightshade: Me, asshole

Hydrogen: Minx :[

Nightshade: Don’t make faces at me. I can sense you doing it. Stop that

Roulette: So nobody can do it

Glacier: Why don’t you get your little friend to do it

Roulette: Everyone shut up I don’t have a little friend

Magma: You have no friends

Gunpowder: L

Roulette: I HAVE FRIEnDS FUKC OFF OKKAY

Magma: Like who?? The guy following you around all night???

Hydrogen: Can we ask ant?

Gunpowder: Ant is doing a full circle of the outskirts so he’s busy with y’know. Drug smugglers and shit

Glacier: Skeppy?

Roulette: Fucking dropped off the face of the earth. I think his phone broke. Somebody’s gotta find him eventually

Magma: Who are we missing?

Nightshade: fuck. I know who we’re missing

Hydrogen: What??

Roulette: shit. Hold on a sec

Gunpowder: ??

Roulette @Vinyl

Vinyl: what the fuck

Hydrogen: Hi tommy! <3

Gunpowder: Hi tommy o/

Vinyl: My favorite people. pog

Nightshade: ew

Vinyl: ew

Roulette: Vinyl please please pretty please can you do south side tonight

Vinyl: Not tonight, I have to pretend to sleep

Roulette: what

Vinyl: context is un-needed

Roulette: context is very much needed

Vinyl: no

Vinyl: Well boys I’d love to chat but I have ice cream to finish and my brother seems to have snuck out so I’ll be gone now

Hydrogen: You have a brother??

Vinyl: Bye

Hydrogen: TOMMY????

Roulette: nobody ever gets through to tommy innit

Gunpowder: that’s probably not even his real name. smh

Roulette: okay fine we’ll do central AND Southside smh

Nightshade: We??

Roulette: *I’ll

Roulette: don’t do th typo thing. Please

Gunpowder: we

Glacier: we

Nightshade: we

Roulette: guys please

Hydrogen: we

Magma: we

Nuclear: we

Roulette: NUCLEAR WHO ADDED YOU?? WHY ARE YOU HERE??

Vinyl: we

Roulette: YOU.

Nightshade: go patrol with your booty call, asshole

Read at 9:20

---

Quackity huffed. “We may need to take a detour on patrol tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone is forcing me to do the south part of the city as well as central.”

“It’s so surreal to me that you guys have a group chat. Do you gossip about heroes?”

Quackity recalled a conversation with Niki where she’d recounted that she saw Mask and 404 making out.

“Not really. Very professional.”

Quackity scanned the horizon and found a rooftop to jump to.

“Why can't one of the other vigilantes take care of the south part of the city?”

“Gunpowder and Magma are up to something, I think. They might be hooking up. I'm unsure. Anyway, Vinyl's not leaving his house, and Diamond’s dropped off the face of the earth,” Quackity explained quickly. He jumped a roof, feeling his power run through his muscles and help him jump further.

“Wow, okay. So there's drama.”

Quackity rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Become a vigilante and you can get in on it.”

“I feel like I’m on one of those websites that shows you half the article and then wants you to pay for the rest.”

“Oh my god those things are terrible. That is exactly how I want to make you feel.”

Quackity can hear Blue's bright laugh from the other end of the phone, and can feel it halfway across the city. It still makes sparks run through his chest.

He jumps another roof.

He could see the tower from here, now. An imposing, pearly white spire that stood out against the stark black sky. It glowed, just like everything else in this city.

“I see your house,” Quackity joked.

“House. Sure. Where are you?”

He chuckled. “I'm, um,” he peered down at the building he stood on. “Tall brick building. Looking at the front of the tower.”

“Oh- hold on, I think I see you.”

Quackity grinned softly at his phone as Blue ended the call and then pocketed the device.

He sat, like he usually did while waiting for the hero to catch up to him, on the edge of the building. The tower cast a tall shadow behind him, seeing as it was as bright as a lightbulb.

He wondered, for a moment, what it must have been like to grow up there. To be the one looking down at the glowing city, and not realize you’re the one lighting it up.

It must have been nice, Quackity thought.

Quackity's own childhood wasn't anywhere close to the usual tragic backstory everyone expected a vigilante to have. He still had two parents- two moms, actually- and they were away a lot, but at least they loved him. At least they still cared, which was more than he could say for a lot of people he knew.

It didn't stop him from becoming one of those kids that stole cigarettes from liquor stores.

He heard a huff behind him. Looking around, he saw Blue having just climbed up the back of the building, sprawled out on the concrete, trying to catch his breath.

“Why are you so bad at this?” Quackity asked immediately.

“Because only vigilantes have to jump roofs, and there's no ladder on this goddamn building,” Blue grumbled, pulling himself up. “I had to use a fucking rope.”

“Wh- like a grappling hook?”

“I knew you'd be on a rooftop. I knew it,” The hero replied through gritted teeth, dusting himself off. He still smiled at Quackity, however, with the same wide grin that made the vigilante dizzy.

“You look like shit,” Quackity chuckled. It was a lie.

“Aw, thanks,” Blue deadpanned.

He looked tired. Faint shadows hung under his eyes, contrasting with the warm brown in his iris. The hero turned his gaze to the tower Quackity had been previously staring at.

“Blue, be honest with me.”

“Always.”

“What was it like to grow up in a place like that?”

Blue blinked. “Well, it's certainly bigger on the outside, for one.”

Quackity snorted as Blue walked over and sat down next to him. “Really?”

“Yep. The whole top floor you see there? It's all solid wall.”

“Why?”

Blue shrugged. “To look imposing? Hell if I know.”

“Why do you know nothing about the building you were literally born in?”

“Most people don't know anything about the building they were born in. Why all the questions?”

“Today has been the most boring day of my life,” Quackity complained. “I spent all day eating ramen and watching Netflix. I need to hear about interesting things.”

Blue chuckled. “If it were me, I'd have been training.”

“You heroes and your training. Do you do anything but train and look pretty on camera?”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?”

“On camera,” Quackity clarified, rolling his eyes. “And I can't blame you. Camera lenses are magic.”

“Right? Cameras make me look the way I look in my fantasies. It's incredible.” Blue tilted his head. “It might be all the makeup, though. Or that my nervous expression is really pretty.”

“Nervous expression? Why are you so nervous?”

“Why wouldn't I be? I mean- how much time do you spend weekly in front of a camera?” Quackity shook his head- he didn't. Blue made a little circle with his fingers as he continued. “I know it's just one little black camera lens, but behind it…” He threw his arms out wide to demonstrate his point. “The whole city's watching. I have to be a smiling role model 24/7 when I’m outside the tower- and sometimes, I don't even get that luxury.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Quackity mumbled. “I guess-“ he huffed. “I guess I thought all the heroes enjoyed the attention.”

“That's mean.”

“I know. I'm a mean person. You are too, though- you thought all the vigilantes were evil and violent and scary.”

“If I thought you were scary, starshine," Starshine. He keeps calling me starshine. Fuck, fuck, brain, focus. "I wouldn't have cursed you out the first time I met you.”

“Hm. Well, am I scary now?”

Blue squinted at him. He was half lit up and half swathed in shadow from the sun-like tower, and he seemed to be evaluating Quackity with scrutiny. Why is the tower so bright all the time?

“Yes. You terrify me.” He turned his gaze back to the tower with a strained sigh. “But for different reasons.”

“…Can I know the reasons?”

“No.”

Quackity stared at him for a long time.

Why are we just sitting here talking? He wondered. Because it's fun. Because he talks to me like I’m a normal person, and I do the same for him.

Is that all this is? Why am I so scared of losing it?

“You scare me too. For the same reasons, probably.”

Probably.

“Probably,” Blue repeated.

They stayed like that, gazing across the city from the edge of a rooftop, silent.

Quackity didn't have a lot of silent moments. He was always talking, always calculating. Even when no one spoke, his mind churned and spun as though he always had too much to think about.

Now, even his mind was quiet. He felt serene, even when Blue seemed… a bit sad.

He sighed and moved to stand up. “We'd better start moving, pretty boy. We have a long ways to go.”

“It's so weird that I can just put on different clothes and goggles and nobody can tell I’m Blue,” The hero mumbled as he slipped on a pair of goggles that obscured his eyes from the light. He stood up with Quackity.

They started on patrolling the city.

He still didn't trust Blue. Maybe he was a little bit closer, but… he was scared of what he'd do if it didn't last.

It was nice for now, though.

Chapter Text

It used to hurt, didn't it?

When Wilbur was seven years old, he cried. It hurt. He remembered that, specifically- it hurt like hell. Pain came in ragged sobs running his throat raw, pain came in a lack of oxygen when his breath wouldn't stop hitching, and pain came in strands of thin brown hair falling to the tile floor of the bathroom- yanked out by the short stubby fingers of a child too young to understand.

He used to cry a lot. That was what they told him, that he'd start crying spontaneously in the middle of class, and it was nothing but a disruption. No teacher cared to ask what was wrong, and that was probably for the best, since if they had, he would have tearfully responded “I don't know, I don't know.”

But they didn't ask. So he stopped crying.

He isn't sure when he really stopped. It just happened. He didn't cry for a while, and then for a longer while, until it got to the point where he couldn't remember the last time he cried. It wasn't important, and everyone seemed grateful for it, so it was fine. It was a good thing.

So what possessed him, a decade and a half later, to break down in the middle of his night into a pillow?

To say the least, he'd had a terrible day.

--

To say the most, he'd woken up at 6am from a nightmare he wished wasn’t a real memory. He stumbled into the living room to find the kitchen light on and two figures chatting at the kitchen island.

“Wilbur, you alright?” Tommy asked with an eyebrow raised. Both he and Techno had faint shadows under their eyes.

“I feel like,” Wilbur drawled, rubbing his eyes, “Someone stabbed me in the throat.”

Techno moved to get a glass, probably to pour him some water. “None of us slept very well, obviously.”

“I had a dream that the tower grew legs and carried us to a volcano and spat us into it,” Tommy recounted with a wide smile. “It’s funny now, but at the time I was fucking terrified. Woke up feeling way too hot. Kicked off all my blankets. Now I’m here!” Techno put a glass of milk in front of him. Tommy raised the glass as if toasting to Techno, saying, “Thank you, bartender, put it on my tab.”

“Of course,” Techno grumbled in reply.

Wilbur took the glass of water Techno offered him with a scratchy “Thank you,” and gulped it down. It eased the rawness in his throat from yelling into his mattress.

“I had a terrible dream, that I would rather not recount, lest one of you try to force me into therapy.”

“We need therapy anyway,” Tommy yawned.

“We do?” Wilbur looked at Techno, who shook his head. Wilbur turned back to Tommy. “No, we don’t. We’re fine.”

“Who says?”

“Techno says. And so do I.”

“Well. We need family therapy, at least.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Wilbur said, and promptly kicked open the liquor cabinet. “There’s my therapy right there.”

Techno closed the cabinet with a raised eyebrow. “We do fine without therapy- and without booze.”

“But vodka,” Wilbur whined.

“Drink your water.”

“Techno, let me have vodka and I’ll tell you what Tommy was doing the night I had the other nightmare.”

Tommy froze. “Wilbur, tell Techno and I’ll tell him what you were doing.”

“He already knows I was drinking. He woke up to smack the glass out of my hands.”

“I was not nearly that violent,” Techno clarified while brewing some coffee. “Wilbur, tell me what Tommy was doing and I’ll tell you what I did last week.”

“Right, and then we'll all tell dad and we'll all be in trouble,” Tommy interjected. “Just give him the booze.”

“Dad would not give less of a shit,” Wilbur grumbled.

Techno huffed. “And you're not getting any booze. How do you even drink straight vodka?”

“Pretend it's water, tip the glass back, and pray,” Wilbur recounted with a small smile.

Tommy slumped over the kitchen island and sighed. “You're both terrible at emotions.”

“My power literally makes me good at emotions. That's all I’m good for,” Wilbur yawned.

“Your power's all you're good for, innit?”

“Perhaps,” Wilbur said with a shrug.

Tommy propped his chin in his palm, elbow resting on the table as he looked at Wilbur with a brow raised. “I'll suppose I’m good for nothing then?”

Fuck.

Both older brothers froze. Techno spilled coffee on the counter and his hand. “Shit,” he hissed, going to the sink to run his hand under cold water.

“Of course not, Tommy- you don't need a power to be good for something. You're still smart and capable, alright?” Wilbur solaced his little brother, and it was true. It was true.

“That sounds rehearsed,” Tommy mumbled.

Wilbur couldn't disagree.

The energy in the room had vastly changed.

Before either of them said anything else, Tommy stood up and walked to his room. Wilbur could feel the exasperation and numb resent follow him and disappear down the hall.

This didn’t happen often, thankfully. But it does sting everyone in the room when a comment is made about Tommy being powerless. Most kids get their powers near the age of six, as earlier stated. Wilbur isn’t sure how old Tommy was when everyone stopped asking if he’d gotten them yet, but it happened, at some point, and nobody really addressed it.

And it was true, Tommy was still a human being who had talent and personality and he was loved and capable- But people reminded him so much that it made Tommy sick of it, and Wilbur was starting to think he was getting sick of it, too.

It’d been better, lately. Nobody had made an offhand comment about it in a while.

It feels strange to tiptoe around Tommy being powerless. Everyone insists its normal and okay, so why can’t anyone talk about it comfortably?

Wilbur groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“So,” Techno muttered. “That was… interesting.”

“I’m too tired to have coherent thoughts about my mistakes. I want vodka.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Techno reached for the coffee pot. Wilbur grabbed his hand.

“Pleaseee,” He whined. “I’ll take one of your missions!”

“No,” Techno said again, trying to take his arm back.

“Besides, I’m sure you have other things to-” Wilbur looked down.

…oh.

That was a mistake.

All up Technoblade’s arm, pale skin was stained with light violet and yellowish splotches, sparsely scattered from his wrist to his elbow.

Wilbur tried to think back to the last time he’d seen or heard of Techno being hurt.

He could not.

“Techno, what happened to your arm? Why- Is your other arm like this? Are you alright?”

“I hear genuine concern,” Techno drawled with furrowed brows. “But It’s in Wilbur’s voice. How is this possible? No one knows.”

Wilbur’s eyes snapped up to face Techno with a harsh look. “Because I actually care when my brother is hurt.”

“Do you? Do you really?” Techno asked incredulously. He snatched his arm back. “Oh, I’d love to see real emotion on your face. Something other than hatred would really help, you know?”

“You know why I hate you.”

“Do I? God, it makes sense that Tommy would have to walk out of the room, it is impossible to deal with you sometimes.”

“Is it not enough that I want you to be safe? Do I have to be unconditionally attached to you, as well?”

Attached was the word he used. He could have said Love. He did not.

“You’d do well to be attached to me, considering you can’t do anything yourself.”

Wilbur bristled. “You know I’ve fought four villains now on my own.” And God, he could taste the lie. He felt the fury twinge in the air, and he wanted to lie and lie and lie until he couldn’t come up with anything else to fabricate of this persona.

“And I’ve fought twenty. I think it’s time you get over yourself,” Techno seethed.

Wilbur narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to say more, but Techno had already set his mug down and was walking out of the room.

Like Tommy had. Like Techno said he would.

Wilbur realized with great disappointment that his brothers had come to the kitchen to escape their rooms, and when he opened his mouth, he drove them right back inside.

Wow.

So with a deep breath, he walked to the living room and collapsed on the couch.

Not a great start to his day.

The phrase “It all went downhill from there” would be good to say here, but it would be a lie. The rest of his day wasn't nearly as bad or as angry. He easily avoided his brothers, taking a walk down the street (where he was bombarded by teenage blondes and their phone cameras,) and hiding out in the tower lounge (where 404 made him hallucinate that the sky outside the windows was red.)

But he was looking forward to one thing that night; he had patrol.

A patrol, with a certain vigilante.

Initially he was excited for it, as he was most nights. He could just put on goggles and a long brown coat, and nobody could tell who he was- as well as it was a chance to speak more to Quackity, who was still somehow the most interesting person Wilbur had ever met. He'd thought the wonder might fade after a bit, but the vigilante's laugh still sounded like soda bubbles, and his eyes still glinted like onyx.

Now, in sort of a bad mood after being accused of being helpless, he began to think about Quackity.

And he thought. And he thought.

And after a bit, his resentment for his brother began to bleed into his mixed feelings for the vigilante.

His entire life he was overshadowed by Techno, his brother, the golden child, the perfect warrior and hero and blah blah blah because Techno was stronger, and he kept saving him. He always beat him in sparring.

And when Wilbur thought about it, he was doing the same thing with Quackity, wasn’t he?

He cared about Quackity, he thought the vigilante was amazing, but he once thought that about Techno. And Quackity was saving him too. The two did all the same things. Wilbur couldn’t let himself- He could not let himself be overshadowed again by someone else. He always knew he could do things himself, if someone would just give him a goddamn chance.

Wilbur’s fists clenched around his phone.

Quackity was just like Technoblade, wasn't he?

Wilbur was blinded by his anger, and he decided on a whim that maybe confronting the vigilante about the issue would bear some results.

It did.

--

“You’ve saved me- what. Four times now?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Why?”

Quackity purses his lips, calculating his next words. “Not sure,” he says. “Just don’t want you to get yourself killed, I guess.”

He and Quackity weaved through the central part of the city, doing a full circle of the tower. They’d been patrolling for maybe an hour now and had gone through about half the sector. The entire time, the conversation never stopped, drifting between one topic and another, never presenting any awkward silence. It was nice. Naturally, Wilbur had to ruin it.

They passed under the shadow of a bridge just as Wilbur opened his mouth.

“I thought the villains I was fighting weren’t the killing ones.”

“No, the only killing villains are Badboyhalo, Rosethorn, and Nuclear. Nuclear could’ve killed you, although it’s unlikely. But with your fighting skills, you’d probably find a way,” Quackity joked.

That did not make Wilbur feel better, to say the least. The hero turned his head and glared at the ground for a moment. Quackity did not miss it.

“Is… there something wrong?”

“Do you have to?” Wilbur blurted.

“Do I have to what?”

“Step in.” Wilbur huffed. “Do you have to step in every time? Can’t you just- wait to see if I can do it on my own?”

Quackity looked confused for a moment, and then he barked a laugh, shaking his head disdainfully. “I thought we talked about this, dude. Is your pride really that important to you? So important you’d put your own life over it?”

“It’s not-” Wilbur would have said It’s not about pride, but he had to stop himself with the realization that it was. It was about pride.

Is that really so bad, then?

“Look, Blue, you’re just tired or something-“

“Stop. Stop trying to rationalize me,” He breathed. “I know everyone thinks and says I’m weak, but-” Quackity winced. “-I truly believe nobody’s giving me a chance. If you’d just leave me alone for a little bit, maybe you wouldn’t get in the way.”

Quackity’s eyes widened impossibly, and he bristled. “Get in the way? Get in the way?” He scoffed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Blue, I’m sorry I’m such a nuisance and a bother to your crystal record.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Wilbur said through gritted teeth. “Can you just listen?”

“I’m listening, Blue, and I’m telling you I was just trying to help you.” Quackity shook his head. “You were in danger. Did you want me to just leave you there?”

“Yes!” Confusion and anger fired in the air and Wilbur felt his chest begin to hurt. “Yes, I do! And I’m not prideful, it’s not even about credit, you know it isn’t.”

“I know it isn’t about credit, because pride isn’t about credit,” Quackity reasoned. “Pride is about your own validation, and you being obsessed with being worth something.”

“And now I’m worthless, then?”

Quackity flinched visibly. “You know that’s not what I meant.” Before Wilbur could refute him, he lashed out again. “You know what, how about I really leave you alone, okay? If I see you on a mission, I’ll just leave. I won’t stick around to see whether you live or die.”

Wilbur was taken aback, but he stopped himself from arguing. This was- well, it was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

He stared aimlessly, unable to say anything else.

He didn’t need his powers to see that Quackity was upset. The vigilante pulled out his phone and turned away from the hero, going the way they came.

“Where- Quackity, where are you going?”

“Home,” he replied with a numb sort of anger that hit Wilbur like a brick. “I’m going home. And I’m texting someone else to do patrol for me. You should go home too.” He pocketed his phone. “It’s gonna rain soon.”

Yet again, the energy in the area had vastly changed.

--

When he got home, he was met with Tommy trying to sneak out.

“I didn’t know you’d be back so soon,” Tommy said smoothly as Wilbur passed him with a scoff. “Usually, you come back much later.”

Wilbur turns to face him, taking in his brother with cargo pants and a vaguely familiar red hoodie with many pockets. “Hm. Had to cut my little adventure early. Where are you off to?”

Tommy blinked. “Oh, I’m actually a vigilante in secret and I have a whole second life while you aren’t looking. I’m going on patrol right now.”

“Very funny,” Wilbur murmured.

Tommy stared at him for a long moment with an incredulous expression, and then turned to leave.

“By the way,” Wilbur said quickly, before Tommy could go to who knows where, “I’m sorry about this morning. I should have thought of something better to say.”

Tommy’s face was unreadable for a long moment. “You should have thought of something better to say?” he repeated.

“I should have thought of something better to say,” Wilbur confirmed with a decisive expression.

He wanted to fix one thing today. Just one.

It evidently wasn’t enough for Tommy. Without another word, he huffed and stepped onto the elevator. The doors closed.

Wilbur wanted to scream. He did not.

Instead, he surveyed the room. The kitchen light was on. The dishes were half done, abandoned in haste. The television was off, which was a first.

He probably should have finished the dishes. He didn’t even bother to turn the kitchen light off as he walked past it.

He found, as though he were a kid again, he was dreading having to go to sleep. The day had been a disaster. He was on bad terms with both brothers at once, which was rare, and he’d fallen out with- dear god, he’d gotten in a fight with Quackity. A bad one.

He did not want to wake up tomorrow, because Future Wilbur was going to hate Past Wilbur in the morning, and Past Wilbur did not want to be hated.

He forced himself, one step at a time, down the hall, past Phil’s empty room, and Techno’s room that was always locked, and stopping just before Tommy’s door to enter his own room. And then he forced himself to sit on his bed, and God forgive him, he didn’t quite have the energy to get changed. He didn’t have the energy to lay down, either.

He let his gaze wander around the room for a minute or two, and then, he began to cry.

Hot tears pushed at the back of his eyes, and for a moment he thought he may be laughing, he couldn’t stop laughing, until his vision got impossibly blurry when he blinked, and he knew it wasn’t just because he’d left his glasses on the nightstand. (The glasses were fake anyway, complete with popped out lenses because he claimed they gave him character.)

And this time, it didn’t hurt. Maybe it was because he was older and his lungs were big enough to handle the fit of breathlessness, maybe it was because he was crying softer, not quite loud enough to wake up his brother in the next room, but just loud enough to feel like he may never stop crying as long as he lived.

It felt like relief. It felt like a confession. He cried for Tommy, and for Techno, and for Quackity, and for himself. Even if he knew he would wake up tomorrow with the same blinding anger and stubbornness and will to prove them all wrong, he took this time to feel sad about things, because he hadn’t really let himself feel sad about things in a long time.

This time, he did not pull his hair out, and his breath hitching didn’t hurt, and the sobs didn’t quite rub his throat as raw as they used to.

But he was embarrassed to admit, that even though crying didn’t hurt anymore, he still felt like he was seven years old again.

Chapter Text

Badboyhalo didn't like heroes.

He thought it should be obvious, by now, after heroes had walked away from his hideout sporting mortal wounds, that he doesn’t like them interfering with his plans. No hero had made it as far as the cloning room, but many had snuck past initial security, which wasn’t fun for a villain trying to carry out experiments. Vigilantes, he could stand, but heroes were always so stuck up and self-righteous about anything and everything.

He knew, really, that what he was doing could be considered immoral, malicious- some may even argue insane, but anyone would do the same thing in his situation, and no stupid spandex-wearing hero would convince him otherwise. Not matter how hard they try.

Now he sat in the security room, watching with mild disapproval while a hero failed to break in.

He was thankful to be behind a screen while Blue stared at the door with a murderous expression.

“I know you're there,” The hero called.

Bad rolled his eyes. Leaning forward, he pressed a button on the control panel and mumbled into the mic, “Do you?”

Blue jumped at the sound, and then straightened indignantly. “What is it with you villains and intercoms? Why don't you come and talk to someone face-to-face?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you just really unattractive? Is that what this is?”

Bad sighed, pressing the mic button again. “What do you want?”

“To stop you.”

“From what?” His plans weren't nearly far enough along for any of the heroes to have to worry about it- or even know about it.

Blue paused. “…You stole a radioactive element from a facility a few weeks ago. It's extremely rare. I'm here to get it back.”

“I'm using that element better than any stupid government facility would. They were making bioweapons. Bombs. I'm using it for something much more crucial.”

“I'm sure whatever you're using it for can't be any better,” Wilbur said, even as he shifted nervously on his feet.

Bad hadn't even realized he'd used his power. It didn't really matter, anyway- this one was scrawny, and looked like he couldn't hold his courage to save his life.

“Are you scared, Blue?”

“I know you're just using your fear power.”

“That doesn't make it any better. Blade could hold his own, you know. He was difficult to beat.”

Blue got visibly angrier. Bad grinned.

“Let me in.”

“Why should I?”

“You said Blade was difficult. I could call him, if you'd like me to.” Wilbur held up his phone.

Bad eyed it from behind the screen. Blade was the only hero or vigilante who had managed to break in and almost destroy the project. Bad had taken extra care to make sure that hero couldn't jeopardize this one either.

“…Why would he come if you're here?”

“He's my brother. He doesn't want me killed.”

Bad certainly wouldn't know much about brotherly bonds, but it seemed likely that they had a strong connection. What kind of siblings don't?

“Come on in.”

The door opened for the hero.

Bad groaned as he turned off the mic. He didn't want to deal with anyone today, especially not Blue, when rumors among villains told that he was an annoying one. But all he had to do was scar him a little and make him want to walk away, and well- Bad was good at that.

He stood from his chair and began to walk to the entrance of the mansion.

It didn't make much sense for Blue to be here- he had a schedule of set missions the Agency had put out (because they plan them ahead of time, as the villains plan their own,) but Blue wasn't set for another mission until about a week later, which meant he was coming of his own accord.

Bad found the lobby, where Blue was looking around, apparently scanning the room for traps. He seemed on edge, and that same glint of rage and pride still laid dormant in his eyes.

Bad pinched the bridge of his nose. “It's just the lobby. There aren't any traps.”

“How do I know you aren't lying?” Blue snarled when he realized Bad was really here in the flesh.

“Because this is the first room in the mansion, and believe it or not, I have guests over sometimes.”

Blue took a step back. It was to be expected. Bad wasn't even using his power, but he kept his demon façade up while others were in the mansion. He knew what he looked like- a tall shrouded figure, with a cloak of black and red. His face and hands looked like they were made of shadows- lord knows what they were really made of in this form.

Blue pulled a knife from his belt, brandishing it in a way that allowed the lights to glint off the silver surface.

“You want a fight?” Bad asked curiously.

“I want you to give back the shit you stole,” Blue hissed.

“Language,” the villain replied immediately.

Blue gasped with a violated expression. “Did you just say language?”

Bad unsheathed his own knife. “I did.”

Blue, in a valiant effort to not be afraid, was the one to start the fight.

Bad quickly realized the rumors were true- Blue was a terrible fighter. He moved, as people liked to say, like a wet blanket. They'd both trained with knives since they were little, but Bad had an edge in his taller and faster form, while Blue had a general lack of skill or talent.

Blue ducked under the blade again, and Bad whirled to face his opponent before the hero could slash his side.

Blue's movements became more frantic, more desperate, after a short period of time. The poor man was really trying everything.

Bad knocked his knife from his hands, cheap metal flying across the room and sticking into the carpet a few feet away. Blue stumbled back, seeming more terrified than before as Bad increased his power. Eventually, the hero found himself pinned to the floor by a knife-wielding villain.

“That was quick,” Bad huffed, twirling the knife in one hand.

Blue shuddered. “You wouldn't,” he choked out.

“You know, you've not been very nice to me,” Bad muttered, pressing the edge of the blade against the hero's jaw. “Maybe you don't get to be one of the ones that walks away.”

Blue's eyes widened impossibly.

“No words?”

Before he could say anything, Bad slashed the blade across Blue's stomach. It ripped past the stiff cloth and left a long carmine streak along the skin that got brighter with each passing second. Blue made a strangled sound.

“Nothing? Really?”

The hero was doubled over, clutching the fabric around the scar- Bad might have felt guilty, but he didn't quite have the capacity.

“You're a terrible person,” Blue spat.

Bad grabbed the hero’s shoulder, kneeling down to his level to stare at him. Blue's eyes were wide with pain and fear. Bad could see each fleck in the iris. He smiled.

“I'm sure.”

Then, he plunged the knife into Blue's side and twisted it.

---

When he left the room, he walked down the hall towards the security panels.

It would take a while for Blue to bleed out, but he had no materials to dress his own wound and there wasn't really a way out of the mansion with the doors locked and windows closed- not when he was that weak. Especially not since Bad snatched his phone.

Bad had no issue killing. Taking lives was never a problem for him, especially lives that weren't doing anything. Heroes were dead weight to him; inconveniences.

He passed many doors and framed photos on his way down the hall. There were paintings of sunsets, oceans, forests. All the places he'd wanted to go. And, every now and then, pictures of people he wished he could see.

He happened upon one picture of a man with dark skin and a cobalt hoodie. He bore a lighthearted grin that never faded.

“I'm not scared,” he said.

“I know you're not. You never are.” Bad took his hand. “So why are you crying?”

“I'm upset, dumbass! I didn't want you to kill her. I didn't want anyone to die.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know. I know, I just- I'll never understand why you have to do that, I guess.”

“Skeppy-”

“I'll see you at home, okay?”

“…Okay.”

Bad reached out and traced the frame of the photo. This was the only picture of Skeppy that Bad still had.

Silence deafened the mansion. There hadn't been laughter in the halls for a while.

Skeppy's bright eyes were immortalized in the picture. I didn't want anyone to die.

Oh, muffins.

---

“You're lucky,” Bad growled as he stomped back into the lobby.

The hero was sitting against a wall. “I am?”

Bad pulled a phone out of his pocket. “You're pathetic. You just sit against the wall to bleed out. You don't even look for an escape, or a camera to plead to- heck, you could have ended it early if you tried. I wish you had, really.

“Is that my phone?”

“Maybe.”

“Who are you calling??”

Bad started scrolling through Blue's contacts. “Someone to come get you.”

“Don't call the agency. Or my dad. Or Blade, or- really, please, just-“

“And why not?” Bad looked down at the list. “Techno. Is that your brother? Dad, Tommy, Niki-“ Bad squinted at the screen. “Q? Who is Q?”

“Don't call him!”

Bad's head snapped up. Blue was leaned forward, panic lining every flash in his eyes. He gulped. He looked pathetic, huddled against the wall, blue outfit stained black with the blood from his wound. He was terrified, and it wasn't because of Bad's power.

“…Well.” Bad raised his eyebrows. “I've seen that look before.”

Blue leaned back against the wall, letting out a pained breath.

Bad kept scrolling. “Ranboo, Tubbo… Puffy.”

Puffy.

“Bad, what is wrong with you? What have you done?”

“What I needed to! Look, I almost have everything. I'm almost there.”

Puffy shook her head. “This… isn't right. None of this is right. I know you miss him, but-“

“No, you don't know! He's the only person who wasn't afraid of me. The only one.”

“I'm not afraid of you, Bad.”

“Yes, you are. You know you are.”

He took a step forward. She took a step back.

“Hm. She's the head medic, isn't she?”

Blue eyed him dangerously.

“Oh, come on. I listened to your other two wishes! I'm not a genie.”

He called the number. Blue groaned.

“Hey, Wilbur. what's up?”

The sound of her voice briefly shocked Bad. Memories of old friends late at night flashed in his mind, but he collected himself enough to say, “Hello.”

There was a short silence.

“Bad?”

“Puffy.”

“…Where is Wilbur? Why do you have his phone??”

“He's… In my lobby. He tried to interfere.” Bad looked over at Blue, who watched with wide, attentive eyes. “You should come get him. He's… A little scratched up.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“Puffy, why would I-”

“Bad!”

The villain in question took a deep breath and pushed the phone towards Blue. “She wants to talk to you.”

Blue leaned towards the phone with a resentful glare towards Bad.

“Are you alright, Wil?”

“Bleeding,” he breathed, looking like the words were difficult to form. “I'm- it hurts. Please just don’t-”

“I’m going to get Phil, alright?”

The hero’s eyes turned the size of saucers. “Please don’t, I don’t want him to-”

“Wilbur, you’re hurt. Let us come get you.”

“I’m fine! Please. Don’t get him, he’ll tell Techno, and then everyone will know, and I can’t- I can’t-”

“Please calm down. You’ll be fine, nobody is going to say anything if you don’t want them to.”

“You don’t understand,” Blue whispered. Bad frowned.

“Bad, don’t you dare hurt him anymore, or I fucking swear I’ll murder you in cold blood.”

Bad pulled the phone back towards himself and hissed, “Language,” before hanging up.

The call ended with a subtle beep, Wilbur slumping against the wall and shutting his eyes while Bad snapped the device in half.

“There. I called someone. From now on, if you bleed out, it wasn’t my fault!” Bad threw his hands up.

Blue did not speak. He had his eyes shut tight, huddled in on himself like a dog at the pound.

“You really did just do this for pride, didn’t you?” Bad tilted his head. “Did you even know the name of the element I stole? Or how to transport it?”

Radio silence.

“No. You just wanted to put your fists to use. I see.” Bad took a few steps back. “Well, whoever that Q person was- talk to them. If you live. See? I’m nice.”

Still nothing. Bad sighed and retreated into the halls, closing and locking the doors behind him.

---

A few minutes later, a woman with fluffy white hair and hazel eyes would come to get Blue, bringing with her a blonde, tired-looking avian. She would look at the camera in the corner and scowl. Bad would scowl back at her image on the screen.

---

After weeks and weeks of no interruptions, having an entire day when the outside world wouldn’t leave him alone was the most annoying thing Bad had ever imagined.

After Blue was retrieved, Bad tried to get back to his work, but was stopped by a phone call from an unknown number. Most people wouldn’t answer. Badboyhalo wasn’t most people.

“Can I help you?

“Maybe. Can you make a deal?”

Bad rolled his eyes. “I’m not into theatrics.”

“Good, I’m fucking tired of doing the ominous act. I need a little help.”

“Language. Who is this and what do you want?”

“I’m Schlatt. Pleased to do business with you.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The person on the other side of the phone huffed. “I want to use your element. You stole enough to make a whole bomb, but I know what you're using it for.”

Bad instantly stiffened, bringing the phone closer to his ear. “You can't make me give up my project just because you want a component,” Bad hissed.

“I know you have enough left over. You've already used all you need, and the rest could earn you a pretty penny, couldn't it?”

“If the project fails, I'm going to need the leftovers. I'm not interested in your money.”

“Okay. What if I could offer something you want? Make your plan go a little faster?”

Bad blinked. “Go on.”

“I have one of the other elements you’re looking for. Could save you tons of time, energy, and resources to just take it. If you give me the last of what you have, we can make a quick trade.” Bad couldn't see their face, but it felt like they were smiling. “It could be so easy to bring him back…”

It could be so easy to bring him back. It could be so, so easy.

Bad gulped. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was a bad deal, the thought wouldn't leave his mind.

It could be so easy.

“Okay,” he said finally, and it felt like pressure was being lifted off his lungs. “Alright. Give me the other component, and- and 20k in cash.”

“10k.”

“15.”

“Deal.”

Bad didn’t even think about how the buyer knew about the project. It didn’t matter. He was getting the last component. It was only a year or two before he could attempt to bring Skeppy back to life.

Chapter Text

When a person wakes up in a hospital bed, their first thought is usually “Where am I?” or “What happened?” Perhaps they’d gotten in a car crash- or maybe fallen from a great height. Maybe they’d be surrounded by loved ones waiting for them, or someone specific who was terrified for their safety. A doctor, even.

Those were not questions for Wilbur. He knew where he was. He had felt the same mattress underneath him, seen the same fluorescent lights and toothpaste walls. He knew he was in the med bay of the tower. He knew exactly what happened, as well, because he had been planning it all day and he knew he might fucking die but honestly, it might not have mattered if he did.

If he did die, there would be a big service on city-wide news, even in some other cities, using a picture of himself he hated and the generic sermon for a hero’s death. The one that goes on about legacy, heroism, honor, and everything else Wilbur never really had. His family would say a few words, Phil, probably, about how he was and what he liked to do. They would never let Tommy on television, and Techno wasn’t good at supplying the perfect balance of “Emotion and Grace” that the agency demanded. Then everyone in the city, a bunch of people who didn’t know Wilbur or his worries or his hopes, would leave candles on their doorstep. Arsonists and pyromaniacs would then steal the candles and burn something to the ground. That was probably the only cool thing about any of it.

He was alone in the room.

Wilbur wondered, briefly, what vigilantes did when a vigilante died. Would they even know? Would they think the person had just disappeared without telling them? If they found the body, what morgue would take them? What gravesite wouldn’t reject them? How would you dispose of a body like that?

If they died of a normal cause, not as a vigilante, they’d be buried as a civilian. The only people at their funeral would be people who knew them, even if not everyone who cared about them could be there. They’d be buried like a person, and not like a symbol. Not like a name on a screen and a picture. With real honor.

“If you died, what would your funeral be like?” Wilbur remembered asking Quackity one night.

“Oh, a party.” Quackity grinned widely, staring into the distance. “A big party, lots of booze- and expensive stuff, too, not convenience store beer. Fancy bottles. Food for days, really loud music and everything.”

“That sounds nothing like a funeral,” Wilbur chuckled.

“Well yeah, that’s the point! They gotta remember me in the way I like. No fucking dreary sermons and black suits. Have some fun with it, y’know?”

Wilbur beamed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What about you?”

“Uh. Well, I get the usual hero’s sendoff, you know.”

“Oh, I remember. The TV service and stupid picture.” Quackity snorted. “Poor you.”

“They’re gonna use the picture they have in the database. I hate the one in the database. I was mid-blink.”

“That’s terrible. You know what, when you bite it, I’ll drink a tequila shot for you.”

“That’s if I die before you.”

“You will.”

“Shut up.”

Their laughter lit up the darkness of that night.

Wilbur sighed, now, in an uncomfortable hospital gown and scratchy bandages wrapped along his abdomen.

He tried to sit up and-

Holy fuck.

People suffer wounds as a hero, that’s normal, but being stabbed in the side with a long knife that was subsequently twisted (probably in a vital organ) was more pain than anyone should ever have to feel in their lives.

He tried, he really did, to call for someone. He could not. His voice failed him, and his words ran out.

He eased back into the bed, pain pulsing down his spine and through the pit of his stomach. I can’t believe this.

Any minute now, Puffy’s going to reprimand me. Dad will come in, he’ll hate it, he’ll hate having to deal with me when he should be working. If I’m lucky, Techno and Tommy won’t find out until much later. If I’m really lucky, I’ll die right here and right now.

He opened his mouth to call for someone again. He could not.

It wasn’t a matter of pain, or anything wrong with his voice, really. He simply could not speak. Somewhere deep in his mind he felt that if he spoke, it would hurt almost as much as the wound had. He had no words to say.

Fuck. This was a mistake. Everything was a mistake, I fucked up, I fucked up.

Suddenly, he heard the door creak.

He flinched instinctually, having not heard any sound except the beeping of a monitor and the buzzing of cheap LED’s since he woke up, but he knew he wasn’t in danger. Not physically, at least.

Puffy stepped in. Puffy was the head medic, usually dealing with the mortal wounds and bigger scars that the heroes received. The woman had long, fluffy white hair that she pulled up into a ponytail in an effort to keep it back. Still, curly white strands fell into her face, framing hazel eyes streaked with honey and a mouth painted with black lipstick. She narrowed her eyes at him accusingly, clipboard in hand.

“You might be,” Puffy began, “The dumbest case I’ve had so far.”

Wilbur stared at her.

“I’ve been doing this for four years, Wilbur. Is this a game to you?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. So can you tell me your reasoning for walking right into the jaws of one of the most dangerous supervillains in L’manburg?”

I wanted to beat him.

I wanted the recognition, and the news articles with my name in the headlines.

My brother said I was weak. I wanted to prove him wrong.

My friend(?) said I was worthless. I wanted to prove him wrong.

My father hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. I wanted to prove him wrong.

Pride.

Wilbur opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

When he could not speak, another figure walked into the room, trailing behind him long obsidian wings that proved to be the wonder of the whole city. It was his father.

Phil just looked tired. He’d obviously been pulled from his work to help with this, and his wings were ruffled and fluttering nervously. Stupid avian genes and stupid beautiful feathers. “It scared me to death. I know you’ve been doing well recently with your missions, but you don’t have to push yourself to that. Even your brother couldn’t beat that villain.” His lapis eyes were heavy and faded, framed by golden blonde hair the same shade as Tommy’s that barely brushed his shoulders.

You only show up when someone is in trouble. Someone to be taken care of, someone to reprimand. Where did all the time go?

He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, feeling slightly helpless.

“Your brothers might come to check on you soon,” Fuck you, Puffy. “But I need you to stay as still as possible and try not to roll over on your side,” She warned. “You almost bled to death.”

He rolled his eyes. She shook her head sadly. Dad pinched the bridge of his nose.

---

After a couple hours, Techno came. The man's hair was pulled into a bun and his eyes scanned the room with a kind of urgency that made Wilbur want to crawl somewhere and die. He had come in nonchalantly, hands in pockets as though he couldn’t be bothered to care, but his stiff shoulders and tendency to rock on his heels gave away his worry. His eyes finally landed on Wilbur, who was staring back at him with tentative curiosity.

“…You okay?” he drawled in the deep, thick voice he tended to have after not speaking the whole day.

Wilbur gestured to his bandages with a deadpan stare.

“Right. Um. I wanted to check up.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Does it… hurt? Like, when you’re sitting still? I know it hurts to move.”

There was a sharp ache, but surprisingly, Wilbur hadn’t had much trouble getting used to it over the past few hours. He lifted his hand and made a ‘So-so’ motion by tipping his palm back and forth. Techno huffed.

“I’m, um. I’m sorry for saying that stuff. I should have known it would lead to something bad.”

Doesn’t it always?

He tried to speak again. It’s not that it hurts, it’s that I think it will hurt even though I know it won’t and I can’t really force myself and I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just need some space to breathe.

Wilbur realized that Techno hadn’t really come into the room- in fact, he seemed reluctant to step past the doorframe. His eyes darted around, and he rocked on his heels not just because of Wilbur, but because of some memory that may have been brought up at the sight of the hospital bed.

Techno coughed. “I’ll, um. I’ll go then. …Sorry.”

Wilbur barely waved goodbye before the man hurried away, the door shutting with a metallic click behind him.

They hadn’t even spoken for a full minute. At least I got an apology. Kind of.

---

About two hours later, the door opened again much more forcefully as Tommy burst into the room.

He’d obviously run here, pale cheeks flushed with the effort of practically flying here from the lobby of the tower. His gaze locked on Wilbur like a sniper on a target, and the blond teen stomped over to Wilbur’s bedside.

“I just ran here,” He panted, “From the far west side of the city,” then gestured to one of the walls of the room as though pointing to west, which most likely wasn’t in that direction. Wilbur knew it was an exaggeration, he’d need to take a bus and a taxi and then have the doctors allow him in, but it succeeded in putting Wilbur on the spot. “For why? To come here and speak to my idiot big brother.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes while Tommy continued. “I was playing a marvelous game of Mario Kart that I was definitely winning, when I get a text from who? Techno, who tells me you’ve what? Had your guts stabbed out by one of the most powerful villains in the city.”

Wilbur scowls at him.

“Now, Wilbur, usually when I tell you to go fuck yourself, I don’t mean for you to go and get a knife hole through your chest. Maybe I need to clarify that more often.”

Wilbur frowned. It’s not like it killed him, there wasn’t much reason to panic.

“So,” Tommy breathed, eyes incredulous, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Wilbur pointed to his throat.

Tommy’s eyes flicked down to his gesture and back up to his eyes. “You can’t talk? Did you get stabbed in the neck, as well?”

Wilbur shook his head. Tommy sighed.

“Okay. Well, that particular villain is a big scare, I won’t blame you.” Wilbur wanted to ask how Tommy would know, as he was nowhere close to having any interaction with villains, but as words failed him, Tommy stared down at the bandages with a thoughtful expression.

“I know you want to prove yourself,” he mumbled, “But do you have to scare everyone else while you do it?”

If the hero had the ability to speak, he isn’t sure what he could say.

Tommy was a naturally loud personality, always moving and speaking and doing something. Wilbur felt terribly like he was looking at his baby brother through a window, to something different, something not really him.

“You keep doing this thing,” the teen continued, “Where you get stronger, and when you get stronger, you think you can do more. And you think you’re weak again if you can’t do these things. But I can’t do these things, I wouldn’t dream of going into half the death traps you walk into, so I guess to me it’s pretty hypocritical of you to tell me I don’t have to save lives to be good, when you don’t even think that about yourself.”

Because you’re not me. You’re a kid, and you’re smart and you have lots of friends and people who care about you, and you’re Tommy. You’re a human.

If being a hero has taught me anything, it’s that I am the farthest thing from human that could ever exist.

“Sorry, Wil. You just woke up after passing out from blood loss. Didn’t mean to startle you with my philosophical crisis,” He chuckled.

Wilbur winced. He wished he could tell his brother anything to make him feel better. I’m sorry I’m such a hypocrite. I’m sorry I can’t ever say the right things. I’m sorry I made you feel like this.

Tommy’s solemn demeanor weighed heavy in the room, so very unlike him that the world seemed to cry for the lack of joy.

The teen straightened, taking a step back from the hospital bed. “Let me know when your voice comes back. And don’t go and get yourself killed, if that’s not too much to ask.”

When the teen left, the emotion in the room followed him, and Wilbur was laying in a hospital bed with nothing but bandages, a phone, and emotional static.

For a moment, he glared at his phone, willing his mind to shut up.

He had successfully made it through interacting with his father, the brother he hated, the brother he liked, and a head medic with a glare that could kill. There was one person involved in his turmoil he hadn’t talked to, and he had no reason to talk to, or any want to talk to.

Quackity’s number sat innocently in the data of his phone, waiting to be texted.

Nothing had been the vigilante’s fault. He tried to be patient; Wilbur realized when a hole began to grow in his chest. Quackity had tried to be patient with him and help him and Wilbur couldn’t have that because he was a fucking dumbass.

What could Wilbur even say to amend this? I didn’t mean it. I was just scared. It was all a joke.

You were right. I’m sorry, and you were right.

Techno could say sorry, reluctantly. Tommy could also apologize when needed. Why is it so hard for me?

I am prideful, aren’t I?

He’d cursed Quackity out, just like he had every other time. Why does he even put up with me? What does he get out of this? What kind of joy can he get out of helping an egotistical prick with a hero complex?

Wilbur couldn’t use his power on himself, but he wished he could, because he almost never could tell how he was feeling. He couldn’t look in a mirror and see the sharp scarlet pricks of anger, warm yellow washes of light like joy, or deep indigo streaks indicating sorrow. He couldn’t recognize anything. Was he happy to be alive? Unlikely. Was he angry at Techno? Quackity? Phil? Tommy? Never. Was he sad about the things he’d said? Maybe. Was he just scared? Did everything just translate into fear when he couldn’t seem to find reasons to feel anything else?

That seemed possible.

But Wilbur did not have a mirror, and he was slightly high on sedatives, and he had a phone next to him that could connect him to anyone he wanted to, including that fucking prick that stayed with him even when he got worse. So, he wasn’t in the right mind to try and recognize anything.

“Fuck,” he said aloud, jolting at the sound of his own voice.

Well. At least I can speak again.

He’d been passed out all night, but as the sun outside began to set again, he felt his eyes grow heavy with a lust for darkness. So, with the exhaustion of family and friends and trying to heal giant stab wounds, he fell to sleep.

---

Wilbur was asleep.

Quackity was grateful for this, he was! He had wanted Wilbur to be asleep. He didn't want to talk to him. He most certainly did not run scenarios in his head where he apologized to Wilbur over and over while he was walking here. He really wasn't disappointed! Not one bit.

Wilbur slept soundly, as the only light in the room was the moonbeams from the window Quackity snuck through. He looked peaceful, if not for the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. The light highlighted his skin, pale from blood loss, as well as deep shadows under his eyes that could have looked like bruises in the right lighting.

He still managed to look really, awfully, painstakingly pretty.

Quackity felt, somewhere deep in his chest, in the place where all his banished emotions go, that this was unfair. If this were a normal situation, where he and Wilbur were just people in the street on a summer day, he'd tell Wilbur how good he looked, and how his smile was probably even better. And Wilbur would laugh and brush it off and it would be beautiful, and they'd be okay.

But Wilbur was sleeping. And he was also the #3 hero.

Quackity shook his thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the task at hand. Which, he realized, wasn't much better.

I should not be doing this, He thought, even as he set the steel container on the nightstand. This isn't my responsibility, he reasoned while still rummaging through the drawers.

He didn't know when Wilbur had become such a liability. He wasn't sure why the man crossed his mind every time he saw that rooftop, he didn't know how Blue had managed to become a permanent part of his life. He didn't know when he started thinking of him as 'Wilbur' and not 'Blue.' He didn't know when he decided to help the hero.

He did know that if he left things the way they were he would simply die.

So maybe he was a little relieved when Wilbur woke up.

"Q?"

The vigilante in question froze. "...Blue?"

He turned slightly to see the hero, who was just staring at him with tired eyes. (Tired chocolate eyes that glinted silver in the window light.) He was silent for a long moment before chuckling, “Here to say you told me so?”

Wilbur’s smile was one of defeat.

"No, Blue, I'm not. I just…" He felt like there was lead on his tongue. "I brought you something."

He hastily picked up the steel container and handed it to Wilbur.

The hero read the label. "...Medicine?"

"Yeah, it’s just pills. It's good for healing over big wounds. I should know, I’ve used it.”

Wilbur- Blue read the label over again and then looked at Quackity. "I recognize this word, isn't this stuff illegal?"

"Yeah, it's a powerful drug if you crush and sniff it. So… don't do that, preferably."

Wilbur barked a laugh and looked back down at the container. "Uh. Thanks, I guess. I don't know how I'll hide this."

"Put it in your shoe or something." Quackity rolled his eyes.

"...why?"

"Because it'll hide it? I mean, until you have to go somewhere I guess, but-"

"No no, I get that, I meant-" Blue cleared his throat. "Why'd you help me?"

Quackity was silent for a long moment, looking the man over. He half-sat up in the medical bed, scanning the label of the container again as though it would give him an answer. Quackity wanted to give him an answer.

"If I knew, I'd tell you."

So he told the truth.

Wilbur smiled gently, a small thing, and Quackity had a strong urge to know what he was thinking. He IS cute, he's fucking gorgeous, no no no stop it.

"I'm sorry," Wilbur said. "I'm sorry, I really am. For yelling at you, and- and saying you were in the way. You helped me, I was just- helpless.”

Quackity scoffed. "Blue, you are in no position to apologize, you are bedridden right now. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I tried to be patient, really, but you keep-” He huffed.

"I keep pushing. It’s okay, you can say it."

"I’m sorry, Blue. Please don’t apologize.”

Wilbur frowned. "I still feel bad though."

Quackity wanted to punch him and hug him at the same time. He knew Wilbur was an idiot, but all that time ago the first time they met, he never could have imagined that Wilbur was a good idiot, and that he wanted to help people. Quackity had wanted so badly to believe everyone was out to get him and he was starting to realize he didn't know why.

"I just… got insecure, I guess." Wilbur blinked. "I don't take well to needing to be saved. I think it comes from being a hero."

Quackity got that, at least. Blue was a hero, heroes aren't meant to need saving. But Wilbur did, though.

"I mean, you'll notice I've never really done anything myself. I'm always the second name in the headlines. The Blade and Blue, Angel and Blue, 404 and blue, Millenium and Blue- Someone is always there with me. The first time you helped me, people kept saying how great it was that I took out villains myself, that I was finally doing these great things myself..."

"...and it got to you because it was a lie." Quackity muttered.

"Yeah. I'm… Not much of a fighter. Don't like battles one bit."

"Isn't it a big part of being a hero that you fight? Combat is sort of the biggest thing about it."

"Yeah, it is. You know-" Wilbur sat up a little straighter. "My brother used to go on for hours about fighting. About tactics, and great warriors, and the 'Rush of adrenaline' everyone's always talking about. I never… I never got that. It just felt blunt and angry to me. I never got fighting."

"If you don't like fighting, why did you become a hero?"

Wilbur seemed almost incredulous. "Because my name is Wilbur Minecraft? Because my brother is a hero, and my father is a hero, and his father and his mother. They were all heroes. It wasn't a choice for me, Roulette, I didn't get the cliche, 'I was called to help people' story that 404 and Millenium and Ram got. I was born, and the moment I was old enough to understand, I was told I would be a hero. So that's what I am, and that's what I have to be, so if I can't-" He took a shaky breath. "If I need to be saved… I'm not really living up to my name, am I?"

Quackity felt…

He felt a lot of things, to be honest. He felt horrified, angry, sad, and guilty. He wondered if Wilbur could sense the tornado roaring in his chest, and feel the emotion that kept slipping through in his voice.

This was a really, really bad idea.

"Blue…"

So, so bad.

"You're not… defined by your name. You know that?"

Wilbur blinked at him.

"You aren't-" Quackity huffed. "You aren't just a hero, you're not just a Minecraft, you're- you're Wilbur, right? And you love music, and you hate anteaters. You're an artist, and a flirt, and- and a goddamn pain in the ass sometimes, if I'm being honest, but if you aren't a fighter… you don't have to pretend. Blue, you aren't a doll. You're a person." He took a steadying breath.

"I'm sorry that… that I got angry with you for wanting to be left alone. I don't know why I keep- why I keep trying to help you. I don't get anything out of it, really, and it confuses me just as much as it does you, but I have a hard time watching you throw yourself into something you clearly don't like doing. I was trying to save you, even when you don’t want to be saved, but I couldn’t just leave you to rot.” He felt a lump in his throat. “You don’t know the guilt I felt seeing you on that TV screen, bleeding rivers from your side, pale and passed out. It was suffocating, Wilbur.”

Quackity meant to keep talking, but Wilbur cut in- "That's the first time you've said my name instead of Blue.”

Oh. Well, fuck.

They stared at each other for a long moment, each with a great number of thoughts running through their head that they shouldn't be having.

"God," Quackity chuckled. "How the hell'd you get an anti-hero attached to you, huh?"

He looked down. They were holding hands.

Oh.

"This is very not good," Wilbur mumbled.

"Yes. Yes, this is a terrible situation," Quackity responded.

"Absolutely horrid," Wilbur reasoned, twining their fingers together.

"Dreadful," Quackity agreed.

He felt like he was being separated from himself. He felt like here was Roulette and here was Blue, and they fought and yelled and got angry with each other. But here's Quackity and Wilbur, and they're holding hands in the folds of the night because where else can they feel like it doesn't go against every rule they've set for themselves?

"We are not ever going to figure this out, are we?" Wilbur asked softly.

What's 'this?' What is going on?

"No. No, we aren't."

Quackity and Wilbur, fighting a very similar battle on a very different battlefield.

Quackity did eventually let go, immediately mourning the warmth of his palm, and saying he probably needs to finish patrol for the night. "…And um- get some rest.”

Wilbur smiled subtly, and it could have been because of anything, but maybe it was just because of everything.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "Seriously."

"It's… really no problem." It was a big problem. Those pills had cost him.

He gave Wilbur a two-fingered salute before slipping back through the window.

He fell down, down, down, and he had levitation boots made to stop him before he landed, but he sort of felt like he would keep falling for as long as he lived.

Chapter Text

Tommy hated patrol.

His brothers, although pricks, were lucky not to have to do it. All they had to do was sit around and yell at each other until one of them had to do something (And boy, was it easy for them to yell at each other- part of the reason Tommy was so good with comebacks was that he saw how they riled up his brothers.) He was forced to sneak out in the middle of the night and go jump around a random sector of the city.

L’manburg was a roughly circular city, with the hero tower in the center of it all. Vigilantes split it up into a simple wheel- Central city was the area surrounding the hero tower. North, south, east, and west, were equally divided on the donut around central, and the outskirts were the full circle about the city.

Heroes, on the other hand, divided the city by political sectors. Las Nevadas, infamous for mafia shootouts and casino robberies; Kinoko, a district of mostly housing and schools, popular for up-and-coming drug dealers and blue labs; Snowchester, a northern sector of mostly factories and holding facilities; and Badlands, a maze of roads and terminals dominated by gang dynamics.

The agency focused on sectors closest to Central; which ones donated more money and would get more news revenue. This means no heroes are ever sent to the outskirts (or anywhere too far out) unless a villain is present.

Whereas vigilantes had to go everywhere.

It’s not like Tommy doesn’t enjoy beating up pricks, but patrol takes so long. He hates to admit it’d be easier if he were older, and not a teenager in a mask that somehow climbed to be one of the top vigilantes. Most vigilantes only patrol the area they live in, and he’s run into many of them, but when he’d started out, he’d slowly expanded his area out of sheer spite and ended up doing the whole city.

Somehow, some people hadn’t quite believed his lie that he was an adult (which is so weird because Tommy is an amazing liar, just absolutely great at everything, obviously,) and still suspect he’s a teenager.

One of these people was Minx.

Minx, or Nightshade, was adamant about someone going with Tommy on patrols, which was the most annoying thing on earth, considering that Tommy didn’t need anyone to go with him and he was a big man who could take care of himself.

“Someone has to go with him,” she said one night, on a call, when he offered to patrol south. Her excuse was that he was new, and he needed someone to show him the ropes.

Tommy refuted this by telling her “I’ve been patrolling for a fucking year. Just because I’m going further out doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself!” He sounded suspiciously like a whiny teenager, he knew this, but that didn’t stop the annoyance bleeding through.

He didn’t know why Minx even cared, as she disliked him particularly and cursed him out more than the others- but she was insistent that the boy be accompanied, and he often had to do it with Niki, Sam, or Q.

Luckily, he could usually talk Minx into letting him go with Ranboo.

Which brings him to his current issue.

“Ranboo, please!”

“I’m sorry!” The Enderman hybrid laughed. “I have so much paperwork to give and do, and Phil needs me for a project, and then there’s Tubbo-”

“You’re literally doing this just because you want to sleep! You sleep all the time!”

Ranboo blinked. “You mean every night?”

“Yes! Every single night! Doesn’t that seem a bit much?”

“You’re so messed up, Tommy. Please let me go.”

The blond held onto Ranboo’s arm pathetically. “No, you have to come with me, or else Minx will make someone else go and they’re going to baby-talk me and shit because they all think I’m a child!”

“You are a child! You’re a year younger than me!” Ranboo breathed. “I have to stay. Techno said he’s training tonight, and you know how he gets.”

Tommy groaned. He let go of the Enderman hybrid’s arm with a huff, causing the taller to stumble back a few inches. Tommy did know, and he knew someone had to stop his oldest brother from getting new bruises, as dark as the prospect seemed. “Fine. Just don’t come crawling when I’ve murdered one of the other vigilantes.”

“I won’t defend you in court.” Violet particles swarmed around the teenager, seemingly coming from thin air. When they dissipated, Ranboo had disappeared.

“Fuck you,” Tommy said to no one, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck you.”

Ranboo had been busy lately, and it’d been terrible. A few nights back, Tommy had to patrol with Glacier, otherwise called Jack, who was a bald prick with an ice power that made too many Among Us jokes.

Just as Techno’s bruises began to heal, he got more. Ranboo had to babysit him, basically, constantly checking on him and making sure he wasn’t hurting himself. Forcing him to take breaks. Tommy hated it. His oldest brother was overworking, his friend had to be a personal therapist, his dad was never home, and his other brother sneaking out to who-knows-where since he healed.

Wilbur finally got the bandages around his torso removed about two weeks ago. He was ecstatic about it, going on and on about finally being able to leave the med bay and lay useless in his own bed instead of the hospital one. Although Tommy knew he didn’t stay in bed. The teenager was the only one in the house that knew Wilbur was going somewhere at night. Tommy sometimes came home to his brother coming home as well, with a big dumb smile on his face like he’d won the world. After investigating the liquor cabinet, Tommy could conclude that No, Wilbur was not drunk, he was in fact just going somewhere that made him happy.

Which should have made Tommy happy. Instead, he just felt suspicious.

He was acting so weird lately. Drifting in and out of focus, smiling at the tiniest things and mumbling song lyrics under his breath at the dinner table. He was so happy that even Techno seemed to notice, pausing his movies to squint at his brother across the living room.

He’d acted like this before, Tommy knew, but always to a certain extent. Now, the lofty disposition was endless.

Tommy stared around his room.

It was late at night, and everyone was out of the apartment (possibly Wilbur, as well.) That seemed normal.

Once upon a time, the family had dinners together each night. Dad wasn't quite as swamped with work, Techno wasn't getting bruises from bursting veins, and Wilbur hadn't locked himself away in his room.

Once upon a time, Tommy had posters of various heroes around his room, and journals filled with drawings and stories of some of the most famous, legendary superheroes ever to appear in L’manburg.

Back from when the agency wasn’t a pile of shit.

Those posters are now torn down, replaced by pictures of family, and taped up polaroids of friends. Just Tubbo and Ranboo, really- he didn’t have a lot of time for anything else. The journals he kept were often filled, page by page, with videogame cheat codes and failed attempts to be one of those kids who keeps a diary. He’d write an entry for one day, the next day, and then forget about it for a while before trying to start up again. Not the best system in the world.

He throws open his closet, filled with stacks of old DVDs. Pushing past the formal clothes that were hung up (the ones Phil makes him keep just in case the media starts to care about him,) he drags out a box labeled “miscellaneous,” which contains his vigilante clothes and mask.

Red hoodie, cargo pants, and a mask in the shape of a record.

Hence the name Vinyl.

After he put his costume on, Tommy’s phone went off. An Animal Crossing dialogue sound played through the speaker and he quickly picked it up.

Nightshade: Ranboo texted me.

Fuck.

Vinyl: of course he fukcing did

Nightshade: Roulette is going with you.

Vinyl: Whyyyy please can I just stay on my own

Nightshade: nah

Vinyl: I hate you I hate yoy I hate you I hate toy o gate youvd

Minx did not reply. Tommy was left on read.

He pocketed his phone with a sigh, feeling mildly helpless. Thankfully, he'd be going with Q, who honestly wasn't too bad.

He'd only spoken with Q a few times. At this point, he'd forgotten the vigilante's real name, and when he did remember, usually just opted for ‘Q’ instead.

He was funny, Tommy thought, and smart. And best of all, he didn't treat Tommy like he was fourteen just because he acted young.

And with that last reassurance, Tommy headed out. He grabbed his levitation boots (customized with red stripes, courtesy of Tubbo Underscore, the world's best kind-of-villain,) and snuck out of the tower.

He made it through the living room and into the elevator without a hitch, passing through the lobby nonchalantly while the receptionist was on the phone.

“No- no, yes. I told him. He doesn't care.” She waved to him absentmindedly with an obligatory smile. “I swear, Karl-“

He quickly went out of the front of the building and was immediately met with a rush of freezing air. He shivered. Winter was coming.

This is why superheroes don't wear spandex.

---

When he did, eventually, find Roulette, Tommy had been walking for a solid 15 minutes. He already felt his hands going numb. As the receptionist was, Q was on the phone.

“Yeah, I- I'm sorry, dude, she said so. I mean yeah, I could say no, but what reason am I supposed to give?” He paused. “No. You know I couldn't.” There was another pause, and then a sharp laugh. “No one knows, alright? He's a kid. I don't know, maybe 16, 17. You guys go to work around 20, right?”

It occurred to Tommy that he shouldn't be eavesdropping. It also occurred to him that he simply did not care.

“Not sure. Wants to help his city?... You would. You're too sweet for your own good,” Q laughed. Tommy wrinkled his nose at the affection bleeding into his voice.

The older vigilante in question stood next to the bus stop, leaning on the back of the benches while talking to whoever he was with. He had his back turned to Tommy, who crossed the street to approach him. He must have heard Tommy put his mask up and instantly almost trip over the curb due to darkened vision because he turned around swiftly to face the teen.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Nice to see you too, Big Q,” Tommy deadpanned.

“Right. No, yeah, great to see you. Uh.” He blinked, bringing the phone closer to his mouth. “Got to go, sorry, he's here.” He was about to hang up, but as an afterthought, he hissed into the mic, “Go home!”

The sharp beep from the call ending echoed throughout the street. In the dark, Tommy could see Q's mask illuminated by a streetlight. He pocketed his phone with what Tommy imagined was a nervous grin.

“So. Who?”

“…Who what?”

“Who was the one on the phone? The one who's too sweet for their own good,” Tommy mocked with air quotes.

Q shook his head, laughing. “Nobody, nobody. Are you, uh- ready to get going?”

“No, I’m here to arrest you. Of course, I’m ready! Let's go, let's go!”

Tommy promptly started walking, already starting their path around central L'manburg. Q sighed, nervousness forgotten.

---

While they walked, Tommy asked various questions that might be deemed too personal, and possibly indecent. Q laughed when prompted and answered when needed, though, and along the way Tommy remembered something.

Tubbo, (who was only the best man ever,) had said something about Blue and Roulette meeting. Specifically, something about them flirting.

Now, that was a good couple of months ago, but it didn't mean it wasn't something worth asking about.

Wilbur was his brother, after all.

As he thought about this, the two vigilantes settled into an uncomfortable silence. Nobody seemed nearby. All Tommy had to do was start the conversation.

It took him a good couple of minutes to will his mouth to move. He found that was normal in social situations.

“So,” Tommy began in a desperate attempt to break the silence, “Have you, uh- fought with Blue, recently? Seen him at all?”

Q flinched like he’d been slapped, turning quickly to face Tommy, his one visible eye panicked. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing! Nothing! Well, you just- Jack was saying you’d, um- met him a few months ago when he fought Pyro. And- and I think Tubbo was saying something about you and him when he was testing out his robot thing?”

Q only relaxed minimally, saying, “Yeah, I um, we’ve talked before.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Just- a few times.” He shrugged. “You know, the agency, they- they offered for me to go through hero training, I said no. Big surprise, there.”

Tommy knew. He was there when Wilbur left to give him the invitation, and he was there when Wilbur came back. “I’m assuming Blue gave you the invite, then?”

“…Yeah. We talked, a bit, then.”

“What about?”

“…Stuff? What’s with all the questions, Vinyl?” The man turned his head curiously.

“I was just curious! Wondering if you were friends or something. I’ve never spoken to a hero or fought one before.”

“We aren’t friends, we haven’t talked, really,” Q said, turning his back to the teen. “And I never fought him, just argued.”

Just argued.

“Oh. Well, what’s he like?” It’s not like Tommy was going to find out these two knew each other and then just not interrogate them.

“He’s an asshole, for one,” Q began, shaking his head. “He’s a pain in the ass. But he’s not as bad as- as the others, probably. He’s got a good sense of humor, at least, and he never talks down to people. Kind of fucked up, but sweet.”

“You went from ‘Pain in the ass’ to ‘Sweet’ in ten seconds,” Tommy laughed.

Q waved him off, laughing nervously. “That’s because he went from ‘Pain in the ass’ to ‘Sweet’ in ten seconds. He’s confusing! He kept switching on me, back when I started talking to him. But then I figured it out, y’know. He’s so kind that it’s weird.” Tommy couldn’t see his face, but the smile bled into his voice when he talked about the hero.

Tommy did not like the sound of that.

The teen frowned and raised an eyebrow while Q talked. “You sound a little smitten, there, Big Q.”

“Wh- Fucking excuse me?”

“Nothing! You just- well, you do sound a bit affectionate, talking about a hero you’ve supposedly only met a few times,” Tommy mumbled, kicking pebbles across the pavement absentmindedly. “Almost like you have a crush on him or whatever.”

He grinned as Q stumbled over his words, trying to no avail to defend himself. “I don’t have a crush on the hero! We aren’t even friends, I don’t- I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I don’t.” The vigilante’s gaze dropped to his hands, where he held his communicator, furiously typing something out. “I don’t.”

It sort of sounded like he was saying it more to himself than to Tommy.

“I’d hope not. That couldn’t end well,” Tommy chuckled, walking ahead.

He did not receive a response. Turning around, he saw Q staring at something neither of them could see.

“Yeah. Yeah, probably not.”

Tommy really hoped he hadn’t just unlocked something.

He wasn’t protective of his older brother. Wilbur was older, and he was the one labeled protective, and it was stupid of Tommy to think like this, but it occurred to him he’d never liked anyone Wilbur set eyes on. They were always too pushy, or smiled too much, or had some unsavory quality that made Tommy sure they’d be gone soon.

He was appalled by the idea that Q- a vigilante, of all things- might have a crush on Blue. Or, contrarily, that Wilbur liked him as well. Tommy’s brother had been acting weird, hadn’t he? Smiling all the time, constantly texting someone unknown, singing love songs until sundown- nothing made any more sense.

Maybe if they were normal people, it would be okay. Q was sweet. Thinking about it, they'd probably be great, but the whole situation was a setup for heartbreak, whether the feelings were reciprocated or not. Wilbur could lose his job, or worse, his life; and Q could get arrested.

Tommy had to violently remind himself that they probably didn’t like each other. Q denied it wholeheartedly, and Wilbur could like anyone. It was a coincidence. It must be.

Q seemed a little out of it for the rest of the patrol, and it caused Tommy a great deal of stress.

He really, really hoped he hadn't just unlocked something.

Chapter Text

Wilbur would say that he loved his brothers. That was a given. He loved Tommy dearly (hence the “You’re my favorite,” being their signature phrase since… ever. They’d always had each other even when they had nobody else.) and he loved Techno, in some small ways that will always preside over their long-standing hatred (although he would never say it to his face.)

And he could even admit, he loved his father.

To be honest, he didn’t think about Phil often. The hero left before his sons usually woke up and returned after they retreated to their rooms. Wilbur was reminded of him in little things around the tower; framed photos of a younger man, the green curtains Phil had put in because he didn’t like the usual beige, and notes on the fridge to send someone to get groceries.

(Tommy usually went. Seeing a hero at the grocery store buying mass amounts of potatoes wasn’t common, and the other brothers planned to keep it that way.)

Wilbur was confused about Phil’s paperwork, once, when he was little.

“Why are you always writing stuff? You’re a hero! You should be fighting bad guys. Am I going to have to write a bunch of stuff when I get old enough?” The boy had prattled on about wanting to write stories instead of writing about boring things like money and buildings and taxes and grown-up stuff.

Phil was sitting at his desk on one of the top floors, Wilbur having barged in a few minutes ago. He was too short for the receptionist to see over the counter, and he proudly strutted past the other cooing desk workers to find his dad.

Phil had set down his pencil with a tired chuckle. “No, no. I only do it because I asked to.”

Wilbur had wrinkled up his nose bridge, “Why would you ask to write about boring things?”

“It’s for the city,” Phil had said. Everything was for the city. “I’m not only a hero. I work for the agency in more ways than one. They’re busy with documentation and training the heroes, while I make decisions about press, budget, and merchandise.”

Wilbur blinked slowly. “Who's Merch? Why's he dying?”

“No,” Phil laughed. “Merchandise. Like figurines, posters, stuff people buy to show they’re a fan of a certain hero.”

“Oh, like Techno’s plastic sword?”

“That was modeled after my signature sword, yes.”

Wilbur rocked on his heels. “…Can I help with your work?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Phil refused with a sympathetic smile.

Wilbur looked relieved. “Oh, good. I didn’t really want to. Bye!!”

If he had stayed and asked more questions, maybe he’d better understand why Phil never seemed crushed by the amount of work he always had. Maybe he’d understand why, after being a hero for so long, his father couldn’t simply demand a day off.

He used to, sometimes. But he hadn’t since mum passed.

Maybe that’s why Phil's relationship was so strained with Tommy.

Both Wilbur and Techno sensed the shift in the house when Tommy was only 14, and they came home in the early morning to find Phil had left for work even earlierthan usual. Tommy was alone in his room.

Wilbur had just become a hero, and he was looking forward to telling Tommy about his latest mission. When he came to Tommy's room, he found the preteen scribbling something in a notebook at his desk, the closet door ajar, and coloring pencils strewed about the desk as well as on the floor. Wilbur got him the pencils for his birthday. While he wasn't very good at art, he seemed to make good use of them in scribbles of hero suits and cool weapons that definitely don't exist.

And he thought Tommy deserved the expensive drawing pencils- especially on a day that many people felt uncomfortable celebrating.

“Tommy?”

The boy jolted, looking over his shoulder with an expression that was something like joyful (but just not quite.) Wilbur took in his fidgeting hands and electric blue eyes rimmed with pink.

He'd been crying at some point that night.

Wilbur cleared his throat and beamed wider. “Tommy! I'm back.”

Tommy grinned back, and it was thankfully genuine. “Did you fight anyone?”

“I did! The brand-new vigilante Gunpowder. Used a lot of explosives. Very dangerous, but I won!” He faltered. “Well, Techno won, but I definitely helped a bunch.”

Tommy nodded vigorously, smiling wide. “You're still my favorite hero.”

Wilbur laughed. “Aww. Are you sure Angel isn't your favorite?”

Tommy seemed to falter at that. Wilbur decided to avoid the topic, instead walking towards the desk. “Can I see what you're drawing?”

Tommy closed the notebook immediately, causing one of the pencils to roll off the desk. He froze up, and Wilbur paused.

“…Alright.” He cleared his throat. “Do you want some cereal?”

Tommy blinked, turning surprised eyes to his brother. “You aren't going to ask about it?”

“You're allowed to keep your secrets, Toms,” Wilbur mumbled. “I mean, as long as it's not hurting anyone.”

“…It's helping. I'm helping, I think.”

Wilbur nodded stoically. “Like a little superhero. Now come eat cereal with me, we just got the one with marshmallows.”

The boy brightened instantly.

Techno and Wilbur would soon find that Tommy and Phil had started avoiding each other. And when they were together, they fought. (Fighting wasn't quite the right phrase, since Tommy was more relentlessly spitting at his shoes and Phil was more spewing responsible adult phrases like “You're too young to understand” and “I know what's best for you.”)

Now, Wilbur had forgotten Tommy ever had a secret. He was thinking about something entirely different.

“Did you know that ducks sometimes eat each other?” Wilbur asked randomly.

Techno blinked and leaned over from his spot on the couch to steal a goldfish from Wilbur's bowl. “I did not know that, and I will continue to not know that because my mind will block out the memory of you even saying that.”

“It's true! Ducklings over a month old might eat each other when they're aggravated.”

“And this is something we need to know why?” Tommy asked incredulously.

Wilbur shrugged.

“-your favorite animal,” Wilbur asked.

“Ducks.”

“Ducks?”

Quackity laughed. “My name, Wilbur.”

“Oh! Did they- did your parents name you that because they like ducks?”

“Well no. Maybe. I don't know, they never explained it. I just like ‘em.” Quackity fiddled with the hem of his sleeves. “They're smart. But they look really fucking stupid. It's awesome. Did you know the ducklings resort to cannibalism every once in a while?”

“…What??”

Wilbur giggled.

Techno gawked at him. “Wilbur, did you just giggle?”

“This movie isn't even funny, Wil,” Tommy exclaimed. “What's going on with you lately?”

“Nothing! Nothing.”

“No. No, we're figuring this out.” Tommy leaned over Wilbur and grabbed the remote on his other side, promptly pausing the rom-com. He ignored the protests from both brothers.

“You, Sir, have been acting fucking weird.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “I have not.”

It was late in the afternoon. The brothers hadn't left the house all day. On one hand, Techno and Wilbur had gone the whole day without fighting, which was a good sign. On the other hand, all of them were going crazy.

“I have to agree with Tommy on this one,” Techno mumbled. He reached to steal another goldfish from Wilbur's bowl, and Wilbur promptly held it out of his reach. Tommy took one instead.

“Of course, you do,” Wilbur grumbled. “I'm not acting weird.”

“You have! You've been floating about, humming icky love songs and drooling over your phone.” Tommy raised an eyebrow. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were going insane.”

“But we do know better,” Techno said with a smile. “And you've got a crush.”

“No! No! I do not have a crush. I’m just feeling good, is all.”

“So, who are you texting? And who are you sneaking off to see?”

Techno gawked. “Wilbur, have you been sneaking away at night?”

Wilbur shook his head vigorously. “No, no.”

“It has to be someone,” Tommy reasoned. “Otherwise, you'd just leave during the day.”

“It's no one!” It's someone. “Nothing!” Something.

He knew they had a point. He knew he'd been distracted lately, and he knew it was Q's fault.

He blamed his feelings on sleep deprivation. Blamed the smiling on exhaustion in general. Blamed the stray song lyrics on a random burst of inspiration, blamed the inherent need to text him every morning on anything. Anything but a crush. Anything but onyx eyes.

Anything but-

“You're blushing every time you look at your texts, and you keep talking about ducks,” Techno listed. “You won't stop smiling. Constantly smiling.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “So, you have a crush."

Wilbur buried his face in his hands. “No.”

“Who is it?”

“No.”

“Is it the person you're sneaking off to see?” Tommy inquired.

“No.” Maybe. “No.”

“But there is a person?” Techno cut in with a smirk.

“Both of you fuck off. Eat your own dicks.”

“Sure, we'll do that while you eat someone else's dick.”

Wilbur picked up a pillow and launched it at Tommy.

“You motherfucker-” The pillow smacked Tommy's face and he grabbed it, reaching over the couch to-

The door clicked.

Wilbur froze, Tommy fell, and Techno blinked. They all stared.

Thank you, Wilbur prayed to whatever god still watched him. Thank you for saving me from that conversation.

Of course, the aforementioned god had sent The Angel to interrupt the situation.

Phil walked through the door. He took a deep breath, with a small smile, as though happy to be home. The man scanned the room until he saw his sons. That is, his sons, at each other's throats.

“Jesus,” he chuckled. “Can I at least get a welcome home?”

“You're early,” Tommy muttered, looking on with a shocked expression while Wilbur waved happily.

“Thanks for noticing, Tommy,” Phil sighed. “I asked to leave early, and for the first time since… a while ago, they let me.”

“What's the occasion?” Techno asked with raised eyebrows.

“Nothing, really. I guess since Wilbur's healing up, and we haven't had a nice family dinner in a while…”

“A family dinner?” Tommy asked coldly, and Wilbur could feel the hostility sparking from the boy next to him.

Of course, Wilbur could see the futility in leaving your kids to themselves for months and then proposing a “family dinner” as though that could fix anything. He knew Tommy was extremely unhappy with it.

He also knew Tommy was going to do anything in his power to make this hell.

He exchanged a worried glance with Techno. While they didn't like each other, they were united on this front; a “Family Dinner” is just code for a declaration of war. And they were not looking forward to the aftermath.

-

The dinner table was only used for household meetings, at this point. For the older brothers to interrogate Tommy about the pranks being set up around their home. Not for dinners.

It didn't even have a tablecloth. Phil noted this while eyeing the chairs worriedly, as none of it had been used in so long and he feared it might collapse. But Techno and Tommy both sat down without fear. (Tommy with a little fear, Wilbur felt it shoot off just as he was sitting down, and an unseen relief when nothing happened.

Techno brought them steak and mashed potatoes after an hour or so of everyone sitting around on their phones. It smelled enticing, as Techno was a decent cook, but he was barely focused on that and more focused on keeping Tommy from gripping his knife too hard.

There was a vast awkward silence as everyone ate, until after a few minutes, when Tommy said, “Wilbur, is there anything you'd like to tell Dad?”

“No. No, there is not.”

“Yes, there is,” Techno mumbled with a smirk.

“No.”

“Dad, Wilbur has a crush,” Tommy blurted.

“Tommy, I'm going to crush your spine,” Wilbur spat immediately, while Phil grinned.

“Ooo! A crush? Who?” He asked, beaming curiously.

“I don't have a fucking crush!” Do I? “They're making it up!”

“Is it one of the other heroes?”

“No.”

“Someone from the agency?” Techno mumbled around a mouthful of potato, obviously just to make him angry.

“I’d rather kill myself. Or better yet, kill you.”

“No death jokes at the table,” Phil said as though he had any authority.

All three brothers looked at him with shocked expressions. “Wow! You sure have been absent,” Tommy harshly laughed.

Phil shifted uncomfortably.

“You haven’t had much time outside of work to meet people,” Techno mumbled in deep thought.

Tommy wrinkled his nose. “It’s not Sally again, right?”

Phil grimaced. “Please say it’s not Sally.”

“It’s not Sally, Jesus Christ! I haven’t texted her in like, four years,” Wilbur growled, stabbing at his steak.

Sally was a girl he had been on and off with for years as a teenager. She was an intern at the agency for a while, bringing them paperwork and managing weapons storage. She was pretty, in that boring, glassy way that people complimented her for often- with red hair and blue doe eyes, and a small spattering of freckles. She was nice, and the fuel for most of the poetry and songs in his old notebooks, but they were all unfinished and boring and he never seemed to get them right.

She tended to focus a lot more on his heroics than on him as a person, always asking him “Did you spar with your brother today? Are you getting any stronger? Any big meetings coming up?”

The final straw came when she was seen coming on to Techno. Techno swore he had no interest in her, saying that she freaked him out with her “Psychopath grin.” Wilbur genuinely believed him, since the man had never shown romantic interest in a human being in his life.

He didn’t think about her much, anymore, and had recently deleted her number while going through his contacts to find Q’s.

“I never liked that girl,” Phil grumbled. “She giggled too much.”

Techno pointed to him. “Right? You get me, Phil.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, doing deep calculations in his mind.

“Why are you all so convinced I have a crush,” Wilbur huffed. “Why am I being interrogated?”

“Because you’re acting weird, Wilbur,” Tommy reasoned.

“How am I acting weird?”

“First of all, the smiling thing,” Techno said.

Tommy nodded vigorously. “The smiling thing.”

“What smiling thing? I smile sometimes! Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“Not that happy! You were just grinning like an idiot while you were waiting for dinner, and the other day you were beaming at your phone. And when I asked you who you were texting, you said ‘No one!’ in a way that most definitely means it was someone,” Tommy ranted, making both Phil and Techno chuckle.

“I don’t have a crush.”

“And he was singing that song ‘I’m in Love’ the other day,” Techno commented with a small smile.

Tommy quirked his brow. “By Kat Dahlia?”

“By the Beatles,” Techno corrected.

A series of “Ooooh”s broke out across the dinner table. Wilbur hid his face in his hands.

“It’s a good song. Leave me alone with my potatoes,” He grumbled, stabbing at the mashed food with a spoon as though it would comfort him.

Tommy squinted. “Maybe he doesn’t know he has a crush.”

“He’s never had an unconscious crush before,” Phil supplied. “Always knew right away when he liked someone.”

It was true. He was not one to be in denial, as most of his crushes were harmless and there was no reason for him to not tell anyone.

So, if he did have a crush now, they might be dangerous.

But he didn't. So, they weren’t.

Although he was beginning to see their reasoning.

“I don't have a crush.”

“Mate, you've said that a million times, it's not going to stop anyone from theorizing.”

“There's really no chance he does, though,” Tommy mumbled with a sinister smirk in Wilbur's direction. “…Unless he's sneaking out at night to see someone.”

Wilbur did not and could not stop himself from jolting. Violently. He wanted to immediately interrogate Tommy on what he knew and how he knew, but first, he needed to not look like a jellyfish on land.

He took a deep breath. “I'm an adult, if I want to go out at night, it's not sneaking out.” He eyed his little brother dangerously. “If you happened to be going out without asking, on the other hand?”

At the realization that secrets were being spilled, Techno hid his arms under the table.

“Boys,” Phil warned. “Nobody is sneaking out. I know I’ve not been around so much, lately, but I'm home at night, and I'm sure I’d know if anything was going on.”

Wilbur stifled laughter by shoving mashed potatoes into his mouth. He felt Tommy's glare on the side of his head like lasers.

“Maybe we shouldn't pester him about it if he doesn't know,” Techno sighed. “He'd be less likely to figure it out.”

“Are you calling me dumb now?” Wilbur asked. “Is that what this is?”

Techno set his fork down with a cold clink on the plate. “It's every fucking day with you, isn't it? Twisting my words like that?”

“Stop.” Phil cut in. “Stop.”

The brothers turned to their father, blinking.

“I think,” the man said, standing up, “This may have been a mistake.” He took up his plate with a sigh. “I wanted to- to have a nice, normal dinner with my family, and I just- I fear I came at the wrong time. You're fighting like cats. I think I'm going to head to bed.”

Wilbur wilted.

He had known Phil would eventually leave, as his solution to every problem was to just not be a part of it, but he'd hoped it wouldn't be his feud with his brother that would eventually drive him away.

Instead of reacting, y'know, appropriately, Tommy snorted. “Alright.”

Phil blinked at him in shock. “…Alright?”

“Alright,” Tommy said again, leaning forward. “I mean sure, Phil, we're pretty dysfunctional, I agree with you there. I mean, Tech and Wil've got whatever the fuck it is they've got against each other.” He gestured to them.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Everything. Everything against each other.”

“Yep. And then you have Me and Wil, and we're on pretty good terms, usually, but we definitely don't completely trust each other right now.” Then Tommy gestured to Techno. “Then me and Techno, and us, it's- how do I put it?”

“Complicated,” Techno grunted.

“Complicated. So yeah, Dad, we're really bad at communication, not great at the whole ‘Brother' thing, and we aren't really present in each other’s lives, but at least we're here.”

He shrugged. “I'd say, maybe the reason we're so dysfunctional- well, it's a little bit your fault, innit?”

Phil gasped. Wilbur's eyes widened impossibly, and Techno tapped the table nervously with his fingertips.

Dead silence.

You did it, Wilbur thought in a mix of disbelief and horror. You successfully turned the tower into a war zone.

“Tommy,” Phil began with eyes narrowed.

“No, no, don't Tommy me. Don't say my name like that.” Tommy sat a little straighter in his chair, looking for danger, pushing his limits. “You weren't there when Techno got bruises from overworking himself, fighting goddamn holograms. You weren't there when Wilbur was chugging vodka at 3 am to escape a nightmare he was still in, and you weren't fucking there when I realized the only reason people gave me the time of day is so I could grow up and be like mum, and fill mum's place on the leaderboard, and be as good and amazing as she was, or else I was a waste of air.”

Mother of God, Wilbur thought breathlessly, wanting to be anywhere but here right now. Mother of fucking god.

It was a little strange, for Wilbur, to look at Tommy and Phil, two people who looked so alike, and were yet so vastly different. Glaring at each other like predator and prey, but it was impossible to tell which was which.

“I'm… going to bed,” Phil said coldly.

He put his plate into the sink and walked dazedly down the hall. Running away. Not getting involved.

Like usual.

-

“Jake! Why would you do this?”

Wilbur wrinkled his nose at the screen.

“Lucy, it's not what you think!” The man with too much spray tan replied.

“This is supposed to be a romance, why is he cheating on her?” Tommy asked from the corner of the couch, hugging a pillow.

“That's the throwaway guy,” Techno responded gruffly. “Y'know, the one that breaks her heart so the love interest has a bigger impact?”

“Oh, that's why.” Wilbur squinted. “I thought he seemed like a jerk, but it felt too intentional for me to say he was the love interest.”

It was midnight. None of the brothers were going to bed. None of them were going out. They planned to watch hallmark movies until they died. Y'know, to cope.

Nobody addressed anything Tommy said at the table, either- but Wilbur made a mental note to ask about it later, in red sharpie, bold and underlined.

Wilbur could see the focus wafting around the actors even through a camera as they did their work. It was a big turn off for him when it came to movies, seeing the boredom or the focus and nothing of the actual characters. A bit off-putting. Sometimes, with very good method actors who went very deep into their roles, Wilbur could see a... phantom pressure around their eyes as they sunk deeper into an emotion their character was feeling. He liked that, liked the realer aspect of it, but it wasn't very often that he saw it.

“Techno, have you seen this one before?” Wilbur asked offhandedly.

“Yeah. Classic forbidden romance,” The man muttered.

“What happens?”

“Don't spoil it,” Tommy warned.

Wilbur scoffed. “They all start like this anyway. I just want to know!”

Techno shrugs. “Guy shows up. They fall for each other, but there's the whole denial thing because they're not supposed to even be talking.”

Wilbur turned to look at him curiously. “And?”

“They fail to stay away. The universe does its magic, like in every movie. They get stuck in the same place all the time until eventually, it's of their own will.”

Oh.

“What happens when they confess?” Wilbur asked.

Techno turned to face him with raised eyebrows. “Hey, that's a little fast, there.”

Wilbur frowned. “Well, they're already in love, right?”

“Well, yeah, but I did say they were in denial. The first step of confessing to someone is confessing to yourself.”

Tommy blinked in shock. “Deep. That sounds hard.” He shrugged. “Good thing I don't need to do that since women are throwing themselves at my feet.”

“When was the last time you spoke to a woman?” Techno asked with a wheezy laugh.

The lights were all off except for the television, and Wilbur's eyes and mind ached.

The first step to confessing to someone is confessing to yourself.

I do not have a crush.

He's pretty.

I do not have a crush.

Techno and Tommy continued bickering.

Wilbur tried to shake all the thoughts from his mind, but thinking about getting rid of it did not get rid of it; The fear, the knowledge, growing in the back of his mind.

I do not have a crush on him.

Him. It's him, now.

He's not even that pretty. He's just smart and kind, and his voice could light fires if he used it right.

And he laughs like soda pop.

And he's the most beautiful thing on earth.

And he treats me like I'm worth fighting for.

And I am not in love with him.

Oh.

“-Wil. Wil.”

He flinched at the smack to his shoulder, looking over to see his younger brother staring at him with a worried expression. The movie had been paused.

“Are you alright?”

Oh, what a question.

“Fine, why?” It took everything to make sure his voice didn't waver.

Techno raised his eyebrows. “You're red.”

“What?” Wilbur raised a hand to touch his cheek. It was warm. “Fuck.”

I am not in love with him.

“I… need to go to bed, I think.”

“We're sorry for pestering you today,” Tommy rushed as Wilbur stood up. He could feel the panic in waves around his younger brother. “We were just- just worried.”

“It's fine, king,” Wilbur breathed as he rounded the couch and walked towards the hall. “And I’m allowed to keep my secrets.”

“As long as the secret isn't hurting anyone.”

Wilbur stopped at the last second and turned slowly to face Tommy.

“Do you… think I would hurt you?”

Tommy met his gaze with silent defiance. “I think you would hurt yourself.”

-

His reflection stared back at him.

Wilbur was tired. The day had been long. It was past midnight, and he wanted only to sleep.

He was scared that if he slept, even his dreams would not be an escape.

I'm tired, he thought, and I’m not in love with him.

People shouldn't make decisions after nine at night. That's what Techno said.

I'm not in love with him.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. The man on the other side was lanky, and tall, and had scraggly brunet hair that looked like a bird's nest at the moment. Dark shadows hung from his eyes. The reflection was of a man that was not in love. The reflection was of a man that would never confess.

The first step to confessing to someone is to confess to yourself.

He'd thought it would be harder, actually. He thought the words would come out like he was bleeding; like they usually did when he talked about his feelings. He thought he'd have to force it. He thought it’d take longer, at least.

Instead, the words tumbled from his mouth like he’d been holding them in forever.

“I am in love with him.”

Oh.

“I am,” he said again, and his reflection seemed appalled, “deeply and tragically in love with that fucking vigilante. Because he’s beautiful, and strong, and kind, and so, so smart- oh my god. Oh my god. Fuck, I love him.”

I love everything about him. I love his onyx eyes and soda laugh, I love his smile lines and faded freckles, and I love his passion and skill and scars. I love him so much.

I’m in so much trouble. I am in deep fucking shit. I could get arrested for saying things like that.

“I don’t care,” he hissed, and he was shocked at the newfound courage. “I don't care.”

But I can never tell him. It would put him in danger.

He watched his reflection instantly whither.

But it hurts.

He collapsed onto his bed, shaking slightly, wanting nothing more than a dreamless sleep.

Because it did hurt. It was an ache more powerful than any television screen at night. It hurt like hell, that he could never speak a word to anyone about anything, seeing that all he wanted to do right then was text him.

He shouldn't. Because it would put him in danger, and if anything happened to Quackity…

Dear god. Quackity.

Wilbur closed his eyes, forcing himself into darkness, forcing his mind to be quiet.

Even though it hurt.

Chapter Text

“I don’t trust them.” 

Quackity set his phone on the edge of the sink, hitting the speaker button and scowling at himself in the mirror.  

“Well, we do,” Jack said on the other side of the phone. “ And we’ve been doing this for months now. You’re the only one who refuses to come.”  

“You mean Nightshade actually comes to these things?” 

“She takes a little convincing, but I can usually sway her,” Niki cut in.  

“I don’t trust this guy- Eret? Did you say? Didn’t she have a few lawsuits against her bar?” 

“They have a bit of a rat infestation, but it should be fine- besides, he has one of those tables in the back, the holographic ones with a map of the city and all that fancy shit. The heroes get one, I’m sure a few villains have them, and we should get to have them too!” There was a slamming sound from Jack’s mic. “Fuck. Hit my head.”  

“Every month,” Quackity grumbled. “Every month, you try to get me to go to one of these stupid motherfucking meetings on the west side, in a bar with a rat infestation, run by some random bartender who claims to not call the cops.” 

“We’ve been going for a while now, ” Niki said. “Nobody’s gotten arrested yet!”  

“We don’t know that! Does anyone even know what happened to Diamond?” 

“If the government got a hold of Diamond, it would have been on the news. Even the citizens loved and believed in him- they would have dangled him in our faces. I think he genuinely just disappeared.”   

Quackity huffed. “I don’t know.” 

He’d just woken up (it was 4 pm) and he honestly looked like shit. He’d been up all night, texting a certain hero who kept sending disturbing duck facts every time he stopped laughing enough to close his eyes. 

When he finally gave up and told Wilbur to stop, the hero only said, Goodnight, starshine! <3  

Heart emoji. He added a fucking heart emoji. 

Does he even know? Does he even know what that does to me?  

“Q? You good?”  

“Yes, I’m fine,” Quackity breathed. 

He quickly grabbed a brush to fix his hair, which resembled a rat’s nest at the moment. “Please come,” Niki said. “He’s a really good bartender, as well!”  

“I don’t drink anymore.” 

“Since when?” Jack scoffed. 

“Since now,” Quackity grumbled. “Fine. Fine! I'll come. I'll have to get a cab.” 

“Just learn to drive,” Jack complained, and Quackity hung up on him and Niki. 

The call screen disappeared, replaced by the texts from last night. He quickly put his phone to sleep, not letting himself read them over, lest he needs to scream into a pillow again. 

“I hate everything,” he whispered as he surveyed the deep shadows under his eyes. Wilbur hadn't been texting as much recently, but when he did, he didn't stop for at least an hour. Quackity had a feeling he was holding back, for some reason. 

Not that he liked 3 am texts about how ducks have accents. It was annoying. Definitely. 

The bar on the west side was somewhere in downtown Kinoko and on the edge of the Badlands. It was run by Eret, who Quackity heard lots of good things about, but he was still skeptical of the place's security. 

The other vigilantes liked to meet there every once in a while, to, as they say, “Discuss politics.” Which is code for gossiping about vigilante romances. 

He couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to that.  

But what if someone finds out? What if there are security cameras? What if they call the cops, or worse, the heroes? What if she's just waiting to get everyone in one place?  

You should be able to trust the ability of your friends, something in his mind murmured. They took all the precautions, so nobody is in danger.  

It calmed him down, slightly. The voice sounded suspiciously like Wilbur's. 

That's what he'd tell me, Quackity knew. He huffed and turned to leave the bathroom. Loyal dumbass.  

He worried, sometimes, whether Wilbur had ever used his power on Quackity. 

“Hey, can I- hold on, can I say something?”  

Wilbur paused, blinking. “Sure.”  

“Can you- can you promise to not use your power on me?”  

Wilbur's eyes widened ever so slightly.  

“Sorry, I just- I don't know if you might have done it before, and I don't know whether the promise would mean anything to you, but I- it would make me feel better, I think. I don't want you to use your power on me unless I'm about to burn down a building out of anger, or something.”  

“Q, I-” Wilbur faltered, suddenly looking very small. “I'd never. I promise I’d never do that to you, I- I'd never do it to anyone unless I really had to, I don't- I'd never.”  

“Okay,” Quackity breathed. “Okay, I- sorry, I just worry, sometimes.”  

“That's okay,” Wilbur chuckled, and it seemed almost sad. “You have a right to be worried, I know having someone around who can change your emotions is- well, it's a bit stressful. But I’d never do that to you. And if I did, you'd- you'd probably know. I have to touch you to use it.”  

Quackity remembered the way Wilbur had grabbed Mask's head, the only exposed skin, to make him fall asleep. Then he thought of Wilbur's hand in his. 

It takes a difficult kind of trust to touch someone, especially with holding hands. Especially with Wilbur.  

So then why is he the only one I've held hands with since…  

He abruptly cut off all of those thoughts. He was very, very good at not thinking about things. Usually. (It had been a bit difficult, recently.) 

He knew, logically, he had… complicated feelings about the hero. It might be considered big enough to be classified as a small crush. But that was it, and he was smart enough to know it was a small thing that would eventually pass and all he had to do was wait it out because it was just a crush. I can handle a tiny, minuscule crush.  

“Fuck trust,” Quackity hissed. “I'm bringing my fucking weapons to this thing.” 

The vigilantes used to meet somewhere else. An abandoned building that used to be a café, constantly secluded, and with the power still running. 

But they tore that place down. And Quackity missed it. 

The last time they went there was the night he had to meet Wilbur to talk about the invitation. It was also part of the reason he completely fucking forgot to wear his mask. 

Quackity changed into clothes that weren't wrinkled from sleep (he'd been too tired to change last night,) and slipped knives into any pocket he could fit them in.  

He lived in an apartment, but thankfully, he was on the ground floor. That way, he didn't have to walk up and down a million flights of stairs every time he went anywhere. (It was especially helpful that he didn't alert any of the other people in the complex when he left.)  

He went out and shut the door, stepping onto the asphalt of the sidewalk. It was six at night, now, and the sun had just about set, with only faint streaks of yellow left on the west horizon. 

The air was so cold that Quackity could see his breath wisp into the air. He let out a deliberate sigh, watching the fog swirl out in front of him and then fade into the sky. 

He pulled out his phone, swiping away the texts with Wilbur, to call a cab. 

The taxis in L'manburg were shit, to be honest, but he refused to learn to drive himself. Partly because he was lazy and he had enough trouble paying for his apartment as it is, and partly because having a car with an identifiable license plate was a terrible idea for a vigilante. 

A car would be nice, he supposed, to get to work every day- but all he ever does is answer phones and call a list of numbers about products nobody wants. Nobody cares if he’s late, and he’s paid enough for bare essentials anyway, so it’s not exactly a need. 

When the cab came, it was as Quackity expected; a broken headlight and a banged-up trunk. Quackity wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dead body back there. 

The inside was better, thankfully- no weird stains or broken seatbelts. He took a deep breath, smelling cheap lavender air freshener that thinly masked the smell of burning leather. 

“Hey,” He sighed, looking up at the man in the front seat. 

“Hey, I’m Charlie!” The driver greeted cheerfully. “Where are you headed?” 

“Uhh. A bar on the west side- should be called King’s bar?” 

“Oh, got it. Any music you want to play?” 

“Don’t really care.” 

“Great,” The man grinned, reaching over to the aux. To Quackity’s pleasant surprise, one of his favorite songs started to play. He stifled a grin at the familiar tune. 

Charlie, as he was so-called, had light brown hair and neon green glasses (that didn’t seem to have lenses. A stylistic choice??) He wore a white t-shirt, jeans, and a small, permanent smile that clearly said Quackity was going to be forced to make small talk. 

“Have you seen the news recently?” Charlie asked, turning the car around the corner. 

“Um, not really.” 

“Oh, well- I don’t mean to bother you about it, since I myself don’t quite enjoy politics, but I heard that a hero went up a rank.” 

“Seriously? When was the last time that happened?” 

“A year ago, I think. Ram took 404’s place as #4 yesterday. There was a nasty scene about it on the news this morning.” Charlie laughed. “They had to shake hands.” 

Quackity grimaced. “Poor 404.” 

Charlie hummed, looking in his driver’s mirror at his passenger as though slightly surprised. “Perhaps he deserved it.” 

Quackity’s brow furrowed. “Why would he?” 

“Not sure. What’s your name, friend?” 

“…Quackity.” 

He expected any sort of comedic reaction. Charlie just tilted his head. “From where?” 

“…Inner Las Nevadas,” Quackity murmured. 

“Alright, Quackity from Las Nevadas. We’re going through central, now- halfway there!” 

“That was quick,” the vigilante commented, peering out the window. Buildings towered over their car, and other vehicles seemed to fall behind easily. He glanced back up at his driver with a worried look. The man just kept driving nonchalantly, with a subtle smile. 

Charlie evidently was not a normal taxi driver. 

They made minimal small talk while he drove, and Quackity felt marginally awkward, but the strange man only barreled on about the weather and artists and anything else his mind decided to drift to. All the while, Quackity was ninety percent sure the car was going way over the speed limit. 

“It'll be only a few minutes now,” he said after what felt like forever. Quackity sighed. Driving halfway across the city obviously takes time. 

“Great.” 

On the sidewalks they passed, the vigilante spotted a toddler grasping his mother's hand, and waving around a small action figure. 

The action figure depicted a hero with pink hair and a red cape. 

“You talk a lot about your brother,” Quackity murmured.  

Wilbur blinked. “Which one?”  

“The one you don't like.”  

 Wilbur took a shuddering breath, putting on a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. “Yeah, I do, I guess. Only because everyone else does.”  

Quackity tilted his head. “Why don't you like him?”  

“I know I should,” Wilbur laughed almost bitterly. “Brotherly bonds, and all that.”  

“It's not like you have to, but it seems a bit counterproductive to hate someone who sleeps in the room next to yours.”   

“Did you ever have siblings?”  

“No?”  

“Then you don't know,” Wilbur breathed. “I mean, I might hate him just a bit more than usual. He wasn't the best, I think, growing up. Always the golden child.”  

 Quackity frowned. “I'm sorry, that must have been bad. I'm sure he still loves you, though.”  

“Don't be so sure,” Wilbur laughed bitterly. At seeing Quackity's semi-worried expression, he softened. “But- uh- thanks for caring. It's been a while since someone actually acknowledged it.”  

Quackity smiled gently, making a mental note to be careful about the subject. “Of course, pretty boy.”  

A small, tiny little crush.  

“We’re here, Quackity from Las Nevadas.” 

The vigilante didn’t bother to look out the window, just grunting and stepping out of the vehicle into the cold night air. “Thanks for the ride, dude,” Quackity murmured, gazing up at the building. 

It looked like a normal bar. The sign said in bright yellow lettering, King’s bar, with a tiny neon crown above the K. Fun.  

He turned around to face the car and pay Charlie, but only to find the man had already driven away. Either that or the car had disappeared into thin air, taking its driver with it. 

He shrugged off the strange encounter and went inside. 

- 

The inside of the bar was well-lit a warm amber, the lingering smell of liquor and sugar wafting around. Quackity narrowed his eyes at his surroundings, not seeing anyone in the room. 

He began to think, for a moment, it might be a trap. 

Jack and Niki would not lead you into a trap, Brain-Wilbur chided. Quackity told him to shut up. 

He took a few steps further into the bar and then heard a sharp laugh from one of the back rooms.  

“Hello?” He called in that general direction, feeling a bit awkward. 

In an instant, a human poked their head out of a door. They had long brunette curls and stark black sunglasses. 

“You’re… Eret,” Quackity mumbled with a guarded posture. “Right?” 

“And you’re Quackity,” Eret said in a voice way, way, way too deep and smooth to be real. Niki was not kidding when she said you could listen to him talk for hours. She grinned widely. “I use all pronouns. It’s nice to meet you, king!” 

“…you too?” Quackity murmured incredulously. 

“Come in, come in,” Eret laughed, stepping to the side. Quackity realized with a start that she was also very, very tall.   

Eret was… intimidating, to say the least, but they had a kind voice and a welcoming personality that gave Quackity only a little closure.  

When he walked into the back room, he was marginally shocked to find everyone he knew- including fucking Nuclear, of all people. Quackity wanted to ask why he was even here, but he already knew the answer; Vinyl had brought him, the bastard, because the two were joined at the hip no matter what complicated political stances Nuclear took. And nobody had much of a problem with the tiny brunet in the nuclear trefoil mask. 

When he entered, he was immediately greeted by a cacophony of people yelling his name. It jolted him to hear their voices, as he hadn’t met many of them in person recently except Vinyl, and didn’t actually go out to meet people on the regular anyway. 

He still didn’t trust Eret, or the place, or anything else, but he trusted his friends a little. That was enough for now. 

Jack and Niki were there, obviously having come together (probably from work.) The two were also known as Hydrogen and Glacier. Jack had the power to create ice from nothing and freeze any surface, while Niki could conjure water. (Niki was also a fish hybrid, which made her power extremely convenient. Deep teal fins extended from behind her ears and her forearms, and she had gills that flared on either side of her neck.) Niki and Jack worked together at the news station as anchors, and Quackity sometimes watched their channel as most of the city did. They were the news channel with the highest ratings, and both were very proud of this fact. 

Sam was there as well, also known as Gunpowder- similar to Nuclear, he dealt with explosives and technology, but also on weaponry and gadgets for combat. He normally wore a gas mask over his mouth, but today he just dressed like a normal civilian- and not one of the most intimidating vigilantes in the city. His power was, conveniently, explosions. It was exactly as it sounded- he could make small explosions, enough to break a padlock, or if he focused all his energy, large ones- ones that could tear down a sizable building. 

Magma was also there. Magma preferred to keep even their name a secret, which was a popular topic among the vigilantes (there was a period where everyone called him Joe to tease him for favoring anonymity.) Their power was- you guessed it- magma. It poured from their hands in rivers and charred everything in sight. Perhaps even a bit worse than a fire power- liquid heat. 

Vinyl and Nuclear were there, happily chatting in the corner. He knew Vinyl didn’t have a power, and Nuclear’s still wasn’t revealed. Quackity briefly remembered his conversation with Vinyl when he patrolled central with him, and then pushed all the thoughts away.  

Nightshade was there as well, mysterious and judgmental as ever, surveying them all with silent stoicism and perfect eyeliner. 

“Holo-table-thing!” Jack said excitedly, gesturing to the large table in the center of the room. Quackity regarded it with a large grin, as he was sure Jack would have a field day messing with it and was glad they would have it as a reference from now on. Jack hammered the keypad until it projected a cyan screen. “I’m so glad we have one of these now.” 

“It can show us anything?” Quackity asked curiously, leaning closer to examine the holographic square. 

“Anything!” 

Minx hummed. “Show me a cock,” she said immediately. 

“It isn’t voice-activated, Minx,” Jack deadpanned.  

“I want to see if it can show us a cock as well,” Sam interjected. 

“I don’t,” Vinyl spluttered. 

“We aren’t showing a cock!” Jack exclaimed. 

Quackity examined the room. There were wall-to-wall kegs of liquor on the shelves, and it was dimly lit from a bare lightbulb in the ceiling. The brightest light was the table itself, which was surrounded by chairs and pillows. 

“Hm.” Quackity held up the puffy décor. “Pillows.” 

“Pillows!” Nuclear exclaimed, promptly lobbing one in Vinyl’s direction. It hit him square in the face. 

“Alright, the first thing we have to talk about before you all dissolve into gossip,” Nightshade grumbled. “That thing that went down this morning?” 

“404 lost his rank to Ram. I saw it,” Sam mumbled. “They had to shake hands. It was gruesome.” 

Vinyl nodded slowly. “I heard about that too. But how did Ram get the points to beat him?” 

Jack cracked his knuckles, then got to work searching for information. He typed furiously on the keypad. “Ram hasn’t done anything in… a while, really,” he murmured. “I would know, me and Niki would have covered it on the news.” 

The table projected a moving picture of 404 and Ram shaking hands. Ram was marginally taller, with curling ram horns and a fake grin for the cameras. (Quackity almost thought he looked familiar, but with the black mask covering the hero’s upper face, he couldn’t be sure.) 404 was a smaller brunette. He wore goggles over his eyes, but he still looked openly pissed. 

Niki nodded. “However, 404 might have lost points.” 

Minx tilted her head. “How’s that?” 

“This morning, when we were looking over our scripts,” the fish hybrid began, “there was a piece about something that happened last night. 404 threw a fit at a press conference when they asked how he grieved Millennium’s death.” 

“Oh, god,” Quackity murmured, wincing. “Are they that dumb?” 

Niki shrugged. “Perhaps the journalist was fishing for a reaction just as volatile as possible. They’ll do what they need to for a good story.” She cleared her throat. “But it was too volatile, apparently, because literally a few minutes before we went on, we got a message from the Agency bribing us to not cover it.” Niki rolled her eyes. “Obviously, our manager took the bribe.” 

“It was terrible. I had a great joke planned for it and everything,” Jack grumbled, furiously typing out something onto the table. As he did, another image popped up. 

“Some people, however, got the whole thing on camera,” he said with a grin, bringing up the video. 

“How did you handle Millennium’s passing?” Was the first thing Quackity heard. 

He saw 404 outlined in bright blue on a stage, looking terribly small by himself on the platform. In front of him was a lone microphone and behind him was a wall painted with the hero’s rankings. Quackity imagined them painting over 404 with Ram’s name in bold white letters. 

The hero tensed. “Sorry?”  

The voice continued. “I asked how you handled Millennium’s passing? Was it difficult to grieve?”  

404 paused, his expression hardening into something bitter. “Millennium is alive. He’s alive, just because he- just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he’s dead.”  

“Yes, but-”  

“No, no. I don’t want to hear this, I’ve heard it over and over and over. He didn’t die, he’s better than that, he wouldn’t- he wouldn’t leave.”   

He wouldn’t just leave me, Quackity could practically hear under the ferocious tone, and wondered how he got so good at reading the voice of a hero in pain. 

“If you’re so fucking convinced he’s dead, why do you keep asking? Why can’t you just leave it alone, like you do with everything you just don’t feel like talking about? How about you ask me about the agency’s discouragement of fucking speaking?? Or about Tommy Minecraft??”  

If Vinyl visibly tensed, nobody noticed. 

The guards below the stage were already moving up the side steps and drawing closer to the hero, attempting to pull him off stage. “Don’t you fucking touch me, I can walk,” The hero spat, and they pulled him away anyway. 

“Dear God,” Magma mumbled. “That was…” 

“Volatile,” Niki finished. “We know. We watched it over and over this morning before they cut it out of the news.” 

“I can see why the agency would be eager to take that out,” Sam breathed with his arms crossed. 

“What did he mean by the discouragement of speaking?” Minx asked with an inkling of curiosity. 

“The agency doesn’t like it when heroes talk a lot outside of press conferences,” Quackity murmured, jigsaw pieces snapping into place in his mind. “Because it makes them seem like humans. The agency wants us to see them as idols.” 

Wilbur hadn’t ever told him that. To be honest, he probably didn’t even know. 

“Idols? More than human?” Jack asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Less than human. And those guards, below the stage- they aren’t there to protect the heroes from assassinations or something. They’re there to protect the world from the heroes. To pull them off stage if they say something against the agency.” He nodded towards the hologram. “Like they did then.” 

That was something Wilbur had told him, in the dead of the night, when he was upset and just a little shaky from a recent press conference. “ They all looked at me,” he mumbled, “ Like I was an experiment to study.”  

He supposed that part of the reason Wilbur was lower on the scoreboard was that he talked a lot. Waxing overdramatic poetry at all his opponents, charming strangers while being filmed on the news. He acted less like a stoic idol and more like a celebrity. 

That was another way he and The Blade were different- Blade didn’t speak as much. It made him more intimidating, more like a machine. Quackity guessed that was something the agency had molded into his character in a way they just couldn’t with Wilbur. Wilbur was stronger and smarter than that. 

Wilbur was much more talkative, except when asking questions. 

Perhaps it was because they were just that good at silent communication, but it was always the silent questions, with Wilbur. Do we go this way? Can I ask this question? Is this person a threat? Do we stay hidden?  

Can I hold your hand?  

And oh, Quackity tried desperately not to think about that night, where the tension had been almost as thick as it was in the med bay. When Wilbur took his hand to lead him somewhere and didn't ever let go, Quackity barely noticed until they stopped on the edge of a rooftop at the end of the patrol. 

Quackity tried desperately not to think of how they sat down that night, with happy banter about mythology and wings when they realized they were still holding hands. The moonlight shone the same as it had in the med bay. 

Quackity tried and tried and tried not to think about Wilbur's eyes trailing down to their intertwined fingers, noticing the predicament and shifting his hand only slightly to bring Quackity's attention to it, but not pulling away, he wouldn't unless the vigilante asked. Blatant curiosity and an eyebrow raised at Quackity asked the silent question, Is this alright?  

He had looked stunning, fuck, he always looked stunning, and Quackity no longer had lungs in the presence of someone that ethereal, so he only nodded silently. It had seemed obvious, at that moment, and it never occurred to him he could have refused, as the air was cold, and Wilbur was warm. 

Quackity failed to stop thinking about how Wilbur had lit up at the chance, and Quackity caught every little detail. His smile widening ever so slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and the small tug he gave to Quackity's hand to show he understood. And how he'd eventually held Quackity's hand with both of his own, humming something unintelligible while Quackity talked, and how he didn't just hold it, he traced each line in the palms with calloused fingertips (but always gentle, so achingly gentle.) 

At that moment, Quackity's mind was intoxicated with the thought of grabbing his jacket collar, pulling him in, and ruining everything. 

Would he be gentle then, too?  

Quackity grabbed a pillow from next to him and pressed it to his face. Then he screamed. 

Half the people in the room probably flinched, but due to his face being buried in a pillow, Quackity didn't see it. 

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Jack asked. 

“I…”  

Q slowly set the pillow down, revealing a blush that crept across his cheeks and collarbone, much more prominent in the tissue of his scar. 

“I need a drink.” 

The majority of the other vigilantes just looked confused. Eret (who had apparently walked in at one point while Quackity was stuck in his mind,) sighed and smiled sympathetically. “Why don't you come to the main bar, king? That's what it's for, anyway.” 

Quackity only nodded and followed her out. 

- 

“Is it… something you can talk about?” 

“Nope.” 

Eret pestered Quackity at the counter. Quackity was not happy about it. He swished a glass of whiskey in circles, surveying the taller man with quiet bitterness. 

Eret tilted his head. “Is there someone you can talk about it with?” 

Quackity raised an eyebrow. 

“Normally when you're feeling bad, there's at least one person you want to talk about it with- someone you can. Is there anyone out there that you could talk to?” 

Quackity paused for a moment. “No. No, there isn't.” 

“You just want to sit there and drink? Pathetically?” 

Quackity grimaced. “Stop. I feel like I’m at the dinner table.” 

Eret grinned, but it was kind. She set the bottle on the counter with a deft clunk and took a few steps towards the back to find something else. “Give me a second. I have just the thing.” 

Quackity waited (like he always had to do with everything in his life) for Eret to find what he was looking for. His eyes wandered down to his glass. 

Whiskey was the color of gold, shining enticingly in the dimly lit bar. Light passed through the glass, casting streaks of amber in patterns across the counter. It resembled a painting. He wondered if Wilbur was any good at painting, and then shut his eyes tight and prayed his heart would stop beating right there. 

He shielded the glass from the light with his hand, so it stopped lighting up gold. It helped only a little. 

“So,” Eret began, leaning on the counter, “You’re upset about someone.” 

“Someone?” 

“You’re blushing. Furiously.” 

“…Weren’t you going to get something?” 

“No,” Eret murmured with a small smile, “It was a test.” 

Quackity raised an eyebrow. “Explain.” 

“I tell you I’m going to get something,” Eret began, and then nodded towards the whiskey bottle on the counter, “And leave the whole bottle with you.” 

Quackity blinked at it. 

“You could have grabbed the bottle, but you didn’t.” 

“Does that mean I passed?” 

“No. It means you failed.” Eret crossed her arms. “If you’d grabbed it, it would have meant you were at least aware enough of your surroundings to take the opportunity.” He tilted his head. “But you didn’t even look at it. You’re too trapped in your own head.” 

Quackity scoffed. “And your goal is to give me more alcohol?” 

“No. If you reached for it, I would have stopped you anyway.” 

“Your back was turned.” 

“Do you know what my power is?” 

Quackity narrowed his eyes. “Having a voice like satanic chocolate?” 

“…No, but I appreciate the sentiment. My power is awareness,” the bartender sighed. 

“Which means?” 

“I know what’s happening around me. I can see behind me, to my side, and just around the corner- I can basically shoot a gun over my shoulder and hit a target a mile away.” 

Quackity raised his eyebrows. “That doesn't make me feel much better about trusting you.” 

“I don't need you to trust me. I need you to sort through your crap so you don't drink too much whiskey. I'm giving you that shit for free.”  

 Quackity snorted, swirling the liquor around in the glass. “I'm more of a beer guy, anyway.” He set it down. “And my problem… isn't something I can just sort out.” He blinked. “I need to just… wait. And hope it passes.” 

“That's the unhealthiest thing you can do, king.” 

“I don't care,” Quackity snapped. “It's dangerous, okay? For both me and him, it-“  

His breath caught in his throat. 

“It's dangerous,” he choked, “And I promise you that if I do something, I will take everyone down with me.” 

Eret frowned. “I find that humans have a tendency to fall for those they can't have… it must be terrible.” 

“It's cruel. ” Quackity wished Wilbur could hear that. You're cruel. You're cruel, and I hate you, and I want to hold you, and you're cruel.  

Eret winced, reaching over to take the bottle. “Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for you to leave the house when you're this wrapped up in it. Take some time for yourself.” 

“Honestly, I thought it would help. At home, everything reminds me of him. Now, everything still does. He's like a disease.” Except the kind you wish would just kill you.

Eret sighed. “Don't drink too much, king.” 

“I'll decide how much I drink,” he hissed.  

He stared down at the glass again.  

Gold. 

Quackity pushed the glass away.  

“Never mind.” 

Eret shook her head sadly. “You've got to do something about it.” 

“Shut up.” It sounded cold, and the vigilante found he didn't care. 

I can handle a small crush. I’m being so pathetic about this.  

“I’m calling a cab,” Quackity muttered, pushing himself away from the counter and sighing. “I think this was a mistake.” 

Eret didn’t try to stop him. Quackity said goodbye to the rest of the vigilantes first, spinning a story about not feeling so well , and, maybe it’s the cold. They cheerfully said goodbye, Minx narrowing her eyes at him in suspicion, almost seeming to say Are you not going to talk about this? He met her gaze with a silent There’s nothing to talk about.  

He wished it was the cold. 

It was extremely late by the time he made it out, the freezing air biting at his cheeks and nose. It seemed like it might snow soon. 

The same cab rolled up, with the same broken headlight and same cheeky driver. Charlie greeted him happily, and Quackity gave nothing but a numb nod in return.  

At least I didn’t get arrested tonight.  

“Are you alright, back there?” Charlie asked, peering into the driver’s mirror. 

“Nope.” 

“Oh. Would you like me to play some music?” 

“I don’t care.” 

Charlie turned on the radio. Quackity didn’t recognize the song anymore. 

None of that was just a little crush, Brain-Wilbur murmured. You know it’s not.  

Quackity closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. 

You’re in love.  

“I know.” 

Charlie didn’t hear anything, evidently, and just kept driving. 

“I know,” the vigilante repeated with a small breath, burying his face in his hands. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

Chapter Text

“I think I’m dying,” Wilbur mumbled. 

“Wil.” 

“This is the end.” 

“ Wil.”  

Tommy snapped his fingers next to his brother’s ear, making the man jolt. “Just make a move already!” 

Wilbur glared at the chessboard. “This game makes no sense! What’s the point? Surely this wasn’t what wars were like a million years ago. It should be illegal.” 

“Good thing I’m not on death row for playing it,” Tommy deadpanned, grabbing Wilbur’s arm and pulling him up into his chair. “Do you want me to help you again?” 

“No! I don’t accept help from a child regarding chess.”  

“That’s not what you said five moves ago,” Techno grumbled from where he sat beside the board, surveying their competition. 

“You don’t get to fucking talk!”  

“That phrase there implies that I have also asked for help. Which is stupid because I haven’t even played Tommy yet, you’re taking too long.” 

The brunet narrowed his eyes at the pawn on the left side, moving it forward. 

Tommy used his knight to take it out. 

“Wh- You can’t do that, it went to the side!” 

“That’s what knights do! It’s an L shape! Do you need me to explain the rules again?” 

“Leave me alone,” Wilbur groaned, laying his head on the table again. “I’m just dumb. Let me rot here.” 

It was mid-day. Wilbur had a mission later that night, one he knew Q would likely show up to.  

Q.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket. 

No. We are not texting him right now.  

The worst thing about his recent epiphany was trying desperately not to text Quackity. He failed, and his record without asking the vigilante about his day was about 20 hours. (Not even a full fucking day.) He attempted to hide his phone from himself, sometimes, just to keep from texting the man about every little thing.  

Sometimes he stared at his phone screen and wondered what could feasibly happen if he just told him. If he spilled every detail about the machinations of his mind, every strange moment where all he wanted to do was hold him, every word he’d ever thought or spoken. He wanted to say I love you. I barely know you. I don’t know your last name, I’ve never even seen you in daylight, but I think I would die for you in one heartbeat, and only because that’s as long as it would take for the organ to stop beating. I love it when you get confused and laugh at the same time and your nose scrunches in the middle, and I love every line and fold in your hands that tell the story of what you do with them. I love your instant comebacks and glaring eyes, I love the scarred tissue over your left eye and how fucking human it makes you look. I love how you love and you hope and you fight. I love the little line next to your smile and I want to see it every fucking day.  

He wanted to tack I love you at the end of every sentence.  

And was forced to put a heart emoji instead. 

A heart emoji. A fucking heart emoji. Does he even know what that does to me?  

And it was stupid because he could never say any of it. Ever. He’d have to settle for twined hands, stolen glances, wayward compliments, and a feeling of fondness floating around the two of them that Wilbur had to remind himself were only platonic. Strictly platonic. 

He’d grown to hate the word. 

Not only did he have to deal with the fact that he could lose his job, Quackity could get arrested and/or die, and his family would never let him hear the end of falling so tragically for a vigilante, but there was also the god-awful truth that Quackity didn’t reciprocate. 

If he did, he’d have said something by now, right? 

Wilbur knew the logical thing to do would be to cut Quackity off. He was putting everyone in danger just by having his contact on his phone. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t simply say “Sorry, I’m done here, never talking to you again,” because despite knowing Q probably didn’t reciprocate, he knew the vigilante still enjoyed his company, and cutting him off with no excuse in sight would fill Wilbur with so much guilt and longing he’d probably die of loneliness. 

I am so fucking pathetic, he thought to himself, eyes narrowing. 

“You need to leave soon,” Techno commented. “Are you going to finish up this game or just give up?” 

“Wilbur Minecraft does not give up,” the brunet growled.  

He moved his knight to take out one of Tommy’s pawns.  

Tommy nodded and took out the knight with a bishop. 

“I give up.” 

Tommy cheered, pumping his fists in the air. 

Techno tapped the end of his pen on his chin and then scribbled on the paper in front of him. It depicted a messy scoreboard. “Tommy, three. Wilbur, zero.” 

Wilbur rolled his eyes, standing up only to find his leg felt fuzzy for some reason. “ Fuck! ” He immediately shifted all of his weight onto the other limb. “Pins and needles. Fuck. Help.” 

“Your leg’s asleep? That’s great, I don’t care,” Tommy commented with a grin, packing the chess set in an old box. “I’m the biggest man ever.” 

“That’s great, Tommy. I’m in pain.” 

“Your costume should be in the closet, Phil will text you details,” Techno said with an overly sweet grin. “Time to head out.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, golden child,” Wilbur grumbled, easing more weight onto his leg. “Fuck both of you.” 

Before he left, he grabbed his phone and snapped a photo of the chessboard, sending it in a message to a contact labeled ‘Q’ with the caption, “I hate this game.” 

It occurred to him that he should have lied and said he was winning. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. 

-- 

Phil: There are reports of villain sightings near a nuclear facility in Kinoko. I’m sending you the address now  

Wilbur: Is there a specific villain or??  

Phil: not sure, the locals just say someone with a mask is creeping around. Could be new  

Phil: can you get in and figure out what’s going on?  

Wilbur: it’s not like I have a choice.  

When Wilbur happened upon the facility, a large rectangular building with no logo or sign, he began to wonder how many of the agency’s buildings were so abandoned that Villains could just come in whenever they pleased and take over. If the agency weren’t using them, they could turn the places into hospitals or shelters. Instead, they remain empty, if not for rat infestations and villain hideouts. 

Wilbur checked his phone again. There was nothing from Quackity. 

Something he’d noticed was that Quackity hadn’t responded as much anymore. It wasn’t much to worry over, and Wilbur didn’t care too much because he knew the vigilante must be busy- but it didn’t change the fact that Wilbur had been met with radio silence over the past week or so. 

At some points, he began to wonder if the vigilante had gone off and died somewhere, but eventually, Quackity replied just in time for Wilbur to not go looking. 

It was only a little worrying. 

He found the front doors (or perhaps they were back doors? They were almost imperceptible, being the same color as the concrete walls.) and walked into the building. 

The inside reminded him vaguely of Nuclear’s facility, with the winding halls that were all the same color. Again, he had no idea what he was looking for. Again, the place was abandoned and desolate, with every room usually containing only a few empty boxes or chairs. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if there was nothing here, or maybe just a kid in a mask trying to have fun, but he hoped there wasn’t anything too big. Q might not even show up, and Wilbur was not in the mood to get thrown into a wall at this point. 

Do I rely on him to win everything now?  

Hm. That’s got to be some flavor of unhealthy.  

As if on cue, Wilbur heard a slam from a doorway a few feet across the hall. 

“…Q?” 

Wilbur rounded the corner, finding his friend standing frozen by a doorway. 

“…Wil?” 

Wilbur grinned. “I was wondering when you were gonna show up!” 

Quackity seemed to wither. “Yeah, I- yeah. I haven’t found anything around here.” 

“Neither have I. How long have you been here?” 

Quackity stared at him for a moment. Wilbur took in the flits of fear and guilt in the air, and Quackity’s hands fidgeting with his sleeve. 

He does that when he wants to say something.  

Wilbur frowned. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” The vigilante said curtly, turning on his heel and beginning to walk away. “I’m doing great, actually.” 

Wilbur narrowed his eyes and followed him. “You don’t seem fine.” 

“Well, I am. What makes you think you can tell?” Quackity grumbled.  

Wilbur felt a pang of confusion. “…sorry.” 

Quackity did not answer. 

He’s upset about something. Afraid, or- or guilty. He’s hurting over something. Am I annoying him, or should I try to fill the silence? Did I cross a line I forgot about? Is it about me?  

It’s amazing that a few cold words can send me spiraling like this.  

“I heard,” Wilbur started tentatively, “That there was a sighting of a villain around here, but they don’t know who. There might not be anyone at all.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you know anything?” 

Quackity shook his head. 

Wilbur was having a bit of trouble keeping up with him as they walked. The vigilante was walking fast, and Wilbur was also focusing on the questions he asked, trying to not seem too invasive. 

“…We haven’t talked in a while, I know.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

It feels unfair when you do this. You can’t be silent, unresponsive, and expect me to just anticipate exactly what to say. You only do it because you know it frustrates me.  

We have to talk. I can’t force him to talk. I have to be patient. I hate being brushed off like this.  

Fuck.  

“…has anything happened recently?” 

“I-” Quackity stopped in the middle of the hall, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know. Look, can you just- maybe you should go home.” 

“…I… can’t do that…” Wilbur said slowly, growing a little more panicked. “I can’t. If something is going on, you can talk about it, if you need, I’m here to listen.” 

Wilbur thought he felt streaks of fondness shoot through the air before they were drowned by guilt. 

“Look, I can’t- I can’t do this right now.” 

“…okay? Can you explain what you mean?” 

“I mean you need to leave,” Quackity breathed, running hands through his hair. 

“I can help you. I know I’m prideful and all, but I promise not to drag you down, I just-“ 

“No, no, Wil, you need to leave!”   

Wilbur was taken aback by the harsh hostility. Despite his flashing eyes and baring teeth, Wilbur only felt pain coming from the vigilante. 

The hero paused. “I don’t understand.” 

“I need you to leave, please. I don’t- I don’t want to be around you.” 

Oh.  

Wilbur blinked, taking a step back. “… What?”  

“It’s not, please, I’m sorry, it’s not personal, I just- I can’t right now. I can’t. You’re- this is dangerous, and I need- I need you to just leave me alone. Not just today, for- for a while.” Quackity was stumbling violently over his words. He just seemed guilty, and frustrated, but that was to be expected. 

He’s finally had enough of me, Wilbur thought with wide eyes. I pushed him over the edge.  

The hero wasn’t quite processing what was happening. 

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Okay.” 

Quackity shook his head, his working eye wide as a saucer. “Wil, I’m sorry, I- I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine. It- It was going to happen at some point, right?” Wilbur laughed, and it hurt his throat, a little. There was a lump growing there. 

Under all the growing panic that bounced off the walls, the regret, frustration, and sorrow that pounded in the room, Wilbur managed to say, “The agency wouldn’t- wouldn’t like me to go home, though. I have to follow through with the mission.” 

Quackity gawked at him, or just stared, or maybe he was glaring. He looked scared. He felt scared. Why are you so scared of me?  

“Okay,” the vigilante breathed. “Yeah, I- one mission. One thing, and then we- we need to-” 

“Part ways,” Wilbur finished for him bluntly with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “I get it.” 

Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is how I get over him.  

Nobody could get over him, he’s him. How could I ever do anything but love him?  

Well, he certainly doesn’t love me.  

Why now? Why did he get so close to me, help me heal, let me hold his hand if, in the end, he was just going to cut me off like this? Why wait?  

Wilbur didn’t try to distract himself from the thoughts. He was drowning in them. 

“We should get going, then,” Quackity murmured, turning to keep walking. 

It’s funny that the room is absolutely vivid with heavy emotion, and yet the walls are such a dull grey that any normal person would be underwhelmed.  

Wilbur was following him before he realized his feet were moving. 

-- 

Amidst the endless halls and empty rooms, they found a room full of cabinets. A filing room. Shelves were filled wall-to-wall with drawers, packed tightly together as though only meant for one person to traverse at a time. They seemed to be empty, at first, but after some searching, Wilbur found some papers describing old heroes from many decades ago, old newspapers, and files with sharpied-out information nobody was allowed to see, apparently. 

So, they searched the room. 

“Can I ask why?” He mumbled as they looked, his voice low in the small space between shelves. He immediately got De-Ja-Vu from their first real meeting. Can I ask why you refused the invitation?  

“Why what?” The vigilante hissed back. 

You know what.  

“Why now? What- what was it, exactly, that was the final straw?” 

He had his back turned to Quackity, and Quackity to him, but the passage was small and he could still hear Quackity’s whispered reply that only echoed ever so slightly. 

“Nothing. It was nothing, Wil, you just- this is dangerous.” 

“It was dangerous before, too. What changed?” 

He could almost sense unspoken words hanging on the tip of the vigilante’s tongue. “…nothing.” 

“It can’t be nothing,” Wilbur hissed. “Isn’t there something? What is it, am I too loud? Too clingy? Do I just annoy you?” 

“Wil, please,” Quackity breathed, and Wilbur felt a pang of guilt. Everything just seemed to hurt and ache, for Quackity, the air around him radiated sorrow. And I’m just pushing him further.  

“There is nothing wrong with you,” the other spoke quietly, honestly. “Not a single thing. My- my reasons for this are complicated, okay? Please just stop. It’s for the best.” 

“The best for me, or for you?” 

There was a pregnant pause. 

“You,” Quackity murmured. “It’s best for you. I promise that I don’t want to just up and leave any more than you do.” 

Wilbur turned to look at the back of his head. 

“Then don’t.”  

The other did not reply. 

- 

Eventually, they came upon a storage room that actually held something. And quite a lot of something, as well. 

It was filled with crates. Stacks and stacks of crates and boxes and barrels were ordered and sorted (and seemingly color-coded) for the convenience of whoever owned them. They walked between the crates, trying to find any inkling as to what was inside them. 

Wilbur was trying to think up something else to say when he happened upon an open crate. 

“Oh my god,” Wilbur breathed, gaping at the contents. “Q. Q, get over here.” 

“What? What happened?” Quackity rushed over, leaning over the side of the box to peer inside. 

Inside the crate was miniature bombs. Small silver landmines and grenades, bomblets, and dynamite. 

“Who the hell is mass-producing bombs? Why are there so many?” 

“Might be Nuclear. We could have found Gunpowder’s stash, but he would have much higher security. Honestly, anyone could mass-produce bombs like this with enough money, materials, and money .” 

“They’re small, too. Why would someone make a bunch of tiny grenades instead of one big one? What’s the point?” 

“A better question is what’s the plan,” Quackity murmured. “Hundreds of crates, packed with small bombs, enough to completely destroy multiple small buildings without a single wall untouched.” 

“Or one large building,” Wilbur reasoned with a shudder. 

“There has to be someone here,” Quackity whispered. “Or there was. This is just a storage house for their stuff, I- god, I hope it’s Nuclear. He at least has a semi-conscience.” 

“He does?”  

“The relationship between Nuclear and the vigilantes is… complicated,” Roulette mumbled. “We tolerate him.” 

“You helped arrest him once,” Wilbur murmured. 

“But he always gets out, and you can thank Vinyl for that. So it didn’t really matter.” 

It didn’t really matter.  

Quackity continued to look through the room at all the crates, trying to figure out which boxes held which explosives. Wilbur stood to the side, next to his own crate, thinking. 

“If a mob boss comes around that corner there,” Wilbur began with raised eyebrows, “Are you going to help fight? Or will you step back and let me get hurt?” 

Quackity shook his head. “We’ve been over this.” 

“It started that fight, I know. The one before the night you brought me painkillers. Do you remember the night in the med bay?” 

“Wilbur,” Quackity warned. 

“I misunderstood the situation, I think,” Wilbur continued, not stopping for the comfort of anyone. “I thought maybe you were my way out. You had me convinced, for a moment, that you cared about all my family angst or some shit. You sacrificed your safety, back then, to get to me.” 

“I did,” Quackity sighed. 

“So, I’ll ask again.” 

“Don’t. Wilbur, for the love of God, we’ve been over this.”  

“ What changed?”  

“Is this what you’re going to do now?!” Quackity screamed, whipping around. “You’re just going to pester me until you get what you want? What do you even want from me? You want my dignity, you want my mask? You want my blood?” 

“I want an answer,” Wilbur said, trembling. 

“And I already told you that I can’t tell you ! The entire reason I’m doing this is that I can’t tell you anything and it hurts!” Quackity shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “You’re supposed to be the one who can read emotions, or whatever. Why don’t you see that you need to leave me alone? Why can’t you see this is hurting me?” He pulled his hands away from his face and glared at the hero. “Or maybe you can, and you’re so fucking immature that you just don’t care.”  

He stared for one more long moment, waiting for a reply. Wilbur was stunned into silence. 

Just then, the alarm went off. 

Both of them flinched as a blaring siren struck through the storage room, lights flashing red for moments at a time.  

Quackity spun to face the hero again. 

“I didn’t do anything, I swear,” Wilbur rushed, but the vigilante ran past him, grabbing his arm to drag him out of the facility.  

“Shut up,” he hissed over the siren. Wilbur did as he was told. 

-- 

Quackity practically dragged him out of the building. 

“Oh my god. Why would the alarm take that long to set off? Why did none of the doors lock? Nobody even showed up yet- this place’s security is shit!” Quackity rambled as they made their way through the halls, eventually bursting through the entrance. 

They fast-walked down the sidewalk, probably looking very confusing to the wandering stranger (a vigilante dragging a hero out of an abandoned facility doesn’t really look the best,) and stopped in an alleyway. 

Vans parked outside, and the two people in hiding heard voices shouting to check inside. 

“They are pretty slow to get here, yeah,” Wilbur mumbled. “Maybe there are different facilities they have to guard or something.” 

They peered from around the corner as people came in and out, shouting various affirmations of it doesn’t look like anyone was here!  

It would be more accurate to say Quackity was the one looking around the corner- Wilbur was further back, watching the back of the vigilante’s head. 

“I can feel you glaring at me,” Quackity murmured. 

“I’m not glaring,” Wilbur said softly. 

Quackity turned to meet his eyes. 

Outside, away from the stuffy facility and under stars again, Wilbur thought he felt a little clearer. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am. I just- you’re in a lot of pain, and I- that’s why I don’t understand why you’re doing this. If it doesn’t even benefit anyone, I-“ 

“Please don’t,” Quackity murmured, voice finally breaking. “Why- why can’t you just be an asshole? I liked you better like that. When you get all sweet on me, I can’t- you always have to make it so hard.”  

“Q,” Wilbur cut him off, speaking as gently as possible. “Are you okay?” 

Quackity gaped at him for a long moment, before slowly bringing his hand up and pressing his palm into his eye. 

“…Why are you doing that?” 

“Because if I move my hand , I’ll start crying , you stupid- stupid- Fuck! Fuck you!”  

“Oh, Q, no no no-” Wilbur rushed forward to… do something? Anything? His hands hovered awkwardly over the vigilante’s wrist, trying not to startle him. “Q, don’t cry. Don’t do that.” 

“I will! I’m gonna! Because this is all fucking pathetic ,” Quackity spat, still managing to use his hostility as defense while on the verge of tears. “You don’t get to be pushy and make me feel bad and then be sweet and make me feel worse, that is not allowed to get to me so much! I didn’t even last one day, oh my god.” 

Quackity slowly removed his hand from his eye, blinking and scowling, testing to see whether he’d break. Wilbur watched with bated breath. 

“I didn’t even last a day,” Quackity whispered, letting his hands drop. “Fuck me.” 

“I don’t want to bother you,” Wilbur mumbled, “But I don’t know what’s going on.” 

Quackity saw the hero leaning down a little, raising his hands as if trying to calm him in some way. He smiled for a moment. “You used to say people were allowed to keep their secrets. What happened to that?” 

“You’re allowed to keep secrets as long as you’re not hurting anyone,” Wilbur clarified. “And you’re hurting both of us.” 

Quackity narrowed his eyes at the ground. 

“I’m sorry I keep pushing you,” Wilbur continued. “I’m worried about you. I’m upset for myself, yeah, but I’m- I’m worried about you, too.” 

“Neither of us is very good at this,” Quackity sighed. “I lasted about three hours before I almost cried. I literally can’t be away from you. It’s awful.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Stop that, stop apologizing,” Quackity snapped, leaning against a wall and sliding down until he sat on the floor. “You haven’t done a single thing wrong.” 

Wilbur, without even thinking about it, sat next to him. “You keep saying that. But it's a lie.” 

“Kind of. You're a little bit of a dick sometimes, when you're frustrated. I was too.” 

“We were both dicks today?” 

“Yeah.” 

 Wilbur huffed, thinking. 

“You pushed me away to protect me, right?” 

“Bingo.” 

Wilbur leaned his head against the concrete behind him. “You shouldn't have to.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry I have pride issues.” 

“I’m sorry I have trust issues.” 

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for that.” 

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for that.”  

Wilbur blinked at him. “But I should apologize for the way I talked to you, though.” 

Quackity gave a bittersweet grin. “And I, you.” 

Wilbur could feel himself smiling against his will. “I think you do this thing,” he muttered. “Where you think you’re hurting someone when you’re not, and so you hurt them more to make them go away.” 

“You didn’t go away.” 

“I’m not sure I can. I think I’m doomed to be near you for the rest of my life.” 

“Well, I’m sorry for that,” Quackity chuckled. “If I can’t force you away… I guess I’ll just try to make your stay as painless as possible.” 

“Thank you for that, starshine,” Wilbur replied. They both laughed, quietly, in the dead of night, underneath the stars that shone down on them as if they’d never gone away. 

I can’t tell him I love him right now, Wilbur thought, but maybe- if I’m patient, and I wait for a better time- just maybe I can say it, sometime... soon.  

Wilbur held his hand out. Quackity took it.  

For tonight, I think I’ll be content.  

“This is dangerous,” Quackity murmured. 

“If you protect me, I’ll protect you.” 

"Promise?"

"Promise."

“…Okay, pretty boy.” 

Chapter Text

“Stop- stop giggling.”

“I’m not- shut up, you’re loud, there’s probably someone here!”

“I’m not the one snickering like a villain, Wil, you sound like Nuclear with his fucking robots.”

“Shhhh!”

Quackity shined the flashlight at Wilbur’s face, making him cover his face on reflex and blink rapidly, still grinning. “You shhh!”

“There’s probably a security guard or something,” Wilbur whisper-yelled at the vigilante.

“We’re in a kid’s arcade at midnight, there’s not a fucking guard!”

“There should be!”

Quackity sighed. “It’s not like we’re going to steal something! We’re just gonna play some games for a bit. I still can’t believe you’ve never been to an arcade.”

Wilbur rubbed the back of his neck. “It still sounds so weird. You pay what, twenty bucks, and they just let you loose with a bunch of video games? Isn’t that basically heaven?”

“This is your idea of heaven?” Quackity asked incredulously.

I mean, Wilbur thought dubiously. With you, yeah.

“Now I know you’re a virgin,” Quackity laughed, shaking his head and turning back around. “All we have to do is find the power switch or something.”

Wilbur sighed with a small smile. “I feel like this is illegal.”

“We’re illegal, Wilbur.”

“You’re illegal.”

“…You, too.”

Wilbur stopped, his brow furrowing. “Am I?”

Quackity looked back at him. “…Yes?”

“Oh my god. Am I a vigilante?”

Quackity blinked at him. “…Yes??”

“I am?”

“Well. You patrol and fight bad guys. You tied up that drug dealer all on your own.”

“I did,” Wilbur confirmed with a proud beam. “Best day ever.”

“And you have that costume of yours, no matter how ugly,” Quackity commented, flicking the collar of Wilbur’s trench coat.

“Ugly? It’s not ugly! Is it?” Wilbur examined himself in the reflection of a claw machine window. He could barely make himself out, as the lights weren’t on yet. “I look scruffy, but like- in a cute way.”

Quackity giggled, “Yes, of course, pretty boy. I didn’t mean to offend you and your superior sense of style.”

Wilbur huffed, running a hand through his hair for the millionth time that night. “Shush, you. You look like a… a, uh…” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Fuck.”

“You can’t even insult me. Wilbur, this is adorable.”

“Shush! I’m thinking!” Wilbur scrutinized the vigilante, trying to find anything wrong with him.

He couldn’t.

Quackity blinked. “This can’t possibly be that hard. My scar’s right here,” he said, pointing to his clouded eye. “Just go for the low-hanging fruit. It’s fine.”

Wilbur frowned. “But I like your scar,” he murmured. “It’s like a tear in a tapestry.”

And fuck, Wilbur heard Quackity’s breath catch in his throat. Fuck. They both blushed vividly. Wilbur could sense the shock and confusion. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck Fuck Fuck.

“You are insufferable,” the vigilante breathed. There was not even a twinge of negative emotion in the air.

A few hours ago, as Wilbur shut himself away in his room to get ready for bed, he texted Q two words: Patrol tonight?

Quackity replied with a simple Nope.

And Wilbur, like the lovesick dumbass he always found himself to be, texted back in an unusual reach for contact- Can we meet anyway?

Which eventually led to Quackity realizing the hero had never been to an arcade. And Wilbur, upon hearing about it, begged that they go to one.

So now they were sneaking into an arcade on the edge of the central city.

Wilbur knew what an arcade was, yes, but he’d never understood it. What if someone breaks the machines? Did they just trust a bunch of people running around with tons of machinery at their disposal?

“I used to love the arcade,” Quackity commented while they shuffled through the rooms in the back. “I went to a different one, a little more cleaned up, I think, but still good.” He paused. “Did you do anything fun as a kid?”

Wilbur paused, thinking. “I’d read comic books in the library. They let us have a phone when we were fourteen- I think it was because that was when we started training with the other kids, the ones that weren’t raised in the tower, and they wanted the others to think we were normal or something. They checked our devices each day until we were seventeen, though.”

Quackity tilted his head. “You were really fucking sheltered, you know that?”

It sounded less like a humorous comment, and a bit more like something else. Pity?

Or sympathy? Empathy? Compassion? What's the difference, even?

Wilbur hummed. “…I guess I was.”

“But not in like, the crazy helicopter parent way.” Quackity continued, shining a flashlight along the wall. “More like they genuinely didn't give you a childhood.”

Wilbur's brow furrowed. “I had a childhood! It wasn't very fun, but… it happened, y’know. I survived.”

“You survived,” Quackity murmured. “But you never really got out, I think.”

 Wilbur blinked. “…huh.”

I didn't, did I?

“Bingo!” Quackity exclaimed suddenly. Wilbur looked up and saw the vigilante’s flashlight illuminating a small silver door attached to the wall.

“Thank god, I feared I would have to go home, never knowing the joys of a disease-ridden virtual playground.”

“You're the one who begged to be here! Now shut up and go see if the power's on,” Quackity grumbled with a bright smile as he tugged open the compartment and hit the light switch.

This matters to him a lot, Wilbur noted as he walked out.

Come to think of it, I don't know much about his past. That's surprising considering he knows every gritty detail of my childhood.

He watched the dark arcade, a relatively small area complete with ski balls, lottery machines, two-player shooters, and a rusty Pacman in the back. He stood by the door to the storage room, which was behind the kitchen counter.

They really said, “Let's load up a bunch of kids with sugar and let them run around in an arcade.”

Before his eyes, the arcade suddenly lit up.

Not only did the overhead lights flicker on, but the games came to life with blinding neon and upbeat, bouncy music.

It reminded him of the city, for a split second, while he was still blinking stars from his eyes. It looked strikingly similar to the bright casinos in Las Nevadas and warmly lit diners in Kinoko, and the games were even brighter than the ceiling lights.

“It's pretty, right?”

Wilbur looked over and saw the very same lights reflected in Q's eyes that were there the night they met on the rooftop.

Oh no.

“Yeah, it's pretty,” he murmured.

I am in so much trouble.

-

 It's no big deal, Wilbur, he repeated to himself in his head. All you have to do is survive the night and act like you aren't helplessly in love with him.

This is torture, He thought while Q told a story about a ski ball machine, with a smile so subtle only Wilbur could catch it.

“She said she got it in the center, and I just didn't see it, and obviously-“ he threw a ball in and it dropped to the bottom. “-fuck. Obviously, I wasn't taking that bullshit, because her score was not that high.”

“How high was it?”

“Like, 300 or something. So we bet on the next round.” He threw another ski ball, not watching it roll as he grabbed the next one, too engrossed in the story. “She beat me that time, but I still don't think she got center.”

“I bet I could get it in,” Wilbur grumbled under his breath, and Quackity turned to face him with a raised eyebrow.

“You've never played ski ball in your life, Wil.”

Oh, and he'd started calling Wilbur Wil. Fuck everything.

“It seems pretty easy!” Wilbur defended. “Look, hand me the ball.”

Quackity complied with a skeptical expression and stepped to the side.

Wilbur pulled back and narrowed his eyes at the targets.

“....It isn't baseball, Wilbur.”

“Shhh.”

“Are you winding up? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shhhhh!”

“I'm not going to shhh, you're doing it wrong!”

“I'm throwing a ball, Q! How can I possibly do this wrong?”

“Then throw it, dumbass!”

Wilbur chucked the ball across the lane and it dropped into the center target.

He cheered while disbelief and frustration snapped towards him from Q's direction. “I'm god! I'm awesome, you can't even talk to me,” Wilbur chanted. “I own this city!”

“Beginners luck,” Quackity huffed, walking past him with a disgruntled expression. “Just beginners luck.”

Wilbur followed close behind. “Sure, sure. You know what I'm not a beginner at, though?”

“Don't say sex.”

“I wasn't going to!” the hero defended. It was a lie. “I was going to say Pacman! I'm great at Pacman.”

“You are not.”

“I am! What, scared to bet on it, starshine?”

 Q stopped in his tracks and turned to face Wilbur with a dangerous glare.

“Don't tempt me. I'd fucking destroy you.”

We are talking about a video game, Wilbur reminded himself fervently.

“Then play against me, and the winner gets bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights? Bragging to who? Nobody knows about us.”

“Bragging to the other person! You know you'd love to hold that over my head.”

Quackity narrowed his eyes. “Hm. Well, that is tempting.”

“Then make a choice!”

The vigilante glared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. Next stop; Pacman.”

Again, Wilbur cheered.

-

For most of the night, they did absolutely nothing but play arcade games. Sometimes he'd stop to think about how childish he was acting, able to play arcade games for hours with a vigilante to keep him company, but the thought flitted away immediately as he was incredibly sleep-deprived and very much high on pure serotonin. Not to mention the very strong waves of fondness and joy being tossed around the arcade every which way, making him feel terribly lightheaded.

And they found a slushie machine, at some point, which Q was very excited about.

The sugar rush did not help.

Their conversation drifted between every topic on earth, from whether fish have ears to a very long, very incoherent exchange regarding the meaning of life. (Quackity said anteaters just to piss Wilbur off.) Wilbur found out that Quackity's lack of a mask during their first meeting was a complete mistake, and laughed about it for a solid ten minutes. He told the vigilante about his tendency to compare fighting to dance, and his experience with the guitar. Quackity noted that he suspected Wilbur played guitar based on the roughness of his fingertips, and Wilbur almost burst into flame because the vigilante noticed those kinds of things.

Multiple times, Wilbur came incredibly close to saying “I love you,” during the short silences after stray compliments. He had to bite his tongue so hard that he was shocked there was no blood in his mouth.

Wilbur had also discovered that when it came to arcade games, of all things, Quackity got very, very competitive.

Wilbur tried not to be too mean with insults because he knew how he could get, but Quackity did not hold back.

“You’ve called me a virgin seven times,” Wilbur commented, “and a bitch seventeen. Stupid prick is going strong at nine, and the classic ‘asshole’ is taking the lead with twenty-three.”

“Don’t forget the simple but effective ‘motherfucker’, which I’ve used at least twenty times now,” Quackity continued for him.

“Great. That’s definitely a good thing.”

“You’re too nice to me,” the vigilante teased.

“I am not! Half of our friendship is us fighting. Over and over and over.”

“Yeah, but when we’re not fighting, you’re still too fucking nice!” Quackity shook his head. “I mean- you do realize that your very existence contradicts everything I believe, right?

Wilbur paused. “I'm not sure I get what you mean.”

“I mean-” Quackity leaned back on one of the machines, sighing. “I think I’ve said it before. That I expected you to be a lot more… rude. Pretentious.”

“I am both of those things, as you've said before,” Wilbur reiterated with a chuckle.

“But not to me. That's what confuses me. You're nice- at least when you haven't had a shitstorm of a day.” Quackity scoffed. “You don't even- you don't even treat me like a human, you talk to me like I’m made of glass. Or- or a tapestry. And I keep thinking it, and I keep saying it, but I never get over how bizarre you are. It annoys me how much the thought crosses my mind.”

“Bizzare?” Wilbur asked tentatively. “Is that a good thing, or a- a bad thing?”

Quackity only stared at him, unsure of how to respond.

“I'm… sorry. I think. Should I be sorry?”

“No, you shouldn't. I should be glad, really, it just confuses me, and it- I’m sorry, this was weird, I shouldn't have said anything-” He tried to turn and walk away.

“Hey, hey, no! Come back to me,” Wilbur laughed. The hero chased after Quackity, pulling him back by the hands. “…is this bothering you?”

“A little,” Quackity admitted.

“And you don't know why.”

“I don't.”

“Right. Well, you know what I do when I'm upset about something?” Wilbur tried not to focus on the fact that he was still holding Quackity's hands. The other didn't ask him to pull back and so he didn't.

“What do you do?”

“I scream at someone who has nothing to do with it. Like an idiot.”

 Quackity devolved into laughter despite himself. Still like soda bubbles. Wilbur smiled along.

“See, but you did the right thing just now. You explained the issue, calmly and clearly, to the person who can do something about it. Instead of yelling and whining like a little baby.”

“You only do that because you don't think anyone listens to you unless you're yelling.” Quackity beamed gently. “You listen to every word I say.”

“That's part of the problem, isn't it? You don't like it because…”

“Because I feel like you should be mean.”

“And why should I be mean?”

“…Because it would make it easier for me,” Quackity mumbled. “To push you away.”

Wilbur’s smile faltered. “It’s nice you want to protect me,” he breathed, “but we’ve made it this far. There’s not much danger.”

Quackity chewed on his lip. “That’s not all, though.”

“Is there another reason?”

“Yes, but- It won’t hurt you.”

“Will it hurt you?”

“…no clue.”

 They were both still whispering.

“Hm. I’m not going to pester you about that, then,” Wilbur decided.

Quackity sighed, with a small, incredulous smile, and Wilbur wanted to kiss it off his face so badly he had to bite his tongue. It didn't help much.

“Why are you still whispering?” Quackity asked.

“I don't know!”

“We're alone!”

“I know!”

Wilbur stared at him for a much longer amount of time than could ever be considered normal. It felt like he was just seeing the vigilante for the first time. He could see every light reflected in the vastly different eyes, every curve and divot in the healed tissue of his scar.

It ached somewhere in his chest.

“…I'm about to do something really stupid,” Wilbur mumbled.

“Then why are you doing it?” Quackity tipped his head up slightly. Why do you make it seem so easy?

“I think I have to.”

 There was a ridiculous moment of silence while Wilbur's last bit of reasoning tried to convince him to stop what he was doing, but he already said he was going to do it and everything else in his head said he should do it so he did it.

He leaned forward and kissed Quackity.

Oh.

My fucking god.

It felt a little bit like plunging into ice-cold water, in a way.

First, it didn't seem much- Quackity stiffened in shock and Wilbur almost froze with the fear of I did something wrong what am I doing he hates me fuck everything. But the vigilante didn't pull away, only slung his arms around the hero's chest and leaned into it. At first, it felt easy, almost like breathing or talking, like they'd done it a million times.

And then the shock set in. I am kissing a vigilante in an abandoned arcade. He felt silly, and he felt triumphant, and he felt guilty and confused and hopeful but most of all he didn't know what the hell he felt, because all he could sense was vivid emotions crashing from the vigilante in waves, Wilbur could almost feel them press against his skin with how strong they ran.

Q was happy.

I'm happy, too.

Wilbur's hands found Quackity's waist and stayed there, pulling him closer. He almost felt lightheaded with how long he'd wanted this, this split-second action that he could have had so much sooner.

It was gentle. Q tasted like cherries and sugar. Wilbur tried his best not to smile into it.

Oh, I’m going to hate myself in a few seconds.

I’m so sorry.

He kept his eyes closed as they pulled apart, feeling a familiar edge of panic he always got when something scary was about to happen. It felt like standing on a cliff. It felt like being miles under sea level, knowing he was about to drown, and not moving a single inch.

When he did open his eyes, he almost choked on air.

“Oh, fuck,” Quackity breathed, and Wilbur could actually hear the regret lacing his voice.

“I’m-” Wilbur’s eyes widened, and he shook his head fervently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- you wouldn’t-” What could he even say? You’re beautiful, you’re a good kisser, you’re everything to me and you’ve been everything for so long?

“I-”

He sensed the words that were about to tumble out of his mouth and he stopped himself quickly.

“Shut up.” Quackity curled his hand around the back of Wilbur’s neck, pulling him in again, shooting electricity to the hero’s skull. He looked perfect. “Shut up, just- just kiss me again. Please, before-” Before I stop myself, the vigilante refrained from saying.

And they did.

And it felt good, and it hurt, and Wilbur hated it and he wanted to freeze time and make sure it never ended. He wanted to kiss Quackity every day of his life and he was fearing ever looking at him again.

First kisses shouldn’t be like this.

He found himself wishing, for the millionth time, that they could be normal.

When they pulled apart, this time, Quackity shook his head with a dazed expression. “This...”

“Could end so badly,” Wilbur finished, his mind everywhere except there. He let go of Quackity, letting him walk a little further away.

“You… should go,” the vigilante murmured, looking sick.

He looked at Q. And looked at him.

Can I really give this up that easily? After everything?

“No,” he murmured. “No, I don’t think I can. Q, I’m-“

This Is a terrible idea. This is going to hurt me. It might hurt him, too. I’m already halfway there. I’m so close, so achingly close.

Just let go.

“I’m in love with you.”

He physically winced when he felt the shock, like a genuine lightning bolt, strike Q.

Oh, no.

The confession lifted a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he’d been carrying, but it added another.

“…You don’t… have to stay,” Wilbur whispered. “You don’t feel like that, obviously, and- god, this is stupid. I’m sorry. You can- I’m trying to say you don’t have to say it, you can just go if you’re uncomfortable, or- or something.”

“…Wilbur,” Quackity said slowly, with a precarious frown, somewhere between regret and sympathy, “I kissed back, didn’t I?”

Wilbur stared at him for a long, long moment, blinking dumbly. “Wait- you…”

Quackity pinched the bridge of his nose. Wilbur could practically hear him overthinking already, only seconds after the hero’s confession. “Yes, dumbass, but- Wilbur, we- we can’t do this. Fuck, fuck, why am I here? Fuck.”

“Q, wait, we-“ Wilbur took a deep breath. “This is real?”

“Yes, Wilbur, this is real.”

“Okay so- so why can’t we?”

Quackity gaped at him for a long moment. “…are you fucking dumb? It’s in the, the stupid rulebook, or whatever. Heroes aren’t allowed to have any personal relations with vigilantes- besides, it just adds more danger to the equation, and you-” Quackity shook his head, looking as though he may lose his mind at any given moment. “You just need to go already.”

The pain from him was the same, the same as in the empty facility. He looked so small and so fucking scared.

“That’s why you were pushing me away,” Wilbur breathed, barely even listening. “That’s the other reason.”

“Wil, look at me.”

Wilbur complied.

Quackity spoke with his hands to enunciate his point. “This cannot happen.”

He started to walk away. Wilbur, upon seeing him rub at his working eye, followed him close behind.

“But-” Wilbur blinked rapidly. “It can. If I- If I love you, and-” He watched Quackity flinch again at the words, “-and you feel the same, then we should be able to.”

Quackity did not stop walking. They came near the entrance of the building.

“What- okay, what happened to fear? What fucking happened to ‘This could end so badly?’ What happened to common sense,” Quackity ranted as he pushed the door open. The two were hit with a wave of cold air. Winter was just hitting.

Wilbur took one last panicked look around the arcade and then stepped past the doorway into the open.

“Q, I-” He took a breath, tugging his trench coat closer around his shoulders. “I don’t know if I have common sense.” Quackity stopped halfway down the sidewalk to look at him.

His eyes, like they had many times before, reflected the stars. Wilbur could feel the hesitance pulse around him.

Don’t just walk away from me. Especially not now, when I’m so so close.

Wilbur took Quackity’s hands and turned them over in his palms. The vigilante was trembling.

“I just know I love you, and I’m not going to lose you to some ancient words in a rulebook.”

He realized vaguely that he’d never felt this adamant, this sure about something in his life.

“But we can’t. God, Wilbur, you don’t know how badly I want this,” Quackity breathed, and he looked so achingly tired and so achingly beautiful under the stars, out of the stuffy arcade. “You don’t know how much I just want to just kiss you. How bad I wish I wasn’t a vigilante, and you weren’t a hero. I wish we met on this street, and we could just be, without all the reputations to uphold and the lives to save. I wish- I wish we could just be normal.” Wilbur could hear the pain in his voice, his throat tightening, and he felt his own chest begin to ache with how badly he wanted to never hear that pain in Quackity’s voice ever again. “But we aren’t. We aren’t. And there are rules, and there are laws, and you could get hurt. You know I won’t ever let you get hurt.”

“This hurts.”

“You have no idea,” Quackity whispered, and suddenly his hands burned, their presence heavy in Wilbur’s. The shorter man shut his eyes like he could rewind, take everything back, back to the night at the med bay and just not hold his hand. Nothing like he held it now, painfully tight, desperate not to let go. Though he spoke words of not letting them be together, he didn’t move to pull away.

“Listen to me,” Wilbur said suddenly, with a ferocity he didn’t know he’d possessed. “Please listen. The only thing stopping this, the only reason we can’t be normal, is because of some word on a piece of paper. Do you know who wrote those words?”

Quackity opened his eyes slowly. “…some ancient white guy?”

Wilbur blinked. “…Yes, that, but also the Agency.” The very word tasted bitter on his tongue.

“The agency,” Quackity repeated with a breathy laugh.

Wilbur squeezed Quackity’s hands reassuringly. “The agency took my family from me. They pulled my dad away, molded my older brother into something inhuman, and convinced my younger brother he was worthless. And now,” he hummed, “I think they’re trying to take away my starshine.”

For a moment, Wilbur saw a smile flicker on Quackity’s face at the nickname and felt a surge of pride. The good kind.

“So, they’re pretty bad,” Wilbur mumbled.

“Yeah,” Quackity agreed.

“Yeah. So, you know what I’m going to do?”

Quackity blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to take them down.”

Quackity laughed at this, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth. “Wilbur.”

“I’m serious! I am!”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m going to do something, at least.” Wilbur grinned. “It’s my job, after all, to right the wrongs of the world- why not start with the corporation that practically runs the city?”

“Wilbur. Villains and vigilantes have been trying to take down the agency since the dawn of time. You can’t be serious.”

“I am! What else am I supposed to do? Give up?”

Quackity paused, shaking his head and beaming like a fool. “I- I don’t know. I don’t know. I mean, I guess that’s what I was saying to do, but I-“

After a moment of studying Quackity’s grin of pure euphoria, Wilbur kneeled before him, keeping a hold of one of his hands and pressing a warm kiss to the back.

“Oh my god,” Quackity snorted, blushing furiously.

“I swear to you, Quackity of L’manburg,” Wilbur recited, “That I will do all in my power to reform the law that keeps us apart. To right the wrongs of our city, and create a situation where…”

“Where we can try,” Quackity finished. “A situation where we can try.”

“So, you-” Wilbur stumbled back to standing, Quackity steadying him. Wilbur felt a little dizzy, he realized, from pure euphoria. “You think we can? You think we can do it?”

“I think that we’re sleep-deprived,” Quackity muttered with an incredulous look, “And the sugar from those slushies is wearing off. I think we’re really stupid.” He avoided Wilbur’s gaze, his one working eye opting to look at the ground instead. “But I also think I love you. A lot. And I’m willing, if it buys us any time together.” He smiled again, bright and teasing, but it faltered.

A frown flickered on Wilbur’s face. “If you… don’t want to, we don’t- If it’s too much, I can-”

“No, no, it’s alright. I do. I’m just worried, is all.”

“…What are you scared of?”

Quackity looked up at him. His eyes traced Wilbur’s face, searching for something. Searching for a reason to be angry, for a way out.

Wilbur just watched him with pure curiosity.

“…It’s a lot,” Quackity muttered. “Right now. For both of us, and I know I’m willing to try, but I don’t- I don’t know if, at some point, you might… not be. I’m scared you’ll…”

“Stop,” Wilbur blurted. “Stop right now.”

Quackity blinked in confusion, opening his mouth to ask why, but Wilbur just leaned down and kissed him.

He wasn’t ready, and it was sloppy, but they both eventually eased into the gesture. When the two pulled apart, Wilbur

“I am never going to fall out of love with you.”

After a stunned silence, Quackity whispered, “That's a really dangerous thing to say.”

“But it's true,” Wilbur replied. “I promise."

A slow smile inched onto Quackity's face, and he laughed, bright and delirious. Bubbly. Wilbur simply kissed him, again and again, still not over the fact that he could hold him. Wrap his arms around Quackity and just hold him. They felt like puzzle pieces finally snapping together, or one puzzle piece that had been snapped in half ages ago.

“Stop- stop laughing, I can't kiss you when you keep laughing!”

“I can't stop laughing when you keep trying to kiss me!”

I do wish we could be normal, Wilbur thought dazedly, but this works. This works for now.

And across the city, a man sent a letter.

Chapter Text

“Ram will not be sharing his identity, even now that he’s climbing up the scoreboard. He notes that he plans to go higher, and to be the fi-”

Tubbo launched his remote at the TV screen.

It didn’t break anything, but the channel did change. South Park started playing.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed, shoving his hand in a bag of chips again.

Of course, the TV didn’t break, it probably had its own version of a screen protector or something. It was worth hundreds, anyway, like everything else in the manor. Even the doorstops could probably earn someone a pretty penny.

But selling stuff without permission was against his dad’s rules. So Tubbo settled for beating things up instead.

He picked up a book and threw that at the TV, too.

It was a shame that their house was so big and fancy, considering only two people were living in it. One who did nothing but sleep in his bedroom, eat in the dining room, and work in his office; and the other, who spends all his time in the basement. They barely interacted except for when grandparents came to visit, and his dad wrestled him into nice clothes (ew).

It was a miracle that Tubbo was able to fit this TV through the basement door, seeing as the door was small and the TV was big and expensive.

The teenager turned around in his chair to look at his work desk and back table, both items of furniture strewn about with modules and machine bits and blueprints. He was still perfecting that giant machine man Pyro was paying him for, having patched up the blow Roulette dealt to it ages ago. Behind the table was a small terrarium with silverfish skittering about.

Tubbo’s phone vibrated on his thigh, and he picked it up with a huff.

Tommy: I’m coming over

Tubbo: bring ranboo

Tommy: agghrugh3irgoweryh but he’s annoying

Tubbo: bring ranboo or I’m showing him your yerbook photo that one time you wen to public school

Tommy: You’re cruel. you’re cruel to me

Tubbo: you were going to bring him anyway weren’t you

Tommy: fuckyou fuck upu fuck you diediedieidiei

Tubbo stood up and turned off his phone. Tommy will be here pretty quick with Ranboo’s teleportation, but they’ll still have to take the bus. It will be maybe half an hour to get from the tower to here. That gives me time to hide everything Tommy would steal, set up Ranboo’s gift, and tell my dad to stay the fuck away from the basement.

He walked toward the TV and picked up the remote that lay dormant on the floor, switching off the device just as a character started speaking. He was met with a stark black screen that reflected his face at him.

He narrowed his eyes at the eye bags, pale scars, and smile lines creasing his face. I’m only seventeen. Why do I look like I’ve fought a war?

Because I almost did, he remembered, trying not to focus on the smell of gunpowder (because it wasn’t there.)

He started by stuffing old projects in various drawers and locked them, knowing Tommy would try to open them anyway. The blond had been to Tubbo’s basement many times, but he never failed to take something that just happened to be incredibly important. First, it was the barrel of a disassembled gun he’d managed to fit in his pocket, then the motherboard of a teleportation device he’d somehow stuffed under his jacket, then a whole fucking sword he all but hid behind his back.

It’s not that he had any malicious intent, it’s just that when Tubbo says “Don’t touch that,” Tommy takes that as his signal to put his hands on everything.

For fun, he says. Fun for Tommy. Not for Tubbo, who has to text him at 3 am demanding to know where his Netherite armor has gone.

On one of the back shelves of the basement was a small steel bracelet with an amethyst gem in the middle. Tubbo carefully picked it off the shelf and inspected it to make sure it hadn’t somehow shattered while he’d left it dormant for a day.

He hoped Ranboo would like it. He’d tried desperately to think of something to add to it, some kind of technology that would be useful or nice, but he’d failed to come up with anything that he could fit onto a bracelet. He hoped it was enough.

Ranboo was sweet. That was the first thing that had registered for Tubbo when Tommy first introduced him. He was tall, funny, and awkward in every sense of the word, but he was so fucking sweet and Tubbo knew that if he didn’t make sure the pathetic little man knew it, he’d fucking die.

So, he complimented him, invited him over, and finally acquired the boy’s number so he could tell him about all his new projects at 4 am. One day Tubbo was thinking a little too hard about the bright violet dust that seemed to materialize every time he blushed, and instead of saying something about it, he made something about it.

A bracelet. And every second he looked at it, the more he despised the damn thing.

He was glad Tommy seemed to like Ranboo, as well, as much as he tries not to show it. Tubbo knows he takes note of the little things In Ranboo’s behavior, his fears and doubts, and purposely avoids topics regarding them- even stressing about protecting him at times. He likes to pretend that Ranboo is annoying to him, but they're close underneath the insults and elbow jabs. It’s just really hard to see to someone who hasn’t known Tommy his whole life.

Tubbo placed the bracelet on his desk (knowing he’d pick it up when the time came) and took a deep breath.

Time to talk to the gene giver.

He had to climb several stairs that no seventeen-year-old who spends all his time in his desk chair should ever have to climb. (It was only two flights, but it felt like maybe a thousand, minimum.)

He talked to the man at least once a day, forced to pass him at some point in the winding halls of their home. Their conversations were snippy and sarcastic, usually quite one-sided when he wanted to be left alone and his father wanted to pester him about What are you doing down there, stop dressing like that, do better, try harder, and all the other basic codes for “You're a disappointment” Tubbo had begun to pick up over the years.

“Dad,” he huffed, coming upon the office his father usually resided in. “Are you in there?”

“I always am,” a voice called shortly.

Tubbo narrowed his eyes at the oak door and crossed his arms. “Not even going to open the door?”

“I'm working.”

“Mm, when are you not,” Tubbo sighed under his breath.

It didn't matter anyway, Tubbo knew what he looked like, and he didn't need to see the bleached blonde hair and permanent frown one more time.

Louder, he said, “I'm having friends over.”

“You're not keeping them in that grimy basement of yours, are you?”

Tubbo almost replied I clean everything once a fucking week, thank you, but snapped his mouth shut just in time to slowly reply, “I am.”

“Don't let your friends take anything. And don't order any food, because there's-” Tubbo began to walk away, letting the man's voice fade behind him.

Small victories.

Tommy: We're here

Tubbo: The front door?

Tommy: No we're gonna teleport in

Tubbo: Tommy

Tubbo: Tommy stop right now I don't know how thick the walls are

Tubbo: Tommy STOP

There was a crash from below Tubbo's feet where he stood by the door.

Tubbo: are you okay

Tubbo: fucking answer me asshole

Tommy: I’m just dandy

Tubbo: and ranbo??

Tommy: floor

Tubbo shot down the stairs, making sure to lock the door behind him, muttering shit under his breath every second or so. His boots made a deft thunk sound on each step as he rushed down and came to a short stop.

“Ranboo!”

 The two boys looked up at him.

Tommy, who was bent over Ranboo, evidently making sure he was okay, grinned. “Tubbo!”

Tubbo gawked at them. “What the fuck happened?”

Ranboo, who was sitting on the floor, blinked and smiled softly. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Tubbo walked forward with tentatively raised hands, as though he intended to help somehow, but he wasn't sure what to do with them. “You just teleported through a floor and a wall!”

“He dislocated his shoulder, but I put it back,” Tommy rushed, patting Ranboo awkwardly on the shoulder. “Isn't that right, Ranboo?”

 Ranboo nodded “Mhm mhm.”

Tubbo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're so reckless.”

Tommy puffed out his chest as though offended. “I'm reckless? You're reckless, you once pulled a fire alarm just so you could steal back a book from someone's desk!”

“Except that worked, and nobody's shoulder got dislocated, and no worried best friends had a fucking heart attack!” Tubbo narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Go sit in the corner.”

Tommy gasped. “You wouldn't.”

Ranboo cut in from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, “Tommy should stay.”

Tubbo immediately nodded with barely a thought. “Okay.”

“You- Tubbo!”

“What?? You're staying!”

“You listen to him, but not me?”

“Precisely. You just don't have the boyish charm that Ranboo does,” Tubbo joked, extending a hand to Ranboo to help him up. The teen took it with a thankful smile, making Tubbo's heart do a little flip.

Tommy watched the scene with growing horror. “I'm being replaced.”

Ranboo grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Yep.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not.”

“I do!” Tubbo exclaimed, smacking a kiss to the back of Ranboo's hand with an exaggerated mwah and proceeding to walk towards the back table.

A flurry of violet dust circled Ranboo's head for a moment, and Tommy rolled his eyes.

“Why are you guys here, by the way?”

“Well, you said you know something about Ram,” Tommy mumbled, “So we thought we'd come to interrogate you. I think Ranboo just came to flirt, though.”

“Ough, Ram,” Tubbo rolled his eyes. “Okay, sit down, I'll get some papers and stuff from the back.”

 He did, in fact, know something about Ram.

-

The fact that the hero had managed to climb the ranks without being in the news even once was already intriguing to him, so after doing some research, illegal hacking, and texting various villains at 3 am, he'd deduced some unusual facts.

First of all, Ram had never fought a villain. Nobody had any recollection of seeing him, nor did the vigilantes. Second, he had passed every class in heroics training with flying colors, even better than Blue at times. And third, not even the agency knew his name.

And the agency knew everything. Even when Millennium refused to share his identity, they had it in a barely locked database.

He'd barely fought anyone, barely had any publicity. He was missing all the criteria to beat 404, who was beloved by the whole city.

“But what he does have is a fuckton of money,” Tubbo sighed, sitting down and slapping a file on the table. “A fuck. Ton.”

 He showed his friends the clues he'd collected, of shameless payments made to the agency directly, for years and years. Ever since he first entered training.

“Payments like that would take years of saving, even for you, Tubbo- he's got to have rich parents or something.” Tommy threw a page aside and Tubbo watched it flutter to the ground with a sigh.

“There's nothing about rich parents anywhere, and he was seventeen when he started training. This is basically the only dirt on him I have, and I can't even do much about it.”

“Do we even know what he looks like?” Ranboo asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I bet he looks crinkly,” Tubbo commented. “Like. Kind of veiny? Except the veins are crunchy. And you can feel the texture. Like they don’t protrude at all; it’s kind of like textured paper or whatever. Do you see my vision?”

Ranboo blinked. “So, like a cantaloupe?”

Tubbo thought for a moment.

“I’m in love with you.”

Ranboo cackled. Tommy crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at him.

“There's really nothing we can do about it?” The blond asked.

“Nothing. Just- if he's managed to bribe his way up for this long, he's got to have a backup as well.”

 Ranboo winced. “Backup?”

“Blackmail,” Tubbo clarified. “He has the means to hire good hackers. I also don't doubt he knows someone's been digging for info about him, by now.”

“…which means??”

Tubbo looked up with an incredulous smile. “I may be in danger.”

Tommy opened his mouth, probably to rant, but Tubbo kept talking. “Don't worry, I am thoroughly protected, but- just stay a great distance from him. If you make a fuss about it, he'll probably find some secret to shut you up, such as Tommy being a vigilante.”

Ranboo gulped. Of course, he's the one worried about Tommy.

“Well, this is grim,” Tommy grumbled, grabbing another piece of paper.

“Please stop destroying my paper,” Tubbo warned before Tommy could crumple it again. “I want to doodle on that.”

“Well,” Ranboo murmured. “Anything else?”

Tubbo pursed his lips. “About Ram? No, I’m done with him.” He pushed himself away from the table, the chair making an awkward screech across the floor. “I have- okay, I do have something else, though. For- for you.”

Ranboo started. “Me?”

“Yes,” Tubbo sighed, feeling mildly like his lungs were failing him.

He made his way to his desk, pushing aside blueprints and peering behind his monitor to find the bracelet he was sure he’d placed there.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, shit, and balls.

“Tommy,” Tubbo hissed, “Do you have a bracelet in your pocket?”

The vigilante looked like he was going to be ill.

“Yes, fine, yes, I have the thing,” he sighed, pulling the jewelry from his jacket. “It was pretty!”

Tubbo stumbled to his friend’s side and snatched the bracelet from him. “You fuck,” he rambled, “I cannot believe I had to use my power because you stole a gift-”

Ranboo cleared his throat.

Tubbo froze.

Okay actually maybe this was a bad idea, his mind fawned, maybe he doesn’t even like jewelry, he’s not wearing any, this was really stupid and you need to think of an excuse before you somehow start the apocalypse.

He stared for a moment.

Then he chucked the steel full-force at the boy before him.

Tubbo was forced to watch in horror as the bracelet hit Ranboo square in the ribs, and he doubled over suddenly in shock.

“Oh my god-”

“Tubbo??”

“I am so sorry-”

“I’m fine, I’m- Tubbo-”

“I don’t know what came over me, oh dear god-”

Ranboo waved him off with a confused grin, laughing a little, “You’re fine, it’s fine, I’m alive,” he wheezed.

“Did I hurt you?” Tubbo rushed.

“No, no, it’s-” Ranboo picked up the bracelet from the floor. “I overreacted and got scared- God, I should have teleported or something. Is this…”

Tubbo nervously pulled at the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Is this a bracelet?”

“Yes. It’s- okay, it’s a gift, for helping me and Tommy. In place of money.” He’d probably like money better, hell, I’d like money better.

“You sure that’s what it’s for, Tubs?” Tommy asked with a deadpan expression. Tubbo sent him a dangerous glare.

And oh, no. The smile growing on Ranboo’s face could light up galaxies.

“I love it,” he chuckled, “It’s purple like me.”

Tommy laughed at that and Tubbo grinned.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! I do feel a bit inadequate now, though,” Ranboo grimaced. “Like maybe I should have got you something.”

“No no no, don’t even think about it,” Tubbo insisted, feeling a bit lightheaded. “It’s on the house, hot stuff.”

Tommy laughed even harder. “You know what, Tommy, I hope you suffocate-” Tubbo shrieked, punching his shoulder playfully. Tommy pushed back with various profanities until they were in a half catfight, half shouting match.

Ranboo just examined his bracelet with a dizzy smile.

Not for the first time, Tubbo wondered dreamily what was going on inside his head.

Chapter Text

The blood market made Tommy want to pull his hair out.

Mercenaries are vicious, even though they’re usually only killing because they need the cash for something. Maybe a family, maybe drugs, maybe to get the fuck out of L’manburg and never look back. Tommy just wanted to get it through their thick skulls that blood money is not the best way to fucking do it.

One specific mercenary that Tommy had the misfortune of running into often was Purpled. He was one of the most talented assassins/mercenaries (Tommy never bothered to learn their terminology) that ever took a job.

And he’d been trying to kill Tommy since day one.

Tommy was trying hard to avoid him tonight, having already discarded all his trackable devices and pulled his hood over his head. A band was playing in the park, and he was glad to enjoy a little music while evading a death threat.

Tubbo had texted him earlier with a simple Purpled is on your tail, at which Tommy sighed and yelled “Are you fucking serious?” hoping the stalker could hear him. He’d smashed his phone and walked faster.

He had no idea who was paying Purpled, who wanted Tommy dead this badly, but he’d stopped caring when he realized that Purpled couldn’t get to him if Tommy stayed in public; he couldn’t take anyone out with so many people around.

Tommy spied Purpled across the crowd, looking slightly disconcerted. Now and again, the mercenary’s eyes flashed violet, and Tommy felt a chill run up his spine.

Purpled’s power was echolocation, allowing him to find his target from miles away by sending out a signal that bounced off what he was looking for. Luckily for Tommy, hiding out in crowds disturbed his power to the point of overstimulation. When his eyes flashed, he winced, and a few other people in close proximity looked around in confusion. When others are hit with the signal, they feel the same chill that Tommy did.

Shivering, Tommy hurried through the crowd, praying to whatever god still watched him that he wouldn’t be spotted. The band played a rich, vivid rock song, and just as Tommy turned to scan the crowd again, the guitarist began her solo.

Purpled seemed thoroughly lost, glaring around the park with glowing eyes. Tommy whispered a hushed “Yes!” to himself and slipped through the shadows away from the concert.

The night was cold, and Tommy pulled his mask over his head on the walk home. He had to keep his guard up, especially when he had no phone to call Ranboo and escape.

He was incredibly thankful that he'd had so many chances to escape Purpled, seeing as the assassin hunted him every other month, it seemed. He wished he could pay Purpled off to leave him alone, but sadly he was a sixteen-year-old broke with no real job.

It’d already been a long night, and the sun would be up in about two hours. I’ll barely have any time to sleep.

As usual.

The moon hid behind the stark silhouette of buildings, but the stars still shone with mirth. Tommy kept to the shadows and tried not to focus on how many heroes and villains were out at that time of night.

He heard laughter from an alleyway and instinctually walked a little faster.

While he walked, he wondered if Ranboo would be expecting a text, or if Tubbo was worried about him now that he didn’t know where he was. He wondered if it was selfish to hope someone worried for him and stifled the thoughts immediately.

He glared at the stars. No deep thoughts tonight, thank you, sky demons.

Suddenly, Tommy spotted a figure moving down the street towards him with their head down. He squinted and slowed his pace, thinking he may recognize them.

The figure passed beneath a streetlight and looked up.

Is that…

“…Vinyl?” a voice called, and Tommy heard the accent he recognized as his brother’s.

The man standing before him was Blue.

Although Tommy knew him as Wilbur.

The vigilante in question absolutely froze.

If he ran, Wilbur would chase him. If he tried to talk, Wilbur would fight him. I don’t want to hurt my brother I can’t hurt my brother don’t make me do this don’t make me do this.

Did this have to happen tonight of all nights?

Wilbur stared from behind his mask, and Tommy thought for one terrifying second that the hero might recognize him.

“Vinyl? Right?”

Tommy blinked rapidly.

Says something!

“If you walk away right now,” he blurted, “Nobody gets hurt.”

Why would I threaten him? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Oh god. We are standing under a streetlight. Anyone could see, even though the city is asleep.

There is no fucking way I’m doing this tonight.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Wilbur insisted. “I don’t- I’m not against vigilantes. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. I don’t want to think he would lie, but he’s on the job facing someone potentially dangerous. He could say anything under the pretense that I get arrested in the end. He doesn’t know me.

Tommy’s hand hovered over the discs on his belt.

Wilbur raised his hands nonthreateningly. “I don’t have a weapon, I promise.”

“You never have a weapon, you fight with your fists, I’m not fucking dumb.”

Wilbur’s brow furrowed, and Tommy realized with a start that Vinyl probably sounded very suspiciously like a certain someone.

Tubbo said he’d make me a voice changer, but he keeps delaying it. The longer I talk, the closer he gets to figuring out who I am.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Tommy warned in a timbre he hoped was lower than normal.

“Neither do I,” Wilbur laughed nervously. “Just- let me past, is all.”

Is he serious? Is he a coward, or is he actually on the vigilante’s side?

After the ordeal with Q, maybe…

Tommy chewed on his lip for a moment.

Whether he’s lying or not, he’s giving me a pass to walk away.

Tommy took a deep breath and moved to the side. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Wilbur breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Vinyl,” he muttered.

When Wilbur passed Tommy, the teen watched the back of his head with apprehension. He wondered if the reason his brother was suddenly pro-vigilante could really be just because of some stupid crush, seeing as he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone- despite Tommy’s belief that his older brother might trust him with that knowledge. He thought Wilbur would at least tell Tommy. At least.

He’d long since given up on the hope that Wilbur did not have a crush, since he’d recently caught the hero on the phone with someone, blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl (That might be an overstatement, but Tommy was so distraught over it he felt Wilbur my as well have been twirling his hair.) He’d also given up on the prospect that the mystery crush wasn’t Q, because while he was… not eavesdropping, he heard the hero say that very name. and “Quackity” was very obviously not a common name for Wilbur to be saying.

Tommy wasn’t sure how to approach his brother on the subject. How do you ask someone “Hey, I know you’re loyal to the agency and all, but would you mind if I asked you whether you have a crush on a potentially dangerous vigilante, when if you did, you could lose your job or even your life?”

At that point, Wilbur would ask how Tommy even knows Q, and Tommy would have to explain that he’d been going out at night to fight criminals since he was fourteen. And then his brother would hate him.

Except he might not now, Tommy realized. Now that he’s on the vigilante’s side. He might not hate you.

I still lied to him. He’d still be angry.

But he might not sell me out.

Tommy came to the halting realization that he now had the option to tell his brother about Vinyl.

All this in the moment that Wilbur passed him in the street.

Well, shit.

“Hey, W- Blue,” Tommy called all of a sudden, turning to look at the hero as he was walking away.

Tommy had to bravely remind himself that Wilbur couldn’t see his face through his mask. The hero looked distressed, clearly terrified of this conversation lasting long enough to devolve into fighting.

“Why exactly,” Tommy said slowly, “Are you okay with vigilantes?”

The hero paused, seeming startled by the question. What’s he thinking? How to begin? How to lie?

“I met one,” he murmured, and Tommy was sure he saw a shadow of a smile on his brother’s face. “And he taught me some stuff about vigilantism. I don’t see what the big deal is anymore.”

“If you care, why don’t you do something? Stop us from getting arrested, or- or convince the others we’re not warmongers or whatever?”

Wilbur sighed, the stress becoming evident in the way he held himself. “I’m trying. I- I don’t have as much power as you think I do, but I’m trying.”

What the fuck does that mean?

And with that, the hero turned the corner and disappeared down the street.

And Tommy was presented with a choice.

He was tired, and extremely annoyed, and his hoodie was too hot for comfort, and he had a choice.

He could tell his brother about Vinyl, or continue to keep it a secret.

Tommy groaned and pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw shapes. “Oh, no.”

--

He spent almost all of the next day dreading his existence.

Yes, he was going to tell Wilbur. He didn’t need to, and to be honest, he didn’t particularly want to, but he was going to.

The reasons were blurry. Maybe Wilbur deserved to know, now that he could, and he’d been kept in the dark for so long. Maybe Tommy wanted to just get it over with because it was going to happen eventually and he did not want to sit and debate it for the rest of his life.

(Maybe, deep down, he thought Wilbur would sell him out. Maybe, in a fit of self-destruction caused by the spell of stress, dehydration, and secrets, he wanted everything to just fall down around him.)

He didn’t even want to think about telling Phil or Techno- he could already see their reactions. Techno’s cold frustration and confusion, maybe even borderline betrayal, Phil’s fear and disappointment (and disappointment) would drown him.

Wilbur was the only one he ever even considered telling. And now he had a chance.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared out of his mind.

Tommy tip-toed out of his room and scanned the living room. He spotted his target on the couch, watching some stupid documentary about waterfowl.

Now, all he had to do was open his mouth.

“…Wilbur?”

The brunet merely glanced at him as though he were the simplest thing on earth, grinning for a moment. “Welcome to the living world, gremlin. You done wasting away in your room?”

Tommy pressed his lips together in a thin line, unable to respond for all that was holy.

“I’ve been watching these waterfowl documentaries and shit,” Wilbur continued, unworried. “Did you know ducklings start walking hours after they’re born? You took, like, a year. I actually-”

“Can I tell you something?” Tommy blurted, immediately squeezing his eyes closed, hating every word out of his mouth.

Wilbur took a moment to consider Tommy with a surprised (but not unkind) gaze, then moved to pause the television. “Of course, what’s up?”

Tommy took a shuddering breath and waved for his brother to follow him to his room.

The blond led him to his room, shutting the door behind him and pointing to his bed in a silent gesture for Wilbur to sit. His desk chair had laundry on it.

Wilbur sat down with a raised eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy breathed to himself, pacing to his closet door and throwing it open. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Wilbur echoed, looking confused.

“Listen. Listen to me,” Tommy said with some urgency, although it was muffled as the boy was now rummaging through his closet. “I have something very important I need to talk to you about.”

“Okay?”

“And it’s a secret and you can’t tell anyone.”

“…Do you have a crush?”

“EW,” Tommy shrieked. “Why would I have a crush when I already have multiple wives?”

Wilbur deadpanned. “Tommy, I don’t think you’ve even looked at a girl in the past month.”

“Yes, well-” At least I’m not drooling over a gambling vigilante, He almost said. He cleared his throat. “If I had a crush I would simply say ‘No thank you! I am good,’ with one of those fucking thumbs-up emojis or something and it would go away.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Toms.”

“Oh, and you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Wilbur blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The teen eventually found what he was looking for, the box labeled “Miscellaneous” in red sharpie. He picked it up and carried it with him out of the closet, kicking the door closed behind him.

“So,” he started, taking a steadying breath. “You know I go out at night?”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Tommy set the box next to Wilbur on the bed and opened it.

First was the red hoodie on top of everything else. He took it out and laid it on the bed.

Wilbur blinked at it, then deadpanned. “Oh wow. A hoodie.”

Tommy groaned and took out the next item, the pants to his costume, and laid them down as well.

Wilbur turned to look at him with a quizzical look. “I… don’t understand?”

Tommy felt a bit like ripping his hair out. This is fine. Just show him the mask. It’s just a stupid record and string, and then he’ll know, and then he’ll hate me.

“Look, can you just-” Tommy grabbed the box and closed the flaps frantically before Wilbur could peek inside the box. “Can you just promise me,” he sighed, “promise me something?”

Wilbur looked a bit concerned now, eyes darting from the clothes to the box and then Tommy. “Well, it depends on the promise.”

“Can you promise me that if I tell you about this,” Tommy breathed, “You won’t get angry?”

Wilbur’s brow furrowed.

“I… can’t, really,” He mumbled. “I mean, I’m- you know me, I can get angry, and I might, depending on what this secret is. I’m your brother. If you’re doing something to hurt someone or anything of the like, I might be a little mad, yeah.” He turned back to the costume, scanning the cloth as though he would find a hint as to what was going on. “But I can promise you that no matter what, I’ll still care about you, and… I won’t ever hate you. You’ll be okay.”

Is this selfish of me to want him to know? If it would stress him out? Tommy began to spiral within a second. He’s already in hostile territory with Techno, and he barely has a dad. He’s got missions and rankings to worry about, and I can’t imagine what it must be like to balance a crush on a vigilante on top of all of that. What if I’m ruining something by doing this? Should I just leave it alone? What excuse could I even come up with now?

“Tommy, I can hear you overthinking from here.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said, and it was unclear what he was sorry for, even to himself. “Sorry.”

“Look, just calm down, maybe-” Wilbur shoved the hoodie and trousers to the side, “Sit down. I’m sure this isn’t that bad.”

Tommy felt the mattress shift underneath him when he sat down. He tried to remind himself why he was doing this.

Because I’ve always wanted to tell someone, his mind ached. I’ve always wanted to just get it over with and see how someone would react and have a friend other than Tubbo or Ranboo who I chose, who I trust.

I wish it wasn’t someone who would be better off not knowing, but it is, and I’m sorry for that.

But I can tell him all that after I pick the mask out of the box.

Tommy held his breath.

He carefully removed the lid of the box and lifted the mask out.

Tommy remembered when Tubbo first made it. It was just a simple black disc of steel at first, before Tommy excitedly painted the center red, as though it were a genuine label. A black strap hung from the back. The paint was faded now, and a little scratched, but it didn’t matter- criminals still recognized it, and so did heroes.

Wilbur’s eyes widened impossibly at the object.

“Is that…”

Instead of saying anything, Tommy handed the mask to his brother.

Please don’t, Tommy thought, and then realized that the thought could end with anything. Please don’t scream, please don’t get angry. Please don’t get sad, please don’t be confused. Please don’t question me. Please don’t be unhappy.

It was an impossible request, and Tommy knew it.

Wilbur turned the disc over in his hands, his fingertips tracing the grooves. “This is Vinyl’s mask.”

Tommy didn’t know whether it was a question or a statement, but he nodded.

“I don’t-” Wilbur shook his head fervently, looking back at the red hoodie. “Tommy, you-” His eyes shot back up to his brother’s, and Tommy gulped, knowing he would try to deny it. “I don’t know if I understand…?”

He sounded like his world might be falling down around him. Tommy’s heart broke a little.

“I’m Vinyl.”

Wilbur only stared for a solid moment, and Tommy let him take a moment to think. When you find out your little brother, the one family member that’s close to you, has been a vigilante under your nose for years, it’s understandable that you need a moment to get the gears working again.

“That- no. That can’t be true, this-” Wilbur blinked. “This is a joke, right? This is a joke.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“But Vinyl isn’t- Vinyl is a, a-”

“Vinyl is a what?” Tommy bit. “A vigilante? A dangerous vigilante? A scary vigilante, Oooooh, look at me, I wear a mask and tie up bank robbers!”

“Vinyl is a fighter. He fights,” Wilbur breathed. “He’s arrested villains, mob bosses. He’s gotten seriously injured before-” Wilbur almost choked at that, bringing up a hand to cover his mouth though he still talked, watching the mask as though it may turn into a tarantula and bite him. “- and fought heroes.

He’s gotten hurt, you- If you were doing that, I’d know, I’d have to know because if I wasn’t helping, you- you- Tommy!”

Tommy gawked at him. “…You’re worried about me getting hurt?”

“Vinyl has been active for years,” Wilbur practically shrieked. Tommy’s eyes darted to his bedroom door, afraid he may wake someone. “Of fucking course I’m worried about you getting hurt! My brother, my flesh and blood being spilled- Oh, my god, Tommy!”

Of course, he’s worried about me getting hurt, the bastard would be when I’m the only person in his family he thought was safe from being killed on the street. I knew this was a bad idea.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy began, and Wilbur shook his head, getting more stressed by the second.

“Don’t you dare apologize, you- You just-” Wilbur sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’s trying so hard to process this. “I don’t understand how. How have you managed to keep this under wraps, to survive this long, you’re so young, and I should have-”

“There was not a thing you could have done, okay? Wilbur, this was all me.”

Tommy gently took the mask from Wilbur’s hands and placed it with the rest of his gear. “I decided to do this. All of this, and I’ve managed to take care of it for a while.”

“How long is a while?” Wilbur demanded. “How long has this been going on?”

Tommy stiffened, chewing on his lip.

“Tommy,” Wilbur asked slowly, “…What happened to make you do this?”

I was going to tell him I was a vigilante, Tommy thought breathlessly. That was it. He would ask why I lied, and I’d tell him I was sorry, he’d be ticked off but understanding, that was what we hoped for. That was what I wanted.

I did not want to tell him about… what happened.

This was not a part of my plan.

“Two years and some, that’s it,” Tommy rushed. “I was fourteen.”

“You were fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“Was that,” Wilbur mumbled, thinking, “The time you stopped talking to dad?”

Tommy nodded slowly.

“…Did something happen that day?”

 The night we don't think about, we don't talk about.

“Yeah.”

 Wilbur tilted his head and Tommy despised the way he was suddenly being studied, seen for the first time. He kind of is. He knows everything about me, now, it feels like he's looking through a microscope.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 The answer was no.

But I should tell someone, shouldn’t I?

Something did happen, and there’s not a single person in this city who knows the full story except me.

“…Yeah.”

Wilbur nodded, gesturing for him to go on.

The vigilante took a deep breath, and began to tell a story.

Chapter Text

Two years ago…

It was Tommy’s idea, to be fair.

Tommy grew up in an… interesting situation. He was brothers with two of the most powerful heroes in the city- even if they were only that revered because of their status in the family (seeing as Wilbur had only become a full hero a year ago.) Tommy was also the child of the most powerful hero in the city. He grew up in a hero family, and of course, the expectations were high.

He’d wanted more than anything to be a hero.

He wanted to be like his brothers; Wilbur, who had the power of empathy, who could summon emotions in a person within a split second, and who could make thousands of people calm with just a few words. Techno, who could hear heartbeats from a mile away, who could snuff out any villain within his radius, who had the strength and build of a god. To Tommy, they were legends, and he wanted more than anything to follow in their footsteps- despite how different he seemed from them.

When his seventh birthday came and went and he still had no powers, Philza smiled kindly and told him he’d get them eventually. Only a small percentage of the population was powerless, and their family had never had a powerless child before. It was in their genetics, he said.

Tommy believed him.

He turned eight, but nothing happened. Nine, ten- nothing.

Twelve.

Nothing happened.

The hero agency hadn’t ever had a powerless hero before, but other cities had them. Grian, a hero from a city far away called Hermit, was powerless- and while he didn’t rank very high, he seemed to be greatly loved.

But this was not Hermit, or Empire, or Origin. This was the city of L’manburg, and if you didn’t have a power, you didn’t have a place.

Tommy wanted to believe he had powers, and that they just hadn’t shown up yet. In any case, he was determined to prove himself. The tryouts to train to be a hero were to come when he turned fourteen, and he had every intention of going.

Even if his father tried to talk him out of it.

“Tommy, I know you want to be a hero, but you can take the test late! Wait to see if any powers show up, yeah?”

“No, Dad, come on, don’t give up on me! I need to at least try! Look, look, look-” Tommy took up a messy fighting stance, fists clenched in front of his face. “Techno has been training me to fight, dad! I can fight, and I can hack- Tubbo helped me with that- And I can look damn good while doing it, too!”

Phil sighed, running a hand down his face as though he could rub off his stress. “But we’ve never had a powerless hero before, you’d have a better chance if you waited for something to come in. Besides, you’ll only be fourteen, that’s too young to even take the test!”

“Wilbur took the test when he was fourteen!”

“And I fought with him about it, too. He came home with bruises.”

“Techno took the test when he was thirteen!”

“Techno was a very strong child!”

“Dad, please!” Tommy pouted. “What will everyone think? A member of the Minecraft family waiting a year to take the test. The theorists will go wild!”

“Is that the only reason you want to do this? Because of expectations?”

Tommy clenched his fist. “Of course not. I know people don’t expect anything of me-” Liar. “- but they’re already suspicious that I haven’t shared my powers yet!”

Phil sighed again. Everyone around Tommy seemed to do that a lot. “Tommy, nobody would care if you waited a year. You’re just a kid.”

Tommy stared daggers at the table he was sitting at. “I’m not a fucking child.”

Phil shook his head. “What am I going to do with you.”

And that conversation brings us to the real beginning of this story. All this to preface.

Sneaking out of the house at 5 to take the hero test… was Tommy’s idea. To be fair.

And Tubbo made that very clear when he whispered urgently, “If you get caught and we have to go home I’m stealing your ankles. I can’t believe you dragged me here.

Tommy grinned. “It’ll be fine, we’re just going to do a little sneaking! We’re big men, we can handle a big test!”

“I can’t even pass geography, what makes you think I can pass this??”

“Because your power is actually quite pog,” Tommy admits, scanning the dark area. They were near the building the agency was using to hold testing (behind it, actually,) and planning how they were going to get in.

“The lady at the front desk won’t let anyone in without an adult,” Tommy thought aloud.

“Okay, let’s go home,” Tubbo decided.

“Nooo! Tubbo, did you bring what I asked you to bring?”

“You mean the thirty dollars I snatched from my dad’s bag? Please, I do that every time I leave the house anyway. Wait.” Tubbo grimaced. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to bribe the receptionist.”

Tommy’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “We’re going to bribe the receptionist.”

They walked out of the alley behind the building into the daylight. It was around 5:00 at that time, and when they finish the test, the sun would have set over the city. They casually walked into the building and were immediately met with beige walls and blue chairs.

The lady at the front desk had long, wavy brunette hair that was half down and half up in braids. The braids had rose-shaped clips in them, and the woman had bright green eyes. She looked up from her computer with a warm smile and asked, “Can I help you?”

Tommy nodded vigorously. “We’re, uh. We’re here for the hero test? To get into training?”

“Do you have an adult with you?” she asked, scanning the room as though there may be a third person she missed. Tommy squinted at her nametag. Hannah.

“Uh, yes, and his name is…” Tommy took a ten-dollar bill from Tubbo’s hands and slid it across the desk. “George Washington.”

Hannah looked down at the green slip of paper, and then at Tommy, unimpressed. “…That is Alexander Hamilton, sir.”

Tubbo began to hum a song from a musical and handed Tommy another bill. Tommy blinked. He slid another ten-dollar bill across the desk. “…he has a twin,” he said with a grin.

She sighed, as though she dealt with this every day. “You seem very charming, but I don’t really care what Mr. Hamilton and his brother have to say about all this. If you’re desperate, please come back with-”

“How much money do we have to give you for you to let us both in?”

Tommy turned to look at Tubbo in shock. He rarely used his powers on people he didn’t know.

“Forty dollars,” Hannah answered immediately, without thinking. She slapped a hand over her mouth in shock.

Tubbo had the power of truth- he could make people answer any question he asked. He rarely used it, claiming that it felt invasive of other people’s privacy. But every now and then, for surface-level questions, he didn’t have an issue with it. It was useful when people told small lies (‘people’ being Tommy) but not for much else, as of now.

“Aww, we only brought thirty.” Tommy frowned.

Tubbo sighed and reached into his hoodie pocket. “The things I do for you.”

“You brought more money??” Tommy grinned, practically bouncing on his heels. “Tubbo, you are such a big man, you are- you are the only man ever.”

Tubbo snorted, a smile cracking through his annoyed expression. “Yeah, sure.” He pulled out two more ten-dollar bills and slapped them on the table. “Rich dad and all.”

Hannah looked down at the money, then at the kids. After getting over the initial shock of speaking against her will, she cleared her throat and took the money, sliding it into her pocket. She must have had a button to open the doors underneath her desk because soon enough the door slid open. She avoided eye contact. “In, go inside.”

Tommy’s grin became even wider, and he mouthed a quick Thank you to Hannah before grabbing Tubbo’s arm and pulling him through the doors.

-

Tommy didn’t know why he expected there to be more people.

There were… possibly 30 kids in the room, all teenagers, waiting. None of them seemed to know what they were waiting for. The room was the size of a classroom, with rows of plastic chairs all facing a blank wall.

The kids were all aged sixteen to eighteen. Even though the minimum age was fourteen, most parents would only let them go when they were years older.

Except for the Minecraft family, who were expected to show up as soon as they were old enough.

Tubbo frowned. “…well, this is underwhelming.”

“We paid forty bucks for this shit,” Tommy whined, sitting in a front-row chair.

Tubbo sat next to him and hummed. “I paid forty bucks for this shit. You’re in here for free.”

“So is everyone else,” Tommy reasoned, looking around. “How many spots are on the training program?”

“Like, eight, I’m pretty sure. Out of all these kids, only eight can make it in, and then depending on how many drop out of training or just fail it altogether, only about one or two become heroes.”

“Well, I have an edge because I’m Philza’s kid.”

“And that edge is dull because you’re powerless.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and looked around the room, scanning the faces of the other people. Nobody seemed noteworthy, and Tommy wondered if he might see someone he recognized, before remembering he had no other friends. (At least not that he wanted to see.) Tommy turned back around to face the front. “D’you reckon the people running this thing are late?”

Tubbo hummed. “I sure hope not. This is the hero test, kids from all over the city are here. One does not simply come late to the hero test,” He quoted, grinning.

“God, that meme is old.”

Before they could speak any more, the door they had come through opened, and in came a person they assumed to be the supervisor.

She looked a little bit disheveled, and as she walked in the door with a huff, she pulled her cloud of white, fluffy hair into a ponytail. She surveyed the room, seeming like she was looking for someone.

“Who’s that?” Tubbo whispered.

“That’s Puffy,” Tommy hissed back. “She’s the new head medic at the tower; she came in just as Wilbur became a hero, I think.”

“Is she nice?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay,” Puffy breathed with a warm smile. “Sorry to keep you all waiting. The others should be here shortly.”

She made her way to the front of the room and looked around awkwardly for a place to set her bag down, eventually opting to just lean it against the wall in the corner. The woman cleared her throat. “I’m Puffy, I’m the new head medic for the heroes,” She began. “You’re all here to take the test to get into training, yes?”

A warped series of agreements rose from the group of teens.

“Yes,” She huffed. “It’s very brave of you to want to be heroes, and I really look forward to seeing you all in action. This is a good year; I can feel it.”

Tommy sat a little straighter in his chair.

“Now we’re just waiting for a few more people, some brand new heroes will be here to help survey. A member of the agency should be by as well, but you don’t really need to worry about them, they’re only here to watch us, haha.”

Tommy froze. Brand new heroes? Does that mean Wilbur might be here?

No, he’s home. I know he’s home. Right?

“Are there any questions while we’re waiting?”

The kids asked various questions while Tommy’s mind drifted to other things. He vaguely caught some of the answers, including the length of the test and the sections- but they were all things he already knew. He had stayed up countless nights doing research, trying to find the best ways to earn points, asking his brothers over and over if it was easy or hard, if there were written parts or if it was all physical.

Techno had simply shrugged, saying he didn’t remember much, but that it had seemed easy for him. Everyone told him what they wanted from him, and he did as they asked, like he would in class or in a training session. He recounted being asked why he wanted to be a hero, and saying words that they told him to say; “The most important thing in my life is being useful to the city and the agency.”

Tommy thought that sounded a little strange. He didn’t get a chance to ask any more questions, as Techno left on a mission.

Wilbur had needed to take a moment to think about it. He told Tommy what he remembered from turning 14. There were three segments of the test; measurements of strength, intellect, and skill, all of which Wilbur passed with what the agent called “Acceptable” scores.

Tommy knew Wilbur was bitter about it, but he hoped his brother would still be proud of him if Tommy passed too.

The first hero to show up was 404. He had finished training right alongside Wilbur. Tommy had no idea where he came from, as he wasn’t the friendliest hero Tommy had ever met, and seemed to share nothing with anyone except Millennium. (“Joined at the hip, those two,” Wilbur would whisper when they passed in the hall.)

The hero wore a long-sleeve sky blue shirt with a simple 404 printed on the lapel, along with a pair of black pants that were cuffed at the feet. As usual, he shrouded his eyes with signature goggles.

404's power was hallucination. Not only could he see things others were hallucinating, but he could also create hallucinations and cause people to think they were losing their mind.

Supposedly, the goggles blocked him from seeing other people’s visual hallucinations. Tommy wondered if he had anything to block out auditory ones.

Puffy crossed her arms at him. "Finally decided to join us, did you?" she hummed.

He shrugged awkwardly. "I had stuff to do."

"Of course you did. Do you know where Ram is?"

"No clue."

Puffy's eye twitched. "Alright. That's fine. Okay."

Tommy winced. The day was not looking good.

“Look, we’ll just start without them- the agent is late too.” Puffy turned to the gravely silent group of teenagers and plastered a smile over her face. “It’s about time for the entrance test. 404, is there anything you’d like to say?”

The hero pressed his lips into a thin line, thinking.

“Um. Good luck?”

Puffy glared daggers at him. “ ‘Um, Good luck.’ Certainly inspirational.”

404 just sighed as though he couldn’t be bothered to exist.

--

The first test, a measurement of strength, went perfectly.

Tommy thought so. He was strong enough for a fourteen year old, despite appearing quite lanky and thin. He couldn’t see his scores, but he got approving nods while lifting weights, even from the bleach-blond agent that showed up halfway through.

He looked like every other member of agency; too-perfect posture, button down and blazer, clipboard in hand, and a permanent frown etched into every line on his expression. Even 404 looked displeased having to shake hands with him.

Ram still had not shown up.

Tubbo snuck up behind Tommy and poked him in the side. Tommy shrieked and glared at him. “Jesus fuck, Tubs, what-”

“I passed strength,” Tubbo cut in, unaware of Tommy’s fear. He grinned. “Moving all that furniture into the basement really paid off, I think!”

Tommy grinned right back, shock forgotten. “That’s perfect! Dude, if we pass all of them, we could both be heroes- a dynamic duo! We’d be famous.”

Tubbo laughed, but his smile faltered a bit. “Yeah, I- well, I’m not sure that’s gonna happen, boss man.”

“Why not?”

“That agent there was glaring daggers at me,” Tubbo chuckled, pointing across the lounge at the door that they were doing testing in. “Or more specifically, my horns. I think one ram hybrid superhero is enough for them.”

Tommy wilted slightly. “Well, they put it up to a vote, don’t they?”

“Yeah, and sure, Puffy and 404 seemed chill, but… I dunno, Tommy, it’s not even really something I want to do. Heroism and all that.”

The blond paused. He knew Tubbo wasn’t interested in it, but it never failed to stump him- how do you look at the heroes, at the villains they fight and the good they spread, and not just to want to be them?

“Maybe it’s for the best. This way you can get rich off your awesome tech!”

Tubbo yelped as Tommy shoved him to the side, almost completely onto the floor.

“It is a shame, though,” Tommy sighed overdramatically. “You won’t get a cool ass costume like me.”

“Your costume will probably be shit,” Tubbo groaned, shoving him right back.

They probably annoyed the rest of the teens in the room, giggling and knocking each other over every five seconds, but Tommy didn’t care. They were all looking at a future #1 hero.

--

The tests of agility went better than expected.

Tommy had been slacking on training lately (it seemed like his teachers didn’t see it as worth it anymore, and he knew why) but he was still a lot better at parkour and basic running than the rest of the kids. Again, everyone seemed happy with the results.

And next was the pen and paper exam, demonstrating knowledge and critical thinking. Each question was completely different from the last, some asking about the best way to hack into various files, and some asking about the body language of a liar.

That was when Ram finally showed up.

Clad in a fully black face mask and a patterned greyscale shirt and pants, he entered the room during the paper test and made his way to the judge's table in the back. Tommy watched him receive whispered scolding from Puffy and a short greeting from 404. His eyes wandered around the room until they caught on Tommy, who was very obviously not writing and was also very obviously staring at the hero. The teen's eyes snapped back down to his paper.

If Ram whispered anything to the other judges, Tommy most certainly did not strain his ears to hear.

--

The last segment of the test was not, in fact, intellect. And Tommy should have guessed it, and it was obvious that it was going to be necessary, and he was slightly angry with himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Now that we’ve finished with the main part of the test, we can move on to the results,” Puffy cheered with a grin.

“Before that,” the agent cut in, eyeing her, “There’s just one quick formality. We’re going to need to have your powers on record, obviously, if you plan to make it into training.”

“Right,” Puffy chuckled like it was the simplest thing in the world, but Tommy felt like his chair was vanishing beneath him and the ceiling was crumbling on everyone there.

“So we’re going to have each of you step in here and demonstrate your powers for us,” The agent said. “If you lie, your families could be fined, so be smart about it.”

How would I even begin to lie? Tommy wondered dazedly. What would I say? My power is so big and destructive I can’t use it? My power isn’t anything I can demonstrate?

I don’t have one?

That wouldn’t be a lie.

“Who should go first?” The agent asked, clipboard still in hand.

Tubbo, sending Tommy’s impending doom, offered to go first.

So Tommy waited. And waited.

And thought, and hummed, and bit his nails, and ran his hands through his hair enough times to leave a dent. The room was too cold, but it was also really hot, and he wanted to break the silence but he couldn’t bear to add to the already overwhelming noise.

And then, after what was only a million years but felt more like maybe five seconds by the end, it was his turn.

Puffy nodded for him to come in, beaming, and he wished he could tell her how much he was going to disappoint her.

What if this is it? What if me being powerless is the thing that makes me fail?

I know the agency isn’t fond of me, but they won’t fail a Minecraft because of it, right?

Right?

The four judges sat at a cheap oak table, fit for a cafeteria, watching him with very mixed stares.

“Hey… Tommy, right?”

Tommy didn’t catch who said it. He just nodded stiffly.

“Right. Can you tell us about your power?”

My power. “My power!” Yes. “Yes.” Actually, that’s great you ask. “No…” Shit. “Shit. Shit. Sorry, I don’t mean to- to curse. I… don’t have one.”

Ram inclined his head forward.“…Hm?”

“I don’t have one.” Suddenly Tommy’s shoelaces became the most interesting thing in the world to him. “A power.”

404 tilted his head, seeming less bothered than the other shocked judges. “Aren’t you Angel’s kid?”

Tommy nodded.

Ram scoffed. “You’re telling me this is the kid everyone's gossiping about?"

Gossiping?

“He’s not all bad, he got very good scores-” Not all bad? “Powerless shouldn’t mean anything, right?” Puffy tried, looking at the others.

“I never thought a Minecraft, of all names, would be powerless,” The agent mumbled with such audible distaste and venom that Tommy felt himself wither a bit.

“Stop, stop,” 404 cut in, looking towards Tommy. “You, kid. Who else knows you’re powerless?”

Tommy blinked. “Dad- Angel tries to tell me I'm just a late bloomer or whatever, but... pretty much all my teachers and friends have guessed by now."

“I knew there were rumors, but I really wasn’t sure,” Puffy sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy mumbled, even though he shouldn’t have to apologize, should he? He’d waited, and waited, and hoped, and prayed, and nothing ever happened. Why am I the one saying sorry? Is it my fault somehow?

Is it?

The agent leaned on his elbow. “Well? Are we going to vote?”

Puffy, who seemed sympathetic, 404, who seemed sad, and Ram, who seemed incredulous, all seemed to nod in agreement to vote.

“All in favor of passing?”

Two hands. Puffy and 404.

“…Hm. All in favor of failing?”

Two hands. Ram and The Agent (What even was his name, anyway?)

“And we know what a tie means.”

“Tommy,” Puffy said in a voice Tommy instantly recognized, because he only heard it from Wilbur when something bad was happening and it made him want to claw his eyes out. “…Would you like to know your results?”

There’s something very, very scary about knowing exactly what’s coming and not doing anything about it. Seeing a train on the tracks ahead of you and feeling the tremble in the ground as it comes closer, hearing the train whistle blare and barely wincing. You already know it’s going to hit you, and it’s going to hurt and you’re going to die. You know.

Tommy saw the train. And he ran to it.

“Yeah.”

***

(“It’s a shame,” the agent murdered with a click of his tongue, just as Tommy was leaving. “After what your mother gave for you to be here, you couldn’t so much as have a power.”

Tommy clenched his fists.

“Better luck in the next life, kid.”)

***

Tommy found his way back home around midnight. When he got home, his feet hurt, his lungs constricted, and his throat ached. He wasn’t sick, he just had an urge to start sobbing, but crying would not be helpful at all when he was trying to sneak into his own home.

He stepped out of the elevator as quietly as possible. The doors shuddered as they closed, and Tommy winced, praying that nobody would hear it and wake up.

Nobody came to murder him, so he considered it a win.

Tubbo had needed to leave quick, saying his dad found out he’d left and was texting him relentlessly, demanding he be back. The ram hybrid looked reluctant to leave Tommy alone to walk home when he could barely speak, but Tommy quietly assured him he was fine (he was not) and he didn’t need to be fretted over (even if it comforted him) and Tubbo could go home (he probably should before Tommy lashed out too much.)

Because why did he not realize it? He knew he couldn’t make it into training without a power. He hoped his reputation of being a Minecraft would help but it didn’t, they didn’t care. Tubbo probably knew, probably figured that Tommy wouldn’t make it. So why didn’t you tell me? Why did you cheer for me even though you knew I’d fail?

Step by step, shuddering breath after shuddering breath, he tiptoed through the living room and down the hall. The air was cold. He prayed that Techno wasn’t awake, lest he hear Tommy’s stuttering heartbeat pounding though the walls.

Creak.

Tommy froze when he heard the sharp sound of floorboards creaking, not from below his feet, but from behind him. His heart started pounding, and he again prayed to whatever gods still cared for him that Technoblade was sleeping soundly in the next room. After a few seconds of mind-numbing panic, he decided he had just imagined the noise, and kept walking.

That was until he heard a tired, croaking voice say “Tommy?”

There was the dull sound of a switch flipping, and the hallway was blindingly lit for a moment. Tommy blinked the spots from his eyes and turned around.

His heart lurched because there he was. Philza Minecraft, in all his glory, the man who has been the number one hero for years. Standing in the hallway in sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt, hand stationary on the light switch from shock.

Despite their fights, Tommy had a strong urge to just cry. To just collapse into Philza’s arms and let himself be cared for, at least once. The ache in his throat grew to a sharp pain and he took a deep breath.

“H-hey, dad.”

“Why are you...” Phil looked him up and down and oh, right. Tommy was wearing scuffed-up jeans and a T-shirt.

“I came out to get a glass of water,” He lied through his teeth even though Phil already knew what had happened and lying would make it worse. Screw it.

“...In a t-shirt and jeans?”

Tommy frowned. “Yes.”

“You went to the test, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Tommy saw Phil’s shoulders sink. He looked so tired; Tommy had never seen a man look so worn down. I did that. That was me.

“Well.” Philza sighed and crossed his arms, leaning against the bedroom wall. “How did it go?”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tommy-”

“No.”

“You have to listen to-”

“No! Shut up, shut up!!” Tommy spun on his heel and walked faster down the hallway. “I don't want to, alright? I’m done.”

Phil followed him. Tommy hated that. “Tommy, please, you’re going to wake up Wil and Tech-”

“Yes, yes of course, dad, that’d be awful! Let them wake up! Wiiiill!”

“Tommy, stop this!”

“No!! No, I won’t! I’m not stopping.” Tommy pulled his door open and stepped into his room. He immediately decided he hated it. It was so fucking messy, two drawers were hanging open, there were clothes and notebooks on the bed. Notebooks full of plans to get to the hero test, notes about the best heroes, and drawings depicting what his hero suit would look like. Heroes, heroes, heroes, it was all he ever fucking thought about. He didn’t even remember when he made those drawings. A normal kid his age would have posters of singers, tv shows, and sports stars. Action figures of characters from movies, notebooks filled with stories and drawings he thought of himself. Not a life so obviously filled with the idea of heroes.

He hated it so much. He thought of the agent's sickening smile and honest-to-God amusement to find out Tommy had nothing to show for his last name. He hated it, he hated it, he hated it.

Hate is a very strong word, but it's the right one.

“Tommy.”

Why did Phil always say Tommy’s name so much?

The man stood in Tommy’s doorway. He looked almost guilty. “I told you to wait until you got powers.”

“You want to know what went wrong? You want to know what fucking went wrong?” Tommy turned to face his dad and hoped that he looked as angry as he could possibly make himself. His knees were shaking violently and something deep in his chest trembled.

“Nothing! Absolutely fucking nothing! I got perfect scores, I beat everyone in sparring, agility, the fuckin- the writing shit! I was fucking perfect! Oh, but no, but no, there can never be a powerless hero-in-training. I’m fucking worthless and weak and stupid if I can’t lift a piano with my bare hands!”

“Tommy, that is not true. All you had to do was wait for-”

“I DON’T HAVE FUCKING POWERS!”

The ground shook. Except it didn’t, it was all in Tommy’s head, because why would the world move for some powerless kid?

“I DON’T HAVE ANY! I’m never going to get any! I’m powerless, I'm not going to get powers, I always knew it. I always knew. And you knew too, didn’t you?”

Phil did not move, or speak, he just stared at his powerless son. Eventually, he opened his mouth to say something, but Tommy wanted anything other than to hear Phil’s lies, so he stepped forward and slammed the door in his father’s face.

Tommy was silent for a long moment, until he heard dejected and slightly dazed footsteps retreating down the hall. He let out a long breath, that then turned into coughs, that then turned into sobs ripping from his chest. He slid down the door, kneeling on the floor and clutching his shirt, crying and crying until he was sure he could never cry again.

He was there for an hour, maybe two, until his tears had dried, and he stared aimlessly at the wall across from himself, replaying the night in his head. That was when his phone rang.

With shaky hands, he pulled the device from his pocket and read the too-bright words on the screen.

Tubbo.

He pressed answer and held the phone to his ear, opening his mouth to say Hello, or maybe I’m so sorry, or possibly Why didn’t you just tell me I was a failure? Why didn’t anyone just put me out of my misery?

Nothing came from his lips.

Instead, Tubbo said cheerfully,

“Hey, bossman. I have an idea.”

Sneaking out to take the training test was Tommy’s idea, to be fair.

But becoming a vigilante was Tubbo’s.

Chapter Text

Wilbur was certainly having a time of it. 

It wasn’t a very bad time of it, honestly. He’d count it as going pretty well. He got very close to capturing a kingpin in west badlands (and didn’t get overly insecure when Quackity stepped in to help,) tried watermelon for the first time, wrote a new song, and learned from a documentary that geese are vicious pricks. It’d been fun. 

Until yesterday. 

Yesterday he’d met another vigilante. He confronted Vinyl in the street; Vinyl, the vigilante Quackity referred to as “the kid.” Wilbur was sure he couldn’t be that young, maybe 18 at best, considering his height. They only spoke for a minute, but Vinyl was terrifyingly hostile, enough so that Wilbur was terrified to even pass by him in the road without his permission. The vigilante emitted so much white-hot fear that Wilbur wondered what could possibly be running through his head as he faced off against the #3 hero.  

And Wilbur passed him, and then Vinyl asked something Wilbur wished he didn’t have an answer to. 

“Why exactly,” the boy said slowly, “Are you okay with vigilantes?” 

It was a simple question. Worded easily enough that Wilbur might have understood it when he was four years old, of course back then he would have been confused as to why someone would ask him such a thing. 

And like an idiot, Wilbur replied, “I met someone.” 

Because it was the truth. And there we moments when he really was that grateful that Quackity had stepped in before Wilbur got murdered by Pyro, because otherwise he’d never know how terrifyingly wrong he’d been about so, so many things.  

And for some reason that was an answer that Vinyl accepted, if not for the follow-up “Why haven’t you done anything?” 

And Wilbur wished he could say he was. That he had a big plan to take down the agency, that he had some kind of secret mission that would save the city. 

But he didn’t. Wilbur had no clue what he was going to do, and saying “I’m trying” felt like the weakest thing he could offer to the vigilante whose eyes were on him like sniper rifles, calculating, hopeful. And he said it anyway. 

Vinyl just nodded and let Wilbur keep walking. 

The whole interaction sent the hero into a deep internal panic, realizing that he was on limited time and even more limited resources to do something about all this new information. He was joining the effort to ward off the agency that plagued him (the word agency was starting to feel fuzzy on his tongue, but they weren’t referred to by anything else.) He was scared of Vinyl. Not because Vinyl was a vigilante, but because Wilbur was a hero, and he had spent so much time around Q that he almost forgot vigilantes were supposed to be hostile to him. It scared him. 

Oh, and that was another thing. Quackity and Wilbur had gotten together ( we’re together, what the fuck, what the fuck) a little under a week ago and Wilbur was going to need an inhaler if his lungs didn’t stop acting up every time he thought about it. Quackity liked- no, loved Wilbur . Wilbur, a lanky, hopeless, mentally ill hero who the vigilante may as well have picked up off the street like a soggy cat.  

Wilbur was happy, really, he was ecstatic, and it felt like a dream just thinking about it. 

…But he also felt mildly guilty. 

In daytime, Quackity was a normal citizen- unlike Wilbur, he had a genuine chance at a normal relationship with someone. And to be honest, he deserved that. He deserved normalcy, genuine romance. Coffee dates and flowers and staying over, and all the things in Techno’s romantic comedies that Wilbur couldn’t give. He deserved that.  

Quackity assured him that he was happy like this. That he wouldn’t enjoy normalcy unless it was with Wilbur, and that was the whole point of the “Taking down the agency.” So that if they try hard enough, they can have that life. 

None of this stopped Wilbur from stealing poppies from the pots outside buildings to give Quackity on patrol, though. 

So, after speaking with Vinyl, he came home and passed out almost immediately, not having time to process what he was going to tell Quackity on the morning. 

I met a friend of yours, He’d text at 7am when the sun was just barely over the skyline.  

Quackity: Tell me you’re not injured  

Wilbur: I can assure you I am safe and sound, eating leftover chicken and having an existential crisis  

Quackity: yeah that’s fair  

Wilbur: Are your friends that dangerous  

Quackity: I know some people that I hope you never need to speak to in your life.  

Quackity: what happened  

Wilbur: I was walking home last night, right? And the tracker thingy said nobody was in the area so I was just chilling  

Wilbur: and I round the corner and there’s fucking Vinyl  

Wilbur: Walking the opposite direction  

Quackity: oh my god  

Wilbur: I don’t remember exactly how the conversation went but dear god Q that kid was ready to murder me he had his disc blades and shit. I was terrified  

Quackity: What did you do?  

Wilbur: it’s fine he was scary but I just told him I didn’t want to fight him and he let me pass  

Wilbur: ngl though he was very confused to find that I did not want to fight a vigilante, he asked why and I just said I met someone and I don’t want to hurt them anymore  

Quackity: aww  

Wilbur: Yes but I didn’t name you  

Quackity: Oh thank fuck if you had outed me to Vinyl of all people  

Quackity: Actually  

Wilbur: what  

Quackity: I mean like  

Quackity: The rest of the vigilantes could help, probably? To make a plan and do the thing  

Quackity: I mean maybe they’d be happy to know that we have someone on the inside. That a hero is on THEIR side  

Wilbur: you mean like tell them I’m on their side, or tell them all of the things?  

Wilbur: Like tell them about us?  

Wilbur watched the Quackity is typing text at the bottom of the screen fluctuate for a bit. 

Quackity: We don’t have to if you don’t want to but. None of them would rat you out or anything. they’re kind of like my family so  

Quackity: wait forget I saaid that  

Wilbur: AW  

Wilbur: QUACKITY ARE YOU ASKING ME TO MEET YOUR FAMILY  

Quackity: Wilbur don’t do this just be serious  

Wilbur: I am so so serious I am so normal about this  

Quackity: It is NOT that big a deal  

Wilbur: awwwwwwwwwwwww  

Quackity: You’re technically a vigilante so I should say something anyway, the relationship part is OPTIONAL  

Wilbur: I’m fine with telling them I can do that I can do that  

Wilbur: as long as you trust them is all  

There was a short pause in the conversation. 

Quackity: Yeah I trust them  

Wilbur: Awesome. Im a little scared of Vinyl  

Quackity: oh he’s the least scary, he’s loud but not very physical. You should try dealing with Nightshade on a daily basis  

Wilbur: Ooo do tell  

So, Wilbur also had that incoming event to panic over. 

And then (As if Wilbur’s guardian angel was a sadist,) Tommy had something to tell him. 

Wilbur was confused about it, especially when Tommy was pacing his room and leaving streaks of nervousness around like smoke from his ears until the hero had trouble breathing. Something like a train whistle hailed from his head. The fear reminded Wilbur of Vinyl, and he supposes now that there was reason for that. 

Because even with all that warning and lead-up and worry, Wilbur still felt like he’d been crushed by the secret Tommy let fall. 

Tommy Minecraft, Wilbur’s little brother (the one he trusted more than anyone since the moment Tommy opened his eyes,) was a vigilante. 

And his name was Vinyl. 

And he wore a red costume with a record-shaped mask, and he handled two deft blades like nothing but air, and he fought and bled and had been hunted for his fucking city and Wilbur was proud, of course he was proud, but he was scared, too. 

If he is going out there and getting hurt every night, Wilbur thought breathlessly while Tommy spoke, there’s a chance he’ll go and then not come back.  

He would not lose Tommy. He could not lose Tommy. 

He felt like he’d already lost Tommy, just a little bit. 

And then Tommy told him his story, and how he’d tried to become a hero in secret and failed and cried and found solace in a friend Wilbur hadn’t even heard about in a long, long time. 

And now Wilbur had to sit there and just… process all of that. 

He was certainly having a time of it. 

“So, you- you’re telling me the agency failed you for being powerless,” Wilbur clarified, “And your first solution was to become a vigilante?” 

Tommy’s gaze hardened. “Okay, cut me a little slack. We didn’t plan on being vigilantes, we just went out one night, and then another night, and then we just kind of… didn’t stop.”  

It was a weak, weak excuse, and Tommy knew it. They might have been sitting here for hours now, weighing down Tommy’s mattress while the younger explained his tragic backstory. 

Wilbur gawked at him. “…Tommy, I am truly sorry about what happened to you, and I don’t blame you for fucking hating our dad,” he said incredulously, “But fighting crime alone at night is not the answer to your problems.” 

“It’s basically the same as being a hero!” 

“It’s not, though!” Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, it’s certainly not as morally dark as people make it out to be, but it is so much more dangerous.”  

“I have gone on patrol literally hundreds of times, and not one got me killed.” 

“But they got you injured, didn’t they?” 

Tommy sucked in a breath. 

“Didn’t they,” Wilbur asked again. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, but he waited for one anyway. 

“…I haven’t gotten killed,” Tommy repeated, making Wilbur rub at his eyes with stress. “And I haven’t lost any limbs, either!” He threw his arms out as if to demonstrate and wiggled his fingers in the air. “I haven’t lost any fingers- well, I mean, I almost lost this one on the nasty end of some gang violence, but-” Wilbur stiffened. “That’s it! That’s all! I’m fine!” 

“ Tommy.”  

“I’m fine,” The teen insisted. “I’m alive. That’s what matters.”  

Wilbur shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“Tommy?” 

Tommy looked up to meet his brother’s eyes. 

“Tommy, why-” he shook his head, as though he didn’t understand. “Why didn’t you say anything about what happened?” Tommy blinked, as though he wasn’t sure how to respond. Wilbur clarified, “I don’t just mean the vigilante thing, I mean what happened with you and dad. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Why didn’t you tell me?  

Why the fuck didn’t he say something? Where was Techno? Why didn’t Phil acknowledge it? Why didn’t anyone say anything?  

Why did he do all of this alone?  

“Why do you think?” 

Wilbur snapped back to reality. “What?” 

“Why do you think I didn’t say anything? You’re a hero. Your job is to take down people like me.” 

People like you. The people I care about.  

“…Okay,” Wilbur couldn’t keep the tremble from his voice. “Then why did you decide to tell me now?” 

“Because last night, I met you in full costume, and you told me you didn’t mind vigilantes anymore.” 

Wilbur blinked, having again to remind himself that Tommy and Vinyl were the same person. He looked down at the mask in Tommy’s hands, the mask that his brother was now fidgeting with while waiting for the hero to say more. 

Would he have really turned against tommy if Tommy had told him earlier? He thought vigilantes were evil, that much was true, but he knew Tommy was good. That was one thing that stayed constant. He could never give up his brother, not for all the respect of the city, and not even for his own title. 

“Tommy, even if you’d told me before, I wouldn’t have turned against you.” 

He thought back to the night Tommy had gone off on Phil at the dinner table. When Wilbur tried to leave. 

“It's fine, king,” Wilbur breathed as he rounded the couch and walked towards the hall. “And I’m allowed to keep my secrets.”  

“As long as the secret isn't hurting anyone.”  

Wilbur stopped at the last second and turned slowly to face Tommy.  

“Do you… think I would hurt you?”  

Wilbur guessed he knew the real answer to that question now. 

Tommy met his gaze with silent defiance. “I think you would hurt yourself.”  

“Are you sure?” Tommy chuckled bitterly. “I think you might be lying to yourself.” 

“Are you sure that I’d rat you out that fast? You have no faith.” 

“I guess not. I mean, if you don’t say anything about me being a vigilante, I won’t tell anyone about Q.” 

If it was a television show, or any type of dramatic story with hearable audio, that moment would have been a perfect time to play a record scratch. (For the irony, y’know.) 

“…about what?”  

Tommy pressed his lips into a fine line. “…oops?” 

“You said Q?” Wilbur blinked rapidly. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t even done reprimanding you about being a vigilante, and you sit there and you tell me you know something about Q??”  

“Well, it’s not like I wanted to, he just keeps coming up and I spoke to him and everything-” 

“Oh my god, you know Q. You know him- you’ve talked to him.” Wilbur ran a hand though his hair. “Oh my god.” 

“I feel like we’re getting away from the point here,” Tommy stuttered. 

“Yes, Tommy, I know, we are far from the point because there are at least a million points to be made here and there is so so much to talk about. What, do I- should I ask how much you know? Should I ask if there is anything I don’t know? Should I just get a memory wipe right here and now?” 

There was a short pause in the conversation while Wilbur thought. Within a few seconds he realized his brother was staring at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispered, and Wilbur looked up in shock. “I knew I- I should have just shut my mouth, it- you’re already stressed and shit. I’m really sorry.” 

“No, no- I already told you not to apologize. God, I’ve been really shitty about this, haven’t I?” 

Tommy didn’t look like he was willing to answer that. 

“I’m sorry, Tommy, you’ve been through so much, and I wish I could just take it all off your shoulders. But I’m- I’m worried for you, man.” 

“But Q is a vigilante too, you aren’t worrying about him!” 

“Of course I worry about him!” Wilbur couldn’t keep his voice from raising slightly.  

Tommy looked on, shocked. 

Wilbur continued, “Of course I worry about him. He’s my everything, Tommy, I worry every day. I worry one day he’ll die in front of me, or worse, far, far away. And I’d never know.” Wilbur shut his eyes as tight as possible and forced the words from his tongue before he could swallow them back down. “You don’t think he worries about me? You don’t think Tubbo worries about you, like Glacier worries about Hydrogen and like Pyro worries about Mask? Like 404 worried about Millennium and still lost him? You think Mum and Dad didn’t worry about each other when they had separate missions?”  

Tommy tensed at the mention of their parents. Wilbur just kept going.  

“Being a hero, a vigilante, a villain, being in any position of danger or just simply having people you care about… you have to worry.” The hero let his shoulders drop. “Especially when it’s family.” 

The weight of his words hung heavy over the room and Wilbur felt it sag the mattress beneath him. Tommy just stood before him, perplexed by what he’d been told. 

“Okay,” Tommy breathed. “I guess… I guess I understand what you mean.” 

Wilbur glanced up hopefully. 

“You worry about him,” Tommy clarified. “But you don’t try to stop him. And you can’t try to stop me, either.” 

“I know I can’t stop you, Toms. I don’t think anyone could, to be honest.” Not even Phil could. “But I- I don’t know, I have to do something. I can’t just move on with my life knowing one night you could walk out the door and not come back, especially when you’re so young.” 

The blond seemed annoyed by being called young, but he nodded. “I know. But there’s really not much you can do.” 

Wilbur sighed. 

He felt burnt out, and tired in every way. He didn’t ever want Tommy to think he was a burden, or that the things he’d survived caused him to be so. He was more weighed down by everything else. 

Tommy was burned out, too. Wilbur could feel it from him, the exhaustion resembling a dull static in the air around him.  

“Maybe you’re right,” the brunet mumbled. 

Tommy raised his eyebrows.  

“I mean,” Wilbur laughed, “I think we have a lot to talk about, still. But I need to just- I need to handle everything, first. Maybe I should focus on the issues I’m already facing before I try to be an overbearing big brother on top of it all.” 

Tommy snorted. “You aren’t wrong. You’ve been taking on a lot, recently. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have a fucking crush on a vigilante in the middle of all this.” 

“Don’t even get me started- wait, how do you know about that again?” 

“You aren’t subtle!” 

“What- you mean you found out from me?”  

“Yes, you!” Tommy shifted in place, the challenging spark in his eyes returned to its usual brightness. “You’re always on the phone with him, or texting him and shit with your door open, and I can hear you going ‘Oh, Q, you’re so funny and weird ahhaha’, and he’s over there getting all red when someone mentions you- it’s fucking weird, and Tubbo said he saw you flirting, I’m not a fan. Not a fan at all.” 

Wilbur laughed, “Oh come on, I sit here and agree not to rat you out and this is what I get for it?” 

“You didn’t already confess to him, did you? You didn’t do the whole thing without asking me for my superior romance advice?” 

“What’s your superior romance advice, Tommy?” 

“Two things.” Tommy held up two fingers. “One; threaten him with violence. Two; give him a gift. Instant romance. He shall love you forever.” 

Wilbur’s shoulders shook with laughter and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tommy, please never do that with anyone.” 

“Well, whatever you’re going to do won’t be much better.” 

“Uh. Actually, Tommy, we-” Wilbur blinked. 

Oh. This is the first time I’ve said it to someone.  

I mean, I could keep it a secret if I want to. It’s not going to hurt anyone.  

But I want to tell him, he realized. Just like Q wants to tell his friends.  

“…I’ve already told him,” Wilbur breathed. “We’re kind of… together, now.” 

Tommy gawked at him. “… what?”  

“I mean, yeah, we-” Wilbur swung his legs over the bed to sit cross-legged on the mattress in front of his brother. “I’ve kind of been… patrolling with him. Like, by his side for a while now. And I did the whole- the whole confession thing- well, it’s a long story, but it happened.” 

“…You’ve been what-ing with him??” 

“I’ve been patrolling with him. And I- I kind of have this coat and goggles that I wear, so I figure I’m… I’m a little bit of a vigilante too? I guess?” 

Wilbur seemed to be playing a personal challenge for how many times he could say “I guess” and “Kind of” in one series of sentences. Tommy looked practically offended. 

“So, you have been talking to me about how dangerous being a vigilante is,” he clarified, “While doing the same fucking thing?” 

“I’m an adult!”  

“ Barely!”  

To Wilbur’s relief, the two brothers bickered for a long while about the ethics of keeping that kind of secret. The conversation didn’t turn serious again, so long as Wilbur kept his words light and avoided the topic of their parents or of Tommy’s past just enough. 

Eventually they tired themselves out (as they expected) and resolved to head to the living room to retrieve some food. 

Wilbur was still worried (Incredibly worried, all he wanted to do was ask Tommy where he’d been hurt, who had tried to fight him, how often he went out) but he did his best to refrain. I’m his brother, not his parent.  

Not that he ever had a really great parent to begin with.  

What am I even going to do about Phil? He wondered. I had no idea what happened. Tommy has every right to be angry, but I have no idea if Phil even cares. Is he angry with Tommy? Is he sad? Is he deflecting all of it?  

Not knowing how someone feels about something is a new feeling, Wilbur realized. 

As they came into the living room, Wilbur spotted Technoblade sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand. Looking up, Wilbur expected to see some random hallmark movie, but was instead met with the news station. 

“…Techno?” 

The man looked up suddenly, unkempt bubblegum hair swaying with him. “…Sorry. I didn’t want to go in there while you two were talking or whatever, but-” he blinked. “I think I need to talk to you guys.” 

“We don’t really have time to hear about your emotional problems, dear brother,” Wilbur grumbled, throwing open the fridge.  

“It’s not about me,” Techno sighed, exasperation and nervousness floating from him in waves. “Something on the news. Well, three somethings.” 

“Ooh, celebrity drama?” Tommy asked good-naturedly. 

Techno rolled his eyes. “Much worse. We have good news, bad news, and news that is debatable in terms of likability. Pick your poison. 

“Lay it all on me,” Tommy huffed, swinging himself around the arm of the chair and landing haphazardly on the left cushion. Wilbur sat next to him, in the center of the couch with Techno on his right. He set a tub of French vanilla ice cream on the coffee table and leaned on the arm of the sofa, awaiting Techno’s response. 

“The good news is actually that a vigilante got arrested a few hours ago.” 

Wilbur tried not to freeze up. He failed. Tommy turned his head so fast he had to reach up to massage his neck from where Wilbur assumed he snapped a muscle. Technoblade, oblivious, continued to speak. 

“Bad news is that Wilbur went down a rank.” 

Wilbur’s eyes widened. 

“And the debatable news is that a villain was found dead last night around midnight.” 

Tommy’s jaw dropped impossibly low and Wilbur fervently told himself It’s not Quackity. It’s not Quackity, It’s not any of the vigilantes, it’s not anyone. It’s fine.   

He wished he could say that to Tommy (who looked about ready to burst into hysterics,) but he’d have to say it in front of Techno, and nobody was ready for that conversation. 

“…Oh my god,” Wilbur breathed. 

“Yeah.”  

“Who? What- what happened?” 

“Well, for the vigilante, it was Hydrogen.” Technoblade shrugged. “She was a pretty influential vigilante, and I think a few people a pretty mad about it, but I’d say they have good reason. Just… watch.” 

Wilbur relaxed slightly, knowing Quackity was safe.  

Techno rewound the television, and stopped on a scene with Jack, the news anchor, describing the situation. 

“The vigilante Hydrogen was recently caught and arrested. She was found in her home, as the agency was tipped off by an anonymous donor for her address,” Jack said through a thin smile. “After de-masking her, they found that her true identity was Niki Nihachu, a twenty-one-year-old woman from central L’manburg- and this news station’s second news anchor.”   

Jack sighed, looking straight into the camera for a moment. “I… had no idea that one of our employees was involved in such a thing. I’m disappointed.”  

He knew exactly what she was, Wilbur thought to himself, and he has to sit behind that camera and tell everyone he’s disappointed in her.  

The next thing that played was a short clip of the woman being taken away. She had short pink hair that just barely brushed her shoulders, and was wearing an orange striped sweater, having obviously been taken straight from her home. The security guards on either side failed to keep her from shaking out of their grasp. She turned to face the cameraman, hands bound with power suppressors and expression furious.  

Wilbur wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone so angry in his life. Her eyes were wild, like a caged animal, and Wilbur prayed for the camera man that captured such rage. Though he wasn’t there, he could see the phantom anger from her like thunder through the camera.

It dawned on him that the Agency probably deliberately picked a violent clip of her to make her seem more unstable, more dangerous. 

She leaned forward, attacking the camera with her hands still cuffed. The screen glitches and goes black, and then switches to Jack at the news station, looking a bit pale.  

“Niki will be held in… Pandora’s Vault,” he said, shocked by his own lines. “-for questioning, and for the rest of her to-be-determined sentence.”  

“Pandora’s Vault?” Tommy shrieked. “They never put vigilantes in Pandora’s Vault! That’s like putting someone in an asylum for seeing a therapist!” 

“Pandora’s Vault is for serial killers and homicidal maniacs,” Wilbur breathed. “Surely Hydrogen wasn’t that bad?” 

“She probably wasn’t,” Techno agreed, pausing the news. “But they’re putting her there anyway. Maybe it was at the request of that ‘Anonymous Donor’ he mentioned.” 

“Someone that had her address,” Tommy muttered. “And was willing to turn her in.” 

Wilbur had no idea who that could be. Evidently, neither did Tommy. 

I’m definitely going to be talking to Quackity about that.  

“Okay,” Wilbur breathed. “And in other news?” 

“In other news, Wilbur… you got bumped down.” 

Techno waited a moment before raising the remote again and speeding through the finer details of the Hydrogen story. Wilbur watched Jack’s expression flicker until Techno stopped. 

“In other news, Blue-” Wilbur hadn’t heard his hero’s name in so long, he almost thought they were talking about someone else. “-has been surpassed recently. Ram has, yet again, raised up a rank and become the number three hero, making him the first hero to rise all the way from the bottom and surpass a Minecraft- and making Blue the first Minecraft to be surpassed by someone who started at the bottom.”  

…oh.  

“Ram’s goal is to rise all the way to the top, although theorists say it will be insanely difficult to surpass Angel and Blade now that they’re aware of his attempted advances. Ram shows great promise and bravery, seeming undeterred by the public’s response to him.”  

Wilbur felt the two pairs of eyes boring into the side of his head, and he turned to blink at his brothers. “...Yes?” 

“Are you alright?” Tommy asked slowly, leaning around Techno to study him. 

Wilbur felt… a lot less bothered than he probably should have been. 

He passed me. Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek. I mean, he has been rising quickly, no matter the headway I’ve been making with all the help from Quackity. He’s probably worked hard for it.   

404 was absolutely seething when it happened to him, Wilbur remembered. And I’m sure Techno and Phil would be, too, although I doubt he’ll get ahead of them.  

Why doesn’t this affect me as much?  

He remembered staring at the wall in the rankings room, the first time his name was painted onto it. He remembered Tommy bouncing on his feet next to him, and Phil’s firm hand on his shoulder. He remembered the yellowish light and the glistening mahogany podium. He remembered the robin’s-egg blue shirt the painter was wearing and the acrylic smell floating around the theater-shaped area. 

He also remembered all but glaring at Techno’s hero name all the way in the #1 spot. He remembered that all he could think about was the distance between his name and his brother’s, and how much better Techno seemed. 

But they were just numbers. The whole time, they were just numbers. 

Maybe my rank matters more to everyone else than it should, he thought. Maybe it’s not all that big of a deal.   

The agency wanted me to think all my worth was stored in that stupid wall. Tommy’s name was never on that wall, and he bounced back. He’s happy the way he is. Maybe I could be too.  

“I’m… not all that upset, honestly.” 

Techno gawked at him. “… what?”  

“The ranks are a way to judge how good you are on the field. If he does better than me, I mean…” Wilbur shrugged. “He’s a stranger. I can save myself a lot of energy by just not caring.” 

I wish I could be that way with Techno, though.  

“You really aren’t upset at all,” Techno asked incredulously. Tommy also seemed confused by the change of heart. 

“Nah.” 

The older hero looked down at the remote in his hands as though it held the answers of the universe. “…huh.” 

“Yeah. Now, what exactly was that last thing? The, uh. The debatable stuff.” 

“Oh, that,” Techno murmured, looking a bit out of it. He sped up the news again until he got to the part he wanted them to see. “A villain was killed. Before I play, were either of you here for the lockdown last night?” 

Wilbur’s brow furrowed. “The what?” 

“There was a lockdown last night in the tower- I’m assuming both of you were out. Mask and Pyro both infiltrated the tower and were snooping for info. Blueprints, maybe. And then… uh, I’ll let the news talk about it.” 

“-even when he was a villain, don’t you think the gun was a little far?”  

This time, the screen showed 404. He stood with his goggles off and a mic held a little too close to his lips, looking a bit pale and off put by the questions apparently being asked to him. Ram stood next to him, full facemask still on.  

“I said it was heat of the moment. Everyone was searching for the two villains, and I just happened to find Mask in one of the accounting offices.” 404 looked down. “I tried to make it peaceful, but he… attacked me.”  

“Did he threaten you? Or try to take advantage of you?” One of the reporters asked.  

404 seemed to freeze. “Mask??” He asked incredulously, as though it was the most ridiculous question on earth.  

Ram cut in for him. “Yes, Mask tried to take advantage of 404. The hero told me himself. 4o4 was very brave for shooting him.”  

404 opened his mouth, but he didn’t seem to have the courage to refute the statement.  

“He shot him??” Tommy exclaimed. “Like, genuinely killed him?” 

“It doesn’t sound like he had much of a choice,” Wilbur attempted to reason. 

“Ram, tell us more about what you saw!”  

“I didn’t see much,” The hero sighed. “I walked in after 404 shot him. I saw the body on the ground, the blood, and the gun in 404’s hands. It was gruesome, but I’m glad I was there to help clean up.”  

“Why didn’t you use your power,” one of the reporters asked 404.  

“Uhm. My power is hallucination. I make people see things that aren’t there. It isn’t very useful in a closed battle situation.”  

“I thought heroes didn’t kill?” Tommy asked, and it sounded less like a question and more like a plea. 

“They don’t. Or they shouldn’t,” Techno grumbled. “But 404 says Mask tried to take advantage of him.” 

“ Ram says that,” Wilbur reminded him. 

“And 404 agreed,” Techno sighed. “And I really don’t want to get into the ethics of thinking someone is lying about being taken advantage of based on a hunch and personal drama with Ram.” 

Wilbur grimaced. “I also don’t want to get into the ethics of killing someone who’s hurt millions of people, when Mask has never killed, tortured, or raped.” 

“We think he hasn’t, but we don’t know the extent of the things he’s done,” Techno said. “And I’d rather believe a villain was worse than he was better. Especially when he’s dead. Whatever helps me sleep at night, you know?” 

“Can we just agree that there is a lot to unpack here?” Tommy cut in, making both brothers pause their bickering. “And we don’t really have time for it? He’s already dead. Discussing whether he should have kicked it isn’t going to do anything.” 

Wilbur rested his chin in his hand, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Today has certainly been a day.” 

The brothers may have sat like that in silence for a thousand years- or that was what it felt like. Eventually, Techno left for his room and Tommy did the same, leaving Wilbur with nothing but his phone, an untouched tub of ice cream, and a ticking clock. 

He drowsily turned it on and swiped away every news notification and text from Dad. 

Wilbur: So there’s a lot to talk about  

He waited all but five minutes before the telltale bell ring as a notification sound delivered his response. 

Quackity: yeah no fuckign shit  

He didn’t really have the mental capacity to get into it at the moment, so he just replied; 

Wilbur: Q  

Wilbur: my love  

Wilbur: I am having A Time Of It  

Chapter Text

Ranboo was the kind of person that worried. A lot.   

It had been clear to him since the very beginning. It didn’t matter who was hurting, who was missing. It didn’t matter if they were sighing sadly or bleeding out on the pavement. He was convinced that the reason people started using “worried” as a verb (he worried at his lip, worried at his fingernails, or his shoelaces or the hem of his tie) was specifically because he fidgeted to no end every day- The longest he’d ever gone without a hangnail was a matter of hours.  

Maybe it started when he was a kid, getting bounced around foster homes where he always seemed to take up just enough space to be sent back. Some homes were nice. Genuinely kind and caring people, but not tolerant, not the kind that could deal with a 7 year old enderman hybrid learning to control teleportation. Some were worse, simply refusing to try and help him, instead encouraging him to repress his “Urges,” which not only included teleportation, particles, and humming, but also leg bouncing and finger tapping and everything else he swore he couldn’t control (I promise, I promise, please don’t send me back again.)  

He worried. He worried when he got to a new house, no matter if the parents were nice or mean because they could always get worse. He worried when he was there for more than a month because at that point it was usually a question of when it was going to drop and how it was going to drop and if there was ever a way to prevent it from dropping.  

He didn’t blame any of them for not fitting him. He didn’t fit with them, either.  

The social workers ended up dropping him in a group home by the time he turned 10, where he met Niki, one of the kindest and most loyal people he’d ever met. She taught him when to fight back, who to stay around. She shared her personality with him, and he picked up what she put down.  

It was good. And then, by some miracle, it stayed good.   

Some kids were really lucky, Ranboo knew. Some kids only went through a house or two before getting adopted at a young age into a nice family with good people. Though, some kids got thrown from bad house to bad house until they were beat up, confused, and bitter.   

But some kids were Ranboo, and Ranboo thought he was the luckiest of them all.   

For a long while, he didn’t worry.  

He and Niki stuck together, and grew up out of the house. Niki turned 16 and left, and Ranboo visited and called her every day (on days that he could) for three years until he left too.   

He left, and applied for a job in the hero tower. He lied about his age, knowing he could pass for 18 with enderman height, when he was only 16. Niki became a news anchor.  

And then he started worrying again.  

Niki was driving him home from his first day on the job when they heard a scream from an alleyway.  

It was shrill, and pained, and not the thing you expected to hear an hour after nightfall so deep in central L’manburg. Ranboo flinched, but tried not to think about where it could have come from because he knew he’d just start spiraling.  

Niki, forever cautious, asked with the gentlest roll of a German accent on the back of her tongue; “What was that?”  

It was a stupid question, the sound had been a scream, they both heard it, but Ranboo was not one to be rude so he simply confirmed; “A scream, I think?”  

“Oh, god. Do you think someone’s in trouble?”  

Ranboo wrinkled his nose. “I mean I would rather not find out, honestly. Driving sounds like a good plan. Yeah, I think we just go straight here-”   

“What if someone’s hurt, though?”  

“Or maybe people are just having really really loud sex in an alleyway, let’s keep going.”  

“That wasn’t a sex scream, Ranboo.”  

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t know!” Ranboo hissed, clutching the side of his seat.  

They screamed again. Yeah, somebody was in pain.  

“We should go make sure there’s nothing going on,” Niki murmured, swerving the car around.   

“ We?”  

“Well, I could let you walk home yourself?”  

“ No! No! Please, just- I’m sure someone else will come to help them, someone qualified-“  

“What, like a hero?”  

Ranboo glanced over at her.  

Niki was always angry. Her parents had been killed in the crossfire of a villain’s plans when she was a child. No hero ever showed up to save them, no hero ever showed up to save her. She was never openly bitter, though. Ranboo considered her one of the kindest people he’d ever met, but it was the hidden flashes of rage in her gaze if you looked at just the right moment, and it was the almost panic-like violence when she thought she was trapped. It was the barely concealed contempt for heroes that never seemed to care quite enough.  

Ranboo was one of the only people who knew that about her.  

Niki softened. “Look, we’ll just go to check- you don’t even have to get out of the car. I just know if I find out someone died around here and I turned away, I'll feel really bad.”  

“That’s reasonable, but if you find someone having an orgy in the alley, you might be traumatized.”  

“I’ll take the risk.” She looked over at him briefly while turning down a small street. “Sorry to scare you, Ranboo. I’m sure it’s nothing big.”  

Ranboo took a steadying breath and closed his eyes. I trust my friends to keep me safe. I am not going to block her view of the road with my particles. We are going to find nothing and then drive home and order pizza.  

Positive affirmations aren’t much when Ranboo can feel the car slowing to a halt and Niki stepping out of the car.  

Sure, he was worried for the mystery person. They could be getting assaulted, or they could be gravely injured. He worried about whether it was something he could help with, or if it had anything to do with someone he knew. The difference was that Niki actually had the backbone to do something about it, and Ranboo could do nothing but have an internal crisis.  

It wasn’t the best mix of personality traits.  

He glanced out the passenger side window to see Niki walking away from the car and further down a side street with her phone casting a light on the street before her.  

He saw her mouth move and heard something muffled which sounded something like “Hello? Are you alright?”  

He saw her walk further.  

He saw her stop.  

And he saw her run dead straight into the alley.  

“ Niki,” he yelled, but his words would never reach her. He couldn’t even see her. His hands were moving to open the car door before he could tell himself to shut his eyes and pray.  

He followed her, after a few seconds of glancing around the road and hating things.   

He shouldn’t have followed her. But he did.  

He supposes now that this was the thing that inspired her to become a vigilante. It was probably the very same thing that spurred on the rest of the vigilantes; getting a taste of saving someone, of being someone, and riding that high until you want to do more.  

Until you want to be more.  

Niki had found two people in the alley- well, one and a half people, considering the woman could have been considered half dead from her upper arm being sliced open, though she was still standing. The person who hurt her remained, threatening more if she didn’t give up… whatever it was he had been asking for. (Ranboo must have purposefully forgotten that bit.)  

Niki saved the woman (in a fight that was still a bit blurry for Ranboo, as he must have forgotten that bit as well,) and called an ambulance for her.  

She was in the hospital for a good month or so, (apparently the human body keeps a scary amount of arteries in your upper arms,) and when she could comfortably talk about it, she was eternally grateful. Niki was glad she’d been there, and Ranboo was too.  

But it wasn’t enough.  

As a vigilante, Niki had a chance to actually do something. To deal some damage to the crime in the city. And Ranboo would not argue with her (not when she looked happier than ever.) So she ended up one of the most influential vigilantes in L’manburg.  

Ranboo had nothing against it. He just could barely fathom the thought of coming home to a door wrapped in police tape, or worse; a dead body.  

But there wasn’t anything he could do, so he went into work every day at the hero tower knowing he was breaking many, many, many laws.  

Ranboo spent a lot of time with the Minecraft family. He knew they couldn’t be that terrible as people, maybe a little snobbish, but he could never expect the absolute chaos that was their family dynamic.  

Angel had three sons, one of which that was above him in the ranks and didn’t even treat him like a father, the second one that seemed to forget he had a parent half the time, and the third one, who absolutely despised his father for reasons Ranboo supposed he’d never quite get. Blue was convinced that Blade was the spawn of Satan, and Blade was tiptoeing around everyone’s feelings all the time. Tommy hated Angel but not Blade or Blue, he and Blue were positively joined at the hip, and he had an undefined and untouched relationship with Blade.  

And Ranboo could not even begin to describe how it infuriated him.  

He did a lot of paperwork. He shouldn’t have to do too much, but Angel was pitifully busy, Blue never did jack shit, and Blade would do things like chuck entire folders of forms to the side of the training room and claim to do them “later.” Not only that, but it was often Ranboo's job to alert the family (or just one person to pass it on) of missions and press conferences, that of which nobody (literally nobody) was happy to hear about.  

He never had to give that kind of news to Tommy though, which he was confused about at first. Shouldn’t he be in training? He wondered, assuming he just forgot about the third member of the Minecraft dynasty.  

He quickly found out that 1. Tommy was powerless, 2. Tommy was actually the devil incarnate, and 3. He was a vigilante.  

That last one was an accident, thank God. Ranboo thinks that if Tommy had actually pulled him aside and expressly told him he was a vigilante, Ranboo would have just had an aneurysm right on the spot.  

And then he met Tubbo, who was a traumatized half-villain-half-vigilante teenager with burn scars and a death wish, successfully making him the unhealthiest person Ranboo had the fortune to meet (and that’s saying something.) (He was also very, very cute, in a way that was entirely unfair to everything ever.)  

So, he started helping Tommy and Tubbo. He would receive a text or signal when they needed out, and he would pop in as fast as possible to get them out.  

He didn’t tell Niki he was helping Vinyl, because Tommy was keeping his identity a secret, and he didn’t tell Tommy he lived with Hydrogen, because she was keeping her identity a secret.  

More things to worry about.  

There were plenty of ways that these worries could go away. Ranboo could rat someone out, but he wouldn’t, because obviously he wouldn’t. He could quit his job, although he’d feel bad for not helping pay the bills. Maybe somebody could die. That would not be ideal.  

Someone could get arrested, although Ranboo thought that might just worry him more.  

But because the universe doesn’t care about Ranboo’s feelings, that’s what happened.  

The night was dark and starless when Ranboo came home to find cops surrounding their apartment door. He was quick to find that they had already taken Niki away to Pandora’s Vault (Pandora’s fucking Vault, the giant prison/asylum that would be impossible for anyone to break into.) The cops told him nothing, only the “sad news” he already knew, that his adoptive sister was a vigilante.  

They tried to question him. He told them to leave his apartment.  

He was alone, and confused, and scared, and worried. He didn’t know what Niki was going through, and he didn’t know how to help. Neither did any of the vigilantes.   

He also needed a raise to pay bills.   

And he couldn’t say shit about any of it.  

He showed up to work again two days later, maybe a bit sleep deprived, maybe a bit bouncy from caffeine. He needed to talk to Phil.  

Instead he found Techno in the training room doing- you guessed it- training.  

(It’s amazing how he has all that happen to him, all the confusion and loss, and then he just had to go to work and function like nothing fucking happened to him.)  

Ranboo forgot where exactly he got the stack of forms, but he knew they were for Techno, so he teleported to the training room.  

Blade- or, Techno, as he demanded he be called- was easier to be around than Blue, and a lot quieter than Tommy. He was more mentally ill than anyone gave him credit for, though.  

It was strange that Ranboo was the one who often ended up caring for him, as though no one else had the time. He’d say the Agency should take better care of their heroes, but he knew they’d die before caring.  

“I brought you paperwork,” Ranboo began, holding up a beige folder with a small tear on the corner. “Your favorite.”  

The hero grunted.  

He stood beside the control panel. The training room resembled a gymnasium, if a gymnasium was lit from the bottom by cyan lights and produced a gentle humming sound from projectors not in use just yet.  

“Should I come back to make sure you do it?”  

He just grunted again.  

Ranboo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head at Techno. “You are unusually silent today.”  

“I’m a very silent person.”  

Ranboo crossed his arms. “Unusually, though.”  

Techno turned his head to glare at the assistant. Ranboo was not shocked by the shadows beneath his eyes.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”  

Techno pressed his lips into a thin line. “…No.”  

They glared at each other for a moment.  

Ranboo took a step back. “So I’ll just leave, then?”  

“Wait,” Techno blurted.  

And there it is. The distinctive “Wait” that I’ve heard many, many, many times. Signaling desperation and agitation.  

It won’t hurt to hear him out.  

“I, uh.”  

“I know, I know, you don’t want to bother me,” Ranboo sighed. “I can promise you I have nothing better to do with my time.” He sat on one of the benches on the side of the room. “Tell me about it.”  

Techno glared at him for a moment (or maybe he was just staring, the hero had kind of a resting bitch face) and then yanked his sword off the wall to go restart the sim.  

“It is a problem,” he huffed, clicking some buttons, “With my family.”  

“Why am I not surprised,” Ranboo sighed.  

“Wilbur is angry with Phil,” Techno said bluntly.   

Ranboo nodded for him to keep going.  

The simulator started up, a single cyan opponent standing alone in the center of the room. It was hard to hear, but with Ranboo’s endermen ears, he could barely make out a faint him from the lights on the ceiling and the projectors below the floor. The hologram was tall, emotionless, with a simple blue sword between its hands and pointed to the ground like a cane. Techno locked his gaze to it’s head, as though it had eyes he could somehow meet.  

“And that’s not normal,” the hero continued. “I mean, Tommy’s angry at Phil. That’s his thing. That’s normal. Wilbur shouldn’t be, but he is, so Phil probably did something. Probably.” Techno raised his sword, and the hologram began to move.   

“He didn’t say what Phil did?”  

“No,” Techno hummed. “And Phil just said that it was a thing with Tommy. I’m used to Wilbur not telling me things, but with Phil, it was-“ He sliced his blade through the hologram’s neck. Two soldiers appeared in it’s place. The hero’s shoulders tensed. “…Unusual.”  

Ranboo dropped his bag on the ground next to the bench. “And Tommy?”  

“Tells me nothing,” Techno grunted between fighting back the simulator. “It’s not like we were ever close, but it’s not like he’s supposed to be bitter at me. He doesn’t hate me, I don’t fight him. It’s like a silent deal, but maybe I fucking pushed too hard or some bullshit and now he’s getting snippy. Now he’s getting snippy, Ranboo, it makes no sense.” He paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, though.”  

Ranboo winced. “…Because you’re upset? And when people are upset, they talk to other people about it?”  

Techno wrinkled the bridge of his nose. “Heh??”  

Ranboo shook his head. Now he was worrying about Techno, as well. What a time to live.  

“So what are you going to do?”  

“Nothing,” Techno murmured. He stuck his sword through a hologram’s chest. “I mean, what can I do?”  

“Did you tell them you were upset?”  

“No.”  

“…Do you think the secret is about you?”  

“No.” Techno flipped a hologram on its back and stomped on its throat. “I mean, sure Wilbur hates me, but not enough to get mad at Phil over it. They don’t care about me as much as they seem to, and likewise, they don’t care about what I do.”  

He only realized how sad his words were after they left his mouth. Ranboo saw him freeze for all but a millisecond before continuing to fight, unfazed.  

Ranboo would have to talk to Tommy, later.  

“Maybe you should take a break.”  

Techno gave him nothing but a glance. “Uh-huh.”  

“Not even to talk to Phil?”  

“Why would I possibly want to talk to Phil right now?” Techno scoffed.  

Ranboo looked at the ground. “I need a raise and I’m too nervous to ask for one.”  

Techno stared at him.  

Ranboo blinked back.  

“Fine,” Techno huffed. “ Fine. I will talk to Phil for you.”  

Ranboo grinned while Techno turned off the simulator, just before a holo-dagger found it’s way into the hero’s chest. “Aww. You care about me. We just had a moment. That’s what that was.”  

“Shut. Shut right now,” Techno grumbled, letting his shoulders drop. He was more relaxed now that he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder for a blue figure.  

“That’s what emotional intimacy looks like,” Ranboo called after him as he left.  

“Fuck you.”  

Ranboo smiled, his eyelids dropping with exhaustion.  

He’d be fine.  

They’d all be fine.  

He didn’t feel so worried.  

Chapter Text

Wilbur’s chest was tight.

Being the person he was, there were multiple reasons why this might be happening- perhaps he’d just been in an argument, or got caught overthinking something for the fifteenth time, and resorted to hugging a pillow and indulging in potato chips. It could also be because he was trapped, maybe a villain or vigilante was suffocating him again (Nuclear with his giant robot left faded bruises on his ribs, though now Wilbur knew he probably hadn’t meant to do so.) Maybe he was on camera and someone had asked a particularly difficult question (which was all of them.)

Right now, it was somewhere between all three.

A few nights ago, he’d had an explosive argument with his father. It wasn’t supposed to be an argument (or, he didn’t plan on it being an argument) as much as it was supposed to be a confrontation.

Phil had told Tommy over and over that he had powers, and he just had to wait. Wilbur would reason that the man was just trying to give his son hope, but he didn’t have to start ignoring the situation entirely the moment things got difficult.

Wilbur knew that was just what Phil did. And he tried to tolerate it, he swore he did.

But Phil was pathetic, being confronted by his second favorite son in the hallway at eleven at night. He was a cornered dog, yelling biting remarks as much as possible, with Wilbur blocking his way to his room until the conversation was over. He wasn’t used to arguments, he just ran whenever he could. (Wilbur could feel in the air how badly he wanted to run.) Wilbur forced him to talk, though, and he was soon speechless because what could he justify himself with?

Wilbur was even more dissatisfied when Techno showed up, trying to find out what was happening, giving Phil an excuse to slip away.

He was guilty, the man was beyond guilty. But he’d rather die than admit it.

So Wilbur let him leave, and he’d yelled at people plenty of times, but never like that.

His chest was a little tight.

And then, this morning, Rosethorn decided to be a literal thorn in the agency’s side. She appeared out of nowhere in one of the highest security banks in town to demand information, take money, and wreak havoc with barbed vines rising out of cracks in the floor like tentacles from a rolling sea.

Wilbur was pushed onto the scene.

Rosethorn was lethal and terrifying. Unlike the cool intimidation of Bad or the hotheaded rage of Pyro, she was bitter to the world for the things she’d gone through (things nobody but her had a clue about.) Her power allowed her to bring plants to life, which was a wonderful power for anyone to have; Wilbur would be ecstatic if he had the power to make flowers bloom from his palms. Sadly, she seemed to rather like stabbing people though the stomach with thistles and wrapping their wrists in grape vines.

Wilbur was only kind of happy to still be conscious after being slammed into a wall for the second time.

Roulette showed up just then, clambering over the top of said wall (The roof was gone now? Apparently?) To run over to him.

“Fuck, I am so- I am so sorry I’m late, Sam was giving me shit, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Wilbur laughed, eyes tracing Quackity’s mask. “Yeah, yeah of course, I’m- I’m-”

His lungs ached; his ribs hurt. There was a web of scars on his ankles and wrists all working together to bleed him dry. There was a pounding behind his temple that hadn’t gone away since he woke up.

“I’m good,” he breathed.

It could always be worse.

“You?”

“I just got here,” Quackity snapped, forever unable to take his bullshit. “And your nose is bleeding.”

And my chest is tight, he thought breathlessly. Getting tighter.