Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mondays suck.

Anyone who's ever experienced a Monday will tell you the same thing. No one likes Mondays. Except maybe street vendors, but that's understandable because most street vendors suck too. Tommy hates Mondays.

As a quote-unquote 'homeless person', there isn't much to do on Mondays except work, which Tommy’s never too fond of. Carrying around massive piles of newspapers to sell to random rich people is not his idea of fun. It is, however, his and his friend's only source of honest income; for that, he has to respect it, however much pain it caused him. Utilise the Grindset , Tommy'd remind himself. The Grindset, of course, is the mindset in which you believe that you can get good at anything if you work hard enough. And Tommy had gotten really fucking good at hauling papers. He was still a bit weedy despite this, though he was sure his muscles should have begun to erupt by now. Oh well. It's certainly not because he's a child, (by his standards, he is a very, very big man), he's just a late bloomer. Just the same as the next kid. And the next. And the next.

Orphanages are not Tommy's speed. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, never going back. They’re not Tubbo's either, nor Ranboo's, so there’s a sort of unspoken agreement that they will find their own way in the world as a group. Best friends. Amigos. Hombres. Buddies. Degenerates. Whatever the word, it could probably be used to describe the trio. And yes, this is the same trio that had most definitely not been living in an abandoned apartment complex for the past eight months. In their defence, it was pretty much fully furnished when they found it, even if the items were dingy and dusty, and it had running water. Tomaeto, tomato. Home, maggot-ridden free real estate. You really can't tell the difference!

This brings us to present day, where at sixteen years of age, Tommy Innit is about to get done for theft. (Not for the first time in his life!)

---

"Hey! Stop that kid!"

It’s always the same story. 'Come back here!', 'Hey, that kid's got my purse!'. When were these people gonna figure out that Tommy was fast for a reason? He's had six years of practice running from the fray, they aren't gonna catch him. And besides, why is it always just 'Stop that kid'? Why can't it be 'Stop that kid and ask him how his day's been'? Which, of course, it was probably fine, but they don't know that. 

As these thoughts run through his head, he realises that he isn't exactly paying attention to where he was going. Of course, like any other Tommy Moment™, he notices this a second too late and as he rams his way through the crowd, someone catches his wrist. 

Oh fuck.

Tommy whips around to meet a ridiculously tall man with brown curls falling over his eyes. He wears a sweater of yellow wool with small red insignia plastered all over it, two on the sleeves and one across his chest. They look like little hearts but are bumpy and pixelated, with two brown slashes curling around the inside. There is a burgundy beanie pulled over his ears and round, silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looks no different from any of the other rich pricks. 

"What's your name?" The man asks urgently, looking in the direction that Tommy's just came from as if he was expecting to see something of note. Dumb fuck.

"As if I'm telling you, " Tommy spits, attempting to wrench his hand free of the tall man's slender fingers. Those fingers have a death grip around him; Tommy just can not get free .

"Let the fuck go of me! " He growls, thrashing wildly in an attempt to pry the man's hand off of his arm. 

"I'm trying to help you here, would you please calm down?" The man hisses, easily matching Tommy's energy and even shoving a little more on top. 

Tommy'd never had anyone help him before. Therefore, he makes the worst decision he could possibly have made. 

He stops fighting.

"Listen here you little minx- oh," The shopkeeper, who has only just caught up with them, snarls. Only then does he notice the tall man glaring daggers at him.

"You two know each other?" He asks the tall man, skeptically eyeing Tommy in his periphery.

"He's my brother, why?" The tall man lies, voice smoother than honey and equally as sweet. 

"Little shit just stole a loaf of bread from me!" 

"Is this true, Bob?" The tall man asked, turning to Tommy with a look of faux disappointment. It takes him a second to register that they're talking to him.

That prick.  

"Yeah, sorry... Bartholomew," Tommy says solemnly, hanging his head; half to add his usual acting flair, half to hide the smile on his face. If this asshole was gonna give him a stupid name, Tommy'd just have to show him that two can play at that game. Concealing his glee becomes increasingly harder as he hears the tall man choke a little. 

"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to the man," 'Bartholomew’ chides as he recovers his composure, digging an elbow into Tommy's side. Tommy looks up at the shopkeeper, only after ensuring all remnants of laughter have been banished from his lips.

 "Sorry, sir," he drones, biting back the urge to roll his eyes. The man nods approvingly.

"So long as it gets paid for, I won't call the sheriff," the shopkeeper says begrudgingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Of course. How much?" the man asks, pulling out a fancy-looking leather wallet and carding through the many notes inside. Rich bitch.

"Two copper ingots," the shopkeeper states, holding his hand out expectantly. Bit rude, Tommy thinks to himself. Before he can say anything, he silently reminds himself that he is in no position to comment on the shopkeeper’s mannerisms right now. Tall Man hands over what would have been a day's work for Tommy like it's nothing, a friendly smile following it. The shopkeeper huffs, not bothering to return the gesture. He turns on his heel and storms off in the direction of his market stall, promptly deciding that he's had enough of pleasant conversation with thieves and their brothers. 

"You didn't have to do that, you know," Tommy tells him, dulled anger blazing behind his eyes. He knows he has no right to be annoyed - that guy just saved his ass from being beaten. However, Tommy does not take kindly to charity, never has, and he’s decided that Tall Man is no exception.

"I know, but no one else was going to," the man replies, letting go of Tommy's hand. "See you around, kid." 

As he turns to leave, light bounces off of Tall Man's glasses, temporarily blocking his eyes from view. It's only for a millisecond, though, and then there is warm chocolate brown gazing down at him almost longingly, like Tall Man wishes he could stay. Despite this, with a wave and an accompanying smile, Tall Man disappears, swallowed by the crowd. 

Tommy stares at the space that Tall Man had occupied a couple of seconds earlier, wondering if any of that actually happened. If so, Tommy has to properly thank him, right? I mean, two ingots is a lot of money! But Tubbo and Ranboo are probably waiting for him back at home, and he's sure that it would really disappoint Bartholomew if they didn't utilise the bread he so generously paid for. 

So Tommy goes home.

---

"I still cannot believe how lucky you are," Tubbo says again, ripping out another piece of bread in mild awe. "A whole loaf!"

"We would have got the bread anyway," Tommy reminds him. "I just happened to make a friend of it." 

"A friend, huh?" Ranboo asks, looking up from his makeshift plate. "How long did you spend talking to this guy again? Five minutes?"

"That's it. Bartholomew is my only friend now," Tommy says, indignation on his tongue. "Except for Tubbo."

Tubbo beams. 

"I'll find him tomorrow and pay him back," Tommy tells them, joking moment over.

"Why bother? He probably doesn't expect you to," Tubbo reasons. What can he say? He likes free money. Not charity, never charity, but money is nice. 

"That's the point. Mans gotta repay the universe for all the shit he's stolen somehow," Tommy shrugs, shovelling the last of his food into his mouth. "Also, I'm pretty sure I didn't say thank you..."

"You what? "

"Oh, Tommy."

"...Wot?"

"Don’t talk with your mouth full," Tubbo says disgustedly, brushing Tommy's crumbs off of his shirt, "and that’s so bad, man."

"I know, Tubbo."

"Do you not remember what happened last time you forgot to thank someone for something?" Tubbo asks, eyebrows raised.

"Okay, that guy did not need to stab me over an iron ingot," Tommy says defensively. "It was totally uncalled for and rude and just a dick move-"

"You stabbed him back!"

"Yeah, well. He started it, so..."

"I don't think that's Tubbo's point, Tommy," Ranboo interjects. 

"Whatever, bitch."

Ranboo takes what he can get. "Just make sure you don't tempt fate too much," he sniffs. "If you keep stealing stuff in the hopes of running into… Bartholomew, one day, you'll get caught for real."

"'Course not," Tommy rolls his eyes. “I don’t steal for fun, Ranboo. ”

"Just be careful, man."

"Boob boy, the worry-wart," Tommy says, watching amusedly as Ranboo's face shifts from indifferent to confused to irritated.  

"Tommy, would you please stop calling him that? You know it sets him off. If you're not careful, he'll cry," Tubbo warns, taking what remains of his food over to the worn couch that they had definitely not found on the side of the road.

"But it's funny." 

"No, it's not!"

"Whatever, Ranboob."

---

Finding Bartholomew is easier than Tommy thought it would be. All it takes is hanging around the same general area they'd found each other in the day before. 

Twenty minutes of standing awkwardly in the square later, a "Hey, Bob!" rings out above the crowded marketplace. 

"And Bartholomew," Tommy says flatly, doing a rather brilliant job at hiding the excitement he feels in seeing the man again as he pushes his way through market-goers. 

He laughs. "Try Wilbur."

"Wilbur," Tommy repeats, rolling his tongue around the word. "Pretentious name for a pretentious prick."

“Ever heard of manners ?" Wilbur chastises. 

"Yeah, well,” Tommy cocks his head with a half-hearted eye roll. "I'm not exactly big on pleasantries."

"’Course not,” Wilbur smiles lightly, putting his hand in his jeans pocket. "What's your name, gremlin?"

"I'm not a gremlin, and it's Tom."

"Tom," Wilbur mimics. "And you say my name's pretentious." 

"For your in-for-mation, I normally go by Tommy, but only big men get to call me that, and you are possibly the smallest man I've ever met."

"And here I was thinking size didn't matter," Wilbur remarks, one corner of his mouth upturned. Tommy would be lying if he said he didn’t find that just a little bit funny.

"It definitely does, king," he says smartly, not quite catching the chagrin that washed over Wilbur's face at the nickname. Gone as quickly as it came, the man jumps right back into banter.

"Sucks to be you, then… king," Wilbur teases, grinning. The barrage of spluttered swear words and hands flying that followed would be too much for anyone else, but Wilbur just laughs it off, returning it just as much as it's dealt.

"Alright, alright," Wilbur chuckles, stopping Tommy's hands in their tracks with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Now, Tommy’s not a weak child by any means, so this is no simple feat. Maybe Wilbur is some sort of freak of nature or something - it’s the only reasonable explanation, seeing as though Tommy is The Biggest Man To Ever Live™. 

"I've not seen you around here before. You new in town?" Tommy asks, reigning himself in. 

"What's it to you? You don’t work for the Housing Council, do you?" Wilbur asks sarcastically, tilting his head to one side with a cocky smile. Tommy laughs, audibly fake, because Wilbur's joke game needs some fucking work . Wilbur's smile expands at that, so either this guy just doesn't understand jokes or he actually thinks he's funny. Dumb fuck.

"Nah, mate. I just like to know everyone in this town," says Tommy, looking around the market square for examples. "See her, over there? That's Clementine, the loveliest woman ever. And him, working the butchers? That's Mars, he's really nice to my friends. Seems to hate me, though, God knows why. And that redhead girl over there? That's Sally."

"Sally," Wilbur breathes, staring at the woman at the fish stall.

"Yeah, she- What are you doing?" Tommy asks, frowning as he watches the man wander unconsciously towards the fishmonger. He is given no reply, Wilbur seeming not to hear him as he gravitates toward Sally. He moves unconsciously, like a moth to a flame. Tommy can’t see his eyes, but he's sure that if he looked, he'd find something in them. Probably love, or adoration, or even... lust. Gross.

"Woman," Wilbur says, offering no more as he goes for the fish stall. 

Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, Wilbur stops in his tracks, turns back to Tommy and restarts the conversation. 

"Sorry, I lost myself a little bit there... Uh, those look heavy," he says, glancing pointedly at Tommy's ever-growing pile of papers, held together by the same string that, over the years, has made his fingers callus beyond reprieve. 

 "Oh yeah?" Tommy asks, a snide smile creeping onto his face. "Why don't you take them for a minute, then?"

Wilbur doesn't respond, just reaches for the pile. This is gonna be great .

The second Tommy's hand leaves the string to give Wilbur its weight, he falls. Flat on his face. A small 'oof' leaves his lips as he hits the floor, the thick stack of paper doing nothing to break his fall. Tommy bursts out laughing, genuinely this time.

"How the fuck do you carry these?!" The man, who is currently sprawled on the floor, asks incredulously. Drama queen , Tommy thinks.

"I've been doing it twenty-odd years, mate," Tommy tells him (albeit without thinking). 

"Yeah fucking right," Wilbur scoffs, pulling himself off the wet pavement. "How old are you?"

Tommy scrambles for an answer. "...Twenty-four."

"So you've been carrying these massive sacks of paper around since you were four? And you expect me to believe that?" 

"'S the truth, innit?" Tommy shrugs, definitely not avoiding eye contact. 

"You look like a twelve-year-old."

"Excuse me, I'll have you know that I'm seventeen," Tommy relents. If there's one thing he can't stand, it's being called a child.

"A-ha!" Wilbur cries, pointing a jovial finger at Tommy. “A reveal!”

"Fuck you."

"Aww, don't be like that," Wilbur teases. "I just didn't expect to feel so old talking to you! Especially since you're, what, twenty-four? "

"I am not talking to you anymore."

"Aww, I'm sorry, Mr Big-Man," Wilbur mocks with a grin, tousling Tommy's hair. 

"I am walking away."

"No, don't. I'll stop," Wilbur promises, though the smile in his eyes told Tommy otherwise.

"Fine," Tommy rolls his eyes, returning to his new friend. Then, with the sweetest smile he can muster, he asks, "Will you at least pick up my papers for me?"

"You little shit," Wilbur hisses, though he bends to retrieve the burden without genuine complaint. With the initial shock of the weight gone, Wilbur deposits the bundle into Tommy's waiting arms with little difficulty. Tommy smiles broadly as he does, his bravado returning and his walls slowly being put back up. He’s drawing back, just as he always does when approached by people who sincerely seem to give a shit. Wilbur’s losing him, and quickly.

"So, uh, yeah. I only came because I forgot to thank you for what you did yesterday," he says, awkwardly wringing his hands. "You seriously didn't have to, and my friends kicked my ass when I got back. Money's a hard thing to come by these days, so thanks for sparing some of yours for me." Tommy can’t decide whether he's genuinely thanking Wilbur or just spitting bullshit. Probably bullshit, but there's a lick of genuine gratitude in his words that even he can’t fully undermine.

"It's cool," Wilbur shrugs. "It's not enough to bother about." 

"Alright," Tommy says mechanically, debating the easiest way to get out of the conversation. "I s'pose that's that, then."

"Yeah," Wilbur agrees, sensing Tommy's sudden discomfort. It seems to upset him that the boy is leaving so soon, but Tommy has other things on his mind. "I guess I should get going, anyway. My brother's home alone, he wants cranberry juice and I've still got to find that for him. He doesn't like going outside."

"Yeah?" Tommy says, pretending to be listening to whatever else Wilbur has to say while wracking his brain for a stall in the market that would possibly sell cranberry juice. He came up empty. As far as Tommy knows, (and he knows a lot ), Wilbur would have to travel into the next township for that specific flavour. He points this out to Wilbur, who looks at the floor like he wants to murder it. He murmurs something vaguely resembling "He knows how much I hate Snowchester, that bastard."

Tommy takes this as his cue to dip before Wilbur got aggressive (as ridiculous as it sounds, he's been beaten for less). He adds a quick, "Yeah, well, see ya!" before wandering off, fighting the urge to look back at Wilbur as he hears him call out for him to wait. 

---

For a reason he cannot place, Ranboo is cold.

It’s not that he is cold, (he's sure that he isn't), but he feels like someone's shoved him into a refrigerator unit. He can't suppress the shivers that fly down his spine no matter how hard he tries. The thin blanket that they have for their bed is doing no justice to the cool air that seems to surround him. He'd known this was coming - he'd felt it slowly infiltrating his body but hadn’t thought much of it until boom, it hits him like a truck. Ranboo, as ill as he feels to admit it, is probably in need of just a teeny-tiny bit of help.

Who is there to help him? No one, really, if you don't count his friends. Ranboo can feel that this isn’t the usual flu that came with the onset of winter; it feels different, somehow. They can’t afford to get a healer and having enough money for the medicine that came with it would be nothing short of a miracle. All Ranboo can think to do is struggle out into the main lounge area of their apartment and find a seat next to Tubbo, clutching the last strands of consciousness he can get ahold of before his body decides 'nope, not anymore.

He wakes to Tubbo's voice and gentle hands shaking his shoulders. 

"You good, bossman?" He asks, and even though Tubbo's tone is soft, it’s like lightning through Ranboo's veins. He winces, burying his face deeper in Tubbo's sweater. It’s his favourite, the one with bees on it. Mmm, bees. And yellow, yellow is nice too, but it sort of hurt his eyes right about then... what was the question?

"Mmmm. Yes. Maybe. No," Ranboo tries to piece together a comprehensible sentence and failed miserably, decidedly too out of it to lie. He settles for the truth; "I don't feel so hot."

"You don't look too good," Tubbo agrees, concern clouding his face. Or maybe that’s just Ranboo’s eyes playing tricks on him. At this point, he doesn't even know what day it is. "Do you need the bucket? "

"I don't know, maybe?"

"Okay, just... Go to bed, Boo. I'll be there in a second."

"M'kay," Ranboo says quietly, not really able to muster anything more. He drags himself back into the bedroom, each limb feeling like it weighs a ton. Somehow, the bundle of lanky legs and arms manages to make its way into the room, only bothering to go as far as to not fall on the floor as it face-plants onto the mattress. Tubbo wanders in holding a little tin monstrosity, sweater paws covering his nose and mouth as he tries not to breathe in the bucket 's fumes. 

"There you go, just in case," he says, placing it a little way to the left of Ranboo; close enough that he'd be able to use it if necessary, yet far enough away that the stench wouldn't kill him. Ranboo hums his thanks, not quite trusting his body enough to open his mouth. He reaches out a hand for Tubbo, which the brunette takes, a warm smile on his face.

"I'll just be in the other room, king," he promises, letting go of Ranboo's hand with one final, comforting squeeze. Ranboo tries to protest, but once again feels that he cannot trust his mouth to be open for fear of what may leave it. So he lies there in what would have been silence if not for his own mournful whimpers, furiously manifesting Tubbo’s ears to work in his favour. He hears the front door open, signalling Tommy's return home. He silently prays that he would come in and say hi- say anything. Just so that Ranboo doesn't feel so hopelessly alone. Alas, he hears the shower click on and, in doing so, stamps on any shred of hope he has left. Ranboo takes a breath through his teeth, trying to ground himself enough to drift off. One of them will come to check on him soon enough - he just has to wait.

---

Tommy lets the door audibly click shut, which would prove to be his first mistake of the evening.

"Well?" Tubbo doesn't even spare a look up from the paper that he's reading as he speaks, accusation tracing every letter.

"Yes, Tubbo, I said thank you. Get off my back," Tommy snaps, rolling his eyes. "Where's boob boy?"

"Call him that again and I will beat you up on his behalf," Tubbo says flatly. "He's in the bedroom. He's not feeling well, so don't you dare go bothering him." 

"Is he okay?" Tommy asks, brow creasing in worry. Not too much worry, of course. He has a reputation to uphold.

"Dunno," Tubbo sniffs, closing the paper. "He looks pretty pale, though, so I'd say no."

"Does he have the bucket? " Tommy asks in a whisper, shivering as he thinks of the heinous object. The bucket , of course, is the filthy copper pail that they'd throw up if they ever fell ill, which is frequently when you live in an unheated, moist, asbestos-filled apartment that no one else has touched in decades. They have no easy way of cleaning it so it fucking stinks, and the stench of it alone often made the afflicted user worse before they got better .

"Yes," Tubbo whispers. "I had to bring it in there for him. Torturous." 

He seems equally as disgusted by even the mention of the dreaded object, and he was the one to have to touch it. Tommy imagines Tubbo holding the bucket at arm's length, pinching his nose as he tries not to throw up himself - call Tommy a sadist but the vision makes him smile just a little.

"Nasty," Tommy agrees, sparing a glance at the bedroom door, trying not to hear the soft groans coming from inside. 

"I gave him the mattress, so you and I are on the couch," Tubbo tells him, sending him a glare that practically dares Tommy to protest. He doesn't, (he isn't heartless ), ending the conversation by telling Tubbo that he's going for a shower and if Ranboo threw up, give him the bucket. He'd take one for the team and try his best to clean it out. Cringing at even the thought, Tommy leaves, missing the grateful look Tubbo gives his back. 

---

The next day, Wilbur waits in the plaza for hours, just standing there. He's had to move on multiple occasions, shopkeepers snapping at him for lingering in their storefronts and 'driving away customers'. Wilbur doesn't mind too much; besides, Techno would murder him if he left now. He has to speak with Tommy again, or both of his family members would lose their minds, and one of them already pretty much has. For a guy who hasn't been mentally stable since he was seventeen and often holds fully-fledged conversations with himself, Technoblade is one incredibly scary fellow. 

Really, it was Phil who first developed the interest in Tommy; you certainly see a lot when you have the height advantage. He'd seen a skinny kid sitting on a mound of newspapers under a veranda while it rained cats and dogs and thought, 'MINE' . The minute he'd gotten home, he'd sent Wilbur out to find him in quite the flap (literally). He pointed out the kid he wanted to Wilbur, picking him out of the crowd like a really fucked-up orphanage. So, as per his father's request, Wilbur set about befriending him.

Wilbur, a week later, still hasn't had much luck with the boy and Phil is getting antsy. It's by a stroke of pure luck that the kid had been chased through the plaza, and nothing short of a miracle that Wilbur had thought fast enough to catch him. Even more so when the kid returned the next day. Techno too had taken it upon himself to observe Tommy from a distance and was pleasantly surprised by some of his personality traits. The boy is stubborn (painfully so), determined and crafty. The kid knew how to talk his way out of trouble, that was for certain. 

Unfortunately for Wilbur, it doesn't look like Tommy's going to show up today; he probably has other stuff going on, which isn't a problem for Wilbur, just the people he lived with. It's fine - he'd just take his punishment as he returned, hands empty of Tommy.

Phil's so gonna bite him when he gets home.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Ranboo is running a temperature to rival the sun and Tubbo is absolutely not coping.

"Relax, man, it's not like he's gonna die or anything," Tommy rolls his eyes, but would be lying if he says he isn't concerned too. 

"You don't know that," Tubbo hisses, trying to keep his voice down, head lolling as he stares at the cieling. "He could die in the night and neither of us would know."

"It's probably just a bad stomach bug," Tommy reasons, fruitlessly scouring the pantry for something to eat, even though he knows there isn't anything there to find. When he inevitably comes up empty, he sighs, closing the cupboard doors. 

"It could just as easily be something worse," Tubbo worries aloud, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. He's nervous, and for good reason. Neither of them know exactly how high Ranboo's fever is and have no way of finding out, and as bad as Tommy doesn't want to admit it, Tubbo's right. Ranboo could easily die from lack of treatment if he has something serious, but Tommy blatantly refuses to think about that.

"Stop being so cynical, Tubs. Ranboo'll be fine."

As if on cue, something heavy lands on the floor with a loud thump in the next room.

Tubbo and Tommy practically fight each other to get to their friend. They throw open the door and there lies Ranboo, fast asleep on the floor with his long limbs tangled in his blanket. They're restrained at awkward angles, as if Ranboo'd just rolled off the bed in his sleep. Tubbo and Tommy refuses to think it could mean anything else. 

Tubbo runs to him, making sure that he's still breathing. Once satisfied that Ranboo still breathes, Tubbo beckons Tommy over to help him get him back into bed. Once situated, (Tommy with one hand under each of Ranboo's arms and Tubbo with his ankles), they silently count to three and heave. As gangly as he is, Ranboo is really fucking heavy, and as soon as he's safely on the mattress, Tubbo drops. Tommy lunges to catch him, almost missing the way Tubbo just fell. 

Jesus Christ, Tommy thinks as he drags Tubbo out of the room. Exhaustion is written all over his face, eyes unfocused and flitting around the room like he doesn't know where he is. It's not as worrying as Ranboo's mystery illness, but still scary. 

"Come on, Tubs, you can walk," he coaxes, trying to get his friend to stand on his own two feet. Tommy understands his friend's plight - he's tired, and hungry, and a little afraid. They all are, Tommy included. He needs to get back out there, use his emotions as a bargaining chip for begging like the little shit he is. 

Tommy forces Tubbo to sit down on the couch and walks to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, thinking all the while. If he goes to a different part of town, surely there will be someone out there who'd be stupid enough to give him something, whether that be money or food, he really didn't care. Once, a kindly woman clearly better off than him had given him an gift certificate for a local market. Maybe he'll get lucky and score another one of those, god knows they need it.

He forces Tubbo to sit on the couch and silently slips a the water into his hand. Tubbo sips it absently, not meeting Tommy's eyes. He didn't sleep at all last night, too busy watching over Ranboo. He looks tired enough that, even though they can't afford it, he looks so awful that Tommy's going to swing by Tubbo's job and call him in sick. Quietly, he nips out the front door, hoping that Tubbo would have the sense to go to sleep for a while before he got home. 

And thus, Tommy steps out of the minimal heat of their apartment building and into the freezing autumnal, wind-ridden streets.  

-

"Tommy!" Wilbur calls, seeing an easily recognisable blonde head amongst the mass of people. It dips below Wilbur's viewline and doesn’t come back up, so Wilbur walks to him. He finds him sitting on the curb, head in his hands.

"Wilbur," the kid huffs bitterly, not even sparing a glance in his direction. "Look, I'm having a day, what do you want?" 

"Harsh," Wilbur mutters, and is met with a sour look from below. "Calm down, I'm just talking to you."

"Yeah, well, it's annoying, so stop it," Tommy snaps, turning his head away from Wilbur. 

"No, you look upset. What's bothering you?" Wilbur asks, concern flooding his eyes.

" You are, " Tommy spits, but it lacks its usual fire. When Wilbur persists, he sighs defeatedly.

"It's my friend," Tommy begins. "He's ill, and I don't know how to help him. Tubbo thinks he's dying, I-"

"Tubbo?" Wilbur asks, trying to look disengaged lest Tommy stop sharing his problems. That kid’s probably bearing far too much - it’s about time he distributed some of the weight. 

"My other friend. Ranboo's the sick one," he clarifies. "His skin is burning hot, I know that's not good for him. He won't stop throwing up, either, and we have nothing to give him." 

‘We have nothing at all,’ he neglects to add.

"Come back to my place," Wilbur suggests. "I'm sure my brother and I have some medicine stored away somewhere."

"No, Wil, I couldn't," Tommy protests. "I appreciate your generosity but that shit's expensive-"

"We don't have anything like that, just normal caps. Give it to your friend, if it doesn't do any good, you can give it back. Deal?"

Tommy really isn't in a position to complain about free shit.

-

The atmosphere inside Wilbur's house is... tense.

Tense is a nice way of putting it. The awkwardness in the air is practically suffocating.

The whole place has been fucked-up weird since Tommy had stepped over the threshold. It’s situated on the outskirts of the city, as far out as you can go without bordering the next town over. The only access to the house is a long driveway that goes for at least a mile; other than that, the whole thing is completely surrounded by forestry. It’s not that the cottage itself isn’t lovely, (can it still be called a cottage if it’s fucking huge?). It’s a large, sort of mansion-looking log cabin, the kind with fancy fireplaces and a warmth that reminds you of Christmas. Its beauty has Tommy reeling, internally gawking at just how rich Wilbur must be. The furniture is lavish, and the pantry stocked, something Tommy hasn't seen in quite a while. 

Another negative about the house; as soon as he'd got even close to it, a bird had come to twitter around his head. Not just any bird, a crow. Tommy's never been awfully fond of crows, not since one had tried to peck Ranboo's eyes out on one of their springtime trips to the local park. The memory reminds him of why he’s there, and his stomach sinks a little. Tubbo’s probably shitting bricks right now, wondering where he is. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he tries to swat the crow away. Immediately, Wilbur’s demeanor changes.

"Hey, don't hit him! He'll hit back," he warns, his tone as serious as tone can be when talking about a literal bird hitting a human being.

"I honestly don't care. I'd rather get it away from me. Either that or I get my eyes gouged out," Tommy grumbles, though he stops trying to batter the crow. At this, the bird makes a chittering noise that, if it was human, Tommy probably would have flagged as fond laughter. Though, of course, it is a fucking bird and therefore will be treated as one.

What Tommy isn't expecting, however, is for Wilbur to let the bird inside the house as if it was just another person.

"Isn't that some kind of bad omen?"

"He's an old friend," Wilbur says flatly, drawing the blinds and locking the windows. Red flag numero uno , Tommy thinks as he watches Wilbur potter around. Three strikes and I'm out.

"He's a bird," he points out, sparing a glance at the bird, who is now perched on the arm of one of the sofas, seemingly reading a book. No, birds can't read. The crow is just looking at the Big Book of Birds. He’s probably just gawking at the pictures of the pretty female robins like the avian equivalent of porn, not reading. 

Wilbur dismisses Tommy with a roll of his eyes and a murmured "No shit."

"What's his name?" Tommy asks, tentatively reaching out to stroke the bird. The crow must have noticed this because he stops what he’s doing to hop over. He sticks his head under Tommy’s finger, (Wilbur smells deja vu). He warbles contentedly as Tommy gently runs his fingertips along the length of the his wings. (If you ask Tommy, he will fervently deny the existence of the childish 'aww' he lets out as the bird touches him willingly). Because of this, he misses the way the color drains from Wilbur’s face at the question.

"His name is... uh, Billiam," Wilbur says, failing to hide the panic in his voice. Tommy takes no notice of this. He has decidedly more important matters to attend to.

"You named the bird Billiam? The fuck kind of name is that?"

"Hey! If you think that's bad, just wait 'till you meet my brother," Wilbur defends, hands in the air. "My naming skills are not that bad, trust me."

"It's still stupid," Tommy says definitively, going back to stroking Billiam. The bird seems to agree with Tommy, squawking angrily at Wilbur with little shimmies across the span of the sofa arm. He's silenced as Tommy runs a gentle finger over his head, his aggravated cries melting into little coos of pleasure. Wilbur smiles, deciding that he is definitely going to bully the bird for that later.

"Mm-hmm. Speaking of my brother, he wanted to meet you," Wilbur ponders, throwing some kindling into the fireplace and taking a stick from the matchbox on he mantle. "He should be home soon, he’s just out in the forest," he finishes as he strikes the match and sets the wood aflame. Tommy is unspokenly grateful for this; in his opinion, the more measures taken to remove the chill from his bones, the better.

"Cool..." Tommy isn't really sure what else there is to say. He's not entirely sure he wants to be there, let alone meet Wilbur's brother. Meeting new people means talking to new people, and while Tommy's usually rather good at that, he isn't entirely sure he'll be able to hold back the swearing. If miracle struck and he manages not to cuss out Wilbur's brother, would Wil ask him to come back? All he wants is some medicine so that he can reassure Tubbo that no one is going to die this winter. He did not account for all of this extra, unwelcome attention. Wilbur begins rummaging around in his (full) cupboards while Tommy debates his life choices up until this point.

What is he doing ? Here he is, sitting in a literal stranger's living room waiting for said stranger's brother to get home, all for the sake of a few tablets? All he knows about Wilbur is his name; there is no fucking way Tommy isn’t getting murdered out here. If anything, he's asking for it. For a smart kid, Tommy makes piss-poor choices sometimes.

So, as soon as Wilbur's back is fully turned, Tommy whispers a quick "goodbye" to the bird and runs. The house has many little corridors feeding into separate wings of the house, very unhelpful for someone trying to escape it. Wilbur has definitely heard the thundering footsteps that Tommy hasn't bothered to silence and is calling out for him, probably paranoid that Tommy’s causing trouble. I mean, if Tommy did, it would be his fucking fault. Letting a street kid into his house, he’s practically begging to have something stolen. Maybe Tommy should take something, just to teach Wilbur a lesson in trust.

He finds the main corridor, the front door so close he can nearly taste his freedom. With not a glance behind him spared, Tommy bolts. What he doesn't expect, however, is for the door to swing open before he even manages to get near it.

Fuck.

Through the door comes a figure larger than Tommy's seen in a long time. The first thing he notices is the man's hair, a startling shade of pink woven into a braid that hangs loosely over his shoulder. The man’s chest is broad, his arms thick with muscle and his face... indifferent? He doesn't look like he cares at all that there’s a strange child standing in his doorway. He makes a small, surprised sound, his mouth forming an 'o' shape before settling into something more content.

"Hey, Tommy," he says nonchalantly, voice deep and monotone.

Fuck that with a cherry on top.

There’s nowhere Tommy can go but backwards; unless, of course, he’s going to take on the literal brick wall that bars his exit. There's no freaking way he's going anywhere near that guy. Wilbur's brother was buff, and even though Tommy is low-key built from the paper job, this is not a fight he'll win.

"Tommy! The fuck d’you do that for?" Wilbur asks, panting. He stops short, observing the scene in front of him. "Were- were you trying to leave?"

He sounds… hurt? Something burns in Tommy's chest, like he doesn't want to see Wilbur sad. Damn you, emotions.

"No..." he mutters, trying not to let the guilt taint his voice.

"Oh, well then," Wilbur says, definitely not believing him. He gestures behind him at Brick Wall, "Tommy, this is Technoblade."

"Techno," he corrects, shooting Wilbur a look of annoyance, but it’s too late. Tommy stills.

" Technoblade ." 

“Yes?” Techno replies, raising an eyebrow at Tommy.

“Your name. Is Technoblade.”

“I don’t see a problem here-”

"Your name is a problem,” he says incredulously. Wilbur’s right - his brother's name really is stupid.

"It's honestly not that bad-" Techno shrugs, brow creasing in a disapproving frown.

"Who are you trying to convince here, me or you?" Tommy asks, grinning as Wilbur joins in with the laughter.

"What is this, pick-on-Technoblade-day?" Techno asks irrately, waving his hands in the air as if mocking Tommy, though it’s clear that the only person being mocked here is himself. The use of the name only makes Tommy laugh harder.

"You poor, unfortunate soul," he says, mock sympathy curving his mouth into a wry smile. "Imagine having to go through your adult life being called 'Techno'."

"My adult life is going just fine, thank you."

"Sure, king, keep telling yourself that."

"You said he was annoying. I was not braced for this," Techno says, glaring at Wilbur accusingly and gesturing up and down in Tommy's direction.

"Sorry, Tech," Wilbur says, smiling sweetly. "It's not my fault your name is so funny."

Techno does not look amused. 

"Alright, kid, you can stop now," he says sternly, glowering at Tommy so fiercely that it causes the boy to fall silent with only a few finishing giggles that taper into soundless breath, something that very few people have ever been able to do. Tommy doesn't know how to describe this guy. Intense is definitely a good word. A little detached too, maybe? He doesn't seem very interested in much, and anything that takes too much effort (like having people make fun of him) is to be shut down immediately. Despite this, Techno doesn't seem the type to be lazy, quite the opposite. He’s eyeing Tommy with such precision, such attention to detail that under his gaze, he feels quite scrutinized, as if this is a test he’s failing.

"Come on, Toms, let's find you some shit to take home for your friend, huh?" Wilbur says, breaking the stifling silence and gently nudging Tommy away from the door. 

Once again, Tommy is in no real place to refuse.

-

Fifteen minutes later, Tommy has a care package of pull-tab cans of soup and a plethora of assorted drugs, which is incredibly funny for some reason. Just the thought of uptight, clean-mouthed Ranboo doing drugs makes him smile inwardly. After verifying that he and Tubbo can read, ("Tubbo can, I will voluntarily be hit by a bus before I try to read that."), Wilbur spends close to fifteen minutes taping handwritten labels to each packet, detailing exactly how much to give and what for. Barely decipherable names formed of quirky letters that made zero sense to Tommy litter the pieces of paper (seriously, what the fuck was i-blue-pro-feen?) but it’s fine. He was planning on leaving the reading to Tubbo anyway. Wilbur's sentiment is sweet and also means that they don't accidentally kill Ranboo for real. Not killing your best friend is a wonderful idea, in Tommy's expert opinion.

"That should do it," Wilbur says, obviously pleased with himself. "Where's Phi-"

Wilbur’s eyes widen. His breath catches in his throat as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have done. Therefore, he chooses this exact moment to have a large, debilitatingly loud and seemingly overdramatic coughing fit.

"-llys? Phyllis? I meant Billiam. Where is Billiam?" he covers, tapping his chest twice to clear imaginary phlegm from his airway. The impromptu lack of breath seems a little too convenient to be genuine, but Tommy isn't one for judgement. Maybe Wilbur’s asthmatic or had something else wrong with his lungs or some shit. He certainly had enough drugs in his possession, something that Tommy would not forget for a very long time yet (ammunition for mockery was something that would never go undetected when Tommy was around). He did, however, mark it down as red flag numero dos , thus Wilbur's second strike. He shakes it off, returning his attention to the conversation.

"You're asking the wrong person. Go ask Technoblade ," Tommy snorts, remembering the mild bullying he'd been allowed to execute in the foyer.

"That's not even the worst name he's had," Wilbur tells him, a contrary smile creeping onto his face. "He used to have the village children calling him 'Taco' because they couldn't pronounce the 'ekno' sound." 

For a mere second, there was silence. 

" TACO ."

-

"Thank you so much, Wil, honestly. You didn't have to do this for us-"

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I've already said, it's fine. I want to," Wilbur says, rolling his eyes for what had to be the fifteenth time that day. "Now, close your mouth and go the fuck home."

Tommy nods. Just to be spiteful, he throws a gleeful "Thanks again!" over his shoulder.

Wilbur shakes his head in faux disappointment. Tommy meanders down the long driveway, wondering how on earth he'd gotten there. Not two hours ago, he'd been sitting on the sidewalk like a dog begging for table scraps; one familiar face and suddenly he has drugs and food. Life seems to finally be looking up for him! As horrible as it feels to think about, he can’t help feeling like he’s taking advantage of Wilbur's kindness somehow. Like, maybe he isn't thanking them enough or something. On second thought, that can't be it; if he'd even so much as uttered another word of thanks, Wilbur would have committed crimes . Oh well. At least Tubbo might be too pleased by the day's upturn to verbally beat him for blatantly ignoring the missed warning signs that he'd been presented with (hopefully).

Ranboo’s just lucky that Tommy doesn’t know the Spanish word for ‘three’.

-

Unfortunately for Tommy, the barrage begins the second he steps through the door.

"You dick !" Tubbo thunders, not a thought for Ranboo spared in his anger. "Leaving me here alone with Ranboo while you go out doing God-knows-what without a word ! Not a fucking word , Tommy! What the fuck were you thinking ?"

"Tubbo," Tommy reprimands. "Breathe for a second, man. I've got shit." A proud smile crept onto his face. Tubbo's face, previously contorted in rage, shifts to curiosity.

"What shit? " He relents through gritted teeth, still glaring at his friend. 

"See for yourself," Tommy smirks, dropping the plastic bag at Tubbo's feet. Skeptically eyeing him, Tubbo sinks to his knees and picks the bag up by its handles. Tommy tries to hide the prideful smile he feels fly to his mouth as he watches Tubbo's jaw drop. 

"Holy shit," he murmurs, pulling out one of the drug sheets. "How in the ever-loving fuck did you get these?"

"You remember Bartholomew," Tommy says by way of explanation, albeit a little sheepishly.

"Oh, Tommy, you didn't," Tubbo whines, the awe in his face replaced by disappointment. 

"Don't get all high-and-mighty on me now, Tubs," Tommy pleads. "I did what I had to, and I didn't even ask! He offered!"

"That doesn't mean you take it !" Tubbo hisses, remembering a moment too late the reason for the medication he was holding. "Look, I’m all for begging. We do what we have to, but this shit has value, Tommy. How are we ever going to pay him back, oh God..."

"We don't have to," Tommy reasons, rubbing his temple. As much as he loves Tubbo, God was he exhausting sometimes. "Wilbur said-"

"Who's Wilbur?"

"Bartholomew."

"What?"

"What?"

" What ?"

"Bartholomew's real name is Wilbur- it doesn't matter!" Tommy sighs, exasperated with the conversation already. "What matters is that he's a nice guy who gave us free shit and I will not hear you complaining about it, do you hear me, Tubbo?"

Tubbo is silent for a few seconds, boring holes into Tommy with as much malice as he can hold before spitting out a "Fine."

"I knew you'd come around," Tommy grins. 

"Whatever. I'm going to wake up Ranboo," Tubbo says calmly, his rage diluted to tatters of what it was a minute earlier (Tommy often wonders if his friend is bipolar). Tubbo takes the boxes out of Tommy's bag, skimming over the labels before selecting the one that had made Tommy's brain hurt (Ibuprofen).

"You know, if you just loosened up a bit, Tubs, life would be a lot simpler for all of us," Tommy snarks, patting his friend's head twice before moving to put the cans of food in the pantry, a sight that nearly brings tears to his eyes. 

"Don't patronize me, dickhead," Tubbo snaps. His voice lacks any true anger, though, instead settling for mild annoyance. He snaps his fingers at the cupboard, pointing at a can of soup. Tommy hands it to him and Tubbo peels the lid off. He brings it to his mouth, taking a long swallow before taking it away and dropping the tablet into the liquid. Tommy's about to ask Tubbo why, but why does Tubbo do anything, honestly. He stands, bringing the can with him as he walks to the bedroom. 

"Jokes on you, I don't even know what that means," Tommy says, flipping Tubbo the bird just to have the last laugh. He pretends not to feel Tubbo doing the exact same thing behind his back. Looking behind himself to see just that, Tommy almost laughs at how well he knows his friend. With the knowledge that he has done well for his friends, Tommy decides that he’ll sleep well tonight.

-

There was a bird following Wilbur and Techno.

When it had initially found them, both had been kneeling by the fireplace of a house they didn't own, speaking to each other in hushed tones. Wondering what they were going to do, how they were going to survive, and more importantly, how they were going to apologise to whoever lived there. Although they'd never admit it, sobs wracked both frames, Techno losing the stoic expression he usually wore for just a second, entirely consumed in their grief. Their tears were well deserved; they'd lost both their father and their kingdom that day. 

It had taken them a minute, but they'd noticed the crow throwing itself at the kitchen window. Wilbur had seen it first, nudging Techno and pointing at it as it frantically tried to break in. The eldest had gotten up and gone to the window to shoo it out, afraid it would wake the house's owners and alert them of the intruders currently taking advantage of their facilities. As Techno opened the window to bat it away, it took its opportunity to dart inside, flapping around Wilbur's head for a second before coming to settle on the mantle. Both boys stared at the bird, setting their sorrow aside for just two seconds to figure out how the fuck they were going to get it out. It crooned quietly, looking at them longingly as it readjusted its wings. 

"Wilbur, how good are you at sneaking around?" Techno asked in a whisper, not taking his eyes off the crow.

"I was in the kitchens almost every night for a year and nobody ever caught me," Wilbur whispered back. At this, the bird made a little disapproving screech (not even the crow in the room knew how a screech could be disapproving) but otherwise stayed relatively quiet.

"Go check upstairs if there are actually people living here," Techno instructed, still never breaking the bird's stare. "I want to know if we have a reason to be quiet."

Wilbur nodded, walking on the balls of his feet at the very edge of the staircase, sticking close to the bannister to avoid any possible creaks he could have hit as he made his way up. Techno continued his staredown with the crow, daring it to move. It did, almost knocking a little wooden keepsake off of the mantle as it took gentle flight, coming to rest on the arm of the couch. 

It chicken-scratched at the fabric, trying to get its footing on the slippery leather. Techno eyed it cautiously - it could start trying to kill him at any given moment. Techno did not have very good luck with birds; none of them seemed to like him much. Especially not crows, and Techno felt the same way. Now more than ever, seeing as though crows were very much Philza's thing. Keyword; were .

Just as Techno felt his breath become heavy again, Wilbur came to the rescue, banging and crashing down the stairs, grinning ear to ear. Techno took this to mean that the house was empty; lo and behold,

"All clear. It's barren up there, dust everywhere. I don't think anyone's lived here in a while," he told Techno, his broad smile faltering a little. "There's an Essempi crest painted on the wall. They probably killed whatever family lived here."

"Them and about a thousand others," Techno sniffed, still not looking away from the bird in front of him. "Help me get the bird out."

"How? 'Oh, excuse me, Mr Bird, would you mind terribly perhaps flying out of that window right there?' Get a grip, Techno," Wilbur snapped, shoving a high-pitched posh accent on top of his already high-pitched posh accent (now, there's a scary sound if Techno ever did hear one). 

"Never do that again," he deadpanned, narrowing his eyes.

"Why, I'm Technoblade, I don't like fun or birds," Wilbur mocked, the nails-on-a-chalkboard voice making a comeback. Techno fixed him with such a steely glare that Wilbur physically shrunk in on himself. Good.

"Fine, fine," he surrendered. Techno smiled slightly at this; at least his intimidating stare game was still on-par. 

"The beds are quite big up there. We might actually get a decent night's sleep," Wilbur mused, ignoring Techno's pessimistic comment of "I doubt it" and reaching out to touch the crow. Techno reached out to stop him but his twin was too far gone, just mere centimetres away from having his fingers bitten clean off. The crow did nothing of the sort, instead nuzzling his head under Wilbur's fingertip and making little coos of delight.

"See? He's not so bad," Wilbur purred, migrating his finger from the crow's head to his wings. They puffed up at the touch, not unlike their father's would when he would let them card their fingers through his feathers aaaaaaaand now Wilbur remembered why Techno didn't like the crow.

"Okay, maybe he is so bad," Wilbur rectified, a little appalled at himself that one; he didn't realise why his twin was so uncomfortable earlier and two; he had completely forgotten why they were in this musty, abandoned house in the first place. 

"Let's just leave him here for now. We can shove him out the window when it's not..." Wilbur paused to check his watch. "Two in the morning."

"Kay," Techno said, giving the bird one last set of evils before letting his brother guide him up the stairs and into a bedroom.

-

Philza was very much satisfied with himself.

The sun was beginning to rise and the bird was finally able to see his handiwork in full light. In order to get his son's attention, he'd first tipped over an ancient jar of peanuts (that was hard enough to do in itself, what with only claws and a beak at his disposal). When neither had come downstairs, Phil had broken into the jar and spent four and a half hours fixing the nuts into comprehensible letters that would eventually turn into comprehensible words. Now all he could do was wait.

-

Wilbur had dragged himself downstairs first, the notion of breakfast pretty much pulling him by his ear to the pantry. He'd immediately stumbled back into the hallway, screaming blue murder. He ran for the bedroom, grabbed Techno and pretty much pulling him by his ear, saying, "You've gotta see this shit". 

On the dirty kitchen floor, the words; "Wilbur Techno, Bird Dad." were written in peanuts with an awfully triumphant-looking crow sitting beside them.

Bird and human alike, everyone got the feeling that that day was going to be a very interesting one.

-

Nearly two months later, Wilbur, Techno, and the bird in which their father’s soul is trapped have gotten fully set up in their new, not-stolen house. Techno's been into town to visit the masonry and become reacquainted with his love of all things fighting and Wilbur's been doing… pretty much everything else. For at least four weeks, he’s been running around the streets of towns even as far out as Sarcrest (which bordered the edge of the Essempi territory line) to find a suitable candidate for Techno to work with. Phil’s been helping out with that, flying over the neighboring townships to see if any warriors tickle his fancy. Wilbur’d had little luck with his search thus far but Phil… 

Phil had found one.

And he was already on his way home.

Chapter Text

Around a week later, Tommy comes to the conclusion that Wilbur is stalking him, good and proper.

He'd sort of brushed off the first two instances that they'd met each other, hoping that it was just a sweet coincidence. The third time, though, he can't ignore. 

"Hi, Tommy!" Wilbur says warmly, tapping Tommy's shoulder twice so he'd turn around. 

"Hey, Wilbur," Tommy says carefully. "What's up?"

"Nothin' much," Wilbur says, rocking back on his heels as he speaks, hands in his pockets. Tommy knows why; winter is fast approaching and the autumn wind is turning from chilly to downright frigid. Even where he stands with Wilbur as a windbreaker, Tommy is subtly shivering. The closest thing any of them had to jackets were Merino sweaters they'd pilfered from a market the previous year. At least the cold is slightly less unforgiving inside the apartment. Tommy would be there right now if he didn't have to stockpile food for the season like a squirrel. 

"How's Ranboo doing?" Wilbur asks. 

"He's getting better," Tommy tells him, a smile appearing on his face. He isn't even lying; from what he and Tubbo can tell, whatever Ibuprofen is, it's fucking magic. The substance is making significant improvements to Ranboo's health and therefore their current outlook on life. 

"That's good to hear," Wilbur says, his smile reaching his eyes in a manner which Tommy knows is genuine. After a second, he asks Tommy what he was doing.

His tone isn't harsh - more inquisitive and caring - but Tommy still shrinks back a little, memories of people shouting those exact words at him all flooding to the forefront of his mind at once. With his already shaking frame, he hopes it'll go unnoticed. Wilbur, like the small man he is, sees his hesitance and reaches for Tommy, his extended arms a clear invitation for a hug. Tommy shakes his head.

"It's just cold," he assures, shrugging off the hand that threatens to touch his shoulders. 

"Do you guys have winter coats or anything?" Wilbur asks, an innocent-sounding question with a definite double meaning. "I mean, it's not getting any warmer."

"Nope. We don't need them," Tommy reasons, not quite sure who he's trying to convince. "We hardly leave the house during winter anyway."

"Why's that?" Tommy looks at Wilbur as if he's simple, astounded that the man could be that dense.

"Cause we'd fucking freeze to death, dumbarse," he snarks, rolling his eyes. 

"Right," Wilbur says, a shadow passing over his face as he glares at the sky.

"Wil?" Tommy asks, reaching up to wave a hand in front of Wilbur's face. The man blinks twice, snapping back to reality. 

"Ah- Yeah, I'm okay," he reassures, now looking and sounding completely fine.

"You sure? Cause this is the second time you've pulled shit like that with me," Tommy frowned, raising his eyebrows. "Do you need to go home?"

"Don't worry about little old me," Wilbur smiles, ruffling Tommy's hair. "I'm good."

"You are so weird," Tommy narrows his eyes, trying not to lean into the hand on his head. 

"Mmm," Wilbur hums in agreement. "I'm told that often."

"For good reason," Tommy grumbles half-heartedly, making a strange little ducking motion so that Wilbur would retract his hand. "What brings you here, anyway? Still looking for your nonexistent juice?"

Wilbur's face pales. He stutters a bit as he says, "I’ll have you know that my brother was incredibly pleased with his very real juice." Tommy stares blankly at him.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Tommy bats him away, frown still etched into his brow. "Jesus, man, you are so fucking bizarre."

"Yep," Wilbur admits, having given up on speaking entirely.

"What are you actually doing?" He asks after collecting himself. Tommy doesn't flinch this time, focusing on the way Wilbur's voice makes the words soft.

"Foraging. We've gotta get the pantry as full as possible so we'll have enough to live off of if we get snowed in." 

"You know, Techno and I don't mind helping you guys out here and there," Wilbur suggests, pretending like it's nothing for them. "We can help you fill your fridge." 

"We don't have a fridge."

"Not the point," Wilbur says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "We have plenty of food and shit, we can spare you some if you need it."

"Is this just a ploy for me to come back to your place again?"

"What can I say? Techno misses you," Wilbur lies, both parties knowing full well exactly who missed Tommy.

"Yeah, okay. I missed Technoblade too, I guess," Tommy shrugs, smiling inwardly at the stupid name. The novelty would wear off eventually, just not quite yet, and you best believe Tommy’s going to milk it for every second it stays. 

"When we get there, make sure you tell him that. He will melt," Wilbur chuckles, putting a hand on Tommy's back and directing him toward the outskirts of town. 

-

"Hey, Techno!" Tommy calls out, running into the house and pointedly ignoring the fond smile that Wilbur gives his back. "I missed you!"

"You what?" Techno asks, coming into the hallway. His hair isn't tied back today, which Tommy finds to be a pleasant change.

"I missed you," Tommy repeats, smiling mischievously. When Techno's face doesn't shift, Tommy looks back at Wilbur in dissatisfaction.

"You said he'd melt. I see no melting."

Techno raises an eyebrow. "He said I'd melt, did he?"

"Yeah, fuckin' liar," Tommy grumbles, throwing himself at Techno even so. He wraps his arms around Techno's waist, which is no mean feat for a big man of six-foot-two (five-foot-ten). With both brothers being freakishly tall (almost taller than Ranboo), Tommy can easily hug both of them, something he plans to take full advantage of during their weird, slightly strained friendship. Tall-people hugs are fucking awesome, but Ranboo doesn't always like to be touched, so it’s nice to have them on tap. Apparently, Techno-hugs weren't as on tap as he'd have liked, because he’s pushed away almost frantically. 

"Sorry," He says. Even though his voice was pitched like a question, the remorse was genuine. At least, as genuine as possible when you're Tommy Innit. 

"It's alright," Techno says, though he looks pained. "I don't really… do hugs."

"I'll remember that," Tommy promised, sending Techno another apologetic look. The awkwardness in the air is almost tangible. Tommy can nearly feel it brushing against him as he backs away from Techno and returns to Wilbur's side. Tommy looks at him for reassurance and finds none. Wilbur’s too busy looking at Techno with a devious glint in his eyes to take much notice of Tommy.

"Oh, Technoooo," Wilbur sing-songs, sly smile on his face as he walks forward, arms outstretched.

"No."

"C'mere, Tech," Wilbur taunts as Techno makes a break for it. Laughter fills the air as Wilbur chases his brother through their house, threats of cuddles flying from his lips. 

Feeling a little intrusive, Tommy follows them at as much of a distance as he can maintain. If he’s honest, the entire house feels wrong to be in, invited or not. When he catches up with the brothers, both men are on the kitchen floor, Wilbur pinning Techno, who looks positively petrified. A nearly inaudible whimper of fear comes from the bundle of limbs, and Tommy knows who won that fight. 

"Ha!" Wilbur cries triumphantly, getting off of his brother. Not before ruffling Techno's hair, though, skewing his parting and sending pink everywhere.

"Billiam will be back any second now, just you wait," Techno warns, voice dangerously low as he stands, trying to fix his hair. His words (however ridiculous) send chills down Tommy's spine. For a guy with such a stupid name, Technoblade is a seriously scary motherfucker.

Wilbur is decidedly unphased. "Yeah? What's he gonna do? Peck me?" 

"Crows can be vicious animals," Techno says pointedly, glaring at Wilbur with vengeance.

"That's true," Tommy pipes up from the doorway. Both heads whirled to look at him in surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there. "One of them tried to kill my friend once. Crows suck," he finishes.

"Don't let Billiam hear you say that. He'll smack the shit out of you," Wilbur warns. Tommy can't decide whether he’s joking or deadly serious. At the mention of birds committing aggravated assault, Techno's face lights up. 

"Oh, God, Tommy, you've gotta stick around for dinner," he says almost gleefully, his change in demeanour audible. "You have not lived until you have seen Wilbur get his ass beat by a bird."

"HEY-"

Tommy decides he’ll stick around for dinner.

-

As it happens, Billiam does end up doing the bird equivalent of backhanding Wilbur upon his return. Techno was right; it’s fucking hilarious. Wilbur ends up on the floor trying to fight the bird off, screaming bloody murder as Billiam flaps at him. 

That’s all Tommy really needed to see, but as he tries to excuse himself, Billiam pauses his attack to come and sit on the kid's head and how can Tommy say no to that? Techno watches as Wilbur picks himself up, brushing himself off and shooting evils at the bird. When he’s sure Billiam isn't looking, he half-heartedly flips him off. Within half a second, the crow has dived off of Tommy's head (which fucking hurt , by the way) and launched himself back onto Wilbur's face for round two. This elicits another bout of laughter from the other humans in the room, and when Wilbur has managed to quell the bird's anger for the second time ("I'm sorry! I'm sorry, don't kill me!"), Techno decides that it's time for dinner. At the mention of food, Billiam removes himself from Wilbur's body and goes to rest on the bench. This evokes a tad bit of mocking from Techno that Billiam definitely can't understand. (Wilbur stays silent. He’s currently on very, very thin ice with the crow). 

-

One meal packed with things that Tommy has never heard of, let alone tried, later, he's decided it's say-thank-you-and-leave time. He and Techno are standing in the kitchen, the latter trying to explain what chives are when Tommy brings up his departure.

"Well, thank you for dinner, Techno. I'll get out of your hair now," he says, smiling as he reaches out to touch the pink strands. "By the way, your hair is fabulous ."

"See! Someone likes it!" Techno calls over his shoulder. 

"You look like a unicorn threw up on you!" Wilbur calls back. Tommy exhales sharply. 

"How dare you insult Technoblade like that," he gasps, putting a hand to his throat like a Victorian lady caught mid-swoon.

"I like this kid," Techno declares, laying his hand on Tommy's head as if to claim him. A warmth erupts in Tommy's chest at that - to him, nothing is more important than Technoblade's approval. (I wonder if he'll feel the same way in twenty minutes' time…)  

"That's great and all but I've really got to go now," Tommy states, savouring the feeling of Techno's hand in his hair as much as he can before he has to pull away. 

"Oh, no, you don't," Wilbur shouts, running into the room and scooping Tommy up into his arms. Laughing and squealing for Wilbur to put him down, Tommy doesn't even bother denying how familial the motion feels. The scary thing about it, though, is that the feeling isn't totally unwelcome. Wilbur dumps him on the floor in a heap on the living room door (the room furthest from the front door) and blocks the exit, pretty much trapping Tommy.

"Techno, make hot chocolates," Wilbur orders over his shoulder, trying to look serious and failing.

"Wilbur," Techno cautions, throwing his brother a pointed look. "If he has to go, he has to go-"

" No ," Wilbur says, raising his voice a notch. "We had a plan for tonight and I would like to stick to it . " 

Wilbur's words are passive-aggressive and rude, but Techno just rolls his eyes and goes into the kitchen. Whoa.

"You should be nicer to him," Tommy scolds. "You guys are family. Act like it."

"God, you sound like my dad," Wilbur groans. "Shush, child. We have stories to tell you."

Tommy chooses to ignore the clear and blatant lack of respect for his manliness. 

"What kind of stories?" 

"Techno and I want to tell you about our hometown," Wilbur says, giving away no more.

"Oh yeah? What if I don't care?" Tommy counters, memories of Tubbo's wrath from the previous night reminding him why he has to run so quickly. "Will you let me leave then?"

"Trust me, you'll care."

"Will I really?"

"Yes."

"But what if I don't?" 

"You'll stay for hot chocolate."

"The fuck is hot chocolate?"

Wilbur's jaw drops. 

"You've never had hot chocolate?" 

When met with a blank stare and a shake of Tommy's head, Wilbur gasps as if he's been fatally wounded by the mere thought . 

"Bring marshmallows!" He shouts behind him, receiving a grunt of reply from the kitchen cupboard.

-

Two minutes later, Tommy is sitting in an armchair (not without a little help from Wilbur) and fucking ropable . He doesn't see why he can't just fucking leave . Surely Wilbur and Techno are bored of him by now, it's nearly eight pm. There is no physical way someone should be able to withstand this much Tommy Innit in one sitting, yet here they are, forcibly ensuring that he doesn't piss off. Even Tubbo and Ranboo have to take breaks from him sometimes, and they've been his friends for years. A mug of steaming brown water is placed in front of him, two white blobs floating in the centre.

"Thank you," Tommy says by default, giving Techno a grateful smile. Maybe Techno would hold Wilbur down for long for him to run. If he did, Tommy would christen him as pink-haired, socially-awkward Jesus. Billiam hops into the room after him, taking flight to sit on the arm of Wilbur's chair. He shuffles into Wilbur's side, rubbing his head on the man's arm. Wilbur ignores it. He has more important things on his mind, plus he’s half holding a grudge against the bird from the attack earlier.

"Drink," he urges, practically shoving the cup into Tommy's hands. It's warm, far hotter than the room around them. He raises the ceramic to his lips with a quick eye roll, sipping as delicately as humanly possible at the drink. 

Time stops.

"Where have you been all my life?" Tommy asks the mug in a saccharine whisper, looking at it lovingly.

"You love it?" Wilbur grins, chin resting on interlocked fingers.

"More than anything."

"I knew you would," Wilbur chuckles, smiling fondly at Tommy with only half of his face. 

"Well," Techno interrupts, setting his and Wilbur's mugs down on the coffee table (on coasters, because he isn't a madman ) and sitting down himself. "We're here for a reason, Tommy."

"Right," Wilbur agrees. "Allow us to take you away on a journey to faraway lands-"

"Wilbur," Techno reprimands.

"Fine. Let me spin you the tale of me and my buddy Techno's magical-"

"We don't have all night, Wil."

"You never let me have any fun," Wilbur whines.

"Would you rather I told the story?"

"No..."

-

"When Techno and I were younger, we lived in the kingdom of Icillia, have you heard of it?" When Tommy shakes his head, Billiam screeches in what could have been offence. Wilbur continues.

"How have you- you know what, never mind. Icillia was a beautiful place - happy citizens with happy lives going about their days carefree, content as the next person. No one had poor living conditions, no one was forced into anything. No one lived in poverty, the... the king made sure of that. King Philza was a great ruler-"

"Philza?" Now there's a name Tommy's heard before. "As in, Angel-of-Death Philza?" The man was a children's fable; a bedtime story, if you will. In another life, Tommy's parents might have made up adventures about the man supposedly kissed by an angel and gifted wings. Philza was awesome.

"Yes, and his sons," Techno confirms, staring at his drink.

"He's real ?"

"Of course he is," Techno says, looking at Tommy as if this is common knowledge. 

"Philza was a brilliant ruler," Wilbur continues, the faintest trace of a fond smile fighting its way through his somber expression. "He was fair and just, and even those who committed the worst crimes were shown mercy, within reason. He was probably the kindest man you'd ever meet. Had a heart of gold, he did." At this, Billiam coos bashfully at Wilbur. This fucking bird is quite possibly the weirdest thing Tommy's ever seen.

"What's with the ‘was’? What happened?" Tommy asks, letting the silence ring out for a second.

"Well," Wilbur takes a deep breath. "It was overrun by Essempi."

The words hang heavily in the air, as threatening as the point of a thousand knives. Tommy doesn't know what or where Icillia is, but no sentence with the word Essempi tacked onto the end of it could ever be good. It's the name of the land they stand on, yet also a word that strikes fear into the hearts of many. The government is not a good one, Tommy will be the first to admit that. The foster system is fucking shit (he speaks from experience on that one), taxes are ridiculously high (or so he'd heard) and the figureheads are rumoured to have slaves. Yeah, the Essempi dictatorship isn't the nicest thing to live under. Billiam makes a mournful sound, burying his face in Wilbur's jumper.

"I- I'm sorry," he starts, scrambling for an appropriate response. "That must suck-"

"That's not even the worst part," Wilbur cuts in, voice thick but calm. He isn't in tears, but he looks pretty damn close. "There was a war-"

"A massacre," Techno corrects, spite bitter on his tongue. 

"A massacre," Wilbur amends. "Philza insisted on keeping watch, helping out in every way he could. The eldest prince..." Wilbur stops talking, turning to face Techno, therefore hiding the look in his eyes from Tommy. If the blank stare Techno gives his brother is anything to go off of, he doesn't know what Wilbur wants either.

"The eldest prince?" Tommy prompts. Wilbur's head satan-swivels back to face him, and Tommy would be lying if he told you that both the motion and Wil's intense stare aren't fucking terrifying.

"Right," he says slowly. The eldest prince. Prince... Dave."

"Dave?" Tommy says, questioning. Wilbur is acting real fuckin’ sus right now, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Maybe Tommy should restart the red flag counter.

"Yes. Dave."

"Cool fuckin' name," Tommy sniffs approvingly.

"Mmm," Wilbur hums in agreement, pretending not to feel Techno boring holes into the side of his head. "Yeah, well, Prin- Prince Dave wanted to fight as well, despite King Philza's wishes. He was injured, not gravely, but enough that Prince William-"

"William?" Tommy tests. "Dave was alright, I could fuck with Dave, but William ? Sounds like your name without the angsty-academia vibes."

"I know, right?" Techno says, head tilted, voice high and patronising as he attacks the side of Wilbur's head with another barrage of pointed looks. 

This family is full of fucking weirdos.

"It’s just his fucking name, alright?! It's not my fault he sounds like a twat. Shut the fuck up," Wilbur snaps, glaring at Techno with malice .

Tommy's said it once, and he'll happily say it again. Fucking. Weirdos.

"Okay," he says, dragging out the 'o' and rising from his chair, setting his mug on the table (bare, because he is a madman). "I think I'll just go..."

"No!" The twins shout in unison. As quickly as he can, Tommy sits back down, wide-eyed. He wants out as soon as possible, and if that means sitting and listening to Wilbur drone on about princes and kingdoms, so be it.

"Prince Dave was injured and William...?" He says to remind Wilbur of where he'd left off. 

"Right. William panicked and ran to Philza, who picked both of them up and took them to the outskirts of town. He told them to run, get as far away from Icillia as possible and he'd stop the war. One of the princes was stubborn, though," Wilbur continues, a little venom creeping into his voice. "Dave wanted to stay, help his father despite how much William begged him to just go ."

At this, Wilbur shoots another pointed look at Techno.

Tommy wishes he could just go.

"The princes went against their father's wishes and ran back to the battlefield..."

Wilbur steals a deep, shaking breath.

"Just in time to see King Philza murdered."

The room stills. The only movement is the unsteady rise and fall of Wilbur's chest. Techno's stoic, unbothered expression remains where it is as he reaches for his brother, rubbing his shoulder. Tommy once again feels intrusive and out-of-place as Techno comforts Wilbur. Letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair as Wilbur collects himself. 

"Of course, the princes fled after that," he says, chuckling nervously to chase away any tears that had settled in the corners of his eyes. "No one knows where they are now."

"Jeez," Tommy breathes. He doesn’t know what else to say to that. 

"Jeez indeed," Wilbur laughs wetly.

"How do you guys know all this?" Tommy asks, a tiny bit weirded out by the mass of detail in Wilbur's story. 

Wilbur nearly chokes.

"Because we were attendants to the royal family," Techno supplies, retracting his hand from Wilbur's body with one final pat. "You know, before everything went to shit. We helped get the princes out of Icillia."

Silence fills the room once more, no one really knowing what else to say. 

Tommy sums it up with a well-timed, "damn." 

"Yeah," Techno says, leaning back into the sofa cushions with a sigh. "There's more."

"More?" 

"Hope isn't completely lost- the family was told of a way to bring King Philza back to life. The Revive Book. All it takes is a ritual, but there's a minor issue with that." 

Techno pauses, wondering how he's to word the next sentence.

"I assume you're familiar with Dream?"

Dream; leader of the Essempi. Evil, immoral, apathetic prick? Yeah, Tommy's heard of him.

"What about him?"

"He owns the Book. It's in the Manor up on the mainland, and we need it."

" You need it?" Tommy asks.

"Yes. As the... help, we were all tasked with finding the Revive Book. No one has succeeded, and many have died. We're the kingdom's only hope right now."

"Philza sounds like a pretty important guy," Tommy points out, scepticism creasing his brow. "How come he doesn't have more... disciples or whatever?"

"He's not Jesus ," Wilbur retorts. "Like Techno said, it's just us left."

"I hope this isn't some kind of cult initiation shit," Tommy chuckles nervously. 

"Of course not," Techno says, looking at Tommy like he's stupid. "Just an offer."

It’s safe to say that Tommy is not expecting that.

"A fucking what. "

"An offer. We need the Revive Book, but we can't leave the township. You, however, can," Techno explains, though it doesn't shed much light on what in the ever-loving fuck was happening right now. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Wilbur begins. "That we want to offer you a quest in the name of Icillia."

A quest.

Now that changes things.  

Quests are a fucking godsend for street kids. Usually offered by higher powers to people that society wouldn't miss, street urchins are perfect candidates. Elders are usually the go-to choice, but every now and again Essempi would take in a child to train them up for whatever it is that needed doing. Tommy knows little to nothing about quests, but he does know that when those lucky people returned, (if they did), people threw money at them. This could prove to be very good for Tommy and his friends.

"What kind of quest?" 

"An easy one. Get into Dream's castle, get the book, get back out," Techno tells him. Now, that had to be bullshit. Nothing involving the dictators was ever that simple. 

"And how the fuck do you expect me to do that?" Tommy asks. 

“I’ll train you personally,” Technoblade promises, linking his fingers. “Dream and I have… old ties. I know what he’s like, and more importantly, how to win against him. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

"I just don’t get what any of this has to do with me?” Tommy asks, a little dumbfounded as to how a nice dinner had turned into ‘go and fight some insanely dangerous figurehead for us please’. “I'm just some random kid you guys decided to befriend."

"Oh, you are so much more than that," Wilbur says softly. "You're feisty, you're stubborn, you're determined. You're caring, you're helpful, you're amazing. You're Tommy ." 

Tommy glares at Wilbur. He would be taking no more compliments from the likes of him tonight. Does it still count as kidnapping if the victim goes with the aggressor willingly?

"What does any of that have to do with the quest?"

"It means that you're the perfect candidate for this," Techno says, a little exasperation lacing his voice, as if he were getting bored. "Under the right training, you could defeat Dream easily. After Dream, well, you could take on the world if you wanted. Wouldn't you like that, Tommy?" 

"No."

"Mm-hmm," Techno hums, an indignant look on his face. "I don't believe that for a second."

Fucking hell. Why Tommy? Sure he's stolen some shit in his lifetime, committed some minor fraud, at some point maybe kicked some kids off a playground swing, but is that really so bad that God would put him into this situation?

"I just met you!" He shouts, gesturing wildly. 

"And this is crazy..." Wilbur sings quietly, quickly shut down by a glare from Techno. (Little does the eldest know, Wilbur is having himself a silent 'Call Me Maybe’ dance party outside of Techno's viewline)

"I take back everything I ever said about either of you being cool," Tommy mutters, screwing his nose up. Techno crosses his arms, catching Wilbur mid-party with a not-so-gentle slap and a mouthed 'help me out here'. 

"Come on, Toms, think about the opportunity you're passing up here," Wilbur coaxes, a little grumpy about being torn from his song. "How cool would it be to be able to come home and say that you saved a kingdom? You'd be a hero! People all over Essempi would chant your name! Surely you'd like that." 

"Can I at least talk to Tubbo and Ranboo about it first?"

Wilbur's eyes light up. This is Tommy relenting, he knows it is. "Of course you c- mmhnf!" 

"Can't." Techno finishes, clamping a hand over Wilbur's mouth. "No, you can't."

Tommy frowns. The newly renewed Red Flag Counter™ is off the scale at this point.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because there's no guarantee you'll come back. We need you, Tommy," Techno says, and Tommy has to physically repress the warm feeling that burns inside of his chest at the words.

"You know what I need? Freedom ," Tommy hisses. 

"And you'll get it," Techno promises, releasing his brother's face, “as soon as we get our Book."

Absolutely not. This is not happening.

"Nope. You know what? Fuck this! I'm leaving!" Tommy seethes, knocking his mug over in his haste to get out of his seat. The liquid inside is sent flying, staining the carpet brown and burning Tommy's leg. It hurts like fuck, yet he can’t find it within himself to care when Wilbur nearly does the same thing. Techno doesn't move.

"Be my guest," is all he says.

Fuck that guy. 

And just like that, Tommy finally gets to do what he's been itching to do since he got there. One thought occupies his mind; run like hell and don't you dare look back. He manages to make it to the door, fumbling with the lock for a second before wrenching it open, ignoring Wilbur's shouts for him to come back. Fuck both of them. From the fucking start, they've been using him. It was so obvious! Tommy mentally slaps himself for not realising it sooner. 

He stumbles into the night, slamming the door behind him and searching frantically for a place he could hide. The woods that surrounded the house would do fine, but there's probably snakes and spiders and god-knows-what else that could potentially kill him amongst those trees and Tommy quite likes being alive, thank you. Even so, it will be foolish to go down the driveway, as long as it is. That's what the bastards expect him to do, and Tommy does not consider himself a very predictable person. No, maybe he'll find a tall tree to camp out in until morning. Then, after a decent night’s sleep, he can figure out a more suitable game plan.

That's a surprisingly good idea , he thinks to himself. Well done, me.

He picks up the pace, fleeing for the trees when all of a sudden, he feels slight pressure close in around his whole body. It isn't too bad at first, just an unpleasant weight pressing against his chest, which is fine until it spreads to his arms and legs, pressing harder against him. It's slowly getting more difficult to push through,  sort of like wading through deep water, but Tommy's (as Wilbur so eloquently pointed out) stubborn, so he wills his legs to keep moving. The treeline is so close now, near enough that Tommy can almost feel his fingers brush against the bark.  

That would unfortunately prove to be his undoing. The second he touches the trunk, he's flung backwards, and when I say flung, I mean flung . It's like some unseen force has grabbed him by his hair and is dragging him back towards the house. Whatever it is, it's putting some real effort into getting him back to Wilbur and Techno. 

Tommy would be having absolutely none of that, thanks. Shrieking all the way, he digs his fingers into the dirt, scrambling for purchase wherever he can get it. Nothing works. If anything, the fact that he's fighting back makes the wind pull harder. 

With one final tug, Tommy is sent flying. He is thrown at the house, chucked a foot in the air at an alarming speed and falls twice as fast. Landing a few feet away from the doorstep and rolling, Tommy's back hits the step with a painful thud. He exhales sharply through his nose, throat raw from screaming. Is this Hell? Surely that killed me.  

It didn't, though, and after a minute of asking himself what the fuck just happened, Tommy decides that it was just some kind of freak accident. Maybe there's a tornado or something sweeping the city? Whatever it was, he asks himself one more question; what does Tommy Innit do when something doesn't go his way?

Tommy Innit goes for round two.