Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick move, Purpled," Tommy hissed, wincing in pain."Dick fucking move."

"The right side of the law pays well, Sangria," the purple-clad figured taunted, though he looked like his heart wasn't really in it.

"The right side of the law told me to... Told me to fuck off," Tommy said, volume slowly dying as the urge to close his eyes fills him. He spat at Purpled, scrunching his nose in disgust, though you'd never know it with the bandana covering his face. It was red with a white paisley pattern adorning it. It looked much like any other red banana one could theoretically buy at Walmart---not that Tommyinnit would ever do that. His costume was made from only the finest, highest quality fabrics available to be purchased from Michael's and assorted other admittedly not-very-high-brow places.

The last thing Tommy saw before his vision faded to black was an almost guilty look on his opponent's face. He hadn't wanted to do this, but it paid too well. Tommy knew that look well. He and Purpled had worked together before and not everything mercenaries get up too was too enjoyable for the mercenary in question. 

With a tired sigh, Tommy closed his eyes and wrapped his large, red-tipped wings around himself.

Everything went dark.

---

Someone---or something---poked Tommy's side. The presumed poker cleared their throat.

"Um... Hello," they said. Their voice was distorted, he assumed that was the blood loss. Tommy could imagine how their face and posture looked in that moment. Lips tightly drawn into an awkward, anxious frown, eyes wide open, eyebrows furrowed with concern. Their shoulders would be stiff and in a perpetual half-shrug, perhaps they were hunched over what they'd assumed to be his passed out, maybe even dead body.

Tommy had been told he had a vivid imagination. 

With great effort, he wiggled a finger, just feel like he was in control of his own body again. 

Fighting the urge to just go back to sleep, Tommy forced an eye open. He had fought insanely overpowered monsters and villains, but that simple task felt like a worse experience.

When he finally saw the person kneeling over---he had been right about their body language---him, he wished he had given in to his tired body's screams of exhaustion and pleas for him for black out and sleep for another 17 hours.

Wendigo.*

Otherwise known as the most dangerous and morally gray vigilante around.

Not exactly someone whose company Tommy would seek out, certainly not someone he'd associate with. The public was dubious of Sangria as it was, he didn't need to be seen with Wendigo.

"Are you alright?**" Wendigo asked, horned head tilted, voice distorted. Tommy had always wondered how he did that. Was it a natural thing, a power perhaps? Or did he just wear a voice changer? "Sangria, was it?"

With every muscle and bone in his body aching, Tommy somehow nodded, clenching his teeth and wincing against the pain.

"Right, you probably shouldn't move."

Well, no shit, Sherlock.

"Alright, okay, um," Wendigo scratched the back of his head. "I'm gonna... Ah, fuck, what I am gonna do?"

He reached into a pocket Tommy didn't even notice he had and pulled out his cell phone.

It started quietly ringing so fast he must have had the number on speed dial. Wendigo put the phone on speaker. Perhaps he thought Tommy would benefit from hearing his conservation. He didn't really care.

They picked up on the second ring with something Tommy couldn't really hear and couldn't be bothered to decipher. He had lost 2 liters of blood, he had an excuse

Wendigo coughed sharply.

"Well, Zethes,***" of course Wendigo and Zethes knew each other. Why wouldn't they? Why not gather all of the technically criminal vigilantes with the worse overall public opinion, and have them be fucking best mates? Tommy would've bet money they probably knew the Black Goo**** as well. "You know Sangria?"

"The drink?"

Now that, that Tommy heard loud and clear.

 He would be offended, but he made absolutely zero effort to make his existence known to Zethes and honestly preferred him having no knowledge of his existence. He didn't even know how he felt about Wendigo knowing of him.

"You know," Wendigo hissed. "The kid? The one with the red wings?" 

"Who?"

"You know what, never mind." Wendigo glanced at Tommy, hoping not to see any glimpse of offense. Tommy was too tired to be offended. "The kid's right here, all wrapped up in his wings. He lost a shit ton of blood and I found him passed out. I don't know what happened to him but he got fucked up real bad. At this point, he can't even say 'you should see the other guy,' unless the other guy happens to be dead, because anything else and he still lost bad."

Tommy groaned. He didn't have the metal capacity nor energy nor control over his body to signal offense any other way. 

'Sorry,' Wendigo mouthed.

The winged boy mentally envisioned himself giving him the middle finger. 

"So, what do I do?" He demanded. 

Zethes sighed so loudly he could picture the man, masked of course, banging his head against the nearest door frame.

Tommy couldn't wait to have explain the blood loss to his damn roommates. What was his excuse for that? Aimsey had probably blown up his phone with their worried demands for his whereabouts, Ranboo was probably trying to keep them from literally stalking him, assuring them he was probably fine and just got lost, as he was prone to doing---he wasn't, but it made a great cover as to why he was always late to things.

"I don't know, take him to a hospital?" Zethes suggested tiredly, voice preserving through the phone static as though he was used to this bullshit.

Tommy's binder was starting to make it even harder to breathe. He wasn't supposed to exercise in it, but that didn't stop him from fighting the literal end of the world in it, and it wasn't great for his health, neither the binder nor the fighting the end of the world. The fact he'd gotten a size up had not helped him much.

He needed it off and soon, but shock kept him paralyzed. He put all of his energy into sitting up, tuning out Wendigo's conversation, focusing solely on the muscles he needed to use to sit up.

He had had no idea you needed to use that many muscles to sit up.

Pain shot through his body, aches and cramps and sores practically poisoning his brain.

Damn Purpled and his damn twin swords. They looked badass and hurt like a bitch, whereas Tommy looked like an idiot and could barely fly with his oversized wings. 

A strangled cry of pain fell from Tommy's lips and Wendigo whirled around, phone almost dropping from his hands as though the person he'd been getting advice on helping had left or something.

Darkness crowded the sides of his vision once more and he started to feel himself drift into unconsciousness.

"Oh, fuck, no, no, no, no, no." Wendigo rushed to his side and dropped to his knees. "Sangria, no, stay with me, try-"

Darkness won and Tommy's eyes slammed shut.

Chapter Text

Tommy's brain flitted in and out of conscious. He could hear noises that sounded like voices, they had to be saying words, but he couldn't decipher them. Images flashed before his eyes, but none of them made sense; he couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. He felt like he was floating in a sea of fog, surrounding and strangling his brain. Footsteps, leaving, flashes of lights turning on and off, jabs of pain he couldn't explain.

After what felt like eons of floating in plasma somewhere outside of the universe, he woke up gasping for air, eyes wide open. Light burned his retnas immediately, he winced. Was there a light in his face? It was like someone had channeled the power of the sun gods directly into his eyeballs for the sole purpose of making his life just a little worse.

His body felt like it was on fire, burning itself alive to chase out some kind of poison Purpled had injected into his veins without him noticing. His heart pounded in the silence, pulse quickening. He could hear every beat, it filled his ears, it was the only thing he could focus on. The room was too bright, the fan was too loud, the sheets were too itchy, his heart beat was too loud.

Fear spiraled around in his head; he didn't know what caused it. Eyes wide, ears ringing, everything was blurred and spinning.

He needed someone, he needed someone he knew.

Sobs shook his body as Tommy forced himself to stand—his body wasn't ready to, his knees felt as though they were about to buckle at any minute, but he shrugged it off, letting the pain wash over him. 

He didn't mind really, he had fucked up, now he was facing the consquences of his actions.

Of course, it did make him want to pass out, but that was an issue for a later time.

Staggering and stumbling, Tommy half-tripped, half-dragged himself out of the door of this sunset golden room. Everything was neat and tidy, no fear of tripping and having to pull himself up.

Every step was a stab to a muscle, an organ or a tendon. Every breath shattered a rib. Every twitch cracked a bone and every beat was a heart attack.

The pain didn't matter much though. One thought replayed in his mind over and over:

He needed to get to his phone to call Ranboo or Aimsey. They could help him, they could unblock his airways and dry his tears.

Maybe it was bad he was so dependent on their help for dealing with things, but he would think that over in the therapy he couldn't afford to go to, in all of the spare time he didn't have.

Wait.

He didn't have his phone.

He had left it in that motherfucking alleyway, expecting a normal day of stopping a few muggings and perhaps some petty theft by a rich white girl who thought it was "cute" or "quirky." His brain had been too idled by the exhaustion and monotony of his second job he couldn't think straight enough to consider that Purpled had been patrolling closer and closer to him, and there was a possibility their paths would cross.

Swaying back and forth, Tommy's legs threatened to give in.

He gave up.

Sinking to his knees, he buried his face in his hands. An urge to curl into a ball and never wake up pulled at the darkest corners of Tommy's brain. He had thought he was over this! He was supposed to be doing okay.

He pulled his knees up and rested his chin on top, forcing his arms over his head to completely obscure his face from view.

He sniffed and traced a long, pink scar up his arm with his eyes. He ran through all the anti-panic attack techniques Ranboo had walked him through a thousand times, a sharing a similar theory of distraction. Listing, counting, all of them had the same end goal. Take your mind off your trigger.

He decided to count the freckles on his arms, one by one, one arm at a time, until he got so bored he either could breathe again or passed out from boredom.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

The numbers rose slowly with Tommy's spirits as the pressure on his wind pipe eased up, and he once again felt as though he were breathing oxygen and not inhaling molasses. 

On his left arm, there were 43 freckles and 12 scars. As he was tallying up the blemishes and imperfections on his right, footsteps rushed towards him.

"What do you mean, you know he's in pain? How? What do you mean, mom told you!? He's not dyin', is he!?" A deep, gravely voice demanded, presumably talking to someone over the phone. Tommy spent a minute relishing in that deep voice, envy creeping into his brain, slowly inching up his spine. He wished his voice sounded like that.

Long pink hair swished; A figure rounded the hall corner, almost tripping over the blond boy.

"Hello," Tommy said, tilting his head upwards in an attempt to look the person in the eyes. "I'd wave, but honestly any form of movement puts me in the most excruciating pain I think I've ever experienced, so I'd say I have a pass."

Holding the phone up his ear, the pink-haired man who looked an awful lot like renowned super criminal Herakles, a.k.a, the Blade, slowly said, "Phil... You didn't tell me there was a child."

"Okay, first of all, I'm not-"

The person who Tommy figured he could safely assume was the Blade waved a hand in his direction to shut him up. 

"Phil, Phil- no, stop, you- You can't just leave me to babysit a little kid!" The Blade exclaimed.

"I'm 18!"

"Shush," he said. "Send Wil back or- or something! I don't know what I'm doin'!"

"I literally have a job. And pay rent. And taxes. And I can legally vote."

"I'm on the phone." The Blade rolled his eyes. "What do I do with him?! No, no, no, you can't jus' call me back! I don't know anything about kids or sick people! Ask Charlie? Ask Charlie!? Charlie is a sentient piece of goo! What is he goin' to do!? Wait, don't hang-"

Tommy and he sat in awkward silence.

"So..."

"So..." They said at the same time.

"Guess you're stuck with me."

Chapter Text

The Blade was surprisingly good at caring for the injured. His friend Wendigo did seem like the injury prone type, but he was known for killing people---specifically government officials. Then again, maybe that was an indicator he cared for people.

A few hours later, Tommy was propped in bed with an appropriate amount of pillows, not too many, not too few, a glass of water and ready to leave a 5-star review on the shady Yelp page he assumed one would use to leave a review on the hospitality of those highly wanted by the police. 

His peace was shattered by loud clanging sounds, coming from where he thought the entrance might be. 

"FUCK!" Someone yelled.

"Wilbur, what the hell!?"

"SORRY!" Wilbur--he wondered who that was---called back.

The other person said something like, "deal with your own shit, Wil." 

Tommy heard footsteps clunking up the stairs; the person coming to talk to him was not very quite, so it couldn't be Herakles.

A figure stepped into the light. 

A man, with blond hair, decked out in a top Tommy could only dream of being able to wear someday---a spandex sleeveless turtleneck---and a rather ugly bucket hat, worn fabric striped green and white. A bit of stubble trailed along his jawline.

His most notable features, however, were the unmasked face and large black wings protruding from his back, much like Tommy's own.

Zethes.

He was taking a risk here, a huge risk, by being unmasked in front of someone he didn't know, or trust. 

"I have an offer for you, Thomas."

Tommy instantly sits up, ignoring the pain of doing so. His eyes go wide with shock. 

"Ho- how did you---?"

"You're painfully easy to track," he explained airly. "We found your IP in less than an hour and from there, well, it was simple."

"Th-tha-that's a-a-a gross in-invasion of private property!" He sputtered as he was prone to doing.

"My friend in the other room kills government officials for fun," Zethes rolls his eyes. "We're not above some.. Questionably moral activities. Also, you should be more careful with cookies and online safety."

He paced ever closer, brushing aside objects with his wings. His control was incredible, Tommy was not that flexible.

"We need someone. Someone fresh and young, to swing the court of public opinion in our direction. Someone people can like, relate to," he said as suspicion crept through Tommy's mind. "Someone, like you. We can offer housing, generous pay, and---"

"You want a social media intern," the younger cut in.

"No, no, well--- if you're volunteering... But no. We want a likeable vigilante who can represent us to the press," he gestured vaguely. "I hate to say it, but Wilbur---Wendigo I suppose you'd think of him, is second in the county's most wanted, I'm first, Techno is considered a radical extremist enacting political violence Willy nilly, and Charlie is made of goo and also a hugely wanted scammer, con artist and stock owner. We're not a likable bunch to most people. But if we had someone else, someone who's only crime was protecting innocents, public opinion might sway... My point is that we need you. We're even willing to house your roommates."

"You'd do that?"

"I don't want to say we're desperate, but..." Zethes trailed off, "we're desperate. We can offer you more than fair wages and housing for yourself and your friends. Just as long as you make it known you're affiliated with us."

Hope flashed in Tommy's mind for a split second before the damning reality set in:

This was far too good to be true.

"What's the catch?" 

Chapter Text

"What's the catch?" Tommy's question cut was cut off when a person (maybe?) that looked to be made of green gloop surged through the door, entire body making a disgusting squish sound, waving a plastic box in the air. It looked like a phone.

His phone.

At that very moment, it buzzed and the screen lit up revealing his lockscreen, a picture of himself and his roommates.

Ignoring the aches and pains of his body that made him want to scream, he shot upward and snatched the phone out of the slime guy's hand. He cringed at the green residue left behind on his screen. He sank back down to the bed, a stab of pain shooting through his torso. A sharp breath through his teeth and a tap to his phone screen revealed his notifications. 32 texts from Ranboo, 48 from Aimsey, and 16 missed calls from both.

He checked the date. The 24th? But he'd fought Purpled on the 23rd.

Maybe he'd been out for longer than he thought.

He unlocked his phone with stinging fingers---had Purpled actually fucking stepped on them?---and scrolled through the messages.

Where are you?

Are you okay!?

Tommy, it's been like 3 hours this isn't funny anymore!!

Where did you go?!?!?!

You can't just say you're leaving and stop answering for an entire day!!!!

Tommy, I'm not mad, I'm sorry.

Are you alright?

I hope you're safe at least...

We've been looking for you for hours.

We'll try again tomorrow.

Stay safe, tom.

We miss you.

He sighed. Those motherfuckers, always so kind and caring and worried about his safety or whatever. They'd clearly gone through too much trouble looking for him already. He looked up, realizing Zethes was still in the room.

"Zethes, I'm sorry, can I...?"

"Of course, take your time. And you can call me Phil."

Phil? He was taking another risk, an even more dangerous risk, revealing even a first name. Well, he seemed to know far too much about Tommy already, it was only fair he should know his name.

The older winged man stepped out; Tommy called Aimsey.

They picked up immediately, only getting through half a ring.

"WHAT THE HELL!?" They yelled instantly. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!? WE HAD THAT BIG ARGUMENT AND THEN YOU- YOU JUST UP AND LEAVE FOR A DAY!? HOW COULD YOU DO THAT!? DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW WORRIED I WAS!? WE SPENT ALL OF YESTERDAY LOOKING FOR YOU!!!"

He patiently let them go off at him. He really did deserve it this time. He tapped his fingers to ease his need for constant motion and nodded.

"WHAT EVEN HAPPENED ANYWAY!?"

"I sort of fought Purpled and passed out for a day again," he explained calmly, matter-of-factly.

"YOU WHAT!?"

"Well, I was pissed off, so I went and picked a fight I couldn't win and got absolutely destroyed." That was technically a lie but it was half true. He was pissed off and being reckless. "Then Wendigo showed up---"

"THE WANTED CRIMINAL!?"

"Well, Aims, I'm a wanted criminal. Anyway," he continued, "so he showed up and I passed out and I woke up in this weird place and I was worried about you and I had a panic attack but I'm fine now, don't flip out, then I met The Blade then Zethes had some weird business offer for me then a blob of slime I'm pretty sure was the Black Goo showed up with my phone and yeah, that's what happened."

On the end of the line, there was only silence.

Then they said, "hold on, let me get Ran."

Static footsteps echoed through the phone on speaker, and he heard them call "Ran! Ranboo! Tommy's alive!"

Physically, sure, barely. Emotionally? That was a different story. His train of thought was a rollercoaster getting hit by an earthquake of confusion.

"Hello?" a much deeper voice asked. Tommy has always wished his voice were as deep as Ranboo's. Transmasc struggles he supposed.

"Hi," he replied.

"Oh my god, you're alive. What happened!?"

Tommy repeated the summary he'd given Aimsey. He was once again met with silence.

"Why are we friends with him, again?" He heard Aimsey mutter from somewhere nearby. Some shuffling of feet and murmurs were covered by static as Tommy held the phone by his mouth.

"What was the deal?" Ranboo finally asked

"He offered to let us stay in this weird mansion thing he and SBI have rented out here and pay me too, to be a full time vigilante. All I have to do is say I'm affiliated with them. It was fucking weird."

"Oh thank god," Aimsey cut in. "'Because you got us evicted."

"WHAT!?" This time it was Tommy's turn to yell.

"We finally got kicked out after the landlord got the 5th noise complaint."

"Oh fuck," Tommy cursed.

"Yeah, that's about right," Ranboo agreed.

Chapter Text

Tommy has stayed at SBI's manor for 3 days, for the most part sleeping off his injuries. He hasn't seen anyone except Phil, but he's stayed in touch with his roommates, who are packing their things and trying to get together some extra money in case this whole thing doesn't work out. He's wearing a hoodie that was at least 2 sizes two big and belongs to one of Phil's two sons, as he listens to rain pitter-patter on the roof. 

Phil drops a comically large stack of paperwork in front of Tommy, along with a pen. His head spins as the butter yellow walls of the kitchen he's been led to seem to close in.

"Feel free to read through it," Phil shrugs, "or don't."

Tommy blinks. He's about ready to cry again. His sanity is hanging on by a thread and he's sure it'll only get worse from here.

"So what's the point of all the legalities?" Tommy asks as he chews on the pen cap. "I mean, you are top most wanted in the nation."

Phil shrugs again and points to a poster on the wall advertising Scroogle's free video streaming service, Scrootube.

"Former tech billionaire CEO, now millionaire."

Ah. That made sense. This was a complicated NDA about all the illegal things going on here, so Phil could keep his immense wealth.

"What's with the downgrade?"

"Technoblade---Or Herakles, I suppose," is all he says, and really it's all he needs to. The public is very well aware of his political alignments, including his stance on the ethics of billionaires. Suffice to say, he is not fond of Jeffery Bezos.

Silence fills the room as Tommy begins the Sisyphean task of sifting through all the legalese and vaguely worded legally binding contract bullshit. Phil's footsteps stomo away and garbled talking fades to the background as the words swam in front of Tommy's eyes. Letters are practically doing backflips before Tommy decides to finally ask someone to get Aimsey for him. They're doing an internship at a law firm, filing paperwork. They might not be an expert but surely they're better than him.

He pushes his chair back from the table and spends what had to have been at least 15 minutes just wandering through the beast of a house. He considers calling out to a resident of the house and asking them to drive him to Aimsey's place of work. Now, in theory, and in practice for the majority of people this would be an easy task and a great solution. Unfortunately, Tommy does not fit into the majority of people in this case. He knows he'd have to spend at least 10 minutes working up the courage, and another 20 calming his shaking hands and erratic nerves. His legs are starting to heal from his reckless choices but his emotional state is somehow worse that before. He's honestly impressed he's managed to undo the very small amount of therapy he could afford to have attended so quickly.

"Fuck," he mutters, already noticing his heart rate picking up at the idea of inconveniencing a near-stranger at best. "Let's be reasonable, okay, they need you, they want you. It's fine. It's fine."

Everything is good. Everything is great. It's all okay.

"Is someone in there?" A deep voice yells. It's pleasant to listen to, and distinctly accented. English, though very different from Tommy's own. Envy builds up inside of him. His irritatingly, glaringly high-pitched voice plays in his own mind in stark contrast.

Tpmmy takes a second to examine the room he's currently in. A dusty old sitting room, with a couple of fancy sofas and an ornate coffee table. The wallpaper is horrendously ugly, green and white pinstripes with flowers dotted everywhere. He coughs. It's certainly musty.

"Uh, ye-es!" He shouts back, quickly.

"Oh," the other person breathes quietly. "It's just a little girl."

That hurts.

He knows he's pre-T, but is he really that feminine? He's trying so hard to blend in, putting on a strong man act any circus would be jealous of. Is he trying too hard? Will his voice always give him away?

The door clicks open, and the obscenely tall man standing a little hunched in the doorframe looks around, awkward tension overflowing.

"Oh, you're... Not...A girl?" He says, more a question than a statement.

"I'm trans," Tommy states harshly, mood severely off put by the persons earlier conduct. Usually he's very proud of his queer and trans identies, but he is just plain pissed off right now.

The man in the doorframe is wearing a black sweater of a collared shirt, with a pair of khakis. He has a fingerless glove on one hand, and sickeningly gray skin. His head is crowned with a pair of antlers. This is Wendigo.

"Ohh! You must be Tommy!" Wendigo snaps his fingers, suddenly looking as though a lightbulb had gone off in his head.. "I'm Wilbur. Phil's told me a lot about you."

Tommy automatically distrusts this man. Technically he had saved his life, and technically he'd probably gotten him this job opportunity in the first place, but he didn't care. His willingness to give out his name was suspicious, and honestly after being misgendered, however accidental, he just didn't really like him.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize your voice. Especially sorry about the misgendering. It sucks ass, 'specially pre-T."

Wilbur continues talking about something or another---something about brown m&ms and a character named Brad?---but this sticks out. That sounds like first hand experience. Cis people don't talk like that. They usually look at Tommy and his trans friends like kicked puppies who needed to be helped or fixed or whatever. They certainly have no idea what pre-T meant. But Wilbur knew what he was talking about. His vision had clouded over like he was recalling something.

Is the FBI's second most wanted a transgender icon?

Not exactly the positive media representation Tommy has been hoping for, but an interesting development none the less. By now he's completely zoned out, thoughts going a mile a minute, so fast he doesn't even know what they are. His fingers twitch.

Would it be too rude to interrupt? Or would it be socially acceptable?

Fuck, what even are social cues anymore?

"Are- are you okay?" 

"Oh, y-yeah, I'm uh, I'm fine!" He sounds weak. "I mean, uh... I'm just bored by all your rambling."

He sounds like one of his primary school bullies, but at least his anxieties aren't on full display for this stranger. Wilbur looks taken aback, Tommy thinks. He isn't sure. He doesn't know this guy well enough to read him barely at all. Maybe that emotion is hurt? He doesn't want him to think badly of him. Oh, that was dumb. Fuck his impulsivity and fuck his need to be liked by all.

"Oh, I forgot to ask---what are you doing here? Phil said you were reading through the contract." Tommy notices ow wide and aggressive Wilbur's hand gestures were. They make him flinch.

"I can't sit down long enough to read it, and honestly I don't know what any of it means," he explains. "I was looking for someone to go pick up my friend Aimsey, they're doing an internship at a law firm right now."

"I would take you," he offers, "but I've been forbade from driving after I launched our resident human slime out of the window accidentally."

What the fuck?

"Wha- I- how would that even happen?" Tommy's voice is filled with pure bewilderment.

Wilbur shrugs.

He shrugs.

Like, oh yeah, my driving is so bad I almost killed someone---could the black goo die from a blunt force trauma? Tommy notes to ask him when they meet  properly---what of it?

Fuck landlords and eviction, he's about to sign papers to live in a house full of criminally wanted crazy people.

"So I'll get Techno to drive you."

From the fact Phil had called Herakles Technoblade earlier and the fact Techno sounded like a shortening of that, Tommy brilliantly deduced through rigorous use of his only brain cell that Technoblade must be his real name. What a strange choice. He must've have had odd parents.

Tommy is being led away by Wilbur, who's screaming "TECHNOBLADE" over and over again. He sure had a useful set of lungs.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT!?" He screams back from what Tommy is pretty sure was the living room he'd wandered through on his way from the kitchen.

"THE KID NEEDS HELP!"

Tommy is concerned for the wellbeing of both of their vocal chords.

"WHAT KID!?"

"TOMMY!" 

"I'm an adult," he mutters, prying his arm away from Wilbur to cross them in front of his chest and pout. "I pay taxes. I can vote."

"JUST GET IN HERE AND TALK TO ME FACE-TO-FACE!"

"FINE!"

Wilbur huffs as he grabs Tommy's arm back and practically drags him, speed walking with his unfairly long legs. Tommy isn't even short, but this is ridiculous.

He pushes him through the door frame and Taos his foot impatiently.

"This kid. He wants to get his friend and I'm not allowed to drive."

Technoblade sighs.

"Can't it wait?" He gestures to the copy of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility in his other hand. A little gleam in his eye tells Tommy he's been crying.

"No, he wants them to look over the NDA."

He groans.

"Fine, I'll do it. But you owe me for this."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Wilbur waves his hand in dismal. "You always say that."

"I mean it, Wilbur."

"Uh-huh." He nods slowly, condescendingly. "Sure you do."

Technoblade grumbles something like, "I hate you," as he bookmarks his page with great caution, as though doing it wrong might cause the paper to disintegrate. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. It's pink with a white stripe right down the center. He brushes past Tommy and Wilbur, speeding down a corridor.

Tommy practically has to run to catch up, which isn't great for his recovery process. He's healed remarkably quickly, only feeling jabs of pain in his ribs and hips. Still, running isn't very smart. He could reopen a wound or trip and accidentally disturb the cast on his lower arm where a bone had been stepped on and fractured.

Wilbur doesn't even bother to run. He just walks, not caring if he made someone wait for him.

Phil sticks his head out of a door to Tommy's left An office sets the scene behind him, with a bookcase, a potted plant,an office chair, and a desk with a monitor sitting on top of it. It's barren for a millionaire.

"What's all the commotion?" He asks.

"We're taking Tommy to get his lawyer friend," Wilbur says before Tommy van even open his mouth.

"They're not a lawyer," he adds weakly.

"Close enough."

"Wil, you know you're not allowed to drive---"

Wilbur gestures to Technoblade, who's pulling on his rain boots with anger Tommy had never seen anyone put rain boots on with. He must have been really invested in Sense and Sensibility.

Phil nods. He seems to take this as an invitation for him to come as well.

The keys jingle in Techno's pocket as all four trudge out to the car. Techno broods behind the wheel, Wilbur and Phil are confined to the back seat. Tommy taps his fingers on the dash. He wonders if he can pull his wings all the way back into his hoodie, and if people would question the lumps sticking out from his back.

They sit in awkward almost silence for almost 20 minutes, interrupted only by Phil's occasional mutter and Wilbur's humming.

Tommy fidgets in his seat as he wriggles his wings into his hoodie. He twitched, because, as one can imagine, having 6 foot wings stuffed down the back of your jacket isn't very comfortable. Who would've thunk it?

Just a normal Tuesday with the top 3 most wanted.

That sounds like some shitty TLC show.

They pull up at the Stiffson & Jaxton Law* building. Tommy clambers out of the car, eyebrows shooting up as Phil moves to follow him.

"Oh, no, no, no," he says quickly, holding his hands up as a show of dissent. "I'm not taking you lot into there with me. The people there are a bunch of old straight cis white men in ugly suits, and, no offense, but you all looking drag kings on steroids. That is simply not happening."

Instead of offense or amusement as Tommy had expected, they consider his statement about drag kings and nod as though an apt description.

"Fine," Wilbur grumbles.

"Be back soon!" Phil exclaims, thinny veiled anxiety causing him to flick his fingernails against the seat in front of him. He immediately stops as soon as Techno's head snaps towards him.

Techno says nothing. He practically has a storm cloud following him. What the fuck is so important in Sense and Sensibility?

Tommy slams the door and speed-walks to avoid one of them changing their mind. The bell over the door rings as he pushes his way inside. The receptionist, Danny, waves to him, recognising his face.

"Here to see Aimsey?" He asks, Southern accent warm but very foreign.

"Yeah." Tommy throws him a smile.

"Their shift is almost over," he types something on his laptop. "Yep, they should be out in... 10 or so minutes!"

"Thanks, Danny."

Danny shoots him a set of finger guns; Tommy cringes good-naturedly. They wish each other well, and Tommy is off done the hall again. Normally Aimsey has a cubicle but today they're assigned to clean out some hoity-toity office for some posh lawyer whose tie probably cost more than Ranboo's and Aimsey's monthly college tuition fees.

Office space 5A, they said they would been in if he needs them.

He shoots them a text reading, "im at ur office I need u"

His phone dings.

"wait, what, why?"

He spends about a minute typing out a full explanation and feels very satisfied when he hits send. He receives a joking middle finger emoji followed by an, "I gotchu bro."

Chapter Text

Hey. I’m Wil and I wrote this fic. For… obvious reasons regarding the people portrayed in this fic, I am now officially discontinuing it. DreamSMP was an important part of my life while I was writing this fic, and I found lovely and supportive friends through the fandom. However, it’s just not really of interest to me anymore. That said, I’ll keep the fix up for anyone who enjoyed it to read through. I may or may not continue writing fanfiction, so stay tuned if you are interested.

In light of Wilbur Soot’s actions, here are some domestic abuse resources:

U.S. National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233

Love is respect, resources on dating and domestic violence for teens: https://www.loveisrespect.org/

RAINN (Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network): https://www.rainn.org/ or call 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

Stop Abuse For Everyone/SAFEline, a chat line for victims of violent and controlling relationships: 737-888-SAFE (7322)

Womenslaw Emaile Hotline, for U.S. based legal information: https://hotline.womenslaw.org/public

Day One, provides counseling and case management, as well as legal advice, information, and direct representation to young people aged 24 and under related to dating abuse: https://www.dayoneny.org/our-services

Support victims.

~Wil