Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Are babies meant to be born with grief deep in their bellies? Did someone cry into the womb I was born in, leaving me drowning? Did I ever learn to breathe? Did I ever stop? Drowning , that is.

"Toms," Wilbur says, "Tommy. Tommy Innit Craft."

" No. Tommy sucks. Mom, Dad, let's call him Theseus."

The two adults looked toward each other, eyes laughing at their twins' adamant attitude on naming their younger brother.

"How about," their Mom says, dark brown eyes looking adoringly at the twin boys crowding around her in the hospital room, "We call him Theseus Innit Craft, but we can all call him Tommy anyways."

Wilbur and Techno contemplated it for a bit.

"Fine," Wilbur says, sassy for the, well, six-year old he is, "But he'll be Tommy for me."

"You're just upset your name sucked," Techno said, smiling almost disturbingly.

The two kept bickering, but Phil only had eyes for his wife, almost pleading. 

"Kristen," he starts, "You know what..the complications of this are. The-the chances of you.."

Phil was an emotional man; Kristen knew that. But, there was also this.

"He will be my masterpiece," she says, smiling so softly, so gently; so loving, "Tommy, my little boy."

When tragedy strikes, it may be expected, but that does not stop it from hurting any more.

--

Tommy could do ten million things, screaming for attention, and none of them would be enough. Could make universes, recreate the Mona Lisa, sing until his vocal cords fell out, play a role so perfectly he became a character and it would still never be enough: nothing would ever be enough, because nothing could truly capture how he felt. No writing, no art, no song, no play could tell the audience how he felt. 

Maybe if Tommy tore his heart out, bleeding and broken, someone could understand.

But, no, that wouldn't happen, so Tommy stuck to all his many-things, his creative outlets, to everything that could hold him (if only ever temporarily).

He stands in his home, walks up the stairs, places his backpack down and it is only in the normality that this is a tragedy: empty, empty, empty. Everything is empty. 

Nothing new, then, and he pulls out his math homework to work on.

It's always frustrating when he doesn't understand, but the numbers just don't come easy to him. Even in an honors class, Tommy struggles at the best. Why he hasn't transferred down to normal math, he doesn't know. Oh, wait, he does.

Last year, it had been Phil who insisted to the counselor that Tommy take honors math, with a bad teacher: so here Tommy was retaking the honors with the sophomores below him with Tubbo beside him. The struggle was, as one would call it, real. 

He eats a dinner of re-warmed rice and frozen pre-made fish he warms in the airfryer: he does not make a second serving.

And when Tommy falls asleep, there is much to be said and less to be heard. 

———

"Tubs," Tommy asks leaning over, "How do you do this one? I didn't watch the video last night."

This: the familiar routine, where Tommy makes sure Tubbo can read the prompts right, and Tubbo explains to Tommy in a way that Tommy can understand. Maybe were it anyone else, this would be embarrassing, but these two have been friends since young.

Tommy, who would fall asleep in the warm sun, laying on Tubbo’s lap as his friend talked about ways to build a bomb. Tubbo, who held Tommy’s hands in his when performances arrived and the stands were empty (a blessing and a curse). Tommy and Tubbo.

So there is no shame here to be had, when these two have bared their worst to the other, when they have laughed together and cried together. 

Tommy listened as Tubbo explained, content to follow their routine, normal as it be. 

The bell rang and the two got up, ready for brunch.

“Let’s see if we can catch up to Ranboo,” Tubbo said, grinning. The two of them would be able to see Ranboo from everywhere, the tall anxious fucker he be.

“Hell yeah,” Tommy agreed.

Walking along the flow of the crowd of fellow students, the two eventually made it through the narrow halls to the larger hallway, taking a sharp turn to where the library was located: and, there, over the short bookcases in the middle of the room was Ranboo.

People would always say there was a duo in a trio, but the three of them really didn’t feel like that to Tommy.

Sure, freshman year was- rough, to say the least, with Tommy struggling at home and drowning, so far down under the water, his only clutch being art. The mere thought of losing Tubbo, the only person he dared be close to, the only companionship he held onto while Wilbur and Techno got worse, when home got worse and Tommy was drowning under the weight of it all, of packing his own lunches and walking to school when his brothers were driven-

Either way, Tommy had ended up being defensive and downright mean to Ranboo. Sure, nothing too bad, no bullying, but Tommy was a crass person and he made sure to be as passively aggressive as he could be. At least, until he and Tubbo had a legitimate talk about it and it led to Tommy apologizing, and feeling guilty about it for a long while. 

It ended up well in the end, Tubbo right as per usual about Tommy and Ranboo getting along well. Now, the two of them were the only ones to truly know the extent of his family’s (as he now admitted to it being) neglect. The middle school years spent normalizing it all, the agonizing summer break where Tommy realized it all, the freshman year where he had to figure out how to move on; all of it. Now, Tubbo and Ranboo were people he could rely on, at some point being one of his few reasons to keep going.

So there was no duo in their trio: it was the three of them, and Tommy loved the two more than anything he'd ever loved before, because these two stuck by, by choice. 

(To Tommy, who had never been truly chosen, ever, this was monumental.)

Tubbo leaped over to Ranboo, jumping up to lightly hit him on the shoulder, "My beloved!"

Ranboo just chuckled, leaning over and dropping off a book which Tommy knew Ranboo had read many times before but always forgot the plot and re-read it a million times, "Hello, Tubs. Was math alright?"

"Yup!" Tubbo grinned, playfully leaning against Ranboo's arm: a comical sight due to how Tubbo didn't even reach Ranboo's shoulders, "But very, very boring."

"I see," Ranboo agreed, before seeing Tommy and lighting up with a grin, "Tommy, did you think about Sam's offer?"

Tommy grimaced, " Kinda? I mean, you know my brothers were in the SMP program, and well- am I really good enough?"

"Tommy," Ranboo and Tubbo chided simultaneously.

"You literally took art with me, and Sam said your art was amazing and worth AP course, plus Sam knows what he's doing considering he's the, y'know, person in charge of the SMP program's art part," Tubbo scolded.

"And," Ranboo said, "You became super popular for your performance in the L'Manburg Play: Exile last year! Like, your acting was insane, man."

"..True," Tommy admitted, "But, really? Like..I dunno, you're the only one I know in there anyways."

"Don't mind that," Ranboo grinned, "Tubbo agreed to join this year!"

Tommy blinked in surprise, "Really?"

"Ranboo convinced me," Tubbo said, shrugging, "Plus, it looks soo good for colleges."

Tommy debated for a moment, before deciding, well, fuck it, "Alright, where do I sign up?"

Ranboo and Tubbo lit up, grins so wide that Tommy was sure he wouldn't regret his decision.

Chapter Text

And therein lies the problem: You are so kind to me, but my hands were not formed correctly, and cannot hold such things. Please do not love me: the hole in my heart cannot keep it.

Sam would be the first to say how overwhelmingly proud he is of Tommy. He remembers the art class that Tommy and Tubbo had ended up in; the way Tommy's voice shook during attendance to claim his name was Tommy, not Theseus. The blond was both rambunctious and seemingly tense.

Before long, it had been clear Sam was fond of the kid who had shaky hands but clear lines, who liked bright red paints the most, and always left class with paint staining his clothes. Especially when that kid would stay in during lunches to finish his work, or ask about different methods to complete it all: it was exactly that effort and clear want to do art that made Tommy a great student.

And Tommy was so endearing, is the thing. The easy way he chuckles, the positively-hopeful expression when he receives feedback: everything made Tommy a joy to be around, making Sam try to hold back every strangely paternal instinct he felt. Like giving Tommy snacks when he looked pale or mentioned he'd not eaten breakfast, or allowing Tommy to nap so long as his work was finished, and almost a million other things that Sam did.

A majority of freshman year was spent trying to convince the blond to join the SMP program, but none of it had seemed to convince the blond. Freshman year had been very concerning in the beginning, but Tommy had then been brighter than ever after..some transition? Sam had assumed home life, or something or other, and Tubbo became even closer to Tommy afterwards (and Tommy stopped trying to give Ranboo death-glares, so it was probably all connected).

Perhaps it was being able to see Tommy go from a closed-off (if loud) freshman to the more confident and secure sophomore he became that made Sam all the more proud to see Tommy one morning during their brunch period.

"Tommy! It's good to see you, has sophomore year been treating you well?" Sam asked, grinning. The school year had really just started off, after all.

"Yeah, math's still an ass subject, but other than that I'm alright," Tommy said, a small smile, "I actually had a question."

Sam nodded for Tommy to go on, a hopefully encouraging smile on his face, "What is it?"

"How do-," Tommy fidgeted for a second, clearing his throat before continuing, "How do you sign up for the SMP program?"

Sam could only grin with pride, “I have the paperwork here, but we also do interviews-not so much to see talent, but to see what level of skill you have. And I know you have that in plenty.”

Tommy looked away bashfully for a moment, unused to the praise, before planting that large grin on his face, “Of course! My art’s the fuckin’ best, Sam.”

Sam only chuckled along while searching through his drawers to find the papers, “Which departments are you thinking to apply to? We have theatre, art, band or music or singing, and writing.”

Tommy contemplated for a moment, “Do I have to choose now?”

“No, not at all. Interviews are next week, after school ‘till four. Just turn in your paperwork then, with your choices.”

That gave Tommy the weekend to really think about it, Sam noted. The blond contemplated for a bit before accepting the papers Sam was holding out. His kid- er, the kid gave a tentative grin before turning around and leaving out the door, a glimpse of Ranboo’s dark hair with a heavy amount of white hairs (natural, and honestly a really interesting genetic thing) and Tubbo’s iconic brown and yellow striped sweater visible.

Sam just huffed out a breath of air as his own form of an amused laugh, going back to grading some engineering work. 

Wait, did Tubbo try sneaking a bomb into his designs again-?!

Sam let out a heavy sigh, very certain this was honestly just Tubbo trying to mess with him at this point. Chances were pretty high considering all things.

He continues on, marking some parts red for being structurally weak or inept, things he actually could do because these were top engineering classes, and not the first year class: one where kids had to go through other engineering classes to get into. Tubbo had been in engineering during middle school, planning to go into the advanced engineering course freshman year but unable to due to his schedule. Every so often, Sam would glance up towards the clock for when his next class would enter.

--

Entering the small house he lived in with his partner, Sam tried not to fall over as Fran, his dog, leaped up atop him in greeting. He only smiled, leaning downwards to give her some well-deserved pets before looking up to see Ponk smiling at him.

"You're in a rather good mood," Ponk says.

" Well, " Sam starts, "Tommy's finally going to join the SMP Program!"

"That's wonderful, Sammy," Ponk strides over to give Sam a hug, grin pulling at his lips as he continued, "Bet you're proud of your son."

Sam sputtered, "He's not my son! C'mon, he has his own family.."

Ponk only rolled his eyes, "Oh sure, but we know they both didn't show up to his play or anything else. You're probably the best adult figure in his life right now, Sam."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, leaning away from the hug to sigh, "I know. But- I can't just try to take up that role if Tommy doesn't want me to. I'll look over him and all, but that's all I can do."

Ponk shakes his head before changing the subject, "Here, let's go make dinner together."

And Sam was only so happy to accept the easy distraction from the sadness that tended to grow in his chest when he thought of Tommy's family, or those dull eyes that were drowning and couldn't ask for help, or the fact that Sam would be all-too glad to consider Tommy his son.

..At the very least, he could look forward to seeing Tommy's interview for the SMP program.

--

“What is art to you?” Is the question.

Tommy doesn’t know how to answer. Art is the stroke of a paintbrush, the rushed clicks on a keyboard adding words to a google document, the spotlights on him as he laughs overly-so to project his voice, a song in his ears and his own voice adding to the music.

But most of all, perhaps, art is this.

“Art is something that is created, but it is in the creation that art is found..” Tommy started, and once you start there is nothing to do but finish, and so he does.

Sam smiles throughout it all, because up here? Tommy is an artist and a performer in one, and he shines the most like this. Ever the writer, he creates melodies of words to form a piece of art all while giving a charismatic grin and looking as though about to secret with you, laughing all the way. Tommy is so many things; writer, artist, actor, singer, and above all he is Tommy. There is no way for the blond to not be accepted by the other members.

(Ignore the fact that all of them have been asking when his "son" would finally join the program.)

"It is in this creation you find yourself," Tommy finishes, "In this middleground, this is what art is: the artist."

With some polite applause, Tommy gives a small smile and waves to Sam before being excused.

His partner turns to him, their eyes forming crescents that told him of the smile behind their mask, "That really is your son!"

Sam could feel his ears flush pink, looking away, unsure what to say and how to deny the statement that made him so proud and, at the same time, conflicted.

"You were looking at him with so much pride, Sam," Puffy comments, "Although I totally get it, damn. What a good performance, I miss him in my theatre class."

"And this is just to enter the program!" Niki agreed softly, "I'm excited to see what he'll be able to do at proper auditions."

The three talked with one another about Tommy's potential, already confirming that of course Tommy would be brought into the program and at the same time leaving Sam to his own thoughts. He was so glad to see Tommy living well this year, seemingly doing much better than Sam had ever seen him do. This, a life for Tommy whose life Sam heard from snippets of conversations that two best friends would hold, or the way Tommy laughed off parent-teacher conferences or grades, and the way being called Theseus was like a prison sentence and not a name.

Sam would hope that the SMP program could only help Tommy and make him happier; the kid deserved it.

Chapter Text

How I wish you'd take me and hold me while I cry, but you pretend tears are just rain and I pretend, too. Could you try, though? Tell me this water leaks from my eyes, and not from the sky- the sky holds nothing of the grief that I do.

Tommy held the papers to sign for the SMP Program a little nervously, reading out the information he'd need to apply for. It was a free program, but he'd need his legal name, a guardian to answer (for field trips to competitions), some more general information, and then filling out some short-answer questions.

Which meant, for one, that he'd have to tell Phil about him joining the SMP program, something the twins would certainly tease him about. They'd never considered Tommy the artist- he was too loud for that, was he not?

Tommy took his earbuds, putting one to his ear to begin working on the papers. Filling out general information was easy, and before he knew it, he was staring down at the paper with his pen in hand.

Which department would you like to apply for in the SMP Program? Check all that apply. 

And, underneath, multiple options; stagecraft, theater, digital art, traditional art, writing, fictional writing, singing, performing.. 

Many of which branched out under the four main departments; music, art, theater, and writing. Tommy ended up selecting a large amount of them, before moving on to harder questions, like have you completed artworks before? Describe the prompt or general idea, or submit an image of the artwork. Or, have you performed before? If yes, which performances, and how did you feel? And, do you write often? Show us an example of your writing. All questions that left Tommy scrolling through his phone to print out images, or opening journals left and right to get the proper evidence out.

Eventually, he felt satisfied with the papers he'd gathered, stuffing them in a folder for ease and setting the rest of the papers out, the last question on one, and the empty guardian signature on the other.

Why do you want to join the SMP Program?

Tommy was a little stumped. There were a million answers to say here; the good answer of wanting to grow his skills and because of an interest in the program and its departments; the smart answer for college purposes, the fun answer of joining due to his friends' and teacher's persuasion; and of course the fucking spiteful, sad answer that was the urge to prove himself against his brothers. 

But none of them were really right for Tommy, he contemplated, spinning his pen around for a moment while he thought. Eventually, he just settled on a simple sentence that was very Tommy-Innit.

Why not?

Shrugging, he finally set the final paper aside into the folder and stretched, reaching his arms up satisfyingly.

"Theseus, come eat dinner," Techno knocked on Tommy's room door to say, and Tommy could hear even through the closed door how Techno made his way downstairs. Tommy looked at the papers and decided to just get them filled out, grabbing the top one that needed the guardian signature as he left his room and walked down the stairs.

Sitting down at the table, Tommy served himself some of the soup Phil had made, as Wilbur and Techno began conversing with their dad about school and classes. Tommy just sat quietly, knowing if he spoke up while the two were, he'd just get ignored or scolded or something. He waited for a lull in conversation before bringing up his own topic, and he tried eating quickly so he could just get the signature and go. He hated these dinners, hated the way he sat there and ate and didn't speak. But after a few years of Wilbur constantly telling him to shut up, or Techno eventually ignoring him if he didn't want to talk, Tommy knew it was better to not try entering the conversation in the first place.

"Dad," Tommy asked, breaking his silence and trying not to act like the word twisted around his heart in a sad ache, "I decided to join the SMP Program this year, and need your signature for the paperwork.."

Wilbur immediately looked towards Tommy, almost offended and looking to Techno like it was something the two should agree on. Techno, for his part, looked up from his soup and shrugged when met with Wilbur's incredulous expression.

"What?" Wilbur's accusing tone already had Tommy regretting the question, but there was nothing for Wilbur to do but finish, and so his older brother continued, "Art's never been your thing, Toms, c'mon."

Tommy just took a deep breath, because what a prick, "It's good for college, and you're not the only art kid, Wilbur."

"Tommy," Phil said with a warning tone, which, great, take his side again.

"I'm just asking you to sign some papers," Tommy said, trying not to fucking break here, at the dinner table. His family did not deserve his tears or anger, but here he was blinking so as to not let any escape.

Wilbur still looked mildly upset, but quieted down after rolling his eyes, still so adamant that Tommy couldn't do shit, that Tommy couldn't be as special as him, couldn't be the artsy one when Wilbur was here, couldn't be the smart one when Techno was here, couldn't be anything at all-

"Are you sure you'll be able to handle that, Theseus?" Techno spoke up for once, "Really, your grades weren't all that good last year, you should be focusing on your classes."

Maybe he means it well-enough, but that doesn't stop the shame and anger that rises when Techno says so, and Tommy feels no reason to stop his own words back, not when he feels attacked, "You know that was a shitty teacher, nothing else. I can handle it."

Techno raised his eyebrows once before going back to eating his soup, always fucking ignoring him-

" Okay, Theseus," Techno conceded.

It did not stop the anger, but there was no point anyways. Techno never really gave up, and would probably go on thinking Tommy was going to sink and drown in the program anyways. Hell, Wilbur thought the same, too. So why did it matter? The two hadn't given a fuck to help in his math class, didn't want to go to his play last year, didn't even notice he went around with paint all over him. They barely knew him, so why did it matter so much?

Because they were supposed to know him.

Fuck. Tommy hated this damn family.

"Can you just sign the papers?" Tommy directs toward Phil, to which his dad finally concedes and takes the paper and pen, easily writing down his signature.

Tommy takes it back as soon as possible, an insincere, "Thanks," following as he then took his bowl to the dishwasher and headed upstairs. And if he closed his door to lock it, breathing heavily and tears in his eyes, it didn't matter. And if those tears broke to sobs when he heard the three continue conversing like none of that was important, it didn't matter.

Chapter Text

Maybe, I could stop you from falling over, save you from drowning. I am no hero, but I love you more than anything. I never needed to be a hero, I just needed you to live, darling.

There were few things in life that made sense, but engineering was one of them. There was always a solution, a way around it, and always a path, even if it wasn't clear. And, if there was no current path, you could always make one; wires and circuits and batteries were simple, in a nice and easy way. 

Architecture, too, had a structure; the building would either work, or it wouldn't. There wasn't any other answer, really, and sometimes the building was pretty, too, but it didn't have to be.

Tubbo liked working with the logical, something that had never failed him. There had always been an answer, a wrong wiring somewhere, a missing component, an incorrect calculation; there was something he could fix. 

Tommy was nothing fixable; he was a building leaning about to fall but not quite there yet, and Tubbo was left watching in horror. Tommy was a bomb about to explode, but Tubbo wasn't the one holding the trigger, nor was he the one to get hurt. 

Fucking hell, Tubbo just wished Tommy could be happy, the kind of undeniable joy that, maybe, Tommy had never experienced. There is a rot, here, somewhere, Tubbo's not sure, because he can't find it, but it is eating his best friend up inside and destroying him. He'd known it in middle school, when Tommy was just a kid with too many detentions and bad grades, knew it when he sat front-row for Tommy's play with Ranboo while his brothers and father never showed, knew it even now because Tommy was so sad. He would never show it, never on his own self, but he did so a million other ways. 

This was how Tommy worked: if he couldn't show sadness, his writing could, or his art could, or his songs could, or his acting could, and all of it would be okay, because it meant Tommy was okay, but he wasn't. He wasn't, and Tubbo wished he could fix it. 

He tried. He tried really hard. Tried talking to Tommy, tried insisting and insisting, tried to make everything better. Tried to get through to Tommy, to stop the building's collapse, to stop the bomb from detonating, but here he was and-

It would never be enough. There was something wrong in the wiring or the structure, and it couldn't be fixed now. It could only be rebuilt.

But dammit, Tubbo would help Tommy rebuild himself every single damn step of the way. 

(Anything for his best friend, who walked half an hour to school, who carried kittens in the pouring rain to his house and would send images before he'd bring them to the shelter, who was so damn loud and mean but never cruel, who carried bandaids in his pockets because Tubbo got cuts a lot, who gifted Ranboo an eyeliner-pen so it'd be safe to write on his skin.)

--

"Oh, Tubbo!" Tommy brightened in the seat next to him, turning to face Tubbo with a smile, "My dad signed the SMP program papers..I'm in!"

"Hell yeah!" Tubbo said back excitedly,

"I don't even know what to do for the interview-audition-thing, oh my gosh, and how many departments can you be in because I chose multiple, Tubs, and what if I don't make it in? I mean, of course I will, I'm a big man, but what if I don't?!"

"You'll be fine, big man, Ranboo and I will help."

"If you say so, Tubs. Now, how do you do this equation, again..?"

The rest of their math class was made solely of some quiet discussion in the back, helping one another; but Tubbo was watching the tenseness lining Tommy's back, the way the blond stared vacantly for a bit before remembering himself and giving Tubbo a large grin before talking nonsense.

There it was again; the push-and-pull, where Tommy pretended everything was fine and Tubbo would wait until Tommy opened up. It would always be soon. Tommy was never much of a patient sort, not when it came to opening up about himself. Maybe he, too, knew he was a bomb bound to blow, and this was his way to try stopping the explosion.

It was lunch with Ranboo, spent quietly hanging out in the benches near Mr. Sam's room (which they spent half their lunches in, but the weather was pleasant) that Tommy finally let it spill.

"Techno did WHAT?!" Tubbo yelled in indignation. Every time he thinks it can't get worse with Tommy's family, it does. 

"Yeah. He basically called me a fucking idiot, like I haven't been passing with almost all A's," Tommy grumbled, and Ranboo gave the blond a nice pat on the shoulder in comfort.

"You're definitely not an idiot," Ranboo said sternly, "If anything, your brother is."

"Thanks, Ranboob."

"...Of course," Ranboo said after making the obligatory disturbed face he did every time Tommy called him that, his distaste for the nickname showing even past the mask he always wore.

"I could bomb them for you!" Tubbo offers.

"Thanks, Tubs, but nah. They're not- they're not trying to be bad. They just. Are," Tommy was furiously tapping his leg,  anxiety giving itself away just at the conversation. 

Tubbo frowned, reminding himself just how complexly Tommy felt about his brothers and father. Sure, Tubbo knew Tommy loved them despite how much they hurt him, but Tubbo would never really understand. His family only ever loved him; his dad, "Captain Sparklez" had adopted him after he'd been taken into foster care at a pretty young age, and when his aunt reconnected with him, Aunt Puffy showered him with love as well. And his biological dad, Schlatt, was trying his best at least. Tubbo's own family wasn't the stereotypical one, but he had plenty of parental figures who cared for him and he could rely on, and love.

Tommy had one dad who was absolute shit, and two brothers that were so damn immature they might as well had been middle schoolers still. It just wasn't fair. Nor did Tubbo understand.

But Tubbo didn't need to understand. For now, this was enough; giving Tommy a hug and letting his friend vent out his frustrations. Tubbo would be there for Tommy.

Tommy let out a groan of frustration, ruffling his hair and then smoothing it out, "I dunno, they just suck sometimes. Doesn't really matter, since I'm just there for two years more; then we can move in together, yeah?"

The three of them shared grins at the reminder of their plans to enter the same college, possibly dorm together, and generally have fun.

"Hell yeah, big man," Tubbo agreed.

"Of course," Ranboo nodded- how did he finish his lunch? His mask was on the whole time-?

Tubbo lightly bumped his shoulder against Ranboo's, "Then we can adopt a pig and name him Michael, dear husband of mine."

"Mhm," Ranboo nodded, smile softening at their inside joke.

"Anyways, on another point, I found this awesome monologue that just screams Tommy-Innit, wanna read it? It's about this vigilante…"

Tubbo shared a relieved smile with his 'husband' about Tommy seeming to cheer up. Two years. Two years and then, Tommy could be free, and happy. And he could heal when finally outside of the environment that was clearly having only negative effects on the blond.

Tubbo leaned back a little, letting the sun shine on him to bask in its warmth, and felt his heart lift a little. Yeah, they'd be okay. After all, it was the three of them against the world.