Chapter Text
It wasn’t as if he’d tried to get into trouble after the fuck-up that he had dubbed ‘The Pantry Fiasco’. The healing itself had left him weak for days, to the point where Callahan had refused to let him clock on the next morning after seeing how tired he’d looked. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. No, no, the worst part was that itch. He’d helped. He was valuable.
Tommy huffed for the third time in the past five minutes, slamming the cheap fridge door shut as he deposited the milk into his shopping basket. It was a lot harder than he’d thought, having to toe the line between Supers and Citizens. He hadn’t realised that the pull he had would feel so strong (then again, his mother would beg him, plead with him to get him to understand why she did what she did. She had felt that pull, too.)
He grabbed some cheese from the next aisle over, biting his lip as he stared down the price tag. Prices had risen drastically over the past months as rising Super fights meant that many overseas suppliers had stopped sending over their trade goods to L’manberg, and though the news coverage had been tight-lipped about the whole matter, he often watched Callahan and Ponk’s nervous conversations about the rising of ingredients and coffee beans.
He was at a cheap supermarket. And he wasn’t even bloomin’ paying!
Still, he worried.
"Hey, Tommy." A chipper tone snapped Tommy from his stupor as he plunged his hand down into his pocket and snagged at his keys, pointing the sharp end towards the assailant, before dropping it quickly as he faced the white porcelain mask. Instead, he gave Dream the finger with no real anger behind it. “Nice to see you, too,”
“Are you fuckin’ stalking me or something?” He asked, now dumping some extra butter into his basket.
“Not stalking. I’m-” He hesitated for a split second, “- shopping?” Tommy snorted.
“Yeah, fuckin’ right. I’ll bet you shop at Waitrose.” Tommy smirked at Dream’s stunned silence.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tommy spluttered into laughter, chuckling as he shut the door to the fridge section.
“Means you’re a Tory, King.”
“Yeah? well- you’re an idiot,” Dream scoffed.
“Wow, what a comeback, fuckin’ primes,” Tommy could sense that Dream’s wicked grin matched his own, and he could almost forget the voice in his head that was whispering at him to stop, to run because this wasn’t safe.
Almost.
“I shouldn’t have expected much ‘cus all you say is ‘mimimimimi my name is Dream and I’m and a fuckin’ Tory and a wrongen’ mimimimi- that’s what you sound like.” He continued, happily ignoring said voice.
“You’re such a child, gods.” He groaned, though still tailing after Tommy. He ignored the slight, driving the cart towards the self-service station. “Why are you only getting dairy products anyway? You on some kind of wacky diet?”
He rolled his eyes, “For the café, idiot. The cakes don’t just appear by themselves.”
“Wait, you can bake?”
“And sew,” he said absentmindedly, “Tubbo - that’s my best mate - says I’m like a fuckin’ fifties housewife.” Dream lets out a light laugh that quickly turns into a wheeze, sounding so cursed with his voice changer that Tommy started laughing with him, shoulders shaking so hard he could barely scan the items in his basket. They quietened down when an older-looking woman glared at them from the checkout, though Tommy shot Dream a side smirk.
“Slight change of subject, but I had to tell you something,” Tommy braced himself - there it was, Dream’s real agenda, “You know you’re the only Healer since Hela,” He started (Tommy’s stomach flipped over at the casual mention of Her - yes, he was painfully fucking aware of that (in fact, his scar throbbed with the phantom pain of a dagger being stuck into his side)), “While she wasn’t on our side - the morally right side, the hero side, you could be. I did some digging and-”
Tommy paid, snagging the receipt so that he could give it to Callahan and get his money back before he replied.
“I thought you weren’t stalking me, bitchboy.”
“Oh, c’mon now,” Dream shifted awkwardly, “You could use it for a CV, or whatever. It’d be well paid, and we’ll kit you out in the best gear, so you’ll be much impossible to beat.” Tommy scoffed as they made their way onto the street, many stopping and pointing and flashing cameras at him and the Super, all wide eyes and hushed tones.
“I don’t wanna get messed up in this shit. It’s a fast-tracked way to the Primes in the Sky.”
“Hey - I’ve not been blown to smithereens yet.” Tommy rolled his eyes as he swerved down a backstreet, a shortcut away from the prying eyes.
“Dream-” He pulls to a stop, dragging the taller man by the wrist to behind a dustbin, “- just fucking listen, okay - you’re not a healer. You’ve not watched the news, watching as healers were called into fights, as they healed, as they fucking fought and died. All of ‘em. On either side. I am the last healer in L’manberg, okay? You really think that an OP suit will stop this- this trend of them all dying - do you really think it’ll stop at me?” His voice cracked at the last words as he spat his rant out at the ever-smiling mask. “Just- just let me go.” He inwardly cringed as he finished, knowing that though he said one thing, one small ‘please’ from the man would have him saying the one thing he knew he should never say: yes. But he didn’t say anything, seemingly in stunned silence
So he let go of Dream’s- Morpheus’ wrist, wincing as he spotted the angry red marks he left on the other’s wrist, “Don’t come to find me,” He warned.
A small part of his brain wanted otherwise, to go back, to apologise, to help, to be a part of the game.
It was only a small part, though.
He stormed out of the alleyway, giving mutinous looks to anyone who stared twice at him.
—
He was just coming back to the coffee shop to unpack the groceries. That’s what he told himself, at least. That and, he had to let off some steam before he’d go back to his (for want of a better word) house because the last time he was angry there, his landlord had told him something, something, stop punching the walls so hard you break through to next door, something, something. (It was a complete misunderstanding. It was only one punch.)
Tubbo still hadn’t let him stand near walls for a month.
The cafe was so strange being so quiet, him only having had to close a couple of times before (and the last time he had, it hadn’t been the calmest experience in the world.
He wasn’t hoping that Dream would have followed, or anything fuckin’ stupid like that.
The butter would melt without him putting it in the fridge, the cafe fridge, that was all.
Dream might try and find him, track him or some government shit like that - Morpheus. Who he didn’t trust. Who he had met once and fooled himself into thinking he was out for anything more than his power.
He- just - he wouldn’t get his hopes up, or anything. Judging from the sirens, there was a hero fight happening, which would mean there wouldn’t be a knock on the door.
Even so, he managed to feel disappointed when it inevitably didn’t come (though not without a swoop of guilt in his stomach - he wasn’t supposed to like this).
Perhaps that was why, when he started to walk back to his shared apartment, he went towards the sirens. And not away from them.
Definitely not the most brilliant move, however it was almost an instinct that he had only just unlocked; something he was meant to do.
(He could feel his mother’s eyes on him - he knew she would have been proud)
The sirens had already faded as he drew closer. With forces being stretched thin throughout L’manberg, it was a common occurrence for police to go from one shit show to another - a reason why Villains ran so rampant.
Tommy stopped when he heard voices, two, both warped by some kind of voice changer - only the kind that Heroes or Villains would use.
The question was which group.
“We both know that there isn’t much time-“
“No- only you do, Aether because you’re giving up.” Aether.
One of - if not the biggest villain in L’manberg.
He was certainly the most recognisable villain in L'manberg - with his broad-brimmed sun hat striped green and white with a ski mask and veil to hide his face and a dark green kimono that was tightened against his arms for better movement - with, of course, his huge black wings that would create an ominous shadow wherever he went.
Shit.
If Aether was there it also meant… the second voice was almost certainly another villain beside him - perhaps Siren or maybe even Hephaestus - not that he came out much anymore.
Cerberus, maybe?
Tommy rubbed his face as he crouched by the mouth of the alley, keen to hear anything else.
A long, solemn pause rushed into the silence.
“You can stop with the names, mate. There’s no one around to hear my- words.”
A sharp intake of breath told Tommy that they had heard it too- the pause. Dying words is what Aether had meant to say. For some reason, there was a tugging in his gut that felt like sorrow.
“We can go back to the base, still. I’ll- carry you, whatever, just do not give up on me now.”
“You’re not going to let me bleed out on the floor?” Aether sounded deathly amused, “Well, shit. You’re starting to sound almost sentimental.”
“I told you already old man; for you, the world.” The voice, though flattened by the voice changer sounded almost affectionate.
Another long silence. Tommy’s ears were straining to hear anything.
“Tech-” Aether broke off in a strangled gasp. Tommy screwed his eyes up.
Fuck.
It wasn’t like he was gonna listen to this guy die, no matter who he was.
Standing up, he walked further into the alley, putting on a bravado grin and with his hands in the air.
Immediately, before his eyes adjusted, a figure whipped around, pressing something cold and metal to his throat.
As they did adjust, however, he realised he was face-to-face with a crown adorned boar mask.
Achilles.
He could have been lounging around at home - without armour and simply in muddy trackies and a white shirt, his signature red cloak hastily pulled over him and his mask was slightly skewed to the side. His long pink hair wasn’t intricately braided like it usually was, simply up in a low ponytail.
Outfit aside, that was not who he had expected. Although Aether and Achilles, along with Apollo were known as ‘The Syndicate,’ or sometimes just ‘The Great Three,’ it wasn’t as if any of them had many interactions with each other in recent years.
He had read many news articles about them, about their supposed argument and split to exist as solitary Villains, instead of in The Syndicate that had dominated L’manberg for years.
Many actually speculated that the split was to give the heroes a fairer chance, but Tommy had always dismissed that theory when it inevitably came up in sleep-deprived conversations with Tubbo or Ponk.
He did have a theory as to why they split, but those details were not something he would want to discuss.
Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation then, that made Tommy fight not to laugh instead of scream.
The last healer, a wounded villain and his estranged partner in an alleyway - that was almost a beginning of a joke.
“Keep walking, kid, and I won’t slice your face off,” He snarled and wow from snippets he had heard from the news he was not expecting the voice changer to sound so weird.
Still, he managed to keep a relatively straight face, gesturing to show his arms off in the air.
“I’m here to help - I heard you and thought-”
“Do you have a healing pot?” Achilles made an exaggerated look up and down Tommy - who had no bags in sight - “What kinda help are you plannin’ on, then?
He smiled, his mouth slightly too taught as he strained to push, his power struggling to find anything to heal with his hands. Instead, the air around him gave a puff, clearing smog around his hands as his hands glowed so brightly he could see Achilles’ eyes light up.
“I can heal things with my mind, bitch.”
—
This was arguably a dumb idea.
In fact, one of his dumbest.
Tubbo could walk through the door at any moment.
He could walk through, and find a supervillain bleeding all over the… ‘couch’ (a stolen park bench that had taken almost 2 hours for Tommy and Tubbo to carry up to their apartment, decorated with a ratty blanket and a pillow).
If he had somehow missed that, he would also find another supervillain on the phone to someone - probably some other supervillain - in their cramped bathroom.
Fuck. This was a really stupid-dumb idea.
Still, it was the best he could do on short notice, and with such a large wound… well, it’d be better for Tommy to be somewhere where he could collapse safely.
Aether had gone unconscious when they had entered Tommy’s building, his breathing so light that Achilles had had to stop and check his pulse and they essentially ran up the three flights to get to Tommy’s apartment.
Tommy, after checking and cleaning Aether’s wound - a wide neck gash from some kind of knife that blossomed into multiple other lacerations down his chest, all flowing down his body like rivers - had begun to rifle through his medicine box that they kept (’for appearance purposes’ Tubbo had protested every single time Tommy made to throw it away, ‘people will think we’re crazy if we don’t have one.’ Tommy had gestured at the doodled and paint-splashed ‘feature wall’ and the bench sitting in the middle of the room) They hadn’t used it once since they moved in. As a result, many things were out of date by at least a year. It was good enough, though, and he had no doubt that Achilles would be changing all the bandaging as soon as they got back to their… base?
“Are you ready?” Achilles asked from the bathroom door, flipping his disposable phone down and stuffing it into his boot.
Tommy gulped. “As I’ll ever be.”
He took a deep breath, beginning to push, his hands lighting up, illuminating Aether slightly.
As he did, he noticed a flash of scarlet on Aether’s face.
“What the..” he muttered, his hands returning to their usual state in a blink. Tommy scrambled over to Aether’s face, picking at his mask - a plain black ski mask that sat under his iconic green and white broad-brimmed hat (which was now lying on the floor in his living room. Fuckin’ weird.)
“Hey- kid what’re you doin’?” Achilles asked, unsheathing his knife and pointing it at Tommy.
“He has a cut mask,” Tommy murmured, thinking fast.
He felt sick when he glimpsed pink flesh that opened to a shallow cut all the way down his face, opening to a much deeper wound in his throat, “Fuck. Achilles- my power heals everythin’. Meaning-”
“It’ll heal his face too. So?”
“His mask is tight against his face, Achilles! The fabric’ll get fuckin’ swallowed by his skin when he heals! It means…” He gulped, “It means we have to unmask him.”
“No.” Achilles’ reply was instant, ice cold. “No, I cannot have a kid runnin’ around who knows what he looks like.”
“Oh, so you’d rather cut him open again to get his mask off? Risking… fuck- infection, scarring-”
“If that’s what it takes!” They were yelling over the top of each other now (surely a neighbour would be calling his landlord for a noise complaint any time now) and didn’t even notice when Aether began to stir, his eyes fluttering.
“T.” A new voice, slurred with pain arose - Aether grabbed at Achilles’ hand, his breath rattling, “Let him do it.” He said, voice barely above a whisper.
T. That stopped Achilles in his track. Tommy found his mind wandering back to the alley where he had said - what was it? Tech. Tommy frowned. Clearly, they knew each other much better than anyone had realised.
He heard Achilles slowly exhale.
He stooped down, lifting his boar skull mask just enough so that Tommy could see his chin and lips - pale with just barely visible peach fuzz - and kissed Aether’s forehead.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” He murmured, “For you, the world, old man.” Tommy felt vaguely uncomfortable like he’d stumbled into a funeral and nearly knocked over the urn.
Not that he’d ever done that before.
He pushed his mask back down and stood up, nodding briefly at Tommy, “I’ll do it.” Tommy scooted back, allowing Achilles to peel back Aether’s blood-soaked mask - his hair (blond, long) messy from the mask and matted by blood. Tommy glimpsed at his face - pale and clammy, everything looking bloody and wrong (below that, Tommy could see light dimples and crow’s feet - fitting, he supposed, for an avian)
Tommy looked away before he could see any more.
Achilles took up the cotton balls and quickly began blotting the wound on Aether’s face, nodding at Tommy when he finished.
Tommy took a shaky breath and pushed again. He placed his hands on either side of the largest cut, feeling the warmth flowing out of his fingertips.
Achilles crouched by Aether’s head, his fingers threading through his hair and slowly teasing out grit and fluff from his mask.
“C’mon, kid.” He muttered, “c’mon.”
Tommy ignored him, not even wincing as a headache came screeching in - his head felt like static, but the wound was closing, doused in the golden light and Aether’s eyes were fluttering. He felt sweat running down the back of his neck, cold against the heat of his hands that was warming up the room.
His fingers cramped and jaw locked but still, he kept the push, forcing it all out of him even when everything was screaming at him to stop.
He kept going until colour filled Aether’s face and his eyes opened, his face without a scratch on him.
He kept going until Aether saw him and smiled (his cheeks were pink)
He kept going until Achilles let out something between a sob and a laugh, leaning forwards to grab Aether’s previous hand and squeeze it.
He kept going until Aether squeezed back.
And then Tommy lurched forwards, collapsing on top of the villain.
The last thing he felt before he passed out was a comforting hand on the small of his back.