Chapter Text
It didn’t take long for Wilbur to slip into a routine with the two of them.
Slowly, over the course of a few weeks, the clock stopped ticking and the bomb defused itself.
He was honestly impressed with his own acting skills.
You were wrong, he thought to his drama instructor from high school. I could’ve been a star.
The fact that neither boy had noticed anything wrong with him spoke volumes about his talents. Well— they had noticed some things, obviously, but nothing so wrong that they actually asked him about it.
He counted it as a win.
Wilbur had a whole story prepared about how he’d tripped at the beach and was having trouble remembering some things prepared in case his cluelessness ever landed him in severe suspicion, but it was never needed.
He figured out most things based on gut feelings, and when that failed him he relied on common sense.
He learned the boys' full names were Tommy Innit and Tubbo Underscore, and they were somehow convinced they were British despite living in this house (which was very much not in Britain) for their whole lives. Wilbur was, according to them, also British. He supposed it was good that his accent had yet to fail him.
He figured out there was a river roughly one mile to the left of the front entrance of the house, and his bedroom was the last one on the right in the upstairs hallway. He learned Tommy was incredibly annoying, but in such a way that made Wilbur respond with endearment rather than rage.
Most importantly: he learned how long it took to break through Tubbo’s shell:
six days.
It was only six days before Tubbo stopped completely edging around him.
Before then, he’d made it his mission to stay out of the way, always upstairs in his and Tommy’s shared room (Wilbur wondered what was up with the two empty rooms, but thought it better not to ask lest he risk exposing himself) or outside or otherwise out of sight.
It took six days of concentrated effort to gain just enough of his trust to begin making real progress.
Wilbur would throw out casual compliments and watch both boys' reactions.
He’d force his face into neutrality as Tubbo struggled to swallow them down like a child finally deemed old enough to take pills in place of syrup. He had to turn away to hide his smile when Tommy preened like a plant receiving its first glimpse of sunlight.
He helped gather resources and thanked God when they didn’t question his lack of what appeared to be basic knowledge for them (seriously, why did they know how to mine for coal? Wasn’t that outlawed as a profession for children? And why in God’s name did they have diamond armor? Or armor at all? That wasn’t normal. Then again, neither were the exploding green things, the spiders the size of people, or the literal fucking zombies. He pinched himself. He felt the pain. This wasn’t a dream).
He laughed off the mocking insults Tommy cautiously threw out, and tossed some back when appropriate.
He sang songs with his guitar: ones they knew and ones he made up himself, blending them all together until there wasn’t a single melody he could sing that wouldn’t remind him of them.
Careful Wilbur, you’re getting awfully attached to two kids you barely know.
Time moves even when you can’t hear the ticking; if you’re not cautious you won't know you’re out of it until it’s too late.
It was on day six that Tubbo was trying to fix the electricity, which had mysteriously gone out in the house.
Wilbur secretly wondered where it even came from— there were no power lines here. Maybe they were underground? Somehow he doubted it.
Nevertheless, he sat on the ground nearby while Tubbo was digging out a certain section around the house.
Eventually, he cleared himself a hole and Wilbur peered in to see what appeared to be some kind of machine— a power generator if he had to guess.
“What is that?” Wilbur asked, regarding the large red block. He’d never seen anything like it.
“A generator…?”
“How does it work?” He asked, curious and lacking anything better to do.
“Uh, well, the Redstone block emits energy from it? Kind of? And then that goes into the rest of the machinery which distributes it to the house.”
“So… it’s radioactive?”
“Kind of, but it’s not unsafe. Technically everything gives off radiation, but most of it doesn’t affect us; it’s usually just thermal or Alpha decay, which are really weak. Only certain elements give off radiation strong enough to puncture your skin and infect your cells, which is when it becomes dangerous. Redstone is just—“ Tubbo’s head suddenly snapped up from where he’d been inspecting the machinery, a hand lifting to cover his mouth. “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean to— I’ll shut up now, sorry.”
Wilbur’s eyes widened in surprise. “No you’re fine, don’t shut up, now I’m curious. Unless— you’re not using this information to build nukes or bombs or anything, are you?”
Tubbo squinted at him, skepticism clear in his eyes. “I won't if you won't.”
Wilbur grinned. “Deal.”
He stuck out his hand and the younger didn’t hesitate to reach out and shake it.
Success had never felt so good as Tubbo finally dropped his guard and let him in.
Wilbur was slightly disappointed that “letting him in” involved almost an hour of electrical engineering info-dumping, but he would take what he could get.
Six days was all it took. Less than a week.
Tick Tock, his brain said.
Tock Tick, Wilbur scoffed internally.
He was winning. For the first time in his life, Wilbur Soot was beating the clock: he was swimming in all the time in the world and there was nothing— no person, no bomb, no casting director, no boss, no anything— that could take this away from him.
Today he was putting on a one-man show called Victory, starring himself.
The audience might be empty but he swore he could see the jealous echos of everyone who’d ever doubted him and he laughed in their faces because both he and they knew they could never pull off a performance half this great.
A boy who’d been scared of him less than a week ago was running the lights and no one else even knew where he was. He had gotten out; he’d escaped and he’d never been happier.
The rest of those assholes were probably still rotting in Utah —fucking Utah— and he was here, free from any constraints or responsibilities.
He might have been pretending to be British but he’d never felt closer to Hamilton.
That night he made pizza again for dinner, and no one questioned whether or not he would be making any for Tubbo.
It was a few weeks later when Wilbur woke up in a different house. Not physically, of course (though, honestly, that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen to him recently) but something in the atmosphere was wrong.
Wilbur woke up and went downstairs, humming a tune under his breath, trying to ignore the obvious tension straining each molecule floating above his head.
He wished there was something to do.
He’d long since gotten used to the boredom that came from the glaring lack of electronics (besides the Not-Phone in his pocket) wherever he was, but that didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally long for them back.
What wouldn’t he do to scroll mindlessly through Reddit for a few hours?
Go back to Utah.
That much was true. He wouldn’t do that. He could handle some time alone with his thoughts in exchange for never fueling up another car again.
The smell of gasoline was one he’d never forget but he’d be lying if he said the forest hadn’t helped to wipe it away just a little.
The solution to pollution is dilution. The words of an old science teacher of his echoed in his head. He wondered if pollution was even a thing here— he’d yet to see any plastic.
He sat at the table while contemplating this and it wasn’t long before Tubbo and Tommy woke up and joined him. Tubbo sat across from Wilbur and announced to Tommy that it was his turn to make tea. The taller of them bitched half-heartedly but did as he was told regardless.
“What are the plans for today?” Wilbur asked tiredly.
Tubbo grinned.
Wilbur groaned.
(He swore he saw Tommy grin at their antics and suppressed a smile of his own).
“We were thinking—“ Tubbo launched into a long-winded description of his and Tommy’s plans to build a fort in the woods. Wilbur nodded along, planning to help with nothing better to do.
“Tubbo—“ Tommy cut him off. Wilbur and Tubbo both turned to look at him. “Did you happen to check the date?”
Tubbo tilted his head in confusion. “No, why— oh. Shit. That’s today? Really?”
“What?” Wilbur asked.
Tubbo’s confused look was back, this time directed at Wilbur. “The date? Phil and Techno are supposed to get back today.”
“You do remember them, don’t you?” Tommy joked. “You know, Phil? Your father? Technoblade, also known as the Blood God? He has pink hair? Big cloak? He’s so tall it should defy the laws of nature? Is it just empty in your head Wilbur?”
Oh Tommy, you have no idea how much you just helped me.
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “No, I’ve actually completely forgotten them. Please enlighten me.”
His voice was dripping with sarcasm but if he knew Tommy (and he was sure he did by now— over a month into whatever this was) the boy would never let him win that easily.
As predicted, he started describing both men, his voice never losing its condescending lilt. A part of Wilbur wanted to brag— wanted them to know just how well he was outsmarting them.
He kept quiet.
The best acts are the ones no one notices.
Who was Wilbur to call attention to the performance of a lifetime?
The children didn't lie: later that same day, two newcomers arrived at the house, both greeting WIlbur warmly.
Phil and Technoblade were… interesting people.
Phil was kind, if absentminded at times. He handed out affection like candy on Halloween: as much as you could bear until he ran out, and then the door was slammed in your face. His eye would catch on to the next shiny thing and he’d forget about everything else.
Including his own children, apparently.
Still, he was interesting, which was more than Wilbur could say for his old father. His real father? His Utah father?
Huh. Wilbur didn't know which of his lives was the "real" one anymore.
He knew which one he wanted to be real: this was the one he was living, and he was happier here than he'd ever been there.
Didn't that make it real? Wasn't that enough?
He supposed it didn't really matter.
At this moment, nothing mattered except figuring out more about these two strangers: he couldn't have them ruining what he'd built here.
Technoblade was weirder than his blonde companion. He was cold and standoffish, and all Tommy’s descriptions matched him to a tee. Under his stony exterior though, it was easy to tell there was something underneath.
Wilbur wanted to know what.
He pushed and prodded, trying to glimpse through the cracks he was sure had to be there.
It takes an actor to know an actor and make no mistake, Wilbur would get to know Technoblade if it killed him.
The two newcomers only stayed for a few days before announcing their next departure.
They offered to bring Wilbur with them if he so wanted.
“What about them?” Wilbur asked, gesturing to Tommy and Tubbo, both of whom looked extremely apprehensive.
“Huh?” Phil asked. “Oh, no. They’ll be fine, don’t worry about them.” His tone was dismissive: there was no room to convince him he was wrong. “Come on, let’s take an adventure, don’t you want to see what your old man gets up to all the time?”
And… he did.
It was wrong to abandon the boys he’d worked so hard to earn the trust of, but… he was confident he could win it back with ease.
Sure, maybe they'd be hurt, but he hadn’t escaped from the prison of Utah just to be held back by parenting two teenagers.
Wilbur hadn’t been given this chance to waste it on them.
He accepted the offer.
Phil smiled.
Technoblade clapped a warm hand on his shoulder.
Wilbur didn’t glance behind him: he didn’t know what the children did.
He found he didn’t care much.
----------------
Tubbo startled awake at the sound of Tommy’s pained moan.
Before he could even wonder what was wrong the blonde’s eyes opened for the first time in days— long days, though Tubbo had lost track of exactly how many, spent in a sleep-deprived daze as he tried (not in vain, Prime, please not in vain) to keep his last best friend breathing.
Tubbo waited with bated breath for the former vice president to do something.
He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up, luckily into a garbage can Tubbo had placed there for this very reason.
Tubbo was eight, watching Wilbur care for Tommy. Phil was gone and Technoblade with him, leaving only the three of them.
The heat of the summer had long abandoned their little cottage leaving them only frosted windows for companionship.
Tubbo, always the fool, always the coward, always the weakling, hadn’t wanted to go outside to do his chores.
Tommy, always the hero, always the kind spirit, always the self-sacrificing idiot, had known Wilbur would kill Tubbo if they weren’t done.
He took on all the outdoor chores in exchange for Tubbo taking on all the indoor ones.
But January was cold and Tommy may have been smart, but he wasn’t particularly good at taking care of himself.
(Some things never change).
Lips tinted blue became a face tinted red. Frozen feet gave way to a burning skull and suddenly he was sicker than Tubbo had ever seen him.
Wilbur had been furious, his head hotter than Tommy’s in a far less self-contained way.
It was the first time he’d hit Tubbo.
It wasn’t the last.
It took entirely too long for Tommy to get better. When he started to whine about flashing lights in a pitch-black room, they’d begun to fear he wouldn’t.
(Wilbur exited the room, closing the door and leaning against it with closed eyes. He opened them to see Tubbo huddled fearfully at the end of the hallway.
“This is your fucking fault,” he hissed.
Tubbo noted their eyes matched; both pairs shone with unshed tears.
He stomped down the hallway and grabbed Tubbo by his collar, pulling him close until their faces were mere inches apart. “If he doesn't get better I will kill you— I will fucking throw you out in the snow to die the same way he did. You understand me?”
Tubbo nodded, too terrified to speak.
Wilbur dropped him to the floor before storming away to the kitchen, leaving the litter on the ground to rot.
The next morning, Tommy got better).
When the fever broke the first thing he did was throw up over the side of the bed.
Tubbo had been forced to clean it up. Luckily Wilbur hadn’t made him attempt to salvage the rug, instead only extending his punishment to dragging it outside to be thrown away.
It was Tubbo’s first confrontation with mortality and one he’d prayed never to repeat.
Tommy was always the more religious of the two of them.
It was foolish for him to think the Gods would ever listen to someone like Tubbo.
“You good, king?” Tubbo asked once Tommy was lying back flat in the bed again.
He jumped, apparently not having registered Tubbo’s presence until now. He nodded, slowly, as if his head was forced down by the weight of every elephant in the room and then pushed back up by the rising tide of fear Tubbo could see within him.
“What do you need?”
Tommy quickly shook his head before sending Tubbo a shaky thumbs up.
Tubbo grimaced but didn’t ask again.
Tommy wouldn’t tell him anyway; he’d barely asked for things even before… this.
“It’s okay, we’re safe here,” Tubbo promised him, his voice thicker than he wanted to admit.
Tommy shook his head as much as he could. “No.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
The fact that he spoke at all was enough to catch Tubbo off guard and it took him a moment to put together a response. “No one knows where we are except us, maybe a few Syndicate members, but they owe it to Ranboo not to sell us out, and–”
“And Wilbur.”
Tubbo froze. “Uh. Yeah. And Wilbur, but he–”
“Is crazy.”
“He wouldn’t sell us ou— he wouldn’t sell you out to Dream.”
Tommy didn’t reply, just blinking back tears.
“Right? He wouldn’t. Unless you– did you piss him off? I still don’t think he’d–”
“He already did.”
Time froze.
Tubbo froze right along with it, staring in horror at the mangled body of his best friend.
This–
This was–
Wilbur was responsible for this?
Wilbur was the reason Tommy was lying on what still very well might be his deathbed, riddled with injuries and infections so severe they had Tubbo wondering if he should risk getting outside help?
Wilbur sold out his own brother, sold out Tommy to Dream?
“Why?” Tubbo whispered.
Tommy turned to him with a wry smile: “who hasn’t sold me out to Dream?”
And Tubbo’s face fell so hard it must’ve cracked his heart on the way down.
Tommy lay back down flat on the bed, and let the silent truth ring in the air.
You’re just as guilty as he is.