Chapter Text
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Clementine says, all sharp and rude, “that says you’re thinkin’ about sad shit.”
The terrier sits rather politely next to Tommy, sprawled out on the ground beside them. Wilbur’s frown only deepens at the daemon’s rather harsh interjection. Eurydice snorts, settling beside her, and Clementine rests her chin on the red fox’s back.
“I wasn’t gonna say it,” Tommy says, flatly, and Eurydice laughs.
Wilbur does not. He reaches out and scratches behind Clementine’s ear, the terrier leaning her head into the touch and a rumbling, contented hum rising in Tommy’s chest. It’s such a familiar scene that if Wilbur closed his eyes, he could picture the four of them back in the halls of the palace, nestled in the blankets on Wilbur’s bed, daemons nestled up against each other and Tommy in Wilbur’s arms after a nightmare or a fight, Wilbur soothing him with songs and stories or the simple comfort of being there.
Instead, they’re under the warm, summery night sky of the Dream SMP, sitting a ways away from the campfire that Niki, Eret, Tubbo, and Fundy are huddled around, Niki and Tubbo regaling Fundy with stories of her adventures on the sea.
It reminds him of Sally. The mere thought makes his chest ache, and he looks back down at his brother, pushing those thoughts from his mind.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. Clementine headbutts his hand.
“No you’re not,” Tommy says, sitting up, pointing at him accusingly. “You’re acting the way you did when Schlatt left. Moping around--”
“I am not moping,” Wilbur starts, but Tommy holds up a hand.
“You’re moping around,” he says, blunt as ever, “and gettin’ all… fuckin’, you’re getting hung up on shit that you need to put behind you.”
Wilbur scowls, but knows that Tommy is right, ultimately. Brooding will not bring Sally back, and it will not win them the war. He reaches out, taking hold of Tommy’s arm and tugging him closer. He goes with minimal complaint, grumbling as he repositions himself and nestles in beside him. Wilbur drapes an arm around his shoulders, sighing through his nose.
“Some fucking mess we’ve gotten into, huh?” He says, softly, gazing out at the little nation they’ve built for themselves.
“I’d say it’s a pretty good one,” Tommy replies, leaning his head against Wilbur’s shoulder. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
Christ, tomorrow. Tomorrow is the first day of actual fighting. Dream promised them that, promised them a battle, a war. Tomorrow, Wilbur is going to watch their little ragtag battalion be beaten and bloodied by Dream and his soldiers and their gear. Sure, L’manberg has an advantage in numbers, but Dream and his group have more equipment, he’s sure, and more experience in war. Wilbur’s good with the guitar, with the strings of song and salvation. With the strings of a bow, not quite. He’s been practicing, sure, but he can’t be sure it’s enough--not against Dream.
His hand curls around the smooth wood of the bow as he considers their future. One nail trails along the name etched into the side--Chekhov’s Gun, because of course he had--and he sighs, leaning his head against Tommy’s.
“Just promise me you won’t let yourself get killed,” he finally says.
Tommy snorts. “I don’t think I can control that, Wilbur.”
“Sure you can,” he says, reaching over to swat at Tommy’s head, “if you think you’re outmatched, run away. That simple, really. Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m never stupid,” Tommy protests, but they both know he’ll listen. He always does, and isn’t that what Wilbur treasures most about him?
Not that he listens, though that is part of it. More that he cares, that he puts value into what Wilbur has to say. He’s thankful for that. Tommy and Clementine both are awfully fond of him, and Wilbur can’t help the swell of pride in his chest as he brushes back the daemon’s fur. He’s one of few that she lets touch her, she barely even lets other daemons come into contact. Clingy, though, part of him thinks as she nuzzles closer, the both of them.
They sit there for a little while longer, and Wilbur watches the four around the fire, Niki and Tubbo still going on about some grand adventure they’d been on. Fundy is mostly asleep in Eret’s lap, and Wilbur is half tempted to go over and scoop up his son to put him to bed.
The soft, rumbling snore coming from beside him forces him to stay put for a little longer, though. He doesn’t have to get up, anyways, as Niki and Tubbo eventually head to their respective tents. Eret makes her way over to Wilbur, cradling the now-sleeping Fundy in her arms as she settles beside him. Wilbur smiles at him, softly.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Eret murmurs, gently propping Fundy against Wilbur’s chest. He takes his son into his arms like he’s always meant to hold him this way, the two of them fitting together like puzzle pieces.
(It’s the same feeling every time, since the day he first picked him up. Fundy feels like home, here in his arms, he always has. Wilbur never plans on letting go.)
Stroking the hair back from his forehead, he hums--a low note in the back of his throat. “As I’ll ever be.”
Eret smiles, a bit sad, settling beside him on the ground. Fundy and Tommy both snore, quietly, their daemons nestling together beside Eurydice, who watches Wilbur and Eret in silence. Eret’s own daemon, Lear, watches from where he sits at the treeline, having been keeping watch for the last hour or so. He’s a large brown bear, sturdy and quite frankly, very intimidating. Wilbur is glad to be on Eret’s good side.
“Do you think this will all work out?” Eret asks, after a few moments of quiet. “L’manberg, I mean. All of it.”
Wilbur gazes at Eret for a few seconds, before his gaze drifts down to Fundy. Fundy, whose life has been turbulence and chaos for as long as he can remember. Fundy, whose first few years were spent on a ship, knowing no stability or order, whose mother has left and whose father is left fighting every day just to survive. Fundy, who, against all odds, has lived to see tomorrow.
“It has to,” Wilbur says, in lieu of an answer.
Thinking of a future for his son, however, it is an answer enough. Eret hums, thoughtfully. Wilbur can’t quite read his expression in the dim firelight.
“Eret?”
“Hm?”
Wilbur swallows. “If things go wrong tomorrow, or… or at any point, um. Take care of them for me, will you? All of them--Tommy, Fundy, Tubbo, Niki…”
The quiet that falls over the two of them is almost suffocating. But he sees Eret nod, carefully. “If things go wrong.”
Wilbur doesn’t want to think about the possibility. It frightens him, the idea that everything they’re working for will be for nothing, that everything will go wrong--that they might lose. This has to work. All of it does, or else what will become of them all?
“You should get some rest,” Wilbur murmurs, still stroking Fundy’s hair. “I’ll stay up a bit later to keep watch.”
Eret stares at Wilbur for a few long moments, but nods. “Alright. Wake me up if you need a break?”
Wilbur nods in return. “Will do. Can you help me get these two tucked in?”
That earns a quiet laugh. Eret grins, getting to his feet. “Of course.”
Tommy looks so peaceful, he hates to disturb him. He can’t recall the last time he saw Tommy sleep, actually, but hopefully getting him into a bed will do him some good. Wilbur reaches over to gently shake him awake, earning sleepy, grumbled curses and Clementine lazily snapping at his hand. He shakes him a little harder, and Tommy sighs, slowly sitting up. Clementine buries her face in Tommy’s chest, and he gathers her up into his arms.
“What?” He stares at Wilbur, expression glazed over with exhaustion.
“Just want to get you into a bed, man,” Eret says, nudging Tommy to his feet. The kid swears, but it all kind of slurs together. Wilbur snorts, at that.
“I was gonna keep watch,” Tommy argues, seeming to come back to himself a bit.
“You are going to go to bed,” Wilbur says, fixing him with a stern look. “You’ve been up the past two nights already.”
“You wouldn’t know that unless you were also up,” Tommy says, but Wilbur shakes his head.
“Go to bed, Tommy. That’s an order from your commander.” He adjusts his hold on Fundy, who snores, softly as he’s jostled a bit.
Tommy sighs, but trails after Eret regardless, not bothering to put up a fight. Wilbur doesn’t think he has the energy to put up with an argument right now, so thank the gods for that. Eret sends Tommy off to Tubbo’s tent, then salutes Wilbur as he makes his way back to his own. Wilbur gives a little salute back, before returning his attention to the boy in his arms.
“We’re doing the right thing,” Eurydice says, quietly, curled around Persephone.
“I never said we weren’t,” Wilbur replies, just as quiet.
“Don’t doubt yourself, Wil,” she says, firmly, and Wilbur takes a deep breath.
“Right. Let’s get these two to bed.” He gets to his feet, and Eurydice gently picks Persephone up by the scruff of her neck.
The two of them trot across the camp in silence, ducking into the van. It’s the safest place for any of them to sleep, so it’s reserved for Fundy and anyone who may be wounded. Wilbur sets Fundy down gently in the bed in the back, brushing the hair back from his face as he does so.
He doesn’t want him to be involved in the fighting tomorrow. Sure, he’s fairly mature and capable by shapeshifter standards, but by human standards, he’s barely older than ten. Wilbur doesn’t give a damn if Sally got into her first fight at age six, or if Techno spilled blood for the first time at age four--Fundy is too young for all of this. Hell, he’s not even as mature as Tommy is. And he almost didn’t let Tommy and Tubbo fight, either. Desperation has forced his hand, with those kids.
It’s all so fucked up. But it’s a fight that has to be won. He can’t let Fundy grow up in a world with Dream as its ruler.
(He ignores how so much of this grievance is personal. How much of it is about freedom, really? He aches for vengeance, at the end of the day, and that will forever be more important than the freedom.)
Wilbur takes a deep breath. He has to be ready for tomorrow.
He presses a kiss to Fundy’s forehead, and goes to keep watch for the rest of the night.