Chapter Text
Tommys head was pounding. It didn't help that he had been sobbing, but there was a good chance he was sick. That would explain the sweat and the churning in his stomach. He didn't bother to move though, he felt warm and safe wrapped in Sam's arms.
He had stopped crying a little bit ago, but he keeps himself firmly against Sam's chest. Sam didn't seem to mind, he swayed both of them from side to side. It reminded Tommy of when Sam taught him to dance.
Tommy wasn't sure if Sam was right, about any of it. There was some bug, some nagging thought in the back of his head that told him if he was just a little more observant, none of it would have happened. He just- couldn't see anyone other than him falling for the promise of affection.
Of course, there was that one night Tommy and Tubbo spent in Snow Chester. Ranboo was up North with Techno. Tommy woke up to an empty bed. He found Tubbo outside on the porch, his breathing coming out white and cold. Tommy stared at him for a moment.
“What are you doing big man?”
Tubbo jumped before laughing it off, “Couldn't sleep.”
Tommy settled next to his best friend, just close enough for their arms to brush. The wood of the porch sent goosebumps up his arms. They had sat in silence for a moment before Tubbo whispered out a single name, “Schlatt.” Tommy looked up at that. Tubbo looked… distant. Something angry spiteful in his eyes.
Tubbo talked about the drinking, the yelling, the labor. Working until he collapsed, listening to Schlatt and Quackity scream while he cried in his room. Cowering when Schlatt scolded him.
The festival. The smell of smoke.
When Tubbo was done he was crying. It was so damn cold Tommy wondered how the tears didn't freeze to his face.
“Come on Tubs.” Tommy whispered. Tubbo didn't fight being pulled to his feet.
It was only after Tommy was certain neither of them had frostbite that Tommy ended up asking, “Why are you telling me this?”
Tubbo looked at him for a long time. It wasn't like Tubbo at all to talk about his emotions, unless it was actively affecting him. He seemed to just move on, he made it look so easy.
Tubbo had shrugged, “You talk to me about exile.” It was said so casually and nonchalant. Compared to everyone else, even Sam. The word was like a dark secret meant to be said in closed doors. “I don't want-I don't want you to feel like you aren't getting anything in return you know? We should trust each other.”
Tommy was stunned. “Oh.” He had said dumbly, “Therapy is doing wonders.”
They both laughed.
Puffy said Schlatt was abusive, and when Tubbo rolled his eyes she said it wasn't normal to be worked the way he did. It wasn't normal for someone to regulate another's emotions for their own safety.
Something felt different about Tubbo. Tubbo didn’t know he was being abused but- he wasn’t as easily manipulated as Tommy. Or maybe he was… it just seemed that way.
Tommy didn’t think he deserved it, not out right, there was just a nagging thought in his head that told him he could’ve stopped it. And if he couldn’t have, no one was there, so he should’ve figured it out.
At some point of being alone he should’ve realized the only person who was going to help him was himself.
The thought of waking up to numb fingers and frost on the grass makes Tommy shiver, he pushes closer to Sam.
Sam hugs a little tighter in return, “Are you cold?” he asks. They had been standing in the quiet for a long time now, even though Sam's voice was soft, it felt loud in the room.
Tommy shrugs. He was colder than he was a little bit ago, but that was likely just the fever.
Sam hums and starts rubbing his hand up and down Tommy back; his other hand starts gently carding through Tommy's hair.
“Do you want to go to bed?”
Tommy considers it, for just a moment, he was exhausted. The pounding headache in his temple and eyes, the scratchiness in this throat, the turning of his stomach, sleep sounded nice.
But he didn't want to have another dream like that, or god forbid it continue off of the last one. He knew where it left off and he knew where it continued. Dream would pick him up off the ground and carry him to his tent. Tommy would sob, he’d feel his ribs poking at his insides. Dream would then force a potion down his throat, and as Tommy shakily swallowed Dream would pet his hair.
“Good boy,” Dream would whisper quietly.
Tommy shutters again, “No, I don't.”
“Okay,” Sam doesn't fight it, he doesn't push, “Then let's sit down.” Sam tries to pull away, probably to get settled on the couch, but Tommy holds on tight. He might not actually be cold, it might be the memory itself that made him feel isolated and he wanted the warmth Sam gave.
Sam huffs, “You make moving difficult.”
Tommy shakes his head “I’m never difficult.”
Tommy can tell the way Sam rolls his eyes fondly. They end up shuffling to the couch. Tommy with his head resting on Sam's shoulder, Sam having both arms wrapped around him.
“My mouth tastes like sick,” Tommy mumbles. And it did. That gross warm feeling that coated his throat and teeth, it made him feel worse.
“Drink more water.”
Tommy looks at the glass sitting on the table, “It's too far.”
Sam chuckles at that, “Well then you'll just have to deal with it.”
There was something about Sam that made Tommy feel childish. He wasn't a child, absolutely not, he was almost eighteen. But Sam would rest his chin on Tommys head and ask him how Tommy was doing and some part of his chest ached.
An absolutely horrible and traitorous part of him wanted to let his guard down, let himself relax. Not having to worry about how independent he was or how people saw him.
He used to push it down completely. Any sign of weakness or want was killed, he pushed Sam away repeatedly. Because he didn't need a dad. He didn't need someone to take care of him, he hated that feeling.
But things seemed… different now. And he was less rude to that feeling in his chest. Puffy said he could still be perfectly independent and responsible while also accepting love and care. And Tommy found himself trusting her.
He didn't need a dad, but he wanted one. So Tommy let Sam get away with fretting over him, let Sam make him breakfast and laugh a little too hard at his jokes. It used to make him upset, he wanted to tell Sam to shut up or stop. He didn't feel that anymore. There was something so nice about it that he couldn't explain.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.
“About what?” Tommy knows Sam is talking about that stupid fucking day, but Tommy is determiend to put off any conversation involving it. He swears to every god that if he cries again tonight he’ll stop drinking water.
“The memory.”
Tommy takes a few deep breaths, preparing to explain and watch every wrinkle in Sam's face get overwhelmed with grief. Tommy pauses for a moment, he didn't have to explain in detail if he didn't want to.
“The usual. Dream throws a temper tantrum and I have a panic attack.”
Sam is quiet for a few moments before breathing out “You shouldn't- make jokes like that...” His voice is careful yet awkward.
Tommy can't help but giggle. He doesn't feel Sam hum or even huff out a breath.
Maybe he should leave those jokes when he and Tubbo hangout.
Tommy uncomfortably shifts, “He just- got mad. And I cried a lot. It wasn't anything new.” His voice is much softer than it was moments before. “It was- it was the worst he ever got. I-I think. At least, I don't remember it ever getting worse. Normally he stopped before I passed out.”
Sam slowly held Tommy a little closer and a little tighter with each word. “You passed out?”
Tommy nods, “I don't think that stopped him either. He left eventually though.” Tommy tilts his face into Sam's chest, “It was bad.” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” Sam whispers, “It was bad.” Sam reaches his hand up to brush through Tommy's hair, his touch is warm.
“I wish you were there,” Tommy says. He doesn't say it with sobbing desperation like he did earlier. Just a quiet want, a gentle request.
“I do too.” Sam whispers, he pauses for a moment before rubbing his fingers against Tommys spine. “I wasn't there, but,” He tilts his head back to look Tommy in the eyes, “I’m here now, and I'm not going anywhere. I promise.”
Tommy nods. He needed Sam when he was getting kicked into the ground, when he thought about killing himself. But maybe he needs Sam now, too. Needed someone to pull him out of panic attacks and teach him how to trust again.
Tommy doesn't know where it comes from when he says “I wish you were Wilbur's dad.”
Sam sucks in a breath, “Oh?”
Tommy nods. “You're a good dad, I think Wilbur would've liked you.”
“Wilbur had a dad.”
Tommy didn't know when he stopped liking Phil. Wilbur used to tell him stories of the great Philza, the man with a 100 foot wingspan, the best fighter in the world, a kind and gentle person. Wilbur used to talk about how when Wilbur was little, Phil would pick him up and carry him up to touch the clouds. Tommy admired him.
Tommy looked up to Wilbur, Wilbur looked up to Phil. Tommy couldn’t see the Angel of Death as anything other than a legend, a childhood hero. The best and only man in existence.
Until November came. Until Doomsday happened.
Tommy scoffs, “A shit one.” he rolls his eyes, “If I asked you to kill me you wouldn't do it. You'd get me some fucking help. Phil never did that.”
Sam shifts, “You think he would've liked me?”
Tommy wasn't exactly sure. They both had a tendency to rant about things they were passionate about, they both ruffled Tommy's hair, they both liked dogs and books. Tommy didn't know if they would get along, but Tommy hoped they would.
He shrugs, “I’d hope so.”
Sam rests his chin on Tommys head, “I do too.”
They sit in silence for a moment. The slight fuzz in Tommy's mind seems to clear, he feels fully calm since he woke up. His head still aches, and his eyes burn, but he feels less on the verge of a panic attack. Tommy likes when he and Sam sit on the couch, his limbs relax and he feels like he melts into Sam's chest. It's nice.
The only downside is it makes him tired and he's decided that he does not want to sleep again tonight.
“I’m tired,” Tommy mumbles.
“Go to bed nookling.”
Tommy shakes his head, “I don't want that nightmare to go on.”
Sam pauses for a few moments, “Want me to read to you?”
Tommy nods, it couldn't be horrible and it was better than falling asleep.
Sam is gone and back within a few seconds, trailing behind him is a mass of white fur. Tommy perks up, “Fran!” he chirps. Frans tail starts wagging at the sound of his voice. She jumps onto the couch and instantly plops down on his lap. Tommy grins and starts petting her with both hands. “Hi Fran.”
Puffy gave Sam a few books on therapy dogs a little while back. Tommy being the perfect test subject. Last week Tommy took her out on a walk, there was something close to a rabbit hole in the ground. When Tommy was pulled back to reality Fran was on his chest licking at his face.
Puffy told him chest compressions and weights helps you calm down, it slows and deepens your breathing. The licking of his face was Frans way of wiping his tears, and while he was in his flashback, Puffy said it was likely Fran also batted at his hands to keep him from pulling at his hair.
When Sam found out he seemed more proud of Fran then Tommy had ever seen him. Fran was a big dog, she was a fucking wolf of a dog. Standing normally she went up to Tommy's waist and she likely weighed more than him. But that day Sam picked Fran off of the ground and danced around the living room with her talking about how great she was.
Tommy wondered how Ponk ever put up with him.
Tommy coos at her as her tail wags more at all the attention, “Did Sam wake you up?” Fran simply leans into his touch, Tommy smiles, “That bastard.”
Speaking of the bastard, Sam sits down next to Tommy and leans over to scratch at Frans ear.
“Talking shit about me to my own dog.”
Tommy snorts.
Sam opens his book and thumbs to the beginning rather than where he had his bookmark in place.
Tommy leans his head over onto Sam's shoulder “What are we reading?”
“The history of Redstone.”
Tommy could never be able to roll his eyes far enough into the back of his head, “How do you have any friends.”
Sam frowns at him, “Redstone is cool”
Tommy groans, “You are such a fucking nerd, oh my god. We need to get you new hobbies.”
Sam huffs and runs a hand through Tommy's hair. And like a fucking off button, all the adrenilne of mocking his dad and seeing Fran vanishes. He's exhausted again.
Puffy told Tommy to say thank you, and not sorry. Tommy didn't understand it well, but he liked when Puffy told him good job, so he'd try.
“Thank you for reading to me.”
Sam leans over and kisses Tommys head, “Of course, there will be plenty of time to sleep tomorrow.”
Tommy nods.
Tommys hand is slowly stroking Frans back, his head resting on Sam's shoulder. Sam's voice is quiet and deep, Tommy doesn't pay attention to the words, only the noise. If he thinks too hard, he can remember the weight on his wrist or the pain in his head. How he spent the next few days sobbing in his cot from the pain alone. But he doesn't have to think about it. Because his dad is here and the best dog in the world is in his lap.
He's probably sick, but it isn't too bad. And if it is, he has Sam.