Chapter Text
There’s a knock at the door.
Tubbo startles, head shooting up. Immediately, an ache pulses in the boy’s temple. He quickly rubs his eyes, gaze flitting to the window.
It’s dark.
With a sigh, Tubbo looks back to his desk and makes a brief, trivial attempt to tidy his skewed papers.
It catches his eye again, sitting idle on his desk, enchantment glinting in the dim lantern light—
—it's needle frozen northward bound.
Straightening his tie, he clears his throat. “—Uh, come in.”
For a moment nothing happens, but then the knob turns—door squealing open—and the air shifts.
“ Mr. President.”
The boy behind the large desk freezes.
“...can I come in?”
“ Dream. ” Tubbo levels his gaze, jaw clenching. The masked man in the doorway gives a faint chuckle and closes the door behind him.
"It's awful late—wanted to check in on you. Make sure you're..."
“I’m fine .” Tubbo snaps.
Dream hums, standing still.
“This isn’t your fault, y’know.” He says suddenly. “You did the right thing. Just remember that. And…I’m proud of you.” Pausing, Dream looks Tubbo up and down.
Tubbo stays silent and tries not to blink, lest he tear his eyes away from Dream for a moment. He tries not to break, not to cower, not to unravel.
This man. Dream. Is the reason everything has gone wrong. He is the reason there’s a fear in his heart, a scar on his face, and a crater in his country.
But this, even Tubbo knows he can’t pin this onto Dream entirely.
Because it’s Tubbo’s fault that Tommy is gone too.
“I…I know you're probably upset with me, which is… understandable.” Dream continues after a long silence. ”But just know I’m here for you. ”
The clock on the wall dully ticks second after second. Tubbo swallows the painful lump in his throat. “Thanks,” He finally manages to get out. “If that’s all, I kindly request that you let me return to my work.”
“Alright, alright. I understand.“ Dream moves towards the exit, opening the door to leave, but then stopping , gloved hand resting on the door knob.
“That’s a nice compass, by the way.” Dream pauses and turns back to Tubbo. "... Tommy had one just like it. "
The words lodge into Tubbo’s heart like a spear. Any defiance in him shatters to pieces and he does nothing to resist the tears pooling in his eyes.
Dream stays silent and perfectly still—as if waiting to see the damage of his words—but after a long while once again turns to leave.
“I-Its…” Tubbo lowers and shakes his head, “It, uh…doesn’t work anymore. It’s useless. I broke it.” The dam breaks, and before he can stop himself, words pour out from his chest like blood spurting from a wound. “Y-You visited him in exile…before he…didn’t you?” Tubbo desperately pleads. “W-Why…” Dumb question, Tubbo already knows why .
Oh, how he knows.
“W-What was he like?” The boy rasps, wiping at his cheeks with his cuffed sleeves.
" Oh , Tubbo.” Dream sighs. Even in his distress, Tubbo can’t help but feel as though the words hold a layer of contempt to them. “Don’t make yourself miserable. "
"I want—I need to kno—" A sob quakes from his stomach and racks his body.
(It’s an odd kind of grief, the one that comes from doing the right thing.)
After what feels like an eternity, Tubbo looks back up. Dream stands in the open doorway—alarmingly contemplative. Silently, he takes a step back into the room, pulling the door closed behind him with a click.
“I’ll tell you what.”
(There's no answer.
The minutes man lingers outside the slightly ajar door, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other; after a moment of indecision and fidgeting, he takes a collecting breath and gently pushes it open.
"— Uh, Mr President, is everyth—" the tall, wary boy sharply inhales.
The president rocks in a heap in the corner.
"T-Tubbo?"
A sob.
"I got you." Ranboo gingerly collects the broken boy into his arms. If a secret threatens to burst from behind his lips as Tubbo clings to him—hands clutching at his suit as if he were falling from the heavens—Ranboo swallows it down.
He just holds a little tighter.)
By the fluttering glimmer of his torch, Tommy leads Ghostbur to his burrow through the tunnel. Under his free arm is the meager amount of lumber he’d collected before being burglarized, and being tenderly fawned in his deceased brother’s arms is the culprit.
“I swear, Ghostbur, if this devil touches any of my things, I—you don’t even want to know what I’m going to do.” Tommy says sulkily.
“ Don’t worry, Tommy! Precious is a good boy—good fox! Good fox-y boy!”
Precious gives an affirming yip and Tommy rolls his eyes, continuing through the shaft.
“Here we are.” He eventually says, stepping aside to allow Ghostbur entrance into his humble hovel. The fox jumps down from his arms and Ghostbur buzzes around scanning the small space.
Admittedly, Tommy knows it isn’t anything too spectacular, but deep in his heart he is still proud of the nook he’s carved out in the earth. He is very fond of the prime log sitting jovially in the corner, as well as the familiar yellow clay he’s managed to spread over some of the walls. It’s still cramped and messy—there are jags in stone from amateur craftsmanship—and sometimes he’ll wake up from his sleep because he’s rolled over onto a chest pressed right beside him (which painfully drives into his sternum).
Other times though, the warmth from his stone stove reaches him on chilly nights, coating the dark room in a mellow glow.
Other times he’ll close his eyes and trace the imperfect chips in the walls. Sometimes they are constellations, other times stories, and perhaps sometimes even people.
(People he misses very, very dearly.)
It isn’t at all perfect, but it’s progress. It’s his.
Despite this, Tommy finds himself growing increasingly self-conscious as Ghostbur silently observes every inch of his space with remarkable regard. He begins to regret bringing him the longer the ghost remains.
Suddenly, Ghostbur stops. Hesitantly, he raises a transparent hand to the yellow clay, resting it there.
“It’s very nice, Tommy.” He says, something more solemn creeping into his manner. “B-But I don’t think I like the yellow.”
Tommy is caught mildly off guard, a more imprudent response dying on his lips. “Oh, uh sorry, I guess.” He mutters.
“I-It’s loud.” Ghostburs' hand falls, phasing through the clay and seemingly into nothing. “Just a little too loud for me, I think.”
(Tommy is proud of his burrow; but when Ghostbur gradually starts to spruce the place up, he doesn’t fight it and tries his very best not to be offended. And, of course, everything looks much prettier, much nicer, much less Tommy.
He’ll never ever admit it, and no matter how many times he jokingly claims equal ownership, Tommy knows this is Technoblade’s home and not his own .
He’ll let Ghostbur put softer, prettier colors on the walls and smooth away the rough edges.
And he'll won't fight it. He'll try his best not to be offended because none of it is really his, anyways.
It doesn't belong to him, and he doesn't belong to it.
Perhaps...he doesn't belong here either.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish it were otherwise.)
(Wilbur would’ve liked the yellow, he tells himself. He isn't sure whether it helps eases the wound or makes it sting all the more.)
The work is done. For now.
The arctic air is calm; the squelching snow beneath his heavy steps is the only sound for miles.
Silence.
Finally, silence.
He made it another day.
The sight of the cottage on the horizon is sweet to his eyes. The billow of smoke trickling from the chimney waves and holds out its arms to receive him. Home. A weight alleviates from his shoulders ever so slightly.
Maybe he really is growing soft.
The rest of the walk is a blur. He just keeps trudging on—doesn’t stop, doesn’t think—and soon the spruce steps creak under his weight.
Finally.
Techno grabs the handle and pushes his shoulder into the thick door, ready for the warmth, rest, and calm to embrace him.
Instantly the silence evaporates.
“—ait, don’t nail that there!”
The sharp twang of the hammer pierces Techno’s ears; it’s shortly followed by the clatter of boards. Fresh wood beams and other materials splay all over the floor. Tommy, of course, is at the middle of it. But there’s something else. A floating smear of grey—
Someone else.
“Techno! Your back!” Tommy says, dropped boards all but forgotten. “I thought I’d try and fix the floor after I—”
“ Wilbur? ”
“Hello, Technoblade!” The ghost man cheerfully greets.
It’s as though a swift punch is delivered right to Techno’s gut, he resists the instinct to recoil (or retaliate). His jaw slacks and he just stands there speechless—mind running wild and loud.
“—ound him in the woods—”
So, so loud.
“—ought he could stay wit—”
STOP
“ —chno? ” Tommy asks curiously. The ghostly-Wilbur-figure hovers innocently beside him, head cocked in confusion.
“Uh…I think I need a moment.” Techno stammers, quickly reaching for the door and flinging it open. Before anyone can protest, Techno latches the door shut behind him—charging into the cold, open night.
A moment becomes an hour.
An hour becomes an evening.
Tommy doesn’t see Techno for a while.
(But when he does, they don’t talk about what happened. They just keep going on as if nothing had happened.
Techno raises no gripes when Ghostbur stays another night with them at the cottage.Then a night turns into another, and then another .
It works.)
Tommy hates the stupid fox.
He hates her when she hogs half his bed, he hates her when she makes her creepy little noises, he hates her when she sheds her long white fur everywhere, he hates her when leaves her "Precious presents" all over his things.
And Tommy knows, without a shadow of a doubt , Precious hates him right back.
But it isn't forever, Tommy tells himself.
(When Tommy is sure Techno isn't around, he takes the fox for walks through the woods.
He still hates Precious, of course.
But sometimes she cries at night.
It's the most ugly sound Tommy has ever heard. It's noisy, and squeaky, and obnoxious .
It's familiar.
And it breaks his heart just a little.
Even if he'll never say so.
She belongs out in the open woods after all, not holed up in a small room— certainly not holed up in a small room with him.
He ties her to a lead and tries to be gentle, even when she darts around sporadically like a complete psycho. She beats and tugs against him, trying to break free. It drives him crazy.
But he gets it.
And whenever they return from their walks, she'll hang her head and drag her paws behind him, all her rebellion and vigor drained.
"It isn't forever," He tells her. "Just...hold out a bit longer.")
"Of all the cool places we could've built us a secret bunker, this is what you chose?"
To say Tommy was underwhelmed would be an understatement. Techno hadn't done himself any favors by going all out in the past because this certainly wasn't quite on par with some of the his past secret-bunkers.
No full sets of netherite. No stacks of emeralds. No massive redstone door. No hundreds of wither skeleton skulls.
Just Phil's old, unfinished basement and a dingy little tunnel.
"Beggars can't be choosers, Tommy." Techno says matter-of-fact, slinging his pickaxe over his shoulder and reaching for his satchel.
"I'm not a beggar. Do you see this pristine armor gracing my powerful frame?" Tommy gestures to himself.
"Your right." Techno says, and Tommy nearly faints. Pulling some redstone from his sack, Techno continues without giving a second glance to the boy. "You're not a beggar, you're a thief. Living in my home, eatin' my apples, using my gear."
Tommy frowns, flicking the large man's shoulder. Techno looks up with a glare.
"Watch it." He growls.
" Uhhhgg! "
“Look, can’t you just…find something to do? Without causing trouble, might I add.”
To make a point, Tommy turns to the nearest wall and precedes to just stare at it. Techno’s going to eat his words and see how ridiculous he’s being, Tommy thinks.
So Tommy stares at the stone wall.
And stares and stares and stares.
And stares a little bit more.
And Techno doesn’t look. Ever. In fact, Techno seems incredibly content with this arrangement.
This joke wasn’t as funny as he thought.
His mind eventually drifts to the weight in his pocket, finally prompting Tommy to give up on his statement.
He doesn’t often carry the compass on him. Too precious. Too valuable. But something about being so, so close and so, so desperate made him unable to resist carrying it on him.
He doesn’t even know if has forgiven Tubbo yet. He isn’t sure things will ever be the same.
But he does know he misses him.
He misses him a lot.
Tommy reaches into his pocket and pulls the compass out, worshipping every small quiver of the needle.
So, so close —
“What’s that?”
“Mind your own business.” Tommy says, quickly stuffing the compass back into his trousers. Techno isn’t smiling.
“Where does that point to, Tommy?” He asks, expression firm and serious. A unpermitted shiver runs down Tommy's spine.
“I told you, it’s none of your busine—”
“Tommy.” Techno doesn’t yell—doesn’t even raise his voice—but his voice booms, cutting through everything else.
“Ok, ok, calm down, what’s wrong with you— ” Tommy swallows nervously. “It’s from Ghostbur. It uh…It points me to Tubbo—”
The wheels in Techno’s head turn and realization seeps plainly onto his expression.
(The president and his posse stand across from him in front of the treeline. Though he is severely outnumbered, Techno doesn’t miss the way that the axes in their hands tremble.
They may be here for a fight,
But they’re scared.
Then, Techno sees the familiar glistening metal in the president's hand. Rage surges through his veins and voices scream in his ears.
Phil.
He’ll bathe in that boy’s blood once more .)
“Get rid of it.”
“ —What?” Tommy stands in shock. “ Why—No!” Tommy sputters. “I know you don’t like Tubbo or L’manberg but —”
“Get rid of it.” Techno says definitively. Without another word, Techno turns and disappears through the tunnel.
Too shocked to be furious, Tommy is left alone in silence.
(He doesn’t get rid of the compass, he can't. but he does tuck it deep back into his enderchest.)
“Merry Christmas, Tommy!” Ghostbur cheers.
“—AAH!”
Tommy rockets out of bed—flinging aside his blanket and phasing right through Ghostbur’s insubstantial body. He screams again.
“ARE YOU OK?” Ghostbur shouts back. Precious the fox, who’d been curled at the foot of Tommy’s bed, shoots the two a dirty glance, her ears pressed flat against her head.
“Stop it! Stop yelling —” Tommy yells. With a deep breath, he collects himself. “ Why’re you— you can’t do that to a man, Ghostbur.”
“I’m sorry.” Ghostbur says at a much quieter decibel, moving off of Tommy’s bed. “I thought we were yelling in holiday exuberance!”
“I don't even know what that word mea— No!” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tommy slides out of bed and begins wrestling on his netherite boots.
It was nice to be all geared up again. He really hadn't worn much armor since...well, before the L'manberg days. And w hile Tommy still isn't a fan of its constricting and hefty nature, there's comfort to be found in its weight, he's discovered.
It's fortifying.
It's grounding.
Ghostbur ties a red ribbon loosely around Precious’s neck. She allows it. “You finally get to meet Techno today, Precious—your new BFF—best friend forever! Just a little while longer now. Are you excited?”
Precious gives Tommy perhaps the least-murderous look she’s ever graced him with and looks back to Ghostbur with an excited bark.
They (Ghostbur) wave goodbye to Precious for now and head upstairs.
Clinging to the latter with one hand, Tommy pushes up the trap door and is immediately greeted by an aroma so sweet and so warm that, if he wasn't right there smelling it, he never would've believed it could’ve existed.
For a moment it leaves him still.
Ghostbur zips up above him. “I baked us some pie!” He exclaims.
Phil sits by the fire, steaming cup in hand and a peaceful expression drawn on his face. He lightly blows the liquid's surface and takes a small sip. Hunched over at his desk a few meters away is Techno. His reading glasses make a rare appearance, softening the warrior’s hardened face as he swiftly jots something down.
“Morning, Tommy!” Phil nods to him.
Tommy doesn’t hear him.
(“ —goodness, Tommy, just wait. ” Niki grabs his shoulder and pulls him from the oven.
“But Niki—” Tommy begins to protest but is immediately cut off by Niki's glare.
“ Wait. ” She tells him firmly. If it weren’t for the undisguisable care and affection hiding just beyond her exasperated frown—peeking out as a twinkle in her eye—Tommy would be terrified .
" Please ." She adds, face lightening. "It'll be done soon. "
“Not if he keeps checking on it every 5 seconds.” Wilbur stands in the doorway—uniform dawned proud and noble. He snorts and strolls behind the counter.
" Will." Niki sighs in relief, " Finally ."
"To be fair, Niki—if you want us to stay away, you shouldn't be concocting such lovely smells!" Tubbo pipes up from where he sits on the counter, licking batter from a mixing spoon. A sharp laugh bursts from Tommy's lips.
"—Tubbo, no! " Niki cries in distress, racing to snatch the mixing spoon. "That's raw—" On instinct, Tubbo raises the spoon above his head protectively.
With her back to him, Tommy's hand once again creeps towards the oven. He suddenly stops, gaze snapping to Wilbur who's watching him attentively.
Whose side are you on?
Wilbur gives him the tiniest nod and flashes him a quick, smug grin.
"Will, help—" Niki pleads, spinning around. Shock instantly floods her features.
" Wilbur!" )
“—ould you like some?”
Tommy blinks.
“Uh, sorry what?”
Ghostbur gives him a funny look. An all too familiar fondness creeps in his eyes.
It’s so familiar it hurts.
“I asked if you’d like some pie?” He says kindly.
“Oh…uh, yeah, I guess.” Tommy stutters. “That’d be nice.”
Techno is remarkably silent as Precious sniffs his knuckles.
"Tommy, found you this fox!" Ghostbur proudly announces. "Her name is Precious and she is very pretty!"
Precious instantly takes to Technoblade—licking his rough, calloused hands and rubbing again his knees.
"Err—uh, yeah. Just found her in the woods, y'know." Tommy mumbles, rubbing behind his neck.
"I think she likes you, mate." Phil chuckles from beside Techno. Hesitantly, Techno reaches out a hand to pat her. Precious leans into it.
"Sorry I…" Techno clears his throat. "...Didn't realize we were doing presents." Techno finishes awkwardly.
"Thanks, Tommy." He says eventually.)
(And all is calm. Everything, for a moment, is alright.
He doesn't have his disks, or L'manberg, or Tubbo—but all his immediate needs are met. He is warm, and full, and safe.
He is surrounded by people who might actually care about him (though he doesn't quite know what that means anymore).
They hold him close but don't restrain him. They protect him. They welcome him.
There's no battle to be fought—no, not today.
So why hasn't he stopped fighting?
Isn't this everything he's ever wanted? Is this home?
If this is everything he's been wanting, why are the thoughts still there?
If this isn't enough, what will be?
What could possibly fill him, if not this?)
(“You coming to my funeral, Phil?” Tommy asks as the man slips his arms into his heavy coat, preparing to head back into the snow.
Back to L'manberg.
Phil casts a quick, knowing glance to Techno and looks back to Tommy with a wink.
“Wouldn’t miss it, mate.”)