Chapter Text
Three days later, Tommy can make it further than fifty feet from Techno’s house, so Techno puts a lantern in his hands and sends him to gather some firewood while he checks the traps set up on the hillside. Most of them turn up empty, but he shoots a rabbit and there’s plenty left in his stores for the weekend. Tommy keeps up a steady stream of conversation. More than once, Techno finds the corners of his mouth pulling up.
He’s resetting a snare when a chill snakes down his neck, and the forest goes quiet. An Enderman, he thinks at first– but then he looks up.
A green-cloaked figure stands on the cliffs, lantern dangling from his gloved finger.
Techno slowly releases the snare, and picks up his own lantern, which Tommy chatters happily out of. He knows better than to shush him, so he stuffs the lantern into the crook of his arm, under his cloak, and picks up his axe with the other hand. Dream’s mask throws pale light on the snow. It tilts as he scans the fjord to his right.
Techno knows that look. It’s the same one Dream turned on Wilbur before handing him fifty pounds of TnT, and the same one he gave Techno after the last Wither fell into the craters. Techno backs away, slowly, and detours into the thickest part of the woods.
“Everything alright?” Tommy asks, when he gets back and stomps the snow from his shoes outside the door.
“Oh, everything’s fine,” Techno replies. “I’ve just got a god stakin’ out my property and all my weapons are missing.”
“Wait, is Dream here?” Tommy asks, and trails after him when he stalks inside. “Like, here here?”
Techno hefts open a chest, pulls out a sack of rough metal, and pushes it against Tommy’s chest. “Close enough. I want you to smelt that into a couple swords, Tommy. And–” he snatches the apple in Tommy’s freehand and shakes it in front of his face, “--stop eatin’ these, I don’t wanna break into my extra pantry before the solstice.”
“Well, it’s not like Philza’s going to miss them.”
“They’re not Phil’s, Tommy, they’re mine.”
“You know, for a guy who loves anarchy, you do care an awful lot about property rights, Technoblade.”
Techno throws his hands up and stomps to the stairs.
Two hours later, he’s a couple swords richer and three apples short, despite Tommy’s hasty attempts to get rid of the evidence– and he’s still edgy. The voices clamor for weapons, walls, leverage, weapons and eventually the part of him that needs to move, fix, act wins out over the part telling him it’s safer to stay put, so he sticks Tommy in an old suit of armor and off they go.
“It’s strange to be home but not home, you know what I mean?” Tommy says, as they carve out a storage closet under Tubbo’s beehives.
“I do, actually,” Techno snorts. “Since I found you crawling around in my basement.”
“Aw, you make it sound like I’m some animal, Technoblade.” He grunts and pushes the minecart from the wall. Metal groans and squeaks under the pile of dirt. “Should we bring back a few bees while we’re here, y’know, do some minor crime?”
“Tommy, I live in the tundra. What are we gonna do with bees?”
“I dunno, start a greenhouse. You’re already half a vegetarian.”
“Tommy, everyone’s half a vegetarian.”
“Not J. Schlatt, I reckon. The man survived off of protein powder and spite.”
Techno hammers another slat into place above his head, then says, “gonna be honest, I’d take J. Schlatt over Quackity any day. Talk about holdin’ a grudge, jeez.”
“Really?” Tommy says, with some interest. “You’d take a dictator over someone you lived with for three months? What does that say about our little roommate situation, hm, Technoblade?”
“Tommy, it’s been like, a week at most-”
“-actually what does that say about you, Technoblade?” Tommy persists, with a wicked grin. “Man lives alone in the snow, no bees, can’t trust his own friends– does that not seem wrong to you?”
Techno laughs, “it’s not that deep, Tommy, it’s not that– you’re readin’ too much into this, Tommy–”
Tommy concedes with a snicker, and thunks his shovel into the dirt. Techno goes back to hammering, relieved. Tommy empties the minecart with a rattle, and dust drifts into the shaft and settles into Techno’s bare arms. The oil in the lantern hisses.
When Techno glances back, Tommy leans his grubby forearm against his shovel and says, “well, I’m glad you’re out here, Technoblade. Even if it isn’t home, or you’re just trying to get rid of me– I wouldn’t want you to be alone in that big, cold house. Not without Phil, at least.”
Techno fits the next slat in place, then pretends to check the placement of the screw for a minute. He can count on one hand the amount of people who have found joy in his feeble attempts at socializing– the former vice president is, oddly, on there twice now, but Quackity was the one holding an anvil to his throat, not Tommy. The band around Techno’s chest loosens a little.
When he can’t avoid it anymore, he looks over his shoulder and says, “how… how many bees are we talkin’ about stealin’, Tommy?”
Tommy’s face lights up.
If you’d have told Techno a month ago that he’d construct a new greenhouse with Tommy just to fill it with bees, he’d have laughed in your face. And yet.
“More to the right,” Techno says, motioning to Tommy, who’s on top of the skeletal wood case. “No, the right–”
Tommy shouts, “this is the right!” Half of the dome crashes to the ground. Techno claps a hand over his face.
It takes an afternoon just to put up the base; Techno would make Tommy stay out to finish more, but they had an early morning and his shoulders ache from digging the outpost, so they call it a night earlier than usual. The dog snuffles at their feet when they trek inside.
Tommy, as it turns out, is actually a pretty good lumberjack. Techno sends him for firewood in the morning, as usual, and he returns with an extra stack and a half of timber. Techno quickly exploits this talent, and soon they’re sitting pretty on the foundation of an extra shack –it’s not a guest house– beside a second greenhouse. Realistically, Techno knows they’ll have to figure out how to transport large quantities of bees in the near future, but he’s giddy with the thought of an extra potato yield every year.
If only Phil could see this, he thinks, when they’ve finished the frame and put down tarps to warm the soil. Tommy hangs upside-down from one of the bars and teases the dog with a piece of their lunch. It barks and hops, and Tommy laughs.
Techno pulls his journal from his cloak. He looks between the sand-carts littered around his yard and the dog.
“Alright, Tommy, it’s time for another field trip,” he calls.
It goes wrong, horribly and inevitably. One minute, Tommy gleefully critiques Techno’s impression of Schlatt over the lantern and the next, there’s a god on his trail and he’s running, and Techno’s running, and the only thought in his mind is: I’m gonna die for this kid unless I kick him out.
It’s like a bucket of ice poured on his head. Techno never thought he could prefer the anvil over something.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” Dream asks, framed in his doorway, his lantern dangling at his side, flecked with ash, the metal dented and scratched. Techno shifts on his feet and the floorboards groan. He glances at the box that Tommy has half-open, and for a second, there’s another pair of eyes under those blonde bangs, before they were scarred and vindictive.
But Tommy isn’t Tubbo. Tubbo isn’t even Tubbo anymore, Techno thinks, but that’s a hunch and has more to do with the man in front of him than anything. So he says: “No, I haven’t seen him.”
Dream herds his horse around the side of the porch and disappears into the snowfall. Techno stares after him. Tommy launches into a ramble and scurries from room to room, checking windows, but instead of a return to normalcy, Techno’s legs get that jitter that comes before a fight and he knows he’s just signed himself up for target practice– maybe not now, or tomorrow, but eventually.
“Tommy, calm down,” he says, finally, and grabs the apple out of his hand. “Again, with the apples?”
“Hey, I-I-I’m sorry Technoblade, but a man’s gotta eat,” Tommy chuckles, though he swings his arms and bounces up on the heels of his shoes, “I mean, who knows when we’ll get another chance to harvest them, y’know, we don’t know– he could come back, and then– and then we’re fucked, y’know–”
“Tommy,” Techno starts, but Tommy babbles on.
“--not a big deal to me, I mean, I could survive off fuckin’ tubers, for all I care. Though I wouldn’t like to– again I mean, it’s just– look, maybe you’re right! Maybe we’re better off just dropping them in the creeper holes, y’know? And then that way–”
“No, no no no,” Techno waves his hands hastily and steers Tommy toward the ladder. “That’s enough of that, I don’t want to hear another word about food, or holes, or Dream. We’re going back to L’manberg for dogs, Tommy, I want you back in your armor in five minutes.”
“Hey, you don’t need to tell me twice.” Tommy climbs on the ladder, but continues to talk over his shoulder. “Just say the word, boss man, and I’m fuckin’ there.” He disappears under the hatch.
Techno pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping.
They don’t talk about it, but after a run in with the vice president and another unlocked-Tommy-talent that leads to the acquisition of their second dog, Techno figures that’s alright. Tommy finally quiets down on their journey out of L’manberg and Techno has a moment to relish the crickets chirping –a sound he never thought he’d grow to like– before they reach the fence and clamber over it.
“I wish Wilbur could’ve seen that,” Tommy says, his shoes thudding the grass where he lands.
“I wish Philza could’ve seen that,” Techno answers, a little more honest than he expects.
Tommy pauses, and they both turn to the torchlit mountainside, the planks that climb around and up and cover the hole Techno put in the ground between them, months ago. He can see the anvil from here, a glint of silver swinging beside the low moon.
“They really tried to kill you,” Tommy says, not quite a question.
“Yeah,” Techno says.
He expects the way Tommy’s brows pinch, and the way his nose scrunches, because it’s the same thing his face does when they talk about Dream and what happened during his exile– but he doesn’t expect the way his expression smooths out again when he turns to Techno, or the sincerity in his voice when he says, “I’m glad they didn’t.”
He’s like Wilbur, in a lot of ways, and Phil in others, and in moments like that, they shine through like the sun through the slats of Pogtopia’s rafters. Techno laughs, awkwardly, and says, “yeah. Yeah, me too.”
Tommy bumps his shoulder. Techno ruffles his hair and pushes him away.
“Let’s go home,” Tommy mutters, and smooths his hair– but he’s smiling.
L’manberg’s light fades and their shadows shrink against the snow, then disappear.