Chapter Text
Tommy considers himself a brave man. Not the bravest, because that title certainly belongs to Phil, but still, he’s pretty damn brave! So, when the lights over the table flicker, and then the whole house goes completely dark with a loss of power, he does not scream.
Tubbo does, though, and that’s certainly blackmail material for the next four months. As flashlights are lit through phones, Tommy smirks and elbows Tubbo from where he sits next to him.
“You just screamed,” he taunts. “Pussy.”
Light scatters across the table as Jack and Wilbur devolve into harried conversation, probably about something important like the fact that the lights are suddenly out.
“You yelped too, I heard you,” Tubbo refutes, lightly shoving Tommy’s shoulder. This knocks him into Wilbur on his left, who grunts and places his hand on Tommy’s shoulder like he’s going to shove him back before apparently thinking better of it.
“It’s alright, guys,” Ranboo is saying, chin lit brightly by the flashlight underneath his chin. “This happens a lot, okay? C’mon, let’s regroup in the living room.”
Chairs scrape as the rest of the table’s occupants stand up, everyone except Ranboo shuffling with uncertainty through unfamiliar doorways.
“I didn’t scream,” Tommy mutters to Tubbo. He’d stick his tongue out, too, but given that their flashlights are all pointed at the floors and their faces are all in shadow, he’s not sure Tubbo would even be able to see it.
“Did too,” Tubbo retorts lightly.
Tommy starts to fire back, but before he does a hand claps his shoulder. He jumps, just managing to clamp down on a squeak of surprise as he yanks his phone up, shining his flashlight directly into the eyes of Jack Manifold.
“Ay!” Jack reels back, covering his eyes with one hand, other arm leaving Tommy’s shoulder to hit at the phone. “Christ, mate, not in the eyes!”
“Sorry,” Tommy says petulantly, reluctantly lowering the light.
“Just wanted to say, Tommy, that you did in fact scream. I could hear it from across the table.” Tommy can’t see Jack’s grin, but he’s certain that the bitch has the cheekiest smile on his face right now. His grip tightens on his phone.
“Jack, I’d book it before Tommy causes permanent damage to your eyes, my dude,” Tubbo says mildly.
Tommy groans as Jack immediately slips away from them to join Niki where she sits in an armchair.
“You’re not any fun, Tubbo.”
“I’m plenty fun,” Tubbo disagrees. “Just not when it comes to permanent ocular damage.”
Tommy’s pretty sure that ocular is a kind of telescope, but instead of bestowing his wisdom upon Tubbo, he decides to take the high road and listen to Techno speak.
“...I’ll go and get the power working again, and everyone can stop complainin’ and get on with Ranboo’s game.”
There’s some shrugging and general murmurs of assent between the rest of the group. Techno looks grimly confident until Phil shakes his head and stands up.
“Nah, I’ll go.” There’s a teasing smile on his face as he looks over at Techno, ribbing him lightly in the side. “Mate, you don’t know the first thing about fixing a generator, I know that for a fact. Trust me, my parents’ house has had one for a long time. I’ll have the power back up and running as quick as anything.”
“Well, if you’re so kindly volunteering to go down in the creepy basement by yourself, Phil, be my guest,” Techno responds with a playful roll of his eyes, raising his hands in a mockery of surrender and stepping aside. His form blocks out some of the light of the fire, casting the room in even further shadows.
“We could send someone down there with you,” Ranboo offers. “It’s kind of a mess down there, uh… anyone want to go with him?”
The group looks to each other, and then slowly back to Ranboo and Phil, apprehension present across all of their faces.
“Nope,” Tommy says out loud, certain he’s speaking for all of them. “Your house, Ranboo. You go.”
The house creaks as if in agreement, wind rattling the windows as the growing storm persists. Tommy glares up at one of the larger windows, personally offended by the audacity of the storm to knock out the power in the house.
“I’ll be fine, I’ve got my light,” Phil dismisses, raising his phone. “Just keep the fire going so I’ve got somewhere warm to come back to after, alright?”
“If you’re sure…” Ranboo trails off, concern and contemplation lining his voice. “I guess we could get blankets from upstairs in the meantime, just in case we’re stuck by the fire for a while.”
“Sleepover pog!” Jack cheers from the arm of the chair, echoed by Niki who raises her thermos of hot chocolate. They both wear apprehensive smiles, clearly trying to make the best out of an uncertain situation.
So that settles it. Phil heads toward the basement, while the rest of them look between Techno and Ranboo, waiting for the next direction to bring some level of peace back to this unsettling atmosphere.
The steps down to the basement are about as creepy as Phil expected.
Long, dark, and narrow, lined with old stone on either side and the musty smell of old wood and damp concrete filling the air. With the power out, he’s forced to use his phone’s flashlight to light the way, grateful for the glow that illuminates the various cracks and bumps on the treacherous path down. It’s quiet, and shadowed, and practically falling apart at the seams—which pretty much checks off every bullet on the list of requirements for “creepy haunted basement”.
He pulls his flannel a little tighter around him, and mourns not stealing Technoblade’s coat for the trip. Or, at the very least, Niki’s scarf.
The bastards. They’re probably curled up by the fire right now, nice and cozy warm. The kids, too, probably goofing around, unfazed by the snowy chill. He wishes that were him. The others had stayed behind, and he hadn’t pushed the matter—biting the bullet, putting on a brave face, and venturing down all on his own.
He’s starting to regret it now.
It’s cold, and dark, and straight out of a horror film.
“Who actually keeps chains in a fucking basement?” he mutters, casting the light on what looks like meathooks hanging from the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, this place is from the fucking Dark Age with this medieval shit.” God, he’s gonna have a long talk with Ranboo about his parents’ choices in decorating when this is all over. This place would make a better haunted house than a friendly ski lodge.
Maybe the Beloved family should rebrand.
“Should’ve made Techno do it,” he hisses, after nearly tripping and falling when he’d caught his foot on a dislodged piece of the floor. He knows, though, that Technoblade wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with a generator this old. They would have been stuck in a dark, freezing house for even longer if he’d let his friend go instead. “Bastard, he owes me for this one.”
The generator is at the very back of the basement. Because of course it is. Phil has to make his way down several very dark, very scary hallways to even catch a glimpse of it. He keeps expecting something to lunge out at him at any moment. He wouldn’t put it past Tommy to dress in a sheet and pretend to be a ghost just to give him a heart attack. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing was some elaborate prank, knowing the freshmen. He grips the phone a little tighter in his hand every time he rounds a corner, every muscle in him tense and ready for a fight, should the trio try anything.
Mercifully, they don’t. Probably for the best, as he’s not sure he would be able to stop himself from decking their lights out if they surprised him. He’d like everyone to stay in one piece during this trip, preferably, and he’d rather not be responsible for anyone’s vacation ending unfortunately early. He imagines having to take one of the boys on a trip to the ____ with Kristin’s relentless teasing over something as stupid as a broken nose from an “old man”, and nearly bursts into laughter at the thought.
Kristin.
He can already hear her voice—pitching into something tense and scolding at his lack of communication with her, only to fall apart into laughter when he tells her of all of his mishaps. Her anger will be brief—it always is, she’s way too understanding for her own good—and then they’ll fall back into their usual routine of classes, work, and frantic wedding planning followed by movies and cuddling on the couch. His chest warms just thinking about it, and it’s enough to spur him on in pursuit of the generator, picking up the pace.
Can’t have a wedding and spend the rest of his life with his beautiful wife if he freezes to death like an idiot.
It’s tucked away in the back, behind a half-built wall of old wooden planks, as if someone had meant to fill it in and never did. It casts eerie shadows when caught in the beam of his flashlight, like the bars of a prison painted across the floor. His skin prickles uncomfortably, the hairs along the back of his neck rising, but he moves to the old machine nevertheless. It’s practically covered in dust and cobwebs, as if it hasn’t been touched in years—which seems pretty shocking, given how bad the storms out here can get. Phil finds himself wondering just how often Ranboo’s family actually hosts guests out here, given the state of… everything.
“Right, let’s get a look at you,” he hums, turning his attention to the task at hand, the light flashing across the various knobs and switches of the generator. “You’d better work, you piece of shit, I refuse to be freezing my ass off down here for nothing.” He taps against the side with a hollow thump , leaving streaks in the shape of his fingers behind in the dust. It’s not all that different from machines he’s worked with before, so he should be able to get it working without too much effort. That is, until—
The flashlight of his phone flickers.
“Oh, for fucks sake.”
Phil is plunged into darkness.
With Phil gone, Techno quickly comes to the realization that all his other friends are looking for him to direct them, the cozy energy of the room bleeding out as the cold temperatures begin to seep through the walls of this old house. Even Ranboo, whose parents own this house, is looking to him with a growing expectation.
“Alright,” Techno begins slowly. “Let’s get to preparin’, just in case, right? Uh, Ranboo, we should probably make sure there’s enough wood inside here to keep the fire goin’ for a while, right? It seems like—” As if on cue, a gale of wind shakes the house, snow blowing fiercely against the rattling windows. “Seems like at the very least, we might have to worry about gettin’ snowed in if this keeps up.”
Ranboo gives a determined nod.
“I can do that. Uh, Jack, can you come help me out with that?”
“If I have to!” Jack says wryly, grumbling as he untangles the blanket around his lap to stand. He crosses his arms around himself, rubbing them as if he was freezing already and there wasn’t a fire just a little ways away.
Niki covers her mouth, stifling a laugh at his protests. She sets her empty mug down, standing as well and placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“I can come too if you need the extra hands, Ranboo.”
“You know what?” Ranboo pauses, considering. “Yeah, the more the merrier. I think I’d rather have too much wood than not enough.”
Silently relieved he doesn’t have to go outside in this weather—Phil still hasn’t given his gloves back, after all—Techno begins directing the others.
“The rest of us, that means it’s time to get out blankets.” Tommy’s following groan draws Techno’s attention immediately.
“Tommy, do I hear you volunteering to go and get the wood with Ranboo?” he asks pointedly.
“Yes!” Jack answers for him. “Yes, he and I can switch jobs.”
“Fuck you, Jack,” Tommy snarls, before injecting his voice with hollow cheer. “No, Technoblade, I’m so excited to go and search for blankets, you must have misheard my noise of pure excitement, for that’s all it was!”
Techno snorts.
“That’s what I thought. Alright Ranboo, take it away.”
“In every bedroom there’s a bedchest,” Ranboo explains, pointing over to the doorway that leads to the staircase. “They should all have blankets in them, and then if you want even more, one of you guys can try and brave the attic. Entrance to that is in the hallway between some bedrooms, I don’t think it’s that hard to miss”
“How often do you go up in the attic?” Wilbur pipes up. “Is it safe?”
Ranboo’s face screws up.
“I don’t know, man, my parents didn’t allow me to go up there. Probably?”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Tubbo says with a false brightness to his voice.
The fire shifts and crumples suddenly, logs collapsing and causing the flames to be smothered. The embers still glow, but the temperature drop is instantly noticeable even with the sweaters everyone is wearing.
Everyone is pretty quick to jump into action after that.
Techno leads his group upstairs, flashlights all swinging this way and that. With the lingering heat of the fire back in the other room, it’s significantly colder upstairs, as if the heat hadn’t even begun to seep through the vents here before the power went off. Wilbur keeps rubbing his upper arm with his free hand, and Tubbo and Tommy stick close for a while until all of them are forced to split up into separate rooms to grab as many blankets as they can carry. Opening the chest at the foot of the bed in the first room Techno enters, Techno is pleased to find multiple blankets, ranging from crumpled downy duvets to quilts that look like they were made over a century ago.
Oh well. They only smell a little like mothballs, and Techno would prefer to not freeze to death, so he gathers up as many as he can carry and walks back to the top of the stairs, where his other companions are just arriving to meet him.
“I couldn’t even grab all of them,” Tubbo pants. Honestly, Techno can only tell it’s Tubbo by the voice, as the blankets hide his height and all of their phones have been stuffed into pockets or crushed underneath the blankets they hold with both hands. “These things are fucking heavy.” He has a precarious stack of blankets balanced in both arms, leaning against the wall next to the railing to keep the pile from toppling over.
“We’ll certainly be warm,” Wilbur quips, arms similarly stacked high with blankets.
“How about we make a few trips, then,” Techno says, and tosses his pile of blankets down the stairs. They don’t quite make it all the way down, some of them hanging on the rails and others completely unfolding and covering a section of the stairs, but they’re out of Techno’s hands, and he can make separate trips to drag them to the living room afterward.
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Tubbo crows, tossing his own pile down. Wilbur follows, and then so does Tommy, who has been silent throughout this whole quick meeting. In fact, he still holds one of the thick blankets in both hands, despite having tossed the rest of the blankets down the stairs. And he’s unfolding it.
“Hey.” Techno puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, freezing the young student in his tracks. “Tommy, what’s goin’ on here?”
“Technoblade, my friend!” Tommy rumbles, and Techno squints, because he can hear that slightly nervous, slightly mischievous tone a mile away. He can hear the smile in Tommy’s voice, too, the gleam of his teeth slightly visible in what little ambient light the high windows of the house provide. “Why, we’re just collecting blankets, like good helpful friends.”
“Yeah, but you’ve still got a blanket in your hand,” Techno points out. “Tommy, what’re you plannin’?”
“Nothing,” Tommy blurts, making an attempt to duck away. But Techno’s grip only follows, eyes focused on tracking Tommy through the dark. Tommy huffs upon the realization that he won’t be getting away, and starts to plead: “Fine. But, if I tell you my plan, will you promise not to ruin it? Because we’re such good friends?”
“I’m not promisin’ anything.”
“Fine!” Tommy huffs again, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. “Let’s say, hypothetically, Technoblade, that I wanted to throw this blanket over Wilbur’s head when he comes out of the bedroom.”
Techno squints.
“You wanna throw a blanket over Wilbur’s head. While he’s carryin’ some heavy stuff. In a dark house he doesn’t know the layout of.”
“Going to prank the shit out of him,” Tommy agrees.
Though he knows Tommy can’t really make out his face, Techno can’t help but wince.
“Tommy, I’m gonna be honest, man, that just sounds like a recipe for someone gettin’ hurt.”
“What? But it’s just a fucking blanket, man!”
“Yeah, but Tommy, he could trip, I just—” Techno falters. He’s not usually one to interfere with pranks, but something about this rubs him the wrong way. Not necessarily Tommy’s fault, but something about the environment here, this unfamiliar house that none of them know, the perpetual darkness that might not ever leave tonight. “Maybe try that prank again when we’re all sittin’ down,” he finally says, the slightest bit of reluctance lingering in his voice. “But don’t, I don’t know, try to push him into the fire or anythin’.”
“Fuck you, bitch. I’m gonna push you into the fire,” Tommy grumbles with a sharp, sour tone. Techno sighs, trying to let Tommy’s anger roll off his back as he steps away so Tommy can throw the blanket down the steps. A prevented prank isn’t gonna ruin Tommy’s time here, he’s certain the guy will bounce back in minutes once they’ve got the fire going again.
When Tommy finally does toss the blanket, it lands on the steps with an especially heavy thump that resonates in Techno’s gut. He doesn’t even want to think about how that could have unbalanced Wilbur if Tommy had gone through with the prank.
“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he says, noticing Wilbur and Tubbo now exiting their respective rooms with another pile of blankets.
He keeps an eye on Tommy as they make their next trips to and from the bedrooms, but thankfully he seems tempered, not holding onto any extra blankets or trying to throw one over Wilbur, or Tubbo.
“What about the attic?” Wilbur asks as the group stands atop the stairs following their final trip, looking down at the mass of blankets below.
“Eh, we can go back to it if we need to, I think we’ve got plenty,” Techno says, and the others murmur in assent.
“We should have spaced out the blankets more,” Tubbo comments. “We could have made a slide.
“That sounds about as dangerous as Tommy’s attempted prank,” Techno mutters.
“Hey!” Tommy balks.
By the time the group makes it back downstairs, Ranboo, Jack, and Niki have all made it back in from the wood gathering—the fire is crackling, and they all have their hands by the hearth, rubbing frozen fingers together.
“Looks like both groups made it back alright!” Tubbo says brightly. “Look at us go, I think we’re going to get through this just fine.”
As if on cue, the house shudders, and then one by one, the lights all begin to flicker on.
The group cheers and, with pride and relief swelling in his chest, Techno starts to think that this trip might just turn out alright after all.
“Got it,” Phil cheers, as the generator whirrs back to life with a metallic groan and no lack of effort. He pushes his hair back from his face, straightening with a celebratory giggle. It had been a little finicky, but once he’d found a new light source—stupid fucking phone, out of battery—he’d managed. The flashlight in his hands casts a pale beam across the shadowed basement as he searches out a lightswitch, eager to be out of the dark now that he’s got the power working again. There’s a single lightbulb in the middle of the room, with a pull-chain dangling down. It’s not much, but he’ll take anything at this point.
Except, when he pulls the chain, the lightbulb explodes.
“Shit!” he hisses, narrowly avoiding the sudden spray of glass. A few shards catch the skin of his knuckles, and there’s a sharp sting on his cheek, just beneath his eye. He rubs at his face and his skin comes away slightly damp with something warm and wet—though he couldn’t see his hand in front of him if he tried, he can damn well guess what it is.
So—great. It’s still dark down here. And that was weird as fuck.
“Fucking hate this place,” Phil mutters.
As if in response, something heavy clatters to the ground behind him.
He jerks with a gasp, whirling around with the flashlight raised, as if some tiny piece of plastic is going to do him any good. When he looks, though, there’s nobody there. The pale beam catches a shovel resting on the ground a few feet away from him, still rocking side to side on its spade. It’s the only thing moving, save for the shadows as they grow and twist in the light. There’s nobody around, no footsteps or muffled giggles of the freshmen as they delight in his torment. It’s quiet. Eerily so. So much so that the only thing Phil can hear is the frantic fluttering of his heart and the way his breathing has gone ragged with fear.
“It’s nothing,” he tells himself. “Shit falls over all the time—probably bumped it when I was walking or something. And the light—probably just overloaded an old bulb. It’s nothing.”
The words sound painfully forced, even to him.
“Just a fuckin draft,” he assures himself, as the hair on the back of his neck prickles, and as his skin grows cold, the temperature steadily dropping around him. “It’s an old building. It’s fine.”
And then he feels a hand on his shoulder.
The noise he makes isn’t coherent—a panicked, terrified choking sound, the breath solen from his chest as he whirls, one arm raised protectively across his face. His feet tangle beneath him, and he nearly trips in his haste, hand swinging to strike wildly out at whatever’s behind him. His fist connects with nothing but empty air, though, and he curses as he looks up and finds nothing but empty air. His rational mind finally loses the battle with fear, and he finds his panicked reasoning dying on his tongue, replaced instead by the singular need to get out.
So he does.
It might be the heavy, musty air of the basement, or the adrenaline starting to get to him, but the world feels like it’s spinning around him as he stumbles back the way he came, eager to get back to the light and the warmth and his friends. His heart races, catching in his throat with a hitch of fear, and he finds himself moving faster and faster, almost at a jog. He feels like a kid again, racing out of the basement as soon as he’d turned the lights off for fear of being caught by the monsters in the darkness. He’d laugh, were he not so scared shitless.
He pauses by the foot of the stairs. He chances a glance back, the beam of his flashlight spilling out across the hallway behind him, doing little to illuminate the dark doorways or the long shadows cast by the supports. There’s nothing there, though—just an empty, quiet basement and the sound of his stuttering breathing, heavy and loud in his throat.
Somehow, it doesn’t ease his tension. But he can’t stand to spend another second down here.
He turns, and starts the climb back up.
Everybody’s gathered in front of the fire when Phil finally returns.
Tommy has his feet kicked up across Tubbo’s legs as they sprawl on the couch, his back leaning comfortably up against Ranboo’s shoulder. Though he’s loath to admit it, he’s comfortable. Ranboo makes a good pillow. It’s warm, too—blankets piled up on top of them, the fire roaring loudly a few feet away. He’s just starting to get drowsy when he hears the sound of footsteps coming from the basement door, followed by a creak and a thud as the door bangs suddenly open. Tommy lifts his head groggily, glaring daggers over at Phil, who—
Huh.
Phil leans up against the door, his back pressed to it, looking unusually pale. His eyes squeeze shut with a long, low breath, raising a visibly shaking hand to his hair and tangling it there.
“Phil?” Technoblade asks, already making his way over. He puts a hand on Phil’s shoulder, and the man flinches . He fucking flinches, which is enough to motivate Tommy to sit up, scrambling to his knees on the couch and knocking his head up against Ranboo’s chin. He ignores the other boy’s whining complaints, leaning over the back of the couch to watch as Technoblade guides Phil over to a chair, immediately draping him with the closest blanket.
“Fixed the generator,” Phil mutters after a loud moment, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders and shooting a baleful look at the basement door. His breathing has begun to even out, though his voice is still weirdly raspy when he speaks. “Ranboo, no offense, but I fuckin’ hate this place.”
Ranboo makes a soft noise of indignance. Tommy elbows him—hard.
“You, uh—” Technoblade hovers awkwardly at Phil’s side. “You look a little spooked there, Phil. Did somethin’ happen?”
Phil huffs out a laugh. It sounds a little forced.
“...Nah. Pretty sure I imagined it—mind playing tricks on me, or some shit.” His hand goes as if to grab at his shoulder, but stops halfway, as though thinking better of it. Tommy squints dubiously at him, more than a little unsettled by Phil’s weird behavior. Technoblade does the same, and Phil bristles beneath his gaze. “What? It was fucking dark!”
Technoblade laughs. He grabs another blanket from the pile and tosses it over Phil’s head, ignoring the squawk from within as he plops down onto the arm of the chair beside him. He shoots Tommy a knowing look, and Tommy cackles, delighted. Phil may not have been his first choice in victims, but his reaction definitely makes up for it. Beneath the fabric, Phil is hissing and spitting like an angry cat, accidentally winding the blanket tighter around himself. By the time Phil finally wiggles free of it, he’s red in the face and fuming, hands smacking out at Technoblade as the other man doubles over with laughter.
“Next time, you’re fixing the damn generator,” he says, breathless, looking a few seconds away from murder. “See how you like it.”
Technoblade grins, smug.
Tommy bets he wouldn’t look so confident if he were the one stuck in a dark basement.
The cheerful mood is interrupted by the slightest flicker of the lights. At first, Tommy thinks it’s a trick of the eye, or at least caused by the fireplace, but everyone else reacts, too—Jack groaning, Phil burying his face in his hands. Tommy glares daggers up at the lights, daring them to try it again.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Technoblade assures them.
As if to challenge him, the lights flicker again. Thankfully, this time, they don’t go all the way out.
Tommy turns indignantly to Phil.
“I thought you said you fixed the generator!” he complains, and Phil looks damn-near ready to snap, the bridge of his nose pinched firmly between his fingers.
“I did, Tommy,” he mutters, glaring balefully over at the steps to the basement. “Piece of shit is old as fuck, though, wouldn’t be surprised if it’s ready to give up the ghost.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Tommy hisses between clenched teeth, turning to face Ranboo, who looks understandably meek. “Ranboob, what the hell, man? You didn’t tell us your family’s lodge was from the fucking Stone Age!”
“Dude, I haven’t been out here since I was a kid,” Ranboo shoots back, still wrapped in his blanket, which makes his folded arms and, frankly, stupid height a lot less intimidating. “My parents said it needed some work, but they never come out here, either—I doubt they knew how bad it was, or they would’ve sent someone to fix this place up ages ago.”
“Don’t you like, keep this place open to the public?” Jack chimes in.
“Nah,” Ranboo answers. “They’ve been trying to sell this place for years. Not as much money in the skiing business as they’d hoped, and it’s expensive to maintain anything this far out in the middle of nowhere.”
“So they just left it?”
“Well, there’s a guy in charge of keeping an eye on the property.”
Phil, now wrapped snugly in Technoblade’s stolen coat and a spare blanket, lifts a brow.
“Does he live out here?”
“Well, yeah… pretty sure he was one of the original workers of the lodge before my parents bought it. His cabin’s somewhere in the woods around here, pretty sure you passed the path to it on your way up.” Ranboo hunches in a little further on himself as the lights flicker again with the next eerie howl of wind. “Look, guys—I’m sorry, honestly. I didn’t realize it would be this bad or I would’ve just suggested staying somewhere else.”
Phil’s glower softens.
“Aww, mate,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You just wanted to give us a free vacation—and besides, it’s not all bad. I’m sure we can still have fun—and we’re gonna have a hell of a story to tell to everyone else at home.” He laughs, and the sound is enough to loosen some of the tightness that’s been coiling in Tommy’s chest. “Snowed in with faulty power out in the middle of nowhere? God, we have shit luck.”
The light flickers again, as if to prove his point. He groans.
Tommy laughs. So does Technoblade, who claps a friendly hand down on Phil’s shoulder. Phil, surprisingly, jumps. Blue eyes go wide, his laughter stuttering for a minute before he relaxes back into his easy smile as if nothing happened at all. He tries to play it off, but his tense shoulders don’t escape Tommy’s keen eye—or Technoblade’s, whose smirk widens into something teasing.
“Philza Craft,” he says, and Phil instinctively puffs up at the tone. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared.”
Tommy scoffs.
“Phil’s never scared, bitch,” he argues, coming quickly to the man’s defense. “He’s the bravest man ever, remember?”
“Bravest, my ass,” Jack chimes in from the sidelines, laughing. “Did you see the look on his fucking face?”
Tommy flips him off.
“Sorry,” Phil says, still smiling, though he looks as though he might bite Technoblade’s hand off at any minute. “Guess I’m still a little jumpy from—oh, I don’t know, maybe having to walk through a dark scary basement all by myself?” He lifts a brow pointedly.
“I said I’d do it,” Technoblade points out from behind a grin.
“Yeah, and we’d still be freezing up here if you had,” Phil gripes. “You can’t fix a generator for shit, dude. You probably would’ve just poked a couple buttons and called it a day.” Technoblade at least has the decency to nod, abashed. “But you could’ve at least kept me company. You stayed nice and warm and cozy up here while I froze.”
“Nahhh,” Technoblade drawls, clearly delighting in Phil’s annoyance. “You had it handled, man. I would’ve just gotten in your way, right?”
“I hate you. I hate you so much,” Phil says, but he’s laughing as he shoves Technoblade’s arm off of him, playfully pushing him away.
“Your hands are freezing, man!’ Technoblade yelps, recoiling dramatically.
“Really? I wonder why?” Phil shoots back, grabbing the other man by the sleeve and tugging him back, proceeding to press his hands to the taller student’s neck while Technoblade howls and chuckles and tries to get away. Phil’s earlier tension is gone, replaced by playful agitation, and Tommy is quick to cheer him on as the two friends dissolve into a scuffle, wrestling in a tangle of blankets and flailing arms.
“My money’s on Phil,” Ranboo whispers conspiratorially. Tommy cackles.
It’s all fun and games.
Until it isn’t.
Wilbur, watching from the top of the stairs, suddenly stumbles.
Or—it looks more like he was pushed. He’d been standing still, leaned up against the railing—and then suddenly he’s falling. In the blink of an eye, the young man is sent tumbling down the steps in a tangle of flailing limbs and a panicked, terrified shout. It would be comedic, in a horrible sort of way, were it not for the horrible crack that rings out through the air and the heavy thunk of his body against the unforgiving wood. It seems to drag on for what feels like hours, the steps suddenly way too long and way to steep.
And then Wilbur comes to a jolting stop at the bottom, splayed out and motionless.
For a heartbeat, everyone is silent, hardly daring to breathe. Then Wilbur groans, and the room bursts into motion.
He loses sight of Wilbur as someone—Phil, he thinks, but everyone is freaking out—pushes past. Technoblade’s shoulder blocks Wilbur from view as he drops to his knees beside him, but Tommy catches a glimpse of blood running down Wilbur’s face and a wrist that definitely shouldn’t be bent that way, and—oh, God. His stomach heaves as he squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he hadn’t seen that.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck —that’s so gross, what the hell?”
And then he remembers Wilbur, and that he should probably be worried right now.
“Shit!” He shoves past Ranboo and Tubbo, who stand gawking at the sight, and settles beside Phil on Wilbur’s other side. Technoblade has Wilbur propped up, one arm looped across his back to support him. Wilbur’s face is all scrunched up and pale as he stares down at the crooked limb. Tommy quickly looks away from it, repulsed.
“—think it’s broken,” Phil is murmuring as he tunes back in.
“Yeah, no shit, Phil,” Wilbur hisses out through gritted teeth. He looks like he might be sick. Tommy can relate. “What the fuck was that? Did you see that?”
“See what?” Tommy butts in, unable to keep the waver out of his voice.
“Who pushed me?” Wilbur demands, voice pitching into a whine as Phil carefully inspects the injury. “Someone pushed me down the stairs—who was it?”
“Nobody pushed you, Wilbur,” Technoblade insists, rubbing careful circles into the younger man’s tense shoulders. “It was just you up there—the rest of us were already down here.”
Wilbur shakes his head.
“I know what I felt, Techno. Someone fucking pushed me.”
“So that means there’s someone else in the house.”
All eyes turn to Tubbo upon his statement. The young student has climbed about halfway up the steps, one hand gripped tight to the railing as he looks between the top of the stairs, where Wilbur had been, to where he now lies. No one answers or challenges his claim, each of them struck with fear by the possibility of Tubbo’s words.
“Right? I mean, it’s the only thing that makes, um, rational sense,” Tubbo continues when it becomes clear no one else will speak. “There’s absolutely no way it could have been any of us, we were all down here.”
“So you think there’s someone hiding inside the house?” Niki asks quietly, voice trembling as she looks up to the shadowed upper floor. “Why would they push Wilbur like that, if that were true?”
“There’s no way,” Jack argues. “Ranboo wouldn’t have let us stay up here if there was a danger of a break-in, right?”
Now the attention turns to Ranboo. Tommy’s tall, lanky friend hovers by the railing, over Techno and Tommy’s shoulders so that Tommy has to turn his head all the way around to see him. He’s wringing his hand, looking on with a devastating amount of guilt.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs to Wilbur.
“What do you want me to say, Jack?” Tubbo’s answer cuts over Wilbur’s terse response. “You want me to say ghosts? You want me to say that this big, old fucking house is haunted by ghosts, you think that’s a more rational explanation for what’s going on here?”
“No, of course not!” Jack roars back. “I’m just saying that an intruder seems equally unlikely!”
“Phil?”
Tommy’s voice slots neatly in the silence between Jack and Tubbo’s current argument, once more redirecting the group’s focus, this time to Phil’s frozen form. The older student is holding Wilbur’s broken wrist with just as much care as he was before, but his shoulders have suddenly gone stiff, eyes glazed over with a haunted look that Tommy can’t tear his own eyes away from.
“Phil,” Techno persists, nudging Phil’s shoulder gently. “You alright?”
And somehow, that’s all it takes for the tension to drop from Phil’s body, exhaling harshly and shaking his head.
“Yeah, fine, just—”
“Scared of a few ghosts?” Tommy blurts. He means it as a joke, but within the tense atmosphere, it falls horribly flat.
“Something like that,” Phil breathes, barely audible. Clearing his throat, he continues, louder. “No matter what, or- or who else is in this house, Wil needs medical attention.”
“Where’s he going to get that?” Tommy asks. “Not like any of us here are doctors.”
Phil purses his lips, staring hard at Wilbur’s rapidly swelling wrist.
“I think some of us might have to cut this trip short,” he decides. “Wilbur’s got to get to a hospital.”
Wilbur chuckles dryly at that, a pained grimace stretched across his lips as he briefly rests his head against Techno’s shoulder. “Well, I’m certainly, mmh , not against that, but how are we going to get there? The cable cars? The storm’s still going plenty- plenty fucking strong.”
Wincing at Wilbur’s trembling voice, Tommy murmurs his own reassurances and reaches out to grab Wilbur’s good hand, squeezing it slightly.
“It’s gonna be alright, Wil.”
He’s pretty sure his voice goes unheard over the clamor of discussion, but he knows he feels Wilbur squeeze his hand back.
“That’s the fastest way to get cell service and get you an ambulance,” Phil insists. “Trust me, I don’t necessarily want to go back out in that storm either, but we can’t let, I don’t know, the bone fucking set wrong or something by keeping you here.”
“Well, what about a phone?” Jack interjects. “I know none of us have cell service up here, but I swear I saw a phone in the other room, before the power went out.”
Ranboo’s eyes light up.
“Yeah! There’s— I know that there’s a list of phone numbers in one of the drawers here, with, uh, extensions to connect to emergency, like, the ranger services for the rest of the mountain. They’re probably our best bet to get Wilbur medical attention.”
“If the power doesn’t go out again,” Niki says softly. As if on cue, the lights over the stairwell flicker, and she winces in a silent apology.
“Whether we go outside or not, Wilbur’s going to need something to stabilize his wrist until then,” Techno decides. “Tommy, can you keep Wilbur sitting up while I go and find something to make, uh, a splint?”
“Course,” Tommy says easily, letting go of Wilbur’s hand so he can take Techno’s place with an arm around Wilbur’s shoulder. “Ayup, big dubs.”
Wilbur’s shoulders jump once in a silent laugh, and then he lets out a gasp of pain that has Tommy’s stomach knotted with guilt all over again. He can’t help but think about it, how his aborted prank from earlier could have had the same result. If he had thrown that blanket over Wilbur, Wilbur probably would have stumbled and fallen down the steps, exactly as he did. He knows that Wilbur’s fall hadn’t been his fault, and yet Tommy finds he can’t shake the guilt burrowing inside of his gut, weighed down with the feeling that somehow he was still responsible.