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“There we go,” Ranboo coos, holding Michael close to his chest, gently rocking him. The toddler mumbles something unintelligible, working eyes gently shut with the lull of sleep. The shades are drawn to prevent the early afternoon sunlight from getting in, dark curtains lining the windows and casting the room in lantern light from where the iron frames flicker high above them. “Nap time, Michael,” he whispers, laying his kid down. And it had only taken reading two stories and the promise of cookies after dinner to do so. A wildly successful pre-naptime conquest, as far as Ranboo is concerned.
He tucks the yellow blanket over Michael’s shoulder, a fond smile growing as the toddler grips his plush duck Benson tightly in his small hands. And then he leaves his kid to sleep, gingerly lowering himself through the trapdoor and down the ladder. As he does so, standing in the middle of their main room, Ranboo thinks over what he needs to do while Michael naps. He needs to check the stores of their kitchen, make sure he gives Tubbo the iron his husband had asked for, and something else. There is definitely something else. And, he can’t remember
Ranboo turns toward the kitchen, hand drifting toward the memory book in the breast pocket of his suit jacket unconsciously. He couldn’t remember whether he had written it down or not, but it couldn’t hurt to check.
Before he can even turn the cover of the worn, leather-bound book, back in the main room the front door suddenly slams open with a loud crash, and a sudden, familiar, frantic voice screams into the house.
“Tubbo!”
Ranboo jumps, head nearly slamming against the cabinets as he shoves himself away from the kitchen counter. His heart beats fast against his chest, but he manages to stop himself from racing for his armor and sword. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and pokes his head out the kitchen doorway. “Tommy?”
Instantly identifiable by his voice from the start, Tommy stands in the open doorway, seemingly uncaring as the arctic wind sweeps in around him, rustling the bottom red cardigan that he never seemed to walk around without. His jaw is set in frustration or fury or both, and he wraps his arms around himself with a conflicted expression in his eyes as his gaze settles on Ranboo. “Where’s Tubbo?” he asks loudly.
Ranboo crosses the room swiftly, and Tommy sidesteps further into the house as Ranboo shuts the front door, cutting off the freezing breeze. “Uh, he’s out,” Ranboo replies, pretending like he’s not watching Tommy curiously as the blond brushes snow off of the shoulders of his cardigan. “And can you be quiet please? I’m trying to-”
“Where?” Tommy interrupts, and Ranboo catches a pained look flash across his face as he stretches too far to the side, flicking snow off the red fabric. “Where’s Tubbo?”
Ranboo pauses for a moment, because the truth is that Tubbo is out at his outpost, reinforcing the walls, repairing some cracks in the steps up to his not-so-hidden lookout. And that’s a whole other can of worms, Las Nevadas and the threats and everything Ranboo doesn’t want Tommy getting involved in too.
Tommy rolls his eyes at him. “What, do you not remember? God, your memory is so shit.” And though the words are laced with heat, it doesn’t hurt. Instead, Ranboo merely smiles weakly, taking the out that he’s been given.
“Yeah, it, well. Not much I can do about that,” he replies, shrugging loosely to brush away the topic.
He steps toward their couches, eyes flicking between Tommy and the furniture, expecting the blond teen to flop down and sprawl himself across it like he does most times he comes around to visit. But instead, Tommy only looks wary, still keeping his arms wrapped around himself despite the interior of the house warming back up. “Why do I need to be quiet, anyhow?” he complains. “You just said so, but then I interrupted you.”
“Oh, well, I just put Michael down for a nap,” Ranboo says easily.
Tommy looks horrified. “What? It’s only the afternoon, man, why send him to bed so early?”
A slight frown of confusion makes its way onto Ranboo’s face. “Because… he’s a toddler? And if he doesn’t nap in the afternoon, he’ll be really cranky around dinner, and then, well.” Ranboo throws his hands up in the air, running out of explanations. “Just how it is, I suppose.”
“That’s shit,” Tommy declares. “When I was a kid, I didn’t need to take naps. I was simply too cool for them.”
“Yeah, I’m sure whoever raised you loved that,” Ranboo replies dryly, lips lifting in a small smile.
Thunder gathers in Tommy’s eyes. “I raised myself, bitch,” he shoots back, the sharpness in his voice dying out as he lifts his arm to point a finger at Ranboo upper body stuttering forward in a clear attempt at hiding something painful.
“Hey, Tommy, are you… are you alright?” Ranboo asks instead of continuing the playful bantering, too concerned to keep the smile on his face any more.
“Yes.” It’s too blunt and loud, an obvious lie. Ranboo looks up to the ceiling where Michael is hopefully resting, a slightly pleading look in his eyes as he looks back to Tommy, who does not look apologetic in the slightest. “When’s Tubbo getting back?”
Ranboo sighs. “Not for a while,” he admits. “Probably not until dinner.”
“Oh my Prime,” Tommy drags out every word in a long groan. “Why isn’t he here, I need him, Ranboo, I need his help!”
“Is it something I could help with?” Ranboo offers, extending one hand slightly, a visual olive branch to cross the tumultuous bridge that he and Tommy have only just started to build. Firm foundations Ranboo has tried to build, blasted and broken apart and then barely assisted in repairs through Tommy’s insults and his contradicting sudden hugs. “Or, try to help with?”
Tommy scrutinizes him closely, leaning in so closely that Ranboo looks back, tilting his head away as the teen’s unmoving blue eyes glare heavily at him. “Fine,” Tommy declares suddenly, lips twisting in a sneer as he grips the edges of his cardigan. “You can’t tell anyone about this though, or I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Huh?” Ranboo says cluelessly as Tommy yanks off his cardigan and throws it to the floor. His mouth drops open a little, watching as Tommy, standing before him in a simple white tank top, unfurls a pair of wings from his back, the white and gold feathers ruffled in extreme disarray.
And Ranboo thinks he has an idea what’s been causing the pained looks on Tommy’s face.
“Yeah, I’ve got fucking wings, bitch,” Tommy states, the hard confidence in his voice betrayed by the trembling of his fully extended wings which, if Ranboo’s honest, don’t look like they’d even reach half of the length of one of Phil’s wings. The small appendages would simply fade in comparison to the older man’s great black wings, even the side that now rests scarred and unusable.
Ranboo shuts his open mouth, only realizing that he’s been gaping when Tommy curls his lip at him. “Wow. I had- I had no idea, Tommy.”
“Good,” Tommy says stoutly. “It’s a secret for a reason.”
Though he thinks he already has a pretty good idea why Tommy was looking for Tubbo, Ranboo at least wants to hear him say it before he jumps to assumptions. As he talks, Ranboo moves closer to the couch, sitting parallel to the couch with his back against one arm. “So, did you need Tubbo for something to do with your wings?” He folds his lanky legs underneath him, hands resting easily against his knees.
“Well, they’re fuckin’ small, right?” Tommy scoffs, eyes flickering as he looks at the couch. “And when I don’t- I mean, I don’t take care of them right all the time, and I can’t reach parts of the wings to fix them because of it.” There’s flashes of self-consciousness and wariness, and so Ranboo does his best to keep his face neutral and kind as he sits, unmoving. “You’ve got to readjust the feathers and shit, and it’s really a pain in the ass, which is why I make Tubbo do it all the time, but now he’s not here, and you’re-” He cuts himself off, looking frustrated again. “Now I’ve got to wait for him.”
“Or you could let me do it,” Ranboo offers, giving the blond a gentle smile.
“You don’t know how.” Tommy rolls his eyes, twisting his head toward the window.
Ranboo takes a breath, praying to Prime that this doesn’t set the other teen off too badly. “I mean, I live with Phil,” he says tentatively. “I kind of… do know how.”
Tommy’s eyes round, trembling notes of hurt and awe intermingling in his response. “You’ve helped preen Phil’s wings?”
Ranboo nods. “He and, and Techno showed me how.”
Tommy’s nose wrinkles and he frowns, but he stomps across the room and slumps against the couch, right shoulder pressing against the back of the couch with one leg hanging off the side. His wings flutter and twitch at his back, only stilling once Ranboo gingerly reaches out and brushes the top of his wing with one hand. “Technoblade helped me with this a few times, you know,” he says, voice slightly muffled where he’s hid his head against his knee, bent close to his chin. “When I… after exile, when I was hiding at his place.”
“Ah,” Ranboo says helpfully as he begins to realign Tommy’s feathers nearest to his spine, beginning to preen the feathers with practiced motions. Phil’s wings are definitely far larger, but the concept is the same, of straightening feathers and helping old ones fall out to allow new ones to settle. “So,” he begins as Tommy’s shoulders roll forward, arms dropping loosely to his sides. “How, uh, how many other people know you have wings?”
“Tubbo does, obviously,” Tommy mumbles, face still partially hidden. “Technoblade, like I said. Uh, Ghostbur, he helped me out with them in exile. And- and Wilbur. Wilbur knows.” Even turned away from Ranboo, the enderman hybrid could hear Tommy’s shaky exhale, and his wings twitch away from Ranboo’s hands, wrapping forward in a weak likeness to a hug around himself. “He used to help me with this a lot. Him and Tubbo.”
“And you haven’t let him help recently?” Ranboo questions gently, returning to his preening movements as Tommy’s wings begin to relax again.
“No.” His retort is biting, fragile with bitterness and longing. “He hasn’t seen them since he got back. And I’m not letting him, either.” He exhales heavily again, but it’s steadier now as Ranboo realigned a particularly ruffled patch of feathers. “He’s being a bitch, so he doesn’t get to see my wings.”
Ranboo hums, fingers moving without much thought behind them, though he’s careful not to pull out any intact feathers. “That makes sense,” he agrees.
“What, so you think he’s being a bitch too?” Tommy huffs out a laugh, twisting his head back to briefly look at Ranboo. The enderman hybrid looks away as Tommy’s eyes land on him, dual-colored eyes darting up to the ceiling. “Right, sorry. Do you really think he’s that big of a bitch?”
“I mean…” Ranboo trails off, biting the inside of his cheek as he works out how to phrase his thoughts. “Wilbur hasn’t come back to see Phil since he asked if he could stay. And Phil hasn’t really said anything, but I think he’s worried for him. So, yeah, um, I think he could have tried to at least keep in contact with his- with his dad, right?”
Tommy scoffs. “Well, if he’s that worried, he could always come out to Las Nevadas. That’s where me and- that’s where Wilbur’s setting up now, just outside of it, for whatever fucking reason.” His tone darkens again, jaw tightening with clear tension.
And his own hands pause, stuttering along the feathers in a way that causes Tommy to jerk the tops of his shoulders up near his ears, letting out a displeased noise. “Sorry,” he apologizes instantly, his mind elsewhere in a flash of stone bricks and false advertisements for cookies. “You’re- you’re living in- or by Las Nevadas?”
“No, I’m still living where I’ve always lived,” Tommy says sharply. “But Wilbur’s doing something over there, and Quackity wants me to work for him, I think, and it’s just all so…” he trails off, once again looking out the window at the high drifts of snow that have gathered in piles. “I don’t want to talk about this, actually. How are you, Ranboo?”
The conversation shift is jarring, but Ranboo files away the information the best he can in his patchwork mind and responds in a tone that’s only mildly surprised. “Oh, I’m good, I’m good. Just… I’m just here.”
Tommy falls into a stumped silence for a brief second, only to let out a long groan as Ranboo finally moves on to his other wing. “Wings are fucking shit, for the record. Be glad you don’t have them, all they are is a fucking hazard.”
“Duly noted,” Ranboo responds easily. “Because my extra foot of height isn’t a hazard to doorways at all.”
A sudden bark of laughter bursts from Tommy’s mouth, unrestrained. Ranboo begins to laugh along, but in his peripheral vision, he can see the trapdoor open, just a crack. His hands fall from Tommy’s wing, and he pushes himself up to stand. Tommy calls out to him, confusion filling his voice once more, but Ranboo keeps one eye on the trapdoor as he approaches. He quickly scales the ladder and, listening to small feet scamper back as he pokes his head through the opening. “Michael?”
Michael stands in the middle of the room, clutching his blanket and Benson to his chest but staring at Ranboo with one wide, very awake eyes.
“You wanna go back to bed, buddy?” Ranboo balances half in the room, half on the ladder, inclining his head toward the untucked bed. But Michael only shakes his head emphatically, rocking back and forth as he squeezes Benson close to his chest. He takes a few unsteady steps toward Ranboo, reaching out with one hand. “No? Okay, I mean, we can go downstairs for a little bit.” He scoops Michael in one arm, the piglin toddler clinging to his side tightly as Ranboo descends the ladder again.
Tommy is frowning at the ladder as they do so, though his wings are still relaxed at his back. “What’s he doing here?” he asks meanly, curling his lip at the toddler that currently holds Ranboo’s arm in a death grip.
He adjusts Michael once both feet are on the ground again, giving Tommy a confused look. “He… lives here?”
“Obviously,” Tommy says scornfully. “I thought you said he was fast asleep like a little bitch.”
Ranboo sighs, giving Michael a fond smile as the small piglin stares in wary confusion at the blond teen curled on the couch. “Well, I thought he was too, but apparently he’s awake now, isn’t that right?” At the last phrase, he turns toward his son, bumping his forehead against Michael’s gently. The toddler lets out a cheerful chuff, and immediately after begins to wriggle out of Ranboo’s arm, pointing toward the floor with his one free hand.
Ranboo frowns lightly. “I’m not too sure about that one, buddy. I’ve got stuff to do.” His mind comes to the only conclusion it can, and so with only a slight hesitance, he shifts Michael to where Tommy sits on the couch. “Do you think you could hold him?”
Tommy looks taken aback, protests rising to his lips immediately. “What? Why? I don’t want to hold your child.”
“I don’t want him running around and getting hurt while I finish preening your wings,” Ranboo explains. “There’s the basement door around here, and if I can’t be out here with him, then…” He trails off, shrugging helplessly.
“Fine. Hand the- Michael over,” Tommy says loftily, rolling his eyes.
“It’s alright,” Ranboo reassures teasingly to Michael as he passes his son over. “Tommy’s just going to hold you for a bit until I finish helping him, and then we can play, alright?” Michael makes a disgruntled noise, peering at Tommy suspiciously as the winged teen settles him on his lap, looking back at him with the same expression.
Then, as Ranboo settles back on the couch behind Tommy, Michael leans forward, over Tommy’s shoulder, and catches sight of the full wings for the first time. His eyes widen, and an excited squeak leaves his mouth as he pushes Benson in Tommy’s face. It brings a startled squawk from the teen as Ranboo resumes preening his wings.
“What? What?” Tommy questions, but Michael only pushes his duck further into Tommy’s face, pulling at the sides of the toy and bouncing a bit where he sits on Tommy’s lap. “No, I’m not- fuck off, I’m not your toy duck just because I have wings!” Despite the clear indignation in his voice, Ranboo can also hear laughter bubbling up in his throat as Michael grins wide at him, hugging Benson close to his chest before dropping the toy, raising both hands to squish them gently against Tommy’s cheeks.
Tommy lets out another surprised noise, but softer this time. “Hi there,” he says, as if he’s seeing Michael for the first time. “How are you doing, Michael?”
As Ranboo deftly realigns another patch of ruffled feathers, a few smaller ones dislodging and floating to the floor, Michael lets out a high-pitched, excited squeal and bumps his forehead against Tommy’s and sits back, grinning proudly.
Ranboo laughs softly, and it intermingles with Tommy’s awed chuckle. “I think he likes you.”
“Of course he does,” Tommy responds, only half of his usual bravado in his voice. “I’m the best. Isn’t that right, Michael?”
Michael nods with a cheerful gleam in his eyes and as Ranboo adjusts a twisted feather Tommy lets out a pleased noise that almost sounds like a low trill. Michael shifts around in Tommy’s lap, facing away from both of them. Over glossy cream feathers, Ranboo watches Benson bob up and down as Michael plays with his toy, and then he watches Tommy’s long fingers begin to gently comb through Michael’s pink hair. He brushes it away from the piglin child’s forehead, and twists it in loose braided patterns that fall apart as soon as he lets the locks go.
And Michael snorts in a language neither of the other two understand, but Ranboo hums in affirmation and response and Tommy asks him questions that he doesn’t expect answers to, and the three fall into a quiet, but not silent space, comforting and warm.
“Thank you, Ranboo,” Tommy mumbles at one point, turning his head back to look at a spot over Ranboo’s shoulder. “Not just for- for helping with this wing shit, but for- for listening. You know?”
“Yeah, of course,” Ranboo replies, and that’s all there is to the exchange. Tommy simply gives him a short nod and turns back, murmuring something to Michael that Ranboo doesn’t completely catch, but he’s certain he hears a curse or two in there.
Minutes later, Ranboo doesn’t even realize that Tommy is falling asleep until the blond’s hand once again falls to the side, limp and peaceful. The winged teen slumps, shoulder leaning against the back of the couch and legs slipping off to the side. Tommy’s wings drop, relaxed now that the feathers lay smooth and glossy. Ranboo lets his own hands fall, stretching out the aching digits slowly, and gingerly removes himself from the couch, prepared to collect Michael and let Tommy sleep.
Only, as he steps to the side to do so, he hears a soft, content sigh from his son, and he watches Michael curl further against Tommy’s chest, pink hair falling in soft, short waves over his face. Benson is pressed in between them, only one unmoving wing showing. At Tommy’s back, one of his own wings flutters gently, settling back down against the couch. The hard angry lines of his face have disappeared in slumber, leaving only softly closed eyes and soft, gentle snores behind.
He can’t help the soft coo upon seeing the sight, heart melting at the gentleness of it all. Ranboo smiles and, knowing that his son is in safe hands, leaves the two of them to nap.