Chapter Text
Techno reaches forward, straightening his tie with a stern, firm movement.
Ranboo is stiff, perfect posture and stony expression trained into him from the age of ten, but he knows Techno can see the nerves that have burrowed into his stomach, because Techno knows everything about him.
The suit he’s wearing is perfectly tailored, sharp lines and angles making him look intimidating as possible, in a sleek black that makes Ranboo feel uncomfortably expensive. Everything in this house is uncomfortably expensive, really- from the plush green carpet under his feet, to the art nouveau architecture surrounding him, to the shining gold cufflinks that Techno had gifted him for good luck. The air itself feels too good for him, crisp and fresh despite the stuffiness one would expect from a hallway in the back of a mansion built before sliced bread existed.
The senior bodyguard gives him a final look up and down, before nodding silently to himself and putting a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder.
“Follow my lead, and you’ll be good. Ready?”
Ranboo nods once, a jerky bop of his head, and Techno gives him a rare smile.
“Good.”
He turns, facing the ornately carved doors, and squares his own shoulders before knocking.
“Come in,” an accented voice calls from inside, suspiciously cheery for a house full of criminals.
Too quickly for Ranboo’s comfort, Techno is swinging open the door, ushering Ranboo to enter the room before stepping in behind him and closing it. The click of a lock being turned does not put him at ease.
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, like he’d been trained to, he takes in as much of the room as possible.
At the far wall, backlit by a large window, is Philza Minecraft himself; the head of the most powerful crime family in Britain. He’s leaning back easily in his chair, fingers laced together and resting in his lap as he watches them walk in with lazy interest, though the darkness around his eyes makes his outwardly friendly demeanour seem menacing. The desk in front of him is huge, dark wood carved ornately, spanning almost the entire length of the room. It’s covered in papers, and files, and- are those ink wells? And quills? Ranboo takes a moment to appreciate the drama of it all.
But the thing that he focuses on, the person that captures his attention, is his new charge.
He’s sitting in an arm chair which is frankly too big for him- stunningly dark and shining leather, creaking and moaning every time he moves. And while he’s dressed like a gentleman- blazer, oxfords, tie, the whole shebang- he’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin, and his ankles crossed, and his feet on the chair. He looks a bit like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Ranboo thinks he might fall over.
“Techno,” Mr. Minecraft greets, tone immediately warming when he sees his head of security enter the room.
“Mr. Minecraft.”
The man raises his hand, signet ring shining in the dim light. Immediately, Techno bends to kiss it quickly, as if acting on habit.
“Phil, this is Ranboo. My best and only student.”
Stepping forward at his name, Ranboo smiles awkwardly before remembering that he’s supposed to look intimidating today, and internally kicks himself as he schools his expression. Still, Phil looks him up and down in much the same way Techno had, and raises his hand again.
Kissing the ring is as awkward as he feared, but it’s not like it lasts more than half a second before he’s straightening and being given a million other things to worry about.
“I don’t like him.”
Ranboo nearly jumps at the sound of the boy’s voice. This- this is not the protocol he was taught to follow. Oh lord. Wuh-oh.
Techno gives a weary sigh, like he was expecting this. Mr. Minecraft mirrors his expression.
“Tubbo,” he starts warningly, just as the boy shifts in his chair so one of his legs is dangling over the armrest.
“What?”
His voice is accented like he grew up with money, and Ranboo resists the urge to fidget as they talk about him like he’s not here.
“He’s too tall. All… lanky. Get a different one.”
“Tubbo, he’s the best money can buy.”
Tubbo snorts, crossing his arms over his chest and swinging the leg that’s hanging off the chair.
“What’s your point? Just because he’s good at stealing all my privacy means I should allow it? Piss off, Phil.”
“If you have to choose between privacy and your life, I would think you’d go for the not-dyin’ option,” Techno states flatly, levelling Tubbo with a stare that could probably wilt daisies in spring. Tubbo doesn’t budge.
“I’d choose both, if it was an option,” he spits, face scrunching up in irritation.
“Which is why you aren’t the one making decisions around here, mate,” Phil points out, level tone masking a fire that Ranboo didn’t want to see the face of.
“I can see that,” Tubbo huffs, looking Ranboo up and down again. “As evidenced by the fucking spy you’ve hired to trail me 24/7.”
“Not a spy,” Techno insists, sounding like they’ve hand this argument a thousand times before, “A bodyguard. The best bodyguard, actually, because I trained him myself.”
Techno claps a proud hand on his shoulder, and Ranboo resists the urge to flinch as he pushes him in the direction of the other teen. Hesitantly, he holds out a hand for him to shake.
Tubbo stares at his hand just long enough for it to get awkward. Yet, as soon as Ranboo is prepared to give up and step away, Tubbo grabs his hand in a vice-like grip and uses it to yank him down to his eye-level.
“I don’t like you,” he grits out, hand squeezing his own far more than necessary. “And I’m going to make it your problem.”
Ranboo has never felt so intimidated by someone a whole foot shorter than him.
“I can tell,” he responds, as mildly as he can, desperately holding on to protocol, and what he remembers he should be saying to his new boss. “Looking forward to it.”
God, damn it. That is not a normal response to a threat, Ranboo, he scolds himself internally, watching as the cogs turn in Tubbo’s brain. It’s kind of mesmerising, seeing so much thinking so up-close.
“Hm,” he says, like he’s just made a decision. “Alright.”
Finally, Tubbo lets go of his hand and allows him to straighten up, stepping back to Techno’s side.
The two adults seemed to be having a whole silent conversation while Tubbo was pulling his intimidation stunt, and Ranboo shifts uncomfortably while he’s left out of the loop. Tubbo continues to stare at him, but the glare of earlier has softened into something more curious.
Leaning forward and clapping his hands together, Phil draws the attention of both teens.
“Well, boys, now that you’ve met- how about you go and get properly acquainted in Tubbo's quarters, ey?” He glances at Techno. “Assuming Ranboo here has already been briefed on his position.”
Techno nods. “Yep.”
“Brilliant.” He turns a dazzling smile on to the teenagers, making Tubbo groan and Ranboo straighten his posture ever more. “You’re excused.”
And that’s that. Ranboo...seems to have passed whatever test Phil and Tubbo had for him, and now he’s following the shorter through the maze of corridors and halls like a guard dog. Which, he supposes he is.
Abruptly, Tubbo stops in front of a door on the third floor, and Ranboo has to stop himself from crashing into his back as he does so. He manages, but it’s a near thing.
“Here,” he exclaims, with plastic cheer that makes Ranboo wince.
He watches as his new charge unlocks the door, and shoulders it open with practiced ease.
The room, like so many others in this house, is lavish. A large sofa in front of a large T.V., with a king sized bed looming in the back of the room, as thick curtains hanging off the four posts make it look like something out of a period drama.
As he’s been trained, he waits for Tubbo to enter the room, and plants his feet directly to the right of the door once it’s closed. Posture straight, eyes forward, hands behind his back.
Tubbo plays no attention to him, shrugging off his blazer with irritation and pulling at his tie like it purposefully wronged him, before draping himself over the couch with a huff. He’s in the middle of removing his cufflinks by the time he finally looks at Ranboo.
“How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Tubbo narrows his eyes at him, and Ranboo continues to look straight ahead.
“You don’t know as in, it’s classified? Or you don’t know, as in, you’re stupid?”
Ranboo resists the urge to sigh very, very deeply.
“It’s not classified. I just don’t know the day I was born.”
Tubbo continues to stare at him, though he looks down to deposit his cufflinks on the coffee table and roll his sleeves up to his elbows.
“Give me a range.”
“Probably seventeen.”
“Probably.” He sounds incredulous.
“Mhm.” Ranboo isn’t sure how much more clear he can be.
Tubbo crosses his arms over his chest, and cocks his head to the side.
“So, you’re my age.”
“Near enough, I’d say, yeah.”
“You’re a world-class bodyguard, trained overseas, and owned by the mob, at my age.”
Ranboo grits his teeth.
“That about covers it, yeah.”
“Right.” Tubbo looks him up and down again, and part of Ranboo rails against being appraised so much like a fresh new toy too many damn times today. But another, much larger part of him, reminds him that this was all covered in his training. Techno had never told him he had to like it.
Tubbo, meanwhile, is contemplating if it’s morally wrong to ask your new glorified babysitter about their obviously tragic backstory on day one.
He’s probably paid enough for the invasive questions Tubbo wants to ask to be answered, or maybe his backbone is just that much of a wet noodle, but he can’t quite bring himself to ask. Even through all his training, and his suit, and the six individual weapons Tubbo has noticed hidden in it, this kid has somehow managed to keep being very much an awkward seventeen year old. And Tubbo, who is also an awkward seventeen year old, desperately wants a friend. Even if he does despise the prospect of being watched 24/7.
He taps a finger against his bicep in time with the ticking of his watch as he thinks about what to do.
Standing by the door surely can’t be comfortable; not for as long as Tubbo plans on sitting on the couch, anyway. He eyes his own legs, taking up almost the entirety of the seat, and the small, possibly Ranboo-sized space left at the far end of the sofa. He comes to a decision.
“Come here.”
Ranboo might have a heart attack.
Even so, he takes even steps towards the couch, hands still clasped firmly behind his back.
“Do you like movies?”
Tubbo watches as Ranboo’s eyebrows disappear behind his stupid, fwoopy fringe, and waits for an answer. (He doesn’t take any pleasure in being an irritation, he swears).
“I- I’ve watched movies before, yeah. Movies are cool.”
He’s such a dweeb. Tubbo is doing his best to not be endeared.
Instead, he pulls his feet back a little, and gestures to the end of the couch.
“Cool. Sit down, I’ll pick.”
Ranboo seems to be buffering.
“I- ah, um, I mean protocol is that I- I kinda stand over-”
Tubbo is a bit of a spoiled brat. He knows this. He enjoys this. He takes advantage of this, as the ward of a crime boss.
“What’s the first clause in your contract?” he asks, innocent smile plastered over the lower half of his face.
Ranboo swallows, protocol not being enough to stop him from pushing his fringe back nervously.
“Follow any and all of my boss’ direct orders.”
“And who’s your boss, then, big guy?”
His new bodyguard looks like he wants to slam his head into a wall.
“Awesome! We’re watching Frozen.”
They watch Frozen.
Tubbo talks through a good portion of it, defending Anna against Elsa’s criticism and telling Ranboo all about a cut song which would have brought the movie up from an 8.5 to a 9, in his opinion. The taller is mostly just trying to process the weirdness of it all for the first half, but once it becomes clear that this isn’t some weird test or trap, allows himself to start talking like a human rather than a killing machine with anxiety.
“Honestly, I think the white streak is a good look. I bet I could rock it.”
“Sure,” Ranboo nods along, his head resting on his fist while his elbow rests on the arm of the sofa, perfect posture forgotten somewhere in the second chorus of fixer-upper. “But bleaching it would be a real pain.”
“I’d get it done professionally, dude.” He lolls his head to the side to look at the frankly offensive split-dye job across from him. Does it still count as a split dye with a side part? He’s not sure.
Ranboo notices him staring and feels his cheeks heat up.
“I… did my best, okay?” he chuckles weakly, using the hand that had been holding his head up to push the hair further away from his face, insecure. “Techno was… very drunk, when he gave me permission.”
“Was he drunk when he dyed his hair pink?”
“The first time? Very. I think he got it done professionally afterwards, though.”
“Hmm, maybe we should do the same for you.”
“I’m sure you’re busy, I mean-” actually, Ranboo knows he’s busy, on account of having his itinerary for the next fortnight memorised, but Tubbo probably wouldn’t appreciate being told that.
“Nah, we can go, like, tomorrow. Fix you up, or whatever.”
“You callin’ me a fixer upper?”
Tubbo raises his eyebrows at him and makes a show of avoiding his eyes.
“Man,” Ranboo laments, shaking his head in mock despair while Tubbo giggles.
“Aww, don’t worry. We can cure your many, many flaws, bossman.”
The sparkle in Tubbo’s eyes makes something flutter in Ranboo’s chest, the fidgeting nervousness of a new job being replaced by a new kind of nervousness which only reared it’s head when Tubbo looked at him and talked to him like- like an equal. He dares to lean deeper into the comfort of the couch, crossing his legs at the knee, finally mirroring Tubbo’s grin.
“I’ll look forward to it.”