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Tommy wasn't in the best of moods. Hadn't been in a while if he were honest with himself. Today just seemed a little bit worse than the past few days had been. He was overworked and exhausted. Hadn't even slept the night before because he was too busy trying to get a roof over his head. His palms and the creases of his fingers were cracked and bleeding, and his limbs ached with overuse. He was almost done with the roof now, though, and he was looking forward to being able to collapse back into his nest and sleep for the next four days. (And maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, considering the fact that he rarely slept at all, mind plagued with vicious nightmares, but a man could dream.)
He was just about to start securing another row of slabs when he caught a slight shuffling noise a bit to his left. He kept his head down, not wanting to seem suspicious, but he flicked his ears out in an attempt to catch the sound again. And, he did. Along with two pairs of blank, red eyes that peered at him from over a lump of dirt.
Huh.
That was a child.
What the fuck.
Cautiously, he set down his tools and raised his hands, trying to appear non-threatening. (He may have been a Big Man, but he wasn't heartless.) He crouched down, too, trying his best to appear approachable.
"Hey, little buddy," he spoke softly, making sure to not move an inch more than he had to, even stilling his tail that wanted to do nothing more than swish frantically behind him.
The hesitant steps forward that that little spider hybrid (because with pincers and eyes like those, it could be nothing else) reminded Tommy of his own childhood. Of how he had found Wilbur. He had been so scared, on the run from the cruel, terrifying men in white that had poked and prodded and torn him apart just to put him back together again, over and over for as long as he could remember. He was a shitty little science experiment who had a string of numbers tattooed on the nape of his neck, and he had just wanted to get away. It was a miracle that Wilbur managed to appear as friendly as he did, considering night had been approaching and the brunette was a phantom hybrid. (Which isn't to say that hostile hybrids were monsters, but they certainly tended to get a bit finicky at night.) He was alone and scared, but Wilbur was there to welcome him with open arms and call him Tommy Innit, after the serial number carved into his nape- T0mY - 1nn1T.
And now, thirteen years later, Tommy himself was staring a scared little hybrid in the face, and he couldn't help the soft smile that graced his scarred lips.
"Hello, little one," he greeted, much in the same way Wilbur had him. "I'm Tommy. What's your name?"
"P-patient 0D, sir," the boy of no more than four squeaked, and his heart shattered.
"You escaped too, hm?" He whispered, and the boy's two sets of eyes widened in wonder.
Slowly, he brought his hand up to the child's jaw, tilting his head to the side so that he could see the serial number he knew to be there, now. 5hR0uD - 0D. Tommy guesses the bastards changed the way they marked designations.
"Can I call you Shroud?" He asked softly, and all he can hear echoing in his own head is Wilbur's chipper "Tommy Innit! That's what I'll call you!"
The kid's brow furrows, as if in confusion.
"I'm-"
"That's not a name, bud," he interrupted before the little hybrid could get anything else out. It may have taken Tommy years to break out of the idea that he was more than just a patient, and that he was a person, and he sure as Nether wasn't going to let this poor kid think the same for any longer. "You're a person, not a patient."
The kid never opened his mouth again, instead choosing to stare at his nose. Internally, Tommy was screaming. He was loud and brash and dove into things head first, but now he had to be gentle. Had to take things slowly and carefully, because he knew what it was like to be the kid in front of him. Knew what it was like to be nothing more than a patient on the run, terrified of what would happen if he was returned.
"I think I have some of my nephew's clothes that will fit you, kid. My bathtub should still be working, too." He hoped his plumbing hadn't been fucked with, at least. And Prime it still felt weird to call Micheal his nephew. To admit that yes, Tubbo had had a child with Ranboo, of all mother fuckers.
Slowly, as if testing the waters, the kid grabbed onto his hand, and Tommy smiled at the feeling of his small, pudgy (and spiny, because the kid seemed to be covered in a fine layer of short, coarse hair) fingers in his.
"Let's get you inside," Tommy said softly before leading the boy down the hill and into his home. He was glad that he had had the foresight to place down a few lanterns, because the sun was a little lower in the sky now, and his actually put-together walls blocked the rays more than he anticipated.
He dug around in the chest he thinks he had stuffed the things he kept over for when he inevitably had to babysit Micheal from time to time, tail swishing in annoyance when he kept pulling up junk. (Never let it be said that organization was his specialty.)
"Aha!" He cheered when he pulled up a knitted pink sweater and a pair of jean shorts. The kid looked to be about the same size as Micheal, and though he knew he'd have to make a few adjustments (also known as more sleeves, because the kid had four arms), it should work for now if he managed to find his scissors.
"You wanna take a bath, bud?" He prompted, turning his gaze back to the wide-eyed spider child. Sure, Tommy wasn't the cleanest in the world at that moment (he's sure he hasn't changed his shirt in at least a week), but the kid was filthy. There were sticks in his hair, and his gown (because he knew that itchy, plasticky material well) was in tatters, not to mention the general grime that seemed to have become one with the short hair the kid was covered in.
"Bath?" The kid parroted, head tilted curiously.
Ah. That's right. There were only showers in the facility. Wilbur had to teach him what a bath was, and even then for the first year he spent with the man he thought that it was just the time Wilbur dunked him in the freezing cold river.
"It's like a shower but… nicer?" He tried to explain. "You sit in the water instead of standing to get clean."
"Help?" The little hybrid asked, four little hands held up to him, and how could Tommy resist? How could Tommy not help the kid when he knew what it was like to be him? To become so entranced with the first person to show him kindness that they become some sort of god.
He scooped the boy into his arms, the corners of his lips tugging up at the quiet giggle he let out. He made his way towards his little bathroom, the clothes he had grabbed tucked under an arm. The room wasn't anything special, just a tub, a toilet, a sink, and a small shower he managed to shove into the corner of the room, but it would do. (And, there were no mirrors, which made it the best bathroom on the whole server, in his opinion. He didn't like looking at himself. There were too many stark white scars marring his skin, and the faded blue of his eyes from his depleted eyesight always made him feel indescribably hollow.)
He turned the faucet on, wincing slightly at the loud crash of the water hitting the iron tub. He kept the boy on his hip, even while squatting down. The kid seemed too happy with the close contact to put him down. His eyes were squinted, like he'd never been more joyful, and he was nuzzling his shoulder like his life depended on it. He hated to admit that it made his heart melt. Even more so than when Micheal looked him in the eyes and called him "'Ommy!" in that high-pitched giggle of his.
It ended up being a bit of a struggle to get the kid undressed and into the warm water since he didn't want to let go of him, but in the end, he got him in. The little spider seemed to be in love with the warm water, too, trying to snuggle down into it, only to jump back up, sputtering, the little pincers that grew out of his cheeks wiggling in clear distress.
"Yeah, best not to do that, bud," he chuckled softly, gently dabbing his face with a dry cloth. "I'm gonna wash your hair, though. Okay?"
"'Kay, papa," the little hybrid giggled, red eyes wide, and Tommy froze.
Is this how Wilbur had felt? He was seventeen . He wasn't ready to have a child. (Completely ignoring the fact that his best friend and his idiot husband had one, also known as his nephew.)
The words "I'm not your papa," died on his tongue before they could reach the air.
He continued bathing the kid in silence, just letting the boy giggle and splash around happily. It was… strange, suddenly having a child much like himself in his care. To look at the little hybrid in his tub and know that he was the one responsible for him, now. The one to teach him the ways of the real world, just like Wilbur had done for him.
When he had deemed the kid clean enough, he patted him dry and haphazardly cut some holes for the boy's second pair of arms in the sweater.
"Arms up, bud," he prompted, the first time he had spoken since he'd been called papa. He dressed the kid quickly, doing his best to not accidentally pull on his fur. He’d have to shorten the sleeves for sure, but it would do for now.
"You hungry?" He asked softly, taking note of the way the sun was beginning to dip close to the horizon, showcased by the hint of yellow light seeping through the window on the far wall.
"Nutrition!" The kid nodded quickly, and he felt his heart break impossibly further. Remembered the time when he'd get so excited when it was 'sustenance time,' and how Wil had to tell him, again and again, that food was much more than just sustenance.
"It's a lot more than just nutrition, bubs," he found himself saying, only able to hear Wil's voice in his own.
The real issue at hand, though, was that he didn't think he had anything other than the meat he had stolen from somebody (he couldn't actually remember who) and a few aging carrots. It was hardly enough to feed himself, let alone a growing child. He'd have to make do, even if it meant he wouldn't be able to eat for a few days. (It's what Wil did for him, more often than not before they had gathered enough cash to buy a beat up little van that would end up as far more than that in their shared history.)
His kitchen was still in shambles, but he managed to light his stove for long enough, the kid still in his arms, resting on his hip, to cook the mutton he had in his freezer, and make sure anything deadly on the carrots had been burned off. It wasn't appetizing by any means, but even thirteen years free from that prison of a lab, he knew it was better than the protein pellets the hybrids were fed. (Because hybrids were always viewed as lesser. As if they weren't just as capable as their human peers, if not more so.)
He couldn't help but smile as he watched the little hybrid scarf it down even without a lick of seasoning. Even the way his pincers moved to draw food into his mouth that had canines longer than even his own was precious. The boy already had him wrapped around his claw-tipped finger, and he knew that he'd do anything for him.
Is this how Tubbo feels? How Wilbur felt when he found him?
"Done, papa!" The boy giggled, and Tommy just smiled and wiped his face down with the closest piece of cloth, removing all of the juices from the meat from his face. The kid sure was a messy eater, but he couldn't find it in his heart to be disgusted.
"Let's get to bed," he whispered (because he couldn't find it in himself to be anything but gentle) and the little hybrid just nodded, already making grabby hands at him.
When he settled them down in his nest in the space under his half-built roof, he couldn't help but feel whole. Feel complete. Couldn't help but feel that this was what he was meant to do. To free the kid from his past, just like he had been.
"'M papa's Shroud," the boy in his arms mumbled sleepily, and he couldn't help but hold him closer.
Yeah. His little Shroud.
He wouldn't end up like Wilbur. He promised himself that.
