Chapter Text
Michael is a piglin, which means he lets out soft murmuring snuffles when he eats carrots, and has floppy ears that lie flat when his fathers scratch at his fur. It means that his pale white eyes are easy to look at, and that his overalls have a little hole cut in the seat where his scrap of a tail sticks out. It means he has hooves that click on the varnished spruce floor of his attic-room, and it means he loves gold, golden hair and gold rings and totems with emerald eyes. And it means that someday he’ll be a hulking beast with leathery skin and tusks too tall to fit through doorways, and Tubbo will have to find out whether or not that still scares him.
Michael is a zombie, which means he died before he rose, which means he is scarred and marred and missing half his sight and a portion of his skull is air-exposed. It means that harming potions heal him, and that when his toddler gets sick, Ranboo mixes poison with syrup and puts it in a spoon. It means no matter how much they wash him he’ll always smell like rot.
Michael is tiny, which makes him vulnerable. This means that after Tommy dies, Tubbo doesn’t sleep for six straight days. When they trade the ghost in for Wilbur, Tubbo buys blackout curtains and draws them closed and sits with his family in the dark. Michael is too young to understand why his father is physically shaking. His night-vision is perfect. He oinks.
Michael is theirs, which means the survivor would die and the pacifist would kill for him.
Everything has changed.
Tubbo imagines his son in a public execution, trapped and shot dead, and is inconsolable. It’s hours before he can breathe enough to explain why he’s crying. What happened to me was wrong, he thinks, and the rug pulls out from under him. If it was so wrong, then why did it happen?
Ranboo can’t answer that question, but he holds his husband as he sobs and rubs his back and sheds a few tears of his own in sheer brutal empathy. “What if someone kills Michael?”
Ranboo blinks his multi-colored eyes in confusion. “Why would they do that?”
“They killed me.” Tubbo shrugs. “They’ll do it just ‘cause I love him. I’m not allowed to keep anything. If I say I love him he gets taken away from me.” He pauses. “I do love ‘im, though. And I love you. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m going to die soon.”
“What?” asks Ranboo, in just a whisper.
“I thought you should know, so you can get Michael used to it.”
“What the fuck.” His head is spinning.
“So I was thinking meatballs for dinner?”
***
Ranboo takes a long trip that night and returns with a shiny little doll. He pries open his husband’s fingers and presses the totem into his palm. Tubbo startles awake with a sleepy snort, recoiling into the headboard. “Sorry, I, I shouldn’t have--” He holds out his arm, not touching, but steady and within reach. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Tubbo rubs the film from his eyes and inspects the gift. “Oh, no,” he laughs, “I can’t keep this. I’m giving it to Michael.”
“He’s a baby,” Ranboo reminds him, “nobody wants to hurt him.” People want to hurt you, is the corollary he can’t bring himself to speak out loud.
“What if there’s a freak accident? Or what if Dream escapes?” His expression is flat. “Do you really think he’s above child murder?”
“Uh, I don’t -- I don’t…” the corners of his lips fall. “C’mere, let’s go check on him.”
Tubbo visibly relaxes at the sight of his son. He drops to his knees and cradles the little piglin against his neck, chin resting in his bristled pink fur. “...I don’t want to lose this,” he admits, “I’m scared to go away.”
“Then stay,” says Ranboo, as if it’s that easy. “Just don’t go. Please don’t go. Stay with me.”
“Okay,” he says softly, “okay, I’ll try my best.”
Tubbo never had a father, and now he is one. Maybe if his dad had been there, or any sort of parent, someone could have protected him. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. He forgives Wilbur. Really, really. He forgives everyone who has hurt him.
***
Tubbo has a bad dream. Most nights it’s just him, trapped and pinned down and torn apart, by swords, or fireworks, or wolves, and he’s used to that. He can handle it. But somehow it’s his baby, this time, being turned into ham. And Tubbo isn’t fast or strong or ready enough to save him.
When he wakes up, his face is soaking wet and his throat is torn and his heart flutters so fast it makes him dizzy. He can’t speak or move, and lies flat on his back, picking at his scars. He gulps and chokes. He cries even harder, his mouth is gummy with snot and it all tastes like salt. He compresses a pillow over his face and screams into the fabric. It is real, because it happened to him, and it could happen to Michael too, and moreover Tubbo himself has been brutalized and isn’t really okay with it anymore.
He wishes somebody could have loved him and kept him safe. Michael needs a thousand uncles and aunts who will watch over him no matter what and make sure he never goes to war. Tommy plans with him, and they decide that Captain Puffy will be the first person they try to trust.
“I have a kid,” he admits, struggling to keep his voice even.
She snorts, eyes narrowed. “You are a kid.”
“That’s not really true. Please don’t patronize me.” Kids don’t fight battles or lose lives or lead nations to ruin. Michael is little. Michael is different. For Tubbo’s son, everything has to be better than before. “He’s three years old and he lives in my attic. Promise you won’t let anyone hurt him.”
“I…” she gasps softly. “Oh my god, that’s just a little baby.”
“Yeah,” he half-smiles, “he is small.”
“I’ll help,” she swears, “but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
Tubbo bites his lip. “I’m scared.”
He notices a slight shift to her posture. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m scared.” His hands dig into the fabric of her armchair.
She taps at her wrist as if making a note. “How long have you noticed this?”
“I don’t know.” His throat feels tight, his eyes burn. He wants to cry and give up and run away home. He can’t take it back. His son needs to be safe. For Michael, he can do this. He can finally tell the truth. “It got worse when it got better. Does that make sense? Probably not.”
Puffy’s brow furrows, but there isn’t any judgement in her tone. “Can you tell me more about what you mean?”
“I was always okay, during the wars and shit, and when I had a job to do, and when I was getting hurt. But now I’m home and I can build and garden and play with Michael all day, but it sucks. I know that somebody will try to hurt him.”
“You know it?”
“I do not have anxiety. I outgrew that years ago. I’m being rational. You don’t know.” He hiccups. “They shot me.” I was just a kid and I was begging for help and I died. “You can’t let that happen to Michael.”
“Okay,” she says quickly, “I’ll help protect him, Tubbo, okay. And you, too.” She looks at him with wet eyes. “I’m sorry that you got hurt. The emotions that go along with it are complicated and tough, and I’m sorry for that too. But you’re doing the right thing. It’s very brave to ask for help.”
He’s sick of caring about right and brave. Tubbo is a father, and he feels too small. He won’t be enough all on his own. “Please just take care of him after I’m gone.”
“Tubbo.” She sounds disappointed and disgusted and heartbroken. “You aren’t going away. You’re not going anywhere.”
“No, promise. You have to promise.”
She opens her mouth, shuts it again, bows her head so that her curved horns graze his stubby ones. “On my life, I will keep every child safe.”
***
Puffy kneels in the corner of her office, chewing on her thumbnail as she transcribes careful notes and instructions. She feels confused and upset and hollow in her chest. Tubbo is not okay anymore, and maybe he never was in the first place. How is she supposed to fix it, if she’s been so oblivious? She is honored by his extension of trust, horrified by his fatalism and unshakeable caginess. This case is beyond her qualification, and strains the capacity of her heart. It hurts; she aches for him.
She wants to be his hero. She wants to make it all better.