Archive of Our Own

The sound of static fills the air around the bunker. It cuts through the silence and rings around in Tubbo’s head, causing a thrumming pressure to hammer in his temples. He ignores it, pressing on in hope of finally making contact with the others. He reaches for the switch and jumps into another channel, straining to hear something, anything other than the static. Though his hopes are quickly crushed when each channel he tries only yields more of the white noise. 

He gives up, unplugging the radio, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he spins his chair around to face the two stasis tanks that line the far wall. There is no need for artificial light down here, the two tanks that sit parallel to each other give off a soft blue glow, coating the whole room in an unnatural neon sheen. 

His gaze strays over to his left, where he can barely make out the colour of the wall. The entire thing is coated in sheets of paper, some crumpled, some neatly printed. Some full of doodles, sketches and designs, others full of messy scrawl and data he’s scavenged. Pinned up like butterflies on show, Tubbo feels pride flicker in his chest. 

That’s his work.

Stray wires line the tiled floor like coiled snakes, and the smell of saline chemicals is thick in the air.  Tubbo stands from his chair, hopping across and over to the tanks. His gaze flickers across the room, taking note of the paper-covered walls surrounding him. He tries to imagine what life was like before he was trapped down here. When he was able to walk outside without worry every second that something was going to tear his suit and allow the poisonous radiation to cradle his skin and infect his lungs. 

Tubbo tries to remember what life was like before Dream had released the nukes - his nukes - on their world, killing off most, if not all, of the people and animals that live on the server . He remembers the bright sun and the soft grass, the smell of home. He can faintly recall memories of chasing after bees in fields of flowers, laughter filling the air around him as he went. Memories of people talking and late nights with friends and family slip away like wind through the trees. 

He feels a pang of sadness leak through his heart as he tries to remember the last time he was able to laugh, or even talk to anyone other than the walls around him. He shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts of years past from his mind. Isolation clings to every fibre of his being.

“Focus Tubbo, you have to check on them,” He tells himself, voice crackling with disuse. Ever since the incident he's taken to talking out loud. It's either listen to himself or the soft buzz of the machineracy around him, and sometimes it's nice to pretend he's not alone down here. It helps him grapple with his remaining sanity. 

You won't be alone forever, soon they'll be ready and you'll finally have a friend again. He thinks as he walks closer to the two tanks. “Two friends, actually.”

An oxygen mask is strapped tightly across both of their mouths and noses. It connects to a long thin tube and up into the apparatus above the window viewing. Tubbo gets a thrill of adrenaline when he’s once again overcome with the fact that these two are alive and breathing. Soon they wouldn't even need the masks or the tanks. Soon they would be out in the open, and more importantly with him. 

Their faces are both blemish-free. Soft and smooth and free of any radiation burns like the one that scars the right side of Tubbo’s face in ugly discoloration, or in the way they maul his hands into numbness. 

They don’t know anything about the outside world, and he hopes they will never have to. He can't risk them being touched by the radiation that poisons the terrain above. 

Perfect. They’re both perfect, and he plans to keep them that way.

This is his fault, all his fault. And he’s going to fix it. Finally there will be some joy on this dreaded planet, some joy in his tiny steel box he calls home. 

He tilts his head upwards looking at the two figures hanging limp inside both tanks, strung up haphazardly like puppets. Tubbo turns to the one on the right. A boy, he knows. A halo of blond hair and a smattering of freckles across his face, Tubbo knows that too. Two arching wings protrude from his shoulder blades, cocooned around him. He knows they will be a mix of soft browns and blacks, the wings of a sparrow, when he is finally ready. Tubbos looks up at his face, it's serene in a way that only comes with unconsciousness. Code 7H3S3US. Tubbo hopes he will accept the name Tommy. 

Tubbo hesitantly brings his hand up, his breath quick and shallow, like if he moves too fast, the illusion will shatter. He taps gently on the glass. The boy gives a soft twitch, his head moving towards the sound. Tubbo’s eyes widen in fascination as the boy's fingers start to curl and uncurl moving towards the glass where Tubbos hand now rests. 

I can't believe this, it's finally time. A new feeling starts to brew in his chest, something he can vaguely remember from years past. It smulders deep in his chest, hot and bright, full of longing and new hope.

With that thought he turns to the second boy. His hands shake at his side as he takes in the other tank. 

Code R4N-800 , or as Tubbo plans for him, Ranboo is much different from his counterpart. The most striking thing about him (and Tubbo’s favourite) is the black and white skin. Porcelain down his right side, ebony down the other, swirled in the middle, across the bridge of his nose and down his neck. He easily towers over Tubbo, and has quite a few inches of height on Tommy too. He has his enderman side to thank for that. His enderman side also gifted him with dark eyelashes that cover a soon to be green and red eye, and ears that tip up into a point at the end.

Just like with Tommy he carefully brings one shaking hand up to the glass, giving a feather light tap to the surface. He scrubs furiously at his eyes as he finally properly registers that oh my fuck he moved. Tubbo can feel tears welling up when the taller boy’s ear twitches towards him, his body following the movement. His legs shift around a little and tubbo can feel the excitement growing inside of him.

With a newfound purpose Tubbo turns tail and heads out of the lab, giving the radio one last glare as he goes. The corridor is of silver steel. Cold to the touch and rather unwelcoming, but to him it's home. Soon he won't be the only one to call this place home, he can't help but think gleefully. 

He heads left, then right, down a staircase that leads to a lift, which he rides to the basement. It creaks and churns the whole way down. He can't help but tap his foot impatiently as he waits. When it finally stops the familiar silence of the bunker greets him. He long ago learned how to tune out the ever present buzz of the machinery that keeps this place running. All of the sounds blend together until it’s nothing but pure noise that hums at the back of his head, indistinguishable sounds. 

He steps out of the lift, his boots echoing as he starts to walk down the halls, his stride confident and a bit more fast paced than normal. The adrenaline rushing through his veins causes him to speed up a bit more with each step he takes. The fluorescent lights bathe the dark walkway in a sterile white glow.  Four, then he turns left, another seven, then he turns heads forward at a junction. He counts them as he passes to try and take his mind off of all the worries he has. 

They’re going to be fine Tubbo. They have made it this long, this should be the easiest part. Nothing to fret about. He tells himself to try and ease the worry settling in the back of his throat. 

With a haste that he hasn't felt in quite some time, he heads down a narrow passageway, and lands outside of the room he has allocated as his bedroom. Bedroom. The word jostles his memories of warm green walls and wooden floorboards, of soft yellow curtains and glow-in-the-dark stickers and toys and views of the fields. He shakes his head. Enough of all of that. The outside world is gone, and there’s no use reminiscing about it. It won’t change anything. It’s just a waste of energy, especially when he has much more important things to focus on.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Tubbo heads to his closet. He only locked down in the bunker with a couple of sweaters and a few pairs of pants. He stitched the rest himself, using the wool from the sheeps that he had taken in before the world went to shit. He fiercely hopes that it will be good enough for Tommy and Ranboo.

He fishes out two sweaters, one lavender and one yellow. Tubbo only wears thick coats and steel-capped boots now. Soft fabrics irritate his burns. He bundles them up in his arms, and grabs two pairs of sweatpants. His heart pounds so hard it rattles his ribcage, and Tubbo has to pause and take a steadying breath. He’s waited a long time. He can wait a little longer, just to make sure everything is perfect.

He then strides over to his bathroom and grabs a few towels, also adding them to the pile. He hopes that this’ll be enough, but the pair will probably be too out of it to care. Tubbo catches one glance of himself in the mirror in the bathroom, then looks away. His fringe is long enough to cover his eyes, and if he pulls up his mask, it’s almost hard to see the angry maroon scars that mar his face, turning one of his eyes a milky white. 

He hates it, he hates all of it. 

But maybe now he will hate it a little less.

Tubbo heads back down the corridor, worrying his lip between his teeth. He heads past the twin doors that are opposite his bedroom, and smiles. He’s had all of this ready for weeks now, he’s just been waiting for the perfect time. 

His feet are a flurry of movement, squeaking against the metal as he hurries back to the elevator. His head is reeling, and his pulse thrums impatiently in his head. It’s been so long since he last saw another person, heard another person, let alone spoken to one. The thought alone of holding a conversation has been keeping him going for so long. Laughter and quick wit and humour. Speaking about absolutely nothing for hours at a time, just because he can. Late night babbling and early morning giggles.

Tubbo’s breath hitches as he imagines having a hug. His skin aches at the ghost of touch down his arms, an arm over his shoulder, a pat on the back. He’s never been one that big on touch, now he aches for the feeling of another’s warmth. He just hopes the other two will crave it, even the slightest bit as much as him. 

Tubbo suddenly gets swept away by a  memory of him when he was maybe four or five, chasing after his father’s retreating pant leg through the living room. He had tripped whilst playing outside, and was horrified by how much it hurt him. 

He’d ran after his father’s pristinely ironed pant leg, big fat tears running down his cheeks, making a wobbly attempt to catch up to Schlatt and get his attention. He’d finally managed it -- one big swipe and he snagged the fabric, then catching his hand and opening his mouth to tell his father what had happened-

Schlatt had snatched away the fabric so fast that Tubbo had lost his balance and fell head-first into the carpet. He’d pried his pant leg from Tubbo’s tiny fist, examining it, then turning furiously to the little boy. 

“What did I say about not touching people?” He had hissed, before gathering himself up and striding away, leaving him confused and frightened and bleeding on the floor.

Even in childhood, Tubbo had been so lonely. But not anymore. All of that is over now. Tommy and Ranboo will love him, they have to. Tubbo doesn’t know what he’ll do if they don’t.

The air-con stutters for just a moment, but it’s enough to disrupt his chain of thought, and Tubbo shakes away the ideas like they are cobwebs, instead squirreling them away to the part of his mind where he keeps all of his memories of the past.

Muscle memory guides him back to the tanks, where he deposits the mass of fabrics onto the floor beside them. He stares up at Ranboo’s tranquil face, and steals himself. He scrunches his hands into fists as he hops over all of the discarded wires and cables.

Tommy, first, Tubbo decides. He was the first successful creation . It feels right. 

He takes a moment to watch him, floating peacefully in the blue stasis fluid before Tubbo turns to the station beside him and snaps on a pair of blue medical gloves. He then slides off his jacket, and instead shoulders his way into his lab coat. It’s a little big, falling to his knees, and Tubbo has to roll up his sleeves. However, at this moment, he can't find it in himself to care about anything other than the two boys in front of him. 

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he looks at the boys floating in front of him one last time. His mind is going a mile a minute thinking of all the things that could go wrong in the next couple of moments. What if they hate it here? What if they hate him? Or worst of all what if they don't make it out alive? Anxiety and nerves like he's never known before thrum under his skin in a steady rhythm. 

“It's time. Everything is going to be okay, you two, I promise no matter what I will take care of you,” Tubbo says, one hand resting against each tank. He turns around, his coat flying out behind him.

Tubbo holds his breath as he heads over to the keypad to the right of Tommy’s tank. His hand is wracked with tremors as he slowly clicks numbers into the set of buttons, a code he has memorised. He presses enter, and the whole tank hisses like some sort of creature come to life. A trail of bubbles escapes Tommy’s mouth. Tubbo has to act fast, now. His fingertips fly across the keypad and the tank groans again, a deep churning sound. 

Then, the front of the tank slides open. 

The fluid rushes out and floods the floor, soaking Tubbo’s pants, he hardly notices. Tommy topples forward, and Tubbo lunges forward to catch him. He’s limp in Tubbo’s arms, shuddering and trembling, and leaning into Tubbo’s warmth. The oxygen mask across the blonde's face goes slack and Tubbo relishes in the way he rips it off and throws it to the floor. 

Of course. He’s only in a hospital gown, and this entire bunker is freezing. Tubbo didn’t have the time to install much heating before the nuclear disaster, and he didn’t much feel like installing it after. He doesn’t really suppose he deserves the comfort of warmth, not after all he’s done. Now he wishes more than anything he had, not for himself but for the shaking figure in his arms.

He leans across and snatches a towel, before wrapping it tightly around the blond, careful of the wings shaking against his chest. He brushes damp golden curls out of the boy's face, a small smile gracing his features as he's finally able to take him in without the neon blue throwing his colors off.

“Tommy?” He asks softly, cradling his head to his chest. He brushes a hand through his damp hair hoping to bring some comfort to the shaking boy. “Tommy, can you hear me?” He asks in a voice soft as silk, dripping with new love and hope.

A shift in his expression. A furrow of his brow, Tubbo loses his breath. The boy mumbles something unintelligible, then his eyes flutter open. Pale opal meets dark bronze. 

This is it, Tubbo thinks distantly. 

It takes Tommy a few tries to finally grasp at how to speak. First, he opens his mouth, and nothing but a series of confused chirps follow, and he snaps it closed. A whine slips past his lips, then a few stressed noises, then, “Wha--?” Tommy croaks, cutting himself off with a cough. Tubbo wishes suddenly and with a firecness that tightens his chest, that he had brought some water. “Wha’ happ’n’d?”

Tubbo’s mouth goes dry. He’s waited a year for this moment. He’s gone over exactly what he will say, exactly what he will do, a thousand times, but now, in the thick of it, he’s lost for words. “Tommy,” he tries, “I-- you--”

Tommy clears his throat groggily and tries to prop himself up more. He glances around through half-lidded eyes. His expression is drawn into something sharp, something fearful. “Where am I?” He turns to look at Tubbo, trying to twist out of his grip, his wings shaking behind him, lightly slapping Tubbo’s chest. “Who’re you?”

“Shh, shh,” Tubbo soothes, anxiety pulsing like a drum under his skin. “It’s okay, it’s alright. You’re safe.”

Tommy is pale and small and ever-so weak. He collapses, exhausted, into Tubbo again, and rests his head against his chest. “Wha’s happen’ng? I don’t…” He slurs, then blinks hazily up at Tubbo. His hand drifts up and he curls a weak fist around the collar of Tubbo’s white jacket. “Do I know you?”

Not what Tubbo’s expecting, but he rolls with the punches. “Yeah,” the words taste like ash in his mouth. He feels awful about lying to him, but it’s not like Tubbo can just start sprouting about how he made Tommy in a lab. That would ruin everything before it could even begin.

A small, quiet part of Tubbo wants to lie just because he wants to keep Tommy close. If he tells him they’re already friends, he’s that much closer to real friendship.

“Yeah,” Tubbo says again, louder this time. “We were friends before all of this. There was an accident and you had this head injury and I had to keep you comatose until your body fully recovered.” Words, words, so many words, and none of them actually mean anything. Not to Tommy, by the blank look on his face, and certainly not to Tubbo.

Tommy blinks slowly, reaching out to trace the line of Tubbo’s jaw. “Your voice,” he mumbles. “I know it.”

Tubbo is confused, but he tries to not let it show. If he messes up now, if he hesitates or stumbles or slips up, he’ll cause doubt. And then Tommy might leave. He grits his teeth, presses through the anxiety that churns deep inside him. 

“You have amnesia, but that doesn’t mean you’ll forget everything, doofus,” he smiles on the outside, but his brain is running a thousand miles per minute. 

How does Tommy know his voice? Is it some sort of placebo effect, or perhaps did he know his voice from his semi-conscious state within the stasis? It doesn’t matter, not right now, anyway. “Like I said, we’re friends. Or, well, we were.” He shakes his head. “I’ll explain it all later.”

“Okay,” Tommy says slowly.

Tommy’s still wearing the drenched hospital gown, so Tubbo stumbles to the side and bundles up the sweater and the pants and hurries back. He sighs, the sound tickling at the insides of his throat, and offers the fabrics out to Tommy. His scrawny, pale arms seem to drown in the swaths, but Tommy blinks appreciatively anyway. 

Tubbo turns and looks away as he puts them on.

“Who’s tha’?” Tommy rasps.

Tubbo spares a quick glance back towards the tank, where Ranboo is still inside, bathed in soft blue light, his hair a wreath of monochrome swirling around his head. He hums non-committedly. “That’s Ranboo,” he’s sure that Tommy can hear the smile in his voice. “He got injured, just like you. I helped him too. Once I leave you to get settled in, I’ll wake him.”

“Ranboo,” Tommy murmurs under his breath, and warmth swells in Tubbo’s chest. “I’ve ‘eard tha’ name before.”

“That you have,” Tubbo replies vaguely, heart hammering. The words are pushed rather hastily from his chest, like he’s trying to pry a brick out of a wall. 

It takes a few minutes for Tommy to tug the clothes on. Maybe it’s because of his dazedness or maybe he’s just not used to his limbs just yet, but Tubbo doesn’t mind. He’s okay with waiting patiently and basking in the glory of the presence of another human. 

When Tubbo turns back, the yellow sweater is on the blonde boy, and seemingly swallows him whole. It should be the right size but Tommy just appears to be far too underweight to wear it properly. A frown makes its way across Tubbos features as he quickly starts to plan out all the things he will feed the younger boy to help him gain some weight. 

Even with his thoughts running wild, he manages to give Tommy a wide smile, helping him to his feet. He wobbles slightly, balancing his weight in case the other needs to slump against him. He wants to beam with pride, this is Tommy’s first time walking, ever. But Tommy doesn’t know that, and Tubbo can’t make a big deal about it so he forces himself to mask his utter delight into a quiet joy. 

Tommy offers Tubbo the barest hint of a smile back before taking his hand. Tubbo helps Tommy wrap an arm around him, before taking him through the bunker. Not his bunker, no, he doesn’t have anything that he can truly call his. He doesn’t even know if he deserves to call anything his. The bunker is just the bunker. It exists, Tubbo survives. Nothing more. He looks after it, though, so it doesn’t look abandoned, not in the slightest. He had to make sure the area was perfect for his new friends. 

The only sounds that can be heard over the grating machinery that hums in the background are the soft sounds of Tommy’s footsteps, the clacking of Tubbo’s boots and their identical sets of breathing. Tubbo revels in it. Finally there is another to fill the silence. Finally he has something to wake up and look forward to. Someone to protect and care for.

Tubbo watches as Tommy stares into the room, at the large bed and pale cream walls and dark spruce wardrobe. There are cobwebs in one corner and the bed has creases, and it’s nothing like Tubbo is used to, even after all this time. 

He’s used to the tick of the grandfather clock down the hall, the birds chirping, his mum singing soft lullabies with her hands threading his hair.

It feels worse than barren; hollow, like the inside of a long tunnel with no light at the end.

He can't help but think about how that will all change. Now that Tommy is here, and soon enough Ranboo, he won't be so lonely and everything won't feel as hollow as it once was. The loneliest that he once felt will soon be a sad memory, like the ones he has before the nukes struck.   

Behind Tommy, Tubbo worries his lower lip between his teeth, watching him watch the room. He’s spindly in the doorway, more a doll than a person - He's a person, as much as Tubbo is, even if he’s been built all weird, but that doesn’t matter - and dwarfed by the massive vault-like door, towel clutched tightly in one hand, knuckles white.

And his eyes, a child’s eyes, are tired, anxious, curious.

Tommy’s limbs tremble with exertion, and he doesn’t complain when Tubbo manually sits him on the bed. It’s a king size, and Tubbo brought him to his room instead of either that he prepared for the two. It feels more lived in, more natural to bring him here, like he’s welcoming Tommy into his home as his family and not as his guest. 

“Do you remember how to take a bath?” Tubbo asks, crouching down and clasping Tommy’s hand in his own. The blond nodes, almost imperceivable, and runs his hand over the soft cotton blanket, seemingly mesmerised by the texture. He curls further into it, sinking deeper into the mattress, a blank look on his face. Tubbo huffs out a laugh through his nose and heads for the bathroom. 

He sets out another towel, arranges and then rearranges all of the nice-smelling products. Bubble bath, shampoo, soap, face wash, some things that Tommy can’t know about, because Tubbo has never mentioned them. But the instructions are on the back, as well as the warning about the shampoo near the eyes. As the water thrums into the bath, Tubbo pops his head back around the door. Tommy has shifted into a cross-legged position, propped up by the pillows, and Tubbo’s heart melts a little at the sight.

“Don’t worry about uncorking the plug when you’re done,” Tubbo says. He can almost see the cogs spinning in Tommy’s maverick mind, piecing together the jigsaw that must be his thoughts, and he wonders what it’s like inside Tommy’s head. “I’ll deal with it later, you can just lay down if you want to, okay?”

Tommy blinks at him through his drying fringe. The shining, blond colour is more visible now, curling around his ears and atop his head, frizzy, like little strands of gold. Maybe that makes Tubbo Rumpelstiltskin, then. Weaving from straw to gold. Creating something out of nothing. He doesn't reply, and Tubbo perches lightly on the edge of the bed, brow dipped ever so slightly.

“Hey, Tommy, you okay?” he asks softly, prepared to move if Tommy needs more space.

“‘m fine,” Tommy mumbles, pushing himself on shaky arms to sit up properly. His wings flutter. They’re dryer now, have lightened to shades of russet and tawny, speckled brown spots splattered all over his primary feathers.

“No you’re not. I’ll be quiet if you need me to,” Tubbo says immediately, scooting back a little.

“’m fine, really Tubs’, I jus’- jus’ g’ve me a minute?” 

Tubs. Tubbo swallows down the lump in his throat. Tommy is perfect.

Tubbo nods and looks away from Tommy, knowing the younger boy - because he is younger, so, so much younger - will likely not relax if he feels there’s attention on him. It’s slow going, but Tubbo’s always been able to pick up on the small things, learn a bit about what makes people tick, and the proper responses. He’s just got to figure out Tommy’s.

He’s supposed to know, he’s Tommy’s best friend, he cares about him.

“I’m okay,” Tommy says after a few minutes. He rubs his eyes. His muscles are still tense, and it looks as though he’s run his hand through his hair a few times, but he does look better. “All of this--” he gestures around. “It's jus’ a lot t’deal with.” 

He’s pale, really pale. Tubbo wishes he could bring him up into the sun, get some tan across those placid cheeks. But he can’t, not with the radiation. Not with the nuclear waste. Not with any surviving people up there. He shakes the thought away. He can’t. It’s too risky. These two know so little of the world. They’re untouched by life’s scarring hands, and Tubbo intends to keep it that way. They’ll all stay together down here. Where it is safe and warm and Tubbo can protect them. 

“Sorry.” Is all he says, because how can he fit all of that into words?

Tommy murmurs, “Not your fault.” with a questioning glance his way. But it is his fault. Tubbo should be caring for him, comforting him, looking after him. What kind of awful friend is he if he makes Tommy uncomfortable? He panics internally. Is he too much? Is he too soft-spoken and overbearing? Is he not soft enough?

“Still.” Tubbo says weakly.

Tommy reaches out and grasps Tubbo’s hand in his own, clasping it tight in a comforting squeeze. His eyebrows raise a little, his lips quirk up. It’s hardly an expression at all, but it’s enough for Tubbo. He reaches out and ruffles Tommy’s hair, only a little grossed out when it comes back coated in blue slime. Tommy gives a tired giggle at the look on his face. 

“Go take a bath,'' Tubbo jokes, rising to his feet and smearing the fluid on his trousers. “You stink like stasis fluid.”

It's fun to watch the words click in place in his head, staring down at the residue blue on his skin, blinking slowly, owlishly. He pinches some between his fingers, then nods dutifully, and Tubbo fights back his smile, softly closing the door shut. 

He hurries back down the corridor, his heart soaring in his chest. This is the lightest he’s felt in, well, as long as he can remember. 

It’s all going so well, and he can hardly believe it. Tubbo had managed to half-convince himself that none of this was going to work, that he’s foolish and stupid if he think he can really create human life successfully, but he’s done it. All of those hours, all of those sleepless nights full of anxious isolation. It’s over. Tubbo has done it. 

The lift rumbles and rattles as Tubbo rides it down to the basement level, where his lab is. The tick-tick-tick of his watch leaps and rattles to the flutter of his nervous heartbeat, as Tubbo all but slams his keycard through all of the security passes and shoulders his way into his Lab. It’s been heavily fortified for good reason, Tubbo thinks. But now that his friends are awake, he won’t have to protect it as much. Still, better lock it all up. He can’t imagine what would happen if Tommy and Ranboo found this place. What would happen if they knew he lied to him. If they knew he created him.

The thought makes Tubbo pause, something slimy and cold building in the back of his throat. What would he do if they hated him? All of his work, all of this time? 

He couldn't hate them back, of course not. He picks at the hem of his coat nervously. 

They would have every right to be mad at Tubbo for lying, for keeping them down here, but Tubbo knows he loves them. Not in the sense of romance, or the way someone might love a pet, but honest, earnest affection. He’s hardly known Tommy, hardly shared more than a few sentences with him, but he already feels such potential for their friendship.

If they find out, they could leave him alone again. They would leave him alone again. 

Tubbo shakes his head and curls his hands into fists. He guesses he just can’t let them find out. Everything will be perfect as long as they don't know. 

The puddle at the edge of Tommy’s tank sloshes as Tubbo walks past it and towards the edge of Ranboo’s tank. He presses his hand to the glass and smiles. It’s all working out so well, and he couldn't be more pleased. 

This must be some epitome of human discovery, the next big advancement in medical practice and biological engineering. Tubbo should be taking notes or keeping an audio diary or writing out his chemical equations or somethin g but all he can think about is that this must look like some strange painting. The luminescent light-source, the angles of Tubbo's body, Ranboo’s obscured face and the strange collage of papers stapled to the wall behind him. 

More confident this time than he was with Tommy, Tubbo slides his keycard through the edge of the pad, then types in a series of sequences he’s had memorised for as long as these tanks have been around. Once again, the tank hisses like a rattlesnake. Tubbo winds up his sleeves until they’re rolled to the elbows, then takes a steadying breath and enters in another series of digits, his hand moving at muscle memory. He’s stood here so many times, imagined entering this very code in too many instances to count.

The whole tank gurgles, then once again, the front window slides back and all of the fluid inside comes rushing out, Ranboo with it. His skin is cold, and he is heavier than Tommy, Tubbo notes as the boy falls as limp as a doll into his arms. Tubbo stumbles back with the force of it, and gently as he can, lowers the boy to the floor. One hand under the small of his back, Tubbo pulls off the limp oxygen mask with ease, and tilts his head down.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

His heartbeat.

“Ranboo.” Tubbo maneuvers him so he’s leaning over the boy, and pokes him in his shoulder, more gently than he probably should if he’s trying to wake him up. “Ranboo.” he breathes.

He looks pretty out of it, even as Tubbo reaches over for a towel and bundles it around Ranboo’s shoulders and over his head. He’s gentle with him, even more so than he was with Tommy.

“Ranboo, can you hear me?” He asks softly. 

The boy’s ears twitch at the sound, his breathing ragged, and Tubbo thinks gravely that some stasis fluid might have gotten into his lungs. It won’t cause any damage, of course, but he worries that it’ll make Ranboo uncomfortable for a while.

Tubbo props him up so Ranboo’s back is pressed to his chest, as he rubs at his hair gently, trying to work some of his body’s seemingly unlimitless warmth into the enderman hybrid. Tubbo’s just glad that he made sure Ranboo isn’t allergic to water. 

“Ranboo?” He murmurs, hope sparking fiercely in his chest, just as fresh and light and blazing as it had been with Tommy. The thrill hasn’t lessened. The boy tilts his head at the sound, eyes still sealed shut like that of a baby animal of some kind. His neck rolls back into Tubbo as Tubbo himself notes that Ranboo’s pupils are narrowed to slits, cat-like.

His eyes - red and green, Tubbo knows - are oddly luminescent in the dark, like an animal's eyes when they catch torchlight. Tubbo thinks they seem to have the same quality as snow, reflecting light back so aggressively they almost glow. His hair does the same thing. His white colouring is so light he makes the slime that clings to it shine; clearly, unlike the black half of his hair.

Ranboo’s eyes land on him, and the effect is instantaneous. The boy throws himself, half-delirious, out of Tubbo’s grip with some sort of mangled cry. Before Tubbo can even react, a strange vwoop floods the air. And then Ranboo is a couple meters away, pressing himself into the corner, eyes blown wide. His legs scrabble to push himself back further, and he’s still shivering through the sodden hospital gown. 

Shit. Tubbo totally forgot about that part. The whole teleportation thing.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” He turns, with his hands up in mock-surrender, and curls in his shoulders. He tucks himself smaller and dips his head, trying to copy Ranboo’s body language. He tries to smile, despite the way it feels like someone is swinging a hammer around in his chest. “It’s alright, big man, you’re okay.”

Ranboo forces out a confused noise. It crackles in his throat, nothing like Tubbo has ever heard before.

“I know this is really scary,” Tubbo replies, “But I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll explain everything in a minute, alright?” It takes a beat, a stressed couple of moments, then Ranboo nods. Tubbo’s chest sings. “Can I touch you, Ranboo?”

A pause, then Ranboo nods again. Tubbo takes the opportunity to slowly - ever so slowly, if he’s too jagged or sharp then Ranboo will spook again, and such stress is not enjoyed by either party - grab the towel and the clothes he has left in a pile to the side. They’re both quiet as Tubbo rubs the towel at Ranboo’s scalp. Tubbo’s happy to stay that way. Speaking means he’ll mess up, speaking means he might make a mistake.

“Ran-boo?” The enderman hybrid croaks. His pronunciation is a little off. Ra-hn-boo. He sort of sounds American. Tubbo doesn’t have the heart to correct him. It’s sort of endearing.

“Yes, yes,” Tubbo praises warmly, drawing back the towel and blinking appreciatively down Ranboo's frizzy hair at him. He points to himself. “You’re Ranboo, I’m Tubbo.”

“Tuh-bo,” the name sounds foreign on his tongue. Ranboo wets his lips, blinking his bright eyes at Tubbo, he drapes the towel over Ranboo’s thin, trembling shoulders - he’s in need of a good, hearty meal, Tubbo thinks. He might even have to kill one of his livestock to really get some meat on Ranboo’s bones. He does have enough animals to spare one or two. He nudges the sweater into his lap. “Where are we?”

Tubbo’s smile becomes slightly strained. “We’re in a bunker. It was kind of, sort of, the end of the world. It’s too dangerous to go out there anymore, and you got injured,” he fumbles for the softest way to put things. 

He can’t just say: one of my nuclear missiles was stolen by one of my ‘friends’, who started a nuclear war and now it’s too poisoned to even go outside. Also, I designed your genomes and made you in a lab so I’m not as lonely as hell anymore, and kiss him on the forehead and send Ranboo up to bed. Tubbo has a little compassion, no matter how cold and dead his heart seems to be. “So, to keep you and Tommy safe, you’ve been in comatose until your body healed.”

It doesn’t look like much of that is actually getting processes behind Ranboo’s glassy eyes, but the boy nods, rather distantly, anyway. Blinking like he's trying to figure out what's going on but can't do it fast enough. It’s endearing to say the least. Tubbo leans forward and pats Ranboo’s knee.They both sort of jolt at the contact. Ranboo’s hands tighten around the sweater, and Tubbo pointenedly turns away. He hears the rustle of fabric and some sort of muttered, unintelligible complaint. 

After a few minutes of struggling as Tubbo tries not to laugh as Ranboo’s frustration gets more and more obvious, he makes a noise of satisfaction, and Tubbo turns back around.

“Come on, then, big man, let’s get you up.”

“‘M tired.” Ranboo says quietly, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves down over his fingertips.

“I know. Your body is trying to readjust to consciousness.” Not technically a lie, just that Ranboo had never been conscious in the first place. Tubbo brushes away his guilt. What Ranboo doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “A nap’ll do you good.”

“Al’ight.” 

Tubbo hooks both of his hands under Ranboo’s armpits and helps him shakily to his feet, before grabbing his hand. His skin feels like porcelain underneath Tubbo’s calloused palm, his own skin sort of feels waxy as he runs his ragged thumb across Ranboo’s unblemished knuckles. His knees knock together like he’s some sort of new-born animal. With his big eyes and nervous disposition, perhaps he’d be considered a baby stag. 

Or a giraffe, Tubbo thinks amusedly. Ranboo absolutely towers over him. But still, somehow, he seems smaller. Maybe it's the way he’s holding himself, or the way his gaze skits nervously about the room. Something of the sort. Tubbo purposefully starts guiding him out of the room before he can get a proper look at any of Tubbo’s work. He doesn’t think Ranboo would appreciate his genetic code splayed up on the wall. Like Tubbo’s trying to rub it in his face, you’re not a real person. I made you. 

But he is a real person. He’s one of Tubbo’s people, and Tubbo’s going to keep him safe no matter what it takes. 

He dismisses the abandoned radio when they pass the table. He has no need for it now. He has Tommy, he has Ranboo, he has his farms and his libraries and his animals. (and his nukes. The ones that Dream didn’t steal.) He doesn’t need anything else, and dismisses the small voice at the back of his mind that asks about what Tubbo wants, not what he needs.

Tommy doesn’t look much different from where he was sitting when Tubbo left. He sits in the middle of the bed, knees tucked up to his chin. Tubbo could think that he hasn’t moved since then, but the aroma of some floral shampoo permeates the room, and the bathroom door is sprung ajar, steam gently rolls out. 

He perks up when Tubbo enters, then his bright eyes, full of stars, fall on Ranboo. 

“I recognise you,” Tommy blurts as Tubbo manually maneuvers Ranboo onto the edge of the bed, and grabs one of the blankets discarded beside him, pulling it around his shoulders. Ranboo watches Tommy, almost nervous, but the tremor in his shoulder blades has loosened. 

“I reco’nise you, too,” Ranboo murmurs. 

Tommy sticks out his hand, and gives him a weak high-five. “We’re fuckin’ tank buddies.”

Tubbo smiles, and ruffles Ranboo’s hair. It’s also coated in slime, but consciousness seems to be taking more out of Ranboo - probably due to him teleporting - than it did Tommy, so that’s a problem Tubbo can starve off for a little longer. 

Instead, he just lays out the towel on one of the pillows and gently pushes Ranboo onto the bed, drawing the covers up to his chin. Something hot and full of longing hums, awake, in his chest. Tubbo’s going to look after these two. He’s going to look after them because no one looked after Tubbo. 

Tommy seems to get the memo, as he stifles a jaw-breaking yawn himself, and settles down in the covers beside Ranboo, but leaves a sizable distance between them. Tommy presses his face into the pillow, like he’s trying to burrow away.

“Smells like you,” Tommy hums. “Pine trees.”

“Thanks.” Tubbo deadpans, then hesitates. He wringes out his hands and glances towards the door. “You must be tired. Should I leave?” He shouldn't be showing this much vulnerability already. He’s the one that should be helping them, not the other way around. He can’t show them how weak he is, how weak he’s been.

But neither seem to pick up on his anxiety, even Ranboo has relaxed and sunk into the mattress. He offers Tubbo a sleepy, lopsided grin. “Stay,” he mumbles into the blankets . 

Tubbo huffs, and dutifully settles himself down on the floor beside the bed. His smile is so broad it hurts his cheeks.

Tommy. Tommy. His name is Tommy.

He’s been chanting it over and over again to himself for as long as he can remember being here – since Tubbo rescued him from that - had Tubbo called it a stasis tank? He’s not quite sure. He can still remember his chest stuttering as he took a breath for the first time, every word, his warm touch. He hates, hates, that tank, and yet Tommy understands that it was for the best. 

His own safety, Tubbo says. He had a head wound. Without it, he would have died. At least he understands that. 

Maybe he’s being ungrateful, but that feeling of unconsciousness and being submerged shoulders it’s way into the back of his mind. An ocean that had sucked him into it's cold and never-ending depth. He hadn’t realised how much he loathed it until he had returned to consciousness, cradled in Tubbo’s arms. Tommy hates it. He hates that he doesn’t know how long he’s been in that damned tank. He hates the weakness that clings to his limbs and the way his mind feels murky and stuffed with cotton.  

(He hates that he doesn’t know who he is.)

Tommy lays on the bed, sunk deep into the mattress, legs tucked up to his chest and eyes squeezed shut, curled into a ball as though that will bring sleep down on him. He’s been bed-ridden for a couple of days, sinking in and out of consciousness as he tries desperately to conserve and store the energy he needs. Tubbo comes in, sometimes when he’s awake, mostly not, with bowls of soup and sweet jelly and soft bread. 

He didn’t open his eyes a lot when he was in that tank. The blue liquid stung his eyes whenever he had tried to pry them open. He never really found strength in its murky depths. Everything before falling into Tubbo’s arms is cloudy in his mind at best, but he knows he had been semi-awake for a while inside, and if he tries to go any further back than that, Tommy is met with a black brick wall. He can’t go past it, can’t go through it, like all of his memories have been sucked into a blackhole. 

He’s met with blankness anytime he tries to search further. 

Best to keep his eyes shut for now. 

He stretches out across the bed, his hands searching through the thick blanket before he reaches something warm, and his arm retreats back to his side. Ranboo? He cracks his eyes open a little. He can see tufts of black and white burrowed underneath the white sheets, accompanied with the light, wheezing breath that rattles in his chest, and Tommy tries to imagine knowing him before all of this. In a supermarket, in a park, in a school. Knowing his face in a way that's more than just some vague sense of affinity. He wants to look at Ranboo and Tubbo and see more than some distorted familiarity.

Tommy props himself up in bed, on shaky arms, groggily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His eyes snag on a brown head of hair that cuts through the pale sheets. On the floor, leant against the bed, shoulders curled in on themselves. His head is tilted away, so his neck is on show. 

The skin there is darker than it is everywhere else, mottled and at some point must have been painful burns, but have now mellowed into a splotchy shade still darker than his skin tone, has gone smooth and shiny and pale with time. It crawls up into his cheek and down across his collarbone.

Tommy takes a breath and slips out of bed. The floorboards are cold, pressed into the balls of his feet, and he pulls down the sleeves of his sweatshirt as goosebumps prickle down his arms. Ranboo is still buried deep within the bed. He aches to climb back into the bed and sleep away the heavy-set ache in his bones, but his curiosity is stronger.

He heads towards the doorway, only to pause when he hears some stirring behind him. Tubbo sits up, dragging a hand across his face like he’s trying to scrape away his sleepiness. 

Tommy watches the way his eyes trace the room, his arm drawing its way across his bed. He looks across at Ranboo, then up towards Tommy, who stands a few feet from the bed, and shoots up.

“Tommy! I didn’t expect you to be up so early!”

Tommy can feel the heat radiating in his cheeks, it’s just his luck that Tubbo would notice. He starts to stutter out some sort of explanation but he looks over to see that Tubbo is actually smiling. His stomach gurgles deep in his stomach, and Tommy looks on helplessly. 

“I- well, y’know…” 

His tongue feels strange in his mouth, too big and too clumsy, like he’s not able to enunciate anything properly. Which is strange, because Tommy knows how to speak. He knows that he’s spoken before, just that he doesn’t know who or what he has ever spoken about. It must be muscle memory at this point, because his voice is all raspy from disuse. 

Tubbo comes forward and brushes a hand down Tommy’s arm. It leaves this weird, almost painful tingle on his skin, like the shock of electricity. It’s like his nerves are reacting to touch for the first time all over again, this new, forgein experience. Which is fucking dumb. He’s just been in one of those tanks for ages, right?

Tubbo holds him tightly, Tommy notices, and touches him so delicately, like he thinks that Tommy is some sort of china that will shatter under the lightest of handling. 

It’s probably just because he’s been alone for a while, Tommy decides. Tubbo is probably just a touchy-person, getting used to being in contact again. Nothing more. Clingy, he can't help but think.

He tilts his head to the side. “Hungry?”

Tommy grins. “I could eat a horse.” If there are any still left alive. 

Tubbo casts one final glance back at Ranboo. He tells Tommy that he’ll probably be asleep for a few more hours, and that he didn’t expect Tommy to be up so early. “I’m just built different, big-man,” Tommy had proclaimed upon the query. “When my beast of a stomach rumbles nothing gets in my way!”  Tubbo leads him down the steel corridors, the pads of their feet echoing with every step, synchronized. 

Tommy gazes around, peers at his stretched, distorted reflection in the walls. “How long have you been down here?” He asks, and Tubbo shoots him a questioning glance. “This place is pretty big. Did you build it yourself?”

Tubbo’s eyes darken. “I had help,” he says softly. “From someone I should not have asked help from.”

Ominous as hell. Tommy has the sudden feeling that he’s said something horribly wrong, like he’s stepped clumsily onto some sort of fragile glass that’s begun to dig its shards into his feet. “Do they live here too?” he asks, confused. “Or is it just us?”

“Just us.” Tubbo confirms quietly,with some sort of emotion Tommy can’t quite place rich in his voice. Tommy doesn’t know why, but he feels a little guilty.

They make it to the elevator, and Tubbo is smiling again. He’s been smiling a lot, but he doesn’t have any crows' feet crinkling around his dark blue eyes or smile lines that crease his cheeks. He hasn’t been smiling a lot for a long while, then. Tommy studies his own gaunt, pale face within the reflection of the keypad. Bare and soft and scarless. He sort of wishes he had some sort of scar, some sort of acne or blemish or anything that tells him about his past. But there’s nothing.

Tubbo presses the button for the floor just below this one. An automated voice, that sounds a little like Tubbo’s, calls about going to level five.

“What’s on each floor?” Tommy says, shooting Tubbo a nervous grin. 

Tubbo hums, tucks his hands behind his back. “Most of them are storage, though level six is where my farm is. Level seven is mostly medical, eight is where the air conditioning and the waste systems are stored, so there’s not much down there. The top floors are mostly for fortification, so don’t go up there.” His shoulders rise a little, he watches warily, like he’s waiting for Tommy to object, but he doesn’t.

“Okay.” Tommy shrugs. It seems fair enough. This is Tubbo’s bunker, after all. Privacy is privacy, and storage sounds boring as fuck anyway. He then smiles. “And where are the kitchens?”

Tubbo’s grin is just as excited. “With the livestock, of course.” 

Tommy gapes at him. “You eat meat in front of the animals?” He demands, “Cruel motherfucker.”

Tubbo laughs. “No -- that would be funny though. The produce they make whilst they’re still alive - like milk and wool - are too important for me to kill them, despite how much I’ve missed eating steak.” 

Tommy wrinkles his nose. He isn’t quite sure what exactly a steak is, but it doesn’t sound appetizing in the slightest. Even so, he brushes the thought away for something much more important. Tubbo has cows.

Tubbo has cows.

As soon as the elevator chimes with a ding, and the doors open, Tommy is speeding off into the hallway. He spins back to Tubbo after a moment of processing. “Can I see your cows?” He practically begs, followed by a hurried procession of please-please-please.

Tubbo rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Only if you promise to eat breakfast first. You must be starving.”

Tommy sighs. “Fine. But I’m not eating any of your steak -- it sounds gross.”

Tubbo just laughs, and leads him through a fairly simple succession of hallways and into what appears to be a large kitchen. With pale, marble cupboards and a large island counter in the middle, circled on every side by the kitchen top, a pale green. 

Tommy has never seen anything like it before, but it somehow seems familiar, like he can forget he’s in a bunker altogether, despite the lack of windows. It’s homely and clean and warm, so juxtaposed with the rest of the bunker.

Tubbo hums to himself and turns towards the oven and the fridge, busying himself with the crackle of china and cutlery and the gentle whir of the oven. Tommy’s attention is snagged by the fridge. It’s decorated, head to toe, in pictures and drawings and slips of paper that have things manually printed into them. 

Most of the pictures are of Tubbo himself, Tommy notices. Sometimes his head is hardly in frame - taking a selfie of something or over and prioritising the background over actually being in it. In some of them, he looks very young, maybe seven or eight in one, others he looks older, standing beside these grandiose buildings and pretty landscapes. There’s this one where he’s pressed against a tall, smiling lady who’s crouched beside him. They’re both smiling widely, cheeks squished together. It brings a smile to his face.

In another, it’s the lady again, this time clad in a floor length white dress and standing beside a slightly shorter man in a black suit, with brown hair and sideburns and two curling horns protruding from his mop of hair. There is a baby held tight between them, bundled up in cream fabric. It’s a sunny day, they’re both squinting but smiling so broadly in front of a tree that’s decked out in pink petals that creates a swathing sea around them. 

“That’s my mum and dad on their wedding day,” Tommy jolts, not even having noticed as Tubbo had crept up behind him. His face looks blank, but there’s something behind that mask that Tommy vaguely recognises, some sort of deep melancholy hammed into the crevices of his face. “That little kid is me, there.” He points at the baby held between them, then points to another photo, this one of the same man in the wedding photo, Tubbo’s father.

 He’s turned away from the camera, on what appears to be a boat of some kind. He’s obviously been caught by surprise, as his face. Slightly turned away, is shocked, but not negatively so. It;s also a sunny day, he’s wearing a cap, and a shirt that Tommy is pretty sure he’s seen in Tubbo’s closet before.

“This one is also of my dad. ...He was nice, y’know, before mum died? Then everything went to shit for me, before everything went to shit for everyone else.” He snorts, but there’s no humour in his tone, and Tommy’s heart softens with sympathy.

“I’m sorry.” Tommy says, for lack of anything else. “That sounds fucked up.”

Tubbo clears his throat awkwardly, ducks his head so his fringe flops into his eyes. He turns back to the stove. “It happens. Others had it worse.”

“What about me?” Tommy hears himself say, desperately, before he can stop himself. “Do you know if I have any family? Do you have any memoirs of them-- did I have anything on me, y’know, when you found me?” 

Tubbo freezes.

 There’s a beat. 

Tommy holds his breath.

Then, Tubbo says, “No, you didn’t. I found you at my door, half dead. I had to burn all of your clothes and stuff because of the uranium poisoning,” the coldness of his tone makes Tommy flinch a little in surprise. Tubbo doesn’t look at him, studies the shiny floor. “And if you did have a family, you probably don’t anymore.”

Oh.

“Oh.” Tommy says softly, then hesitates. “That’s okay, I don’t mind.” He does mind, obviously, a little bit, but it’s just that he doesn’t know anything about anyone. It’s not like he knows his family’s faces or likes or dislikes or the way to interact with them. He knows nothing about his childhood, about the way he was raised, he knows nothing about himself. Not his last name, not his first name, not his allergies. Nothing.

Finding out they’re probably dead doesn’t invoke the sort of gut-wrenching emotions out of him that maybe it should. Tommy sort of knew, before Tubbo said it outright, that he hasn’t got any family. It wasn’t hard to guess that they’re not here, especially because Tubbo hadn’t brought up contacting them or anything. They probably thought Tommy died. 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, Tubbo gives it a squeeze, his face soft and kind and sort of guilty. “You can’t change how you feel,” he replies. “I’m sorry there isn’t more I could do.”

“It’s alright.” Tommy quirks his lips. It probably looks more like a grimace than a smile. “Not everyone has a radiation-proof bunker, right?” 

An eye for an eye, he thinks. 

Well-being in exchange for solitude.

But it’s not solitude, Tommy reprimands himself. He has Ranboo and Tubbo and Tubbo’s cows. He doesn’t know anything but this world, so he has no room to complain. 

---

“Tommy?” Tubbo’s small voice calls out to him that night when he limps past Tubbo’s room to go to the showers - he prefers them to the bath; it reminds him too much of the stasis tanks. Too all-encompassing and cold and consuming. The voice is weak, barely there, and Tommy is the only one to blame for overhearing it, really. “Is that you?”

The door is ajar so Tommy pushes it open; the dim light of the hallway illuminates Tubbo propped up in his bed, staring at the doorway. “What is it, Tubs?” he asks, willing to keep his own voice from breaking. He hasn’t seen Tubbo this vulnerable before, his voice weak, face pale. He might be coming down with a fever.

Tubbo is silent for a few seconds, and Tommy almost thinks that he’s fallen asleep when he speaks up again. “Can you stay here? Just for tonight?”

Tommy almost wants to say no. He isn’t worthy of that touch, that comfort.

But Tubbo’s voice is so uncharacteristically earnest, so small, so scared that Tommy can’t help but move towards the bed until he’s standing next to it. “Move over,” he sighs, and Tubbo does so gladly, even lifting the blanket so Tommy can slip beneath it.

It’s surprisingly warm, he thinks, even as Tubbo presses his icy toes against Tommy’s shins and nuzzles his head into his side, wrapping his arms around the blond. From this close, Tubbo can probably hear his irregular heartbeat, and it’s small stutters here and there, and he presses his cheek against the top of Tubbo’s head, even if his hair tickles his chin.

It’s silent again, but Tubbo’s breath is still short, and Tommy knows he hasn’t fallen asleep just yet. So, he waits.

“You won’t ever leave, right?” Tubbo asks after a few minutes of quiet, his hands hot and feverish against Tommy’s palms.

Tommy frowns, a little confused. “Of course not. I won’t ever leave you.” Tubbo must be tired from looking after them for so long, a little hysterical, a little delusional. Best to indulge him in what he wants.

Tubbo hums at that, contentedly, giggling a little when Tommy hugs him tighter. (He doesn’t notice Tubbo’s tear-streaked cheeks, doesn’t feel his wet face against his neck, doesn’t notice his silent sobs because Tubbo has become so, so good at crying in silence after mum had died; dad didn’t like to worry about him, too), so he just pats Tubbo’s hand.

“Night,” he whispers, closing his eyes at last.

Tommy only settles after he’s sure that Tubbo is fast asleep, drawing the blanket tighter around them both.

---

It is a dinner fit for kings. Tubbo looks proud as hell as he dishes out the plates full of steaming broccoli and asparagus and creamy mashed potato and--

“Where did you get these?” Tommy asks, testing the waters with his light tone. He gestures towards the bowl full of almond nuts sitting in the middle of the table. “I didn’t see any plants for these when we visited your gardens,” he tries to keep his voice as unaccusing as possible, but Tubbo still tenses.

“I got them from the outside.” Tubbo says defensively after a minute of quiet contemplation, wringing his hands out.

It takes a few heartbeats for the words to process.

Ranboo drops his fork, it hits the plate with a clatter and Tommy just gapes at him.

“You go outside?” He demands, bracing his hands against the edge of the table. “I thought it was-- like-- deadly and shit.”

Tubbo looks sort of torn. “...It is where we are,” He explains eventually. “This bunker is in some of the most toxic radiation as we’re so close to where the bomb dropped. But I have a hazmat suit, and things need replacing eventually. Clothes, medical supplies, non-perishable foods. They all get decontaminated before we use them, though, so don’t worry.” 

Tommy wants to scoff, like that’s the part he’s worried about.

“You said that no one goes outside.” Ranboo says quietly, staring stonily down at his food as the steam curls up and into his face. Tommy pushes his own plate away, suddenly finding it rather unappetizing. 

“You can’t.” Tubbo replies quickly, curling his hand around his fork so tightly his knuckles go white.

“Why not?” Tommy demands hotly, Ranboo shuffling nervously at his side. 

“It’s too dangerous.” Tubbo frowns, looks conflicted and a little hurt. “You don’t know how to handle yourselves out there. I don’t know what I’d do if either of you got hurt.”

“We’re not like little kids, Tubbo! Teach us, and we’ll learn!”

Tubbo’s face turns from stricken to stone in less time than it would take Tommy to blink, and something horrible crawls up him like ants and wiggles its way under his skin, fiery. “I said no, Tommy!”

“But--”

Tubbo slams his hands onto the table, making the cutlery rattle like bones, and stands up. When he turns to face Tommy, his stormy eyes are burning. “Do you know the difference between something that has rotted and something that is infested with radiation? Do you know what a body mauled by nuclear waste looks like? Do you know how to adjust the oxygen tank in your suit in case you’re running low? Do you know how to tell when you’re running low on oxygen?”

Tommy stays quiet, and Tubbo seizes the opportunity with both hands. “You don’t know anything, Tommy! So pardon me for thinking that it’ll be a little risky to let you go out there! It’s stupidly dangerous and I won’t take risks-- won’t let you take risks like that.” His shoulders sag, “I’m trying to protect you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Tubbo is disappointed, he can see that clear as day, and it’s best not to aggravate him any further. Tommy  watches as Tubbo runs a hand through his already tousled hair before he sighs and kneels in front of Tommy, taking his hand in his. 

They’re so warm. Not like Tommy’s.

“Tommy, I’m not angry—well, maybe a little,” he adds sheepishly when he notices the disbelieving look in Tommy’s eyes, “but I need you to understand that you’re both… not like everyone else. I can’t let you two go out there, and-”

“Is it because of the amnesia?” Tommy interrupts the brunette, watching him freeze in place.

Tubbo sighs again, but he doesn’t draw his hands back. “...Yes,” he finally says.

“What about when we get well? When we get our memories back?” Tommy exchanges a nervous glance with Ranboo, whose ears are pinned back against the sides of his head, multichromed eyes blinking back and forth between the two. Those words sink heavy into the air around them.

Tubbo’s voice is as soft as silk when he finally speaks again.  “I don’t think you ever will, Tommy.”

It feels like frost gnawing at his heart, a shattering weight that has slammed into his chest, a little rat that’s digging away at his ribs, trying to bury it’s way into his chest. Little pinpricks of ice. Dig, dig, dig. Knowing that he will perhaps always be as sickly, as weak as he is now. That he will always be chained to this house, it can hardly process. Nothing will change. 

But, even so, isn’t that a better alternative than dying out in the wasteland up above them, isn’t that better than watching his lips turn blue as he hugs himself tight, hoping that whatever little heat he can offer will be enough to keep him alive, isn’t that better than the slow, painful death of feeling his body give out to the radiation sickness, and experiencing every single moment of that pain?

This is better. He tells himself firmly, shooing all of those terrifying thoughts from his mind. Safety in return for solitude.

He nods, gnawing on his lower lip until he can taste copper on his tongue, wings twitching and flattening behind him. “I won’t do it again,” he promises, and Tubbo looks relieved as he hugs him tight.

Tommy doesn’t bring it up again.

---

The table is cold. Tommy tries not to shiver as he wraps his wings around his arms and bare chest. A hiss of breath slips past his teeth when Tubbo presses a cold stethoscope to the small of his back, between his shoulder blades, is the only indication of his discomfort. There is a quiet, as Tubbo listens to the thud of his heart.

“Tubs, I’m fine.” Tommy complains. “It’s not getting any worse. I still know my own name, yeah?” He jokes weakly.

They do this every couple of days and Tommy is sick and tired of it. It’s not like he has a terminal illness, it’s not like he’s dying . In any case, he’s getting better, so he doesn’t know why Tubbo is so obsessed with taking readings of all of his insides and measuring his limbs and extracting blood and all that shit that sort of hurts in a detached, cold sort of way . 

Tubbo doesn’t respond, instead removing the cold patch of metal from Tommy’s skin, and moves to the side. Tommy doesn’t like the medical centre. It’s all too creepy, too hollow. It reminds him that he’s stuck underground. When the truth isn’t smothered by soft blankets and lights, he decides he doesn’t like the bunker very much. Something is distinctly off about it. Something that he can’t quite place.

Tubbo grabs his arm and gently pries the IV from the inside of his elbow, cold and sharp against the smooth of his skin. Tommy tries to meet Tubbo’s gaze, but he turns away, eyes narrow and serious.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Really. This isn’t necessary.”

“I’ve got to check that the stasis tank did everything it was supposed to.” Tubbo replies. “Can’t have you going around with some serious internal bleeding, now, can I?”

“I think I would know if I had internal bleeding, y’know.” Tommy snaps defensively. Tubbo gives him a look, arching his eyebrows. Tommy dips his head, cheeks hot. “Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to stop his wings from shaking as he holds the crux of his elbow close to him. “I just don’t like it. It’s too much like the stasis.”

Tubbo’s expression softens. “No; I’m sorry. I hate to do this as much as you hate having it done, but I have to. Next time,” he says as he pulls the vial of blood he extracted from Tommy and tucks it into the pocket of his jacket. He doesn’t wear it often, only when he’s doing the tests. “Why don’t you and Ranboo do this at the same time? Would that help?”

Tommy nods defeatedly. “And I want a blanket.”

“And you can get a blanket,” Tubbo confirms with a smile.

---

The next day, Tommy finds that Tubbo has a garden, and he likes it alot. He’s even allowed to bring one of the cows (proudly named Henry, of course) into it, where the animal is quite happy to munch away at the grass. The blades of it tickle his feet, soft and a little bit wet from the sprinklers that Tubbo had set off previously. 

Some sort of quiet, humming tune sings from the jukebox Tubbo had set off for them, and Tommy is content to hypnotically watch the disc inside spin around and around.

Ranboo is leant against Henry beside him, humming away, off-beat and flat but pleasant nonetheless, legs splayed out in front of him. It’s taken him a little while longer for him to relearn how to walk, but Tommy doesn’t mind. When Tubbo isn’t looking, the two race down the slippery corridors in the wheelchair, shrieking and giggling and grinning like madmen, pretending they’re on one of those roll-er-coast-ers Ranboo had seen in a book.

 Tommy is positive that Tubbo would have an aneurysm if he found out. 

Tubbo’s garden is a garden of the gods; trees with fruits that dazzle like rubies, trees with lapis lazuli flowers, bushes that dangle gigantic coral clusters of tight-budded flowers like dates. Everywhere, sparkling on all branches are what seem to be enormous jewels: emeralds, sapphires, hematite, diamonds, carnelians, pearls.

A garden that is as beautiful as Tommy’s ever seen. If he focuses on the plant life, he can forget about the fact that the walls and ceiling are painted a mocking blue of the sky, clouds and all, and that there is something not quite right about the lighting above them; too bright, too fake.

(Tommy doesn’t mind. He’s never seen the sun, so he doesn’t know any better.)

Tubbo sits, a book of some sort balanced between his fingers and leisurely watching the rock garden as it is in full bloom. A small butterfly, pale in colour, hovers just above the collection of flowers that Tommy is sitting beside, and he watches it with narrowed eyes. “Look at you, you’re just a parasite in this garden.”

Tommy grins, “Oi, that’s just a butterfly, Tubs.” There’s a bunch of them in Tubbo’s farms, as well as bees and bugs and shit. Tubbo says they’re good for pollination, but Tommy just suspects he sort of likes them. He’s very soft-spoken and gentle with the bees when he thinks Tommy isn’t looking, it’s endearing.

“An intruder,” Tubbo corrects him as he shifts and unceremoniously plops down beside the blond, “or, perhaps, just another foolish trespasser.”

“Or, y’know, a butterfly.” Ranboo has brought a glass of water with him, taking a sip and eyeing him as a playful scowl settles on Tubbo’s face. 

Tubbo hums, letting his gaze wander across the garden as well. “It’s coming along nicely, don’t you think?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says, though his heart is not in it. “It could use some more… pizazz though.”

Ranboo’s eyes don’t leave the butterfly, and Tommy watches him watch it as it flutters and dances in among the foliage. “Care to elaborate?”

“Less rocks and more actual fun stuff? Maybe we could get a waterslide or some shit.”

Tubbo laughs quietly. “I like the garden as it is.”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Then you have shit taste.”

“Okay-y,” Tubbo draws out the word, turns to look at him, and Tommy thinks this is the lightest and brightest he’s ever seen his eyes. Playful, crinkling at the sides. He looks happy. Tommy finds himself grinning back. “Maybe not the waterslide, but if I let you add add any flowers, which ones would you get?”

Tommy opens his mouth, falters, then crosses his arms defensively over his chest. “Well, I don’t know any flowers, now do I?” He replies hotly, cheeks flamed a humiliated red.

Tubbo looks down at the book in his lap, then pushes it into Tommy with a satisfied noise. “Here.” He says. “There’s a bit on plants and stuff in this, if you want it.”

“Biology?” Tommy reads, his finger coming down to trace the head, emblazoned in bold. 

Tubbo smiles. “In French, it translates to ‘l’étude de la vie et de la terre’. The study of life and the earth. It has a bunch on gardening and plant-life, if you want to check it out,” he hesitates, then his smile drops into a crestfallen expression, “If you don’t want it, that’s fine, I understand--”

“No!” Tommy draws it close to his chest, huffing. “No. It’s mine now.”

Ranboo just snorts. “I didn’t know you could speak French.” He holds out a finger and the butterfly lands on the tip. 

Tubbo shrugs, ducking his head so his fringe falls into his eyes. He’s still smiling, though. “I’m afraid there's lots of things you don’t know about me, boss-man.”

Later that day, Ranboo and Tommy are sitting in the middle of the long grass that has been flattened around them. Tommy is curled into Henry, using the cow as a makeshift pillow as Ranboo himself lays on Tommy’s lap. The lights are dimmed, some attempt at copying the normal cycle of the sun. Tommy sort of likes it dark. The fluorescents sort of begin to hurt his eyes after a while, and the rocks situated around the edges of the room glow in the half-light.

It’s peaceful.

There’s a crown of dandelions resting on Tommy’s head, one that Ranboo had made for him (he had said something about copying one of the patterns he had seen in one of Tubbo’s books on knitting, and Tommy had decided he couldn’t be that bad after all) and Tommy pushes it up when it falls into his eyes, clutching the single dandelion in his hand tighter.

Ranboo has one as well, absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers as he stares ahead; there are no clouds in sight, nothing but the blank, blue walls. Tommy raises the dandelion to his face, blowing softly and watching as its seeds scatter with the wind. Next to him, Ranboo hums.

“When you blow one of these, you’re supposed to make a wish for something.” Tubbo says, cracking open one eye and gazing at the pair from where he’s sprawled out on the floor, half hidden by the grass.

“What’d you wish for?” Ranboo asks excitedly, eyes twinkling like the stars.

This time, Tommy humours him. He props his arm up on the ground, resting his chin on his palm. He can hear the heavy, chuffing breaths that Henry takes, his whole body rising and falling. “That every day could be like this.” He doesn’t miss Tubbo’s pleased smile.

It’s silent for a few seconds before Ranboo raises his own dandelion.

“What did you wish for?” Tommy asks once he’s done.

“That your wish comes true.” Ranboo says, linking his arm with Tommy’s. Their shared breath ruffles both of their hair, caresses their faces with soft fingers, and Tommy thinks he may truly be home now.

---

Ranboo likes it inside the bunker. Don’t get him wrong. It’s safe and warm and he loves Tommy and Tubbo, these last few months have been pure bliss… but there’s something itching under his skin, something that begs for more. Something tilted and just a little off, something telling him that Tubbo is not telling them everything.

Not telling the both of them, because as much as Ranboo likes Tommy, he’s a shit liar. And he would always come to Ranboo with every little thing.

 They’ve always been close, growing that way when Tubbo can’t come and accompany them around the bunker, talking and theorizing about what their lives must have been like before their respective accidents. Joking about how funny it is that they both have amnesia. Wondering what sort of accident they were both in. Ranboo wants to ask about it - any of it, but Tubbo always gets sort of sad when he does. And he doesn’t want a repeat of Tommy’s curiosity about the outside.

This is Ranboo’s normal.

Even so, when he’s up very early one morning, he finds himself drifting past both Tommy and Tubbo’s rooms. His bare feet hardly feel the cold as he drifts towards one of the elevators. His hand hardly feels like his own as he presses the button for the top floor, but he doesn’t mind too much. Curiosity killed the cat, is one of the sayings he read in a book he borrowed from Tubbo’s library.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

Ranboo grits his teeth as the elevator declares that he’s on the top floor, and opens with a charming little chime. His intestines feel like they’ve been bundled up in thorns and tossed around in his belly, tearing up his insides. He smothers a nervous little trill that threatens to spill from the back of his throat, just as the doors slide open.

It’s funny. Ranboo has been in this bunker for months, yet he’s never been up to this level. It’s not like it’s strictly prohibited or anything , just that Tubbo always said it was storage. And after the mess that was Tommy asking to go outside at dinner a few weeks ago, Ranboo has avoided it in fear of disrupting everything. For such a large bunker, it is really difficult to find somewhere to hide his feelings.

The hallway stretches out in front of him, and Ranboo’s heart gets stuck in his throat when he sees the large, looming steel door at the other end. It looks more like the door to a vault than any entranceway, with only a slither of natural light coming in from the slit of glass near the top.

He hardly dares to breathe as he slides forward, towards the end of the hallway. It’s not familiar, not in the way that Ranboo thought it might be. 

The light shines down onto the hallway, but it's soft and cold, frosty like it’s a thousand miles away. He feels his heart sink. He would rather die than admit it, but he hoped that coming up here might jog some of his old memories, help him understand who he is, and make him more capable. But this is only making him feel more lost. He presses his hand to the door and peers out into the wasteland.

The door must be at least a few meters thick, and that same thickness of the glass sort of obscures his vision and makes it hard to properly see outside. What he can see, though, makes the world stop spinning around him.

The bunker must be located in what was once some sort of meadow or field, or perhaps even a backyard. The plains around him are flat, and stretch out for as far as he can see. The ground is a muted brown, perhaps a little red, and looks completely and utterly dead. 

There’s one tree that Ranboo can see, if he presses his hand to the door and presses his face hard against the glass and strains until his eyes hurt, but it’s more skeletal than any of the ones that Tubbo has in his gardens, sinisterly reaching up into the yellowed-fog.

It’s blackened and dead, mangled branches contorted like pained limbs, like it’s been ripped from the inside out. 

None of this is like what Ranboo has read about. He feels like a fool, now. A complete and utter idiot. A cold, helpless void well up inside him, creeping up his throat. There is no wildlife, no trees and bushes full of green leaves, no grass. 

The sky is a muted grey, hiding the sun through walls of thick cloud, and if he looks closely at the blurred horizon, it moves slightly, a heatwave that has ripped through the earth. 

Everything has been decimated. 

It’s all dead. It’s all gone. Every trace of life. 

He’s glad that Tommy’s not here, now. Ranboo’s good at pretending. He can pretend that he never saw this. He can go back down into the lower levels of the bunker and pick up a book and pretend that nothing happened. 

(He can also pretend that he doesn’t want to know more. More about everything and anything.)

“Ranboo?” He knows that voice.

Oh hell. 

Tubbo. 

Ranboo nearly leaps out of his skin, spinning and pressing himself against the wall, fighting back the urge that creeps up his spine; the urge to teleport away. But Ranboo stands his ground. Technically, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s just looking, that’s all. There’s no way he would go outside. His face is hot and humiliated.

“Tubbo,” he croaks. “Hello.”

Tubbo’s eyes are narrowed, irises flashing between staring at the door and staring directly at Ranboo, who ducks his head to avert his glare. He hasn't done anything wrong, Ranboo repeats to himself. If that’s the case, why does Tubbo’s betrayed stare cause his chest to tighten? 

“What are you doing up here?” His voice is cold, steely, but cracks in the middle, giving him away. His fingers flex into fists. Ranboo jerks his head back up to see Tubbo’s eyes shine with unshed tears. Guilt reers it’s mighty head inside Ranboo’s stomach.

“I was just looking, I- I swear!” 

Tubbo searches his face- for what? Ranboo doesn’t know. 

He repeats himself, a little more feverish, “I wasn’t going to leave! I just wanted to know what it looked like, because you keep it so hush, and-- and… ” He hesitates. “Tubbo?”

When Tubbo looks back up at him, there are tears streaming down the apples of his cheeks, chasing down his marred skin like silent minnows. The red-rimmed of the whites of his eyes seems to make the blue even more bright. 

“Look at it. All of it.” Tubbo murmurs, when at last he seems to bring himself together enough to speak. It’s husky and quiet and Ranboo has to strain to hear him. “It’s gone.”

Ranboo frowns softly. “Tubbo-- I don’t--?”

“Understand?” Tubbo finishes, a little sharply. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and takes a few wobbly steps forward. He’s gone as white as a sheet, his folded ears pinned back on the sides of his head. He lets out a weak chuckle. “No one does. No one knows what I did.”

Ranboo’s tongue feels swollen and heavy in his mouth, brushing against his sharp teeth as his gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say?

“You want to know why I don’t want you and Tommy coming up here?” Tubbo continues, a pained grimace spreading across his features. 

Ranboo itches to go and encompass him in a hug, smooth down his hair and help him giggle all of his worries away, but it’s like he’s been moulded to the floor. Something hot and pained tugs at his insides. 

Tubbo points to the doorway behind him. “Because I did that.” 

Tubbo stands in front of him, big eyes looking up at Ranboo through his bangs, though they seem… lifeless, somehow. He almost seems a shadow of himself, thin with his clothes hanging off of his small body like a second skin, the fabric limp. 

Ranboo feels every part of him sink deeper. “Wh-What do you mean?” he implores, voice ever so small. Tubbo doesn’t reply, and Ranboo takes a step forward, a little more feverish this time. “Tubbo? What do you mean?”

Tubbo barks out laughter. “I did that,” he repeats insistently. “Don’t you see? It was my nuke that started all of this. It was my nuke that caused that--” He gestures, frenzied, “Devastation!” 

He’s openly crying now, breath coming out in little gasps of air. Ranboo goes towards him, to do what? - hug him, touch him, something, but Tubbo wiggles away like he’s been smacked. 

“I should’ve-- I should've done more! I let him take it-- he took it from me, and he caused all this and now everything is fucking ruined and it’s all my fault!” He cries, hands hiding his face and wiping away the globs of tears and snot and Ranboo thinks he looks about ten years younger. “It’s all my fault! Don't you get it, Ranboo? I’ve killed so many people! I’m awful!”

Tubbo’s legs buckle out underneath the both of them, but Ranboo is quicker. He darts forward and catches Tubbo under his armpits and pulls him close to his chest. Tubbo lets out this absolutely heart-breaking strangled noise of pain and digs his hands into the back of Ranboo’s sweater. Ranboo’s heart twists painfully.

“You’re not awful,” he mumbles as shuddering sobs wrack Tubbo’s frame. He’s not skinny, per se, he’s probably stronger than both ranboo and Tommy with their stick arms and weak systems, but he’s shorter, and that means that Ranboo can wrap his long arms around him and rest his chin on the crown of Tubbo’s head and fuck, Tubbo feels like a child.

“I didn’t mean to,” Tubbo whispers brokenly. “I’m sorry.”

(They’re all just children, aren't they?)

Rnaboo contemplates what Tubbo said. I let him take it. He took it from me. So he didn’t set off the nuclear missile himself, rather it was stolen? He wants to bring it up in consolidation, but fears that would just make everything worse. He needs to be delicate. That’s not something he’d ever thought he’d say when talking about Tubbo.

Instead, he says, “You saved me and Tommy, didn’t you? An awful person wouldn’t do that. We could have died, and you kept us here and fixed us up, right?”

This only seems to make Tubbo cry harder. Ranboo gently guides them both down to the floor.

Ranboo truly does not know what to do, so he rests his hand on Tubbo's head and strokes his hair. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Tubbo, but after a few minutes of silent crying he seems to calm down, loosening his tight grip on Ranboo’s clothes as his eyes slip shut. 

His breathing becomes somewhat more even, still halting and gasping in places, but better than before; he must have spent all his energy on crying, he thinks, as he places his hand between Tubbo’s shoulder blades, pulling him closer. He seems so, so small.

Ranboo avoids going up there from then on.

---

Things get better after that. Ranboo thinks so, anyway. Now that they’ve had their moment together, Ranboo feels like the tense air that has been following him around the bunker has lifted. He feels horrible that the truth came out in such a way, but he would be lying if he said he isn’t  glad it happened. 

The fireplace roars, painting the floor with its golden hues and warm glow.

They’re sitting in the library, watching the candles illuminate the dark walls with their dim lights. Ranboo is tuning the violin Tubbo gifted him a couple of weeks ago, occasionally glancing up to admire the sketch Tommy is currently working on. Tubbo’s on the other end of the couch, buried deep in a book, the title obscured from Ranboo’s line of sight. 

He thinks he remembers Tubbo telling him something about a fantasy world and countries that fight for independence. When he’s done, he presents it with a quiet “tada!” turning the book around so Ranboo can fully see it.

Ranboo inclines his head, sharp eyes scrutinizing the newest addition to the page. A smudged looking lion, as referenced from that book on biology Tubbo had given him a few months ago. That book hasn’t left his side since. “Looks awesome,” he compliments, then his eyes stray to the smeared charcoal up and down Tommy’s wrist, and winces. “But you might want to wash that off before it gets on the leather.”

Tommy just huffs, apparently unsatisfied with the praise, and places the sketchbook down onto the table. Ranboo plucks at one of the strings half-heartedly as Tommy squirms around in the armchair. He can’t really concentrate, not with the avian fidgeting and moving and finding new, ludicrous ways to sit in the chair which absolutely might break his neck. 

“Ranboo--!” he whines, high and long.

Ranboo sighs and places down the instrument. “What is it?”

“‘M uncomfy.” Tommy says gruffly, feathers all ruffled.

“Yeah, we could tell.” Tubbo quips from over the top of the book, eyes alight with the dancing flames. “Do you ever stop moving?” Tommy glares at him. 

Ranboo turns towards him. “What do you need?”

Tommy looks down at his hands, then shifts again so he’s on the edge of the seat. One of his knees has picked up a fast-paced bouncing motion, and Ranboo notices that he’s suddenly gone red. 

“Do you, maybe-- you think you could…” he tries, then trails off, gaze not once leaving his hands. 

“What?” Ranboo asks curiously. 

“Could you preen my wings for me?” Tommy’s voice is a barely audible whisper, but it causes Ranboo’s ears to prick upright. 

Tubbo is grinning. “Awww, Tommy,” He coos, and Tommy flushes a bright pink. “We can help with that if you want us to.”

It looks as though Tommy wants to open his jaws and snap a reply, but then thinks better of it, and slides onto the floor and leans against the couch. He stretches both of his wings out, and Ranboo lets out a whistle. They’re huge.

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to,” Tommy murmurs, but Tubbo has already closed his book with a snap.

“Too late, I’m doing this.” He makes a grabby motion with his hands, grinning. “We’ll do a wing each, yeah?” Tubbo says, without room for argument as he looks towards the enderman hybrid.

Tommy wiggles into a more comfortable position, and he hums, “Sounds good, big man.”

 Ranboo starts to shakily card his hands through the soft feathers, the downy below, and marvels at Tommy’s primaries and pin feathers, which are, like, as big as Ranboo’s leg. Tommy lets out something that’s akin to a chirp, and Ranboo’s fingers pause, he doesn’t dare move. Tommy seems to melt underneath the touch, his bones turn to putty as he sinks against Ranboo’s cool hands. 

“That means he likes it, don’t worry,” Tubbo teases from beside him, and only then does Ranboo continue on, pulling out any stray feathers, treating the appendages with the delicacy of blown glass. 

“How do you know all this stuff?” Ranboo says quietly, as Tommy begins to trill, almost like an owl, in contentment, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s like you know everything about us!” He jokes.

Tubbo shrugs with a weak laugh, dips his head. His hands are a little tense as he leans forward to ruffle Tommy’s hair, but Ranboo doesn’t notice. 

Instead, he just thinks about how safe and warm and happy he feels. If he could freeze time right at this moment, collect it up and stuff it into a snowglobe, he would.

---

Ranboo doesn’t feel well. He doesn’t feel well at all. The whole world cracks and tilts and splits apart around him as he heads down the corridor, his head reels. Ranboo doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. 

He doesn’t recognise these halls, or this level in general. He doesn’t really know how he got here at all. A mangled whine rips through his teeth at the thought, distressed. He’s been inside the bunker for so long at this point he’s sort of forgotten what the outside world looks like. All he knows are steel walls, the paintings he passes in the hallways, the various monitor screens at most corners, the fluorescent lights, the soft grey of his bedclothes.

‘Hide and seek?’ Tommy’s eyes glint. ‘Only if you seek.’

Ranboo grins. ‘Okay.’

He had let his legs guide him through the bunker, mind feeling foggy and hot and stuffed with cotton. He probably shouldn't have let Tommy urge him into hide and seek, not with the way he’s feeling, but dammit, he can’t say no to Tommy’s puppy-dog face.

There’s a certain skittishness that’s been clinging to Ranboo all day and all night, never leaving his side once. It had roused him from sleep the night prior and cradled his face with it’s spindly fingers. Ranboo thought he had been over this suspicion, the heavy-weighted dubiousness that follows him around. 

He had thought that Tubbo’s confession about the disaster would be enough to appease his gnawing curisorit, but apparently not, and he feels awful for it. 

Ranboo can’t yet hear Tommy’s skittering feet against the floor or his muffled, echoing giggles, so Ranboo knows he isn’t close by, but his entire body feels as if it is burning up from the inside. He simply groans, drawing a hand over his head. The heat settles in his body, making his limbs sluggish and hard to move. The jumper on his body feels heavy, constricting, just another layer keeping him down, as if a wall has crumbled and is now slowly suffocating him.

Ranboo wills his eyes to open. It’s already bright and the light is hurting his eyes, creating a throbbing sort of pain behind his forehead. It's unpleasant, to say the least. Pushing himself up with the use of his arms, he coughs feebly, body writhing and squirming. He must be sick, but it feels like something deeper, a rooted instinct, like fight or flight, but worse, itching under his skin.

Something is wrong. The thought - less of a thought and more of a fact. Ranboo knows something is wrong - brushes on the edge of his mind, a light breeze that he snags onto. Something is wrong. 

He needs to move. Ranboo leans heavily on the wall and hurries down the corridor. If he could just catch Tommy -- or Tubbo! Either of them. If he could just get to one of the pair, then they could help make this pain and discomfort go away, and everything would be fine again.

He turns the corner and reaches a door. This one is different to anything he’s ever seen, and he’s definitely never been inside. Large and square, it’s handle is that of a round urn that needs to spin instead of any kind of door handle. Relief floods his shaking form. If Tommy would hide anywhere, it would be somewhere with grandeur. A place like this one. 

He staggers towards the door and leans most of his weight onto the wheel. It’s cold and soothing against his burning skin and Ranboo resists the urge to press his forehead against it. The sooner he can find Tommy, the sooner he can get help.

Ranboo tugs on it, but it doesn’t fall under his hands. That’s strange. Very little in the bunker is actually locked, and if it is, it’s not fortified this strongly. Usually it just requires one of the keys on the chain that swings and rattles from Tubbo’s hip. Ranboo likes to fiddle with them when he’s bored.

Tommy must have locked it from the inside. 

“Tommy!” He croaks. “I know you’re in there!” 

No reply.

“It isn’t funny!” He bangs weakly on the metal. “Open the damn door!”

Something is wrong. Ranboo feels it, stronger this time. A tingly electricity builds at the base of his spine, slowly cradling all of his nerve endings and tucking them in. The urge to teleport builds, and although it will drain most of his energy, he’ll get to Tommy faster. 

Ranboo squeezes his eyes tight shut and allows the prickling in his spine to completely swallow him. He hears the vwoop that’s become very familiar, and opens his eyes.

Everything is coated in shadow. Papers line the walls, wires stream haphazardly across the floor. Two discarded stasis tanks sit lifeless at the back of the room, glass doors flung open. Ranboo’s breath hitches.

He’s in Tubbo’s lab.

“Tommy?” He calls, uncertainly. His voice bounces off the cold walls and is met with silence.

Tommy’s not here.

So why is this locked? He can’t help but wonder. Is it dangerous? Tubbo would have warned them about it or something, right? He takes a daring step forwards, over a mass of coiling wire. This sort of feels like a violation of privacy of some sort, and Ranboo shouldn’t be here, but morbid fascination takes precedence. 

Maybe this place will hold some answers to his questions, about himself, about Tommy, about the processes of the stasis tanks, of… Tubbo. Is this what he’s been hiding? The idea seems to put a stopper in the flow of curiosity that took hold of his limbs, and Ranboo freezes. His mind is racing, a thousand questions and queries flood through his brain, then he grits his teeth. Determination swells in his chest.

Tubbo could have his head for this, he’d flip his shit, but Ranboo doesn’t care. He swallows, feeling his mouth getting drier and drier by the minute.   

He turns towards the collage of paper stapled to the wall to his left. Maybe that will get him some answers. 

The first page he lands on seems to be some sort of checklist. 

RAN-800 - 12/02/XX - 17:04 - STABLE

RAN-800 - 12/02/XX - 17:06 - STABLE

RAN-800 - 12/02/XX - 17:08 - STABLE

RAN-800 - 12/02/XX - 17:10 - STABLE

Over and over, the words repeat, almost obsessively so. A lump rises in Ranboo’s chest. That instinctual fear is back. 

He turns to the next page, stapled beside it.

 It’s Tubbo’s own writing, scrawled across the page in black ink, something about genomes and chromosomes and deoxyribonucleic acid, and a series of letters and numbers that make no sense. 

Rambling paragraphs that Ranboo cannot discern, printed documents that are equally confusing, full of hex codes. 

There are a few blurry pictures here and there. 

Page after page. 

Document after document. 

Then, another note snags his eye.

‘I’ve done it. I got the bioengineering right this time. There’s a heartbeat. It’s scientific name is 7H3S3US. That’s too long of an actual name. I think I’ll name it Tommy. 

Tommy, my own little creation.’ 

A picture beside it. 

Something blurry and deformed and lacking a pair of wings, but blond haired and has enough of a defined face for it to be recognisable.

Tommy.

Everything clicks together. 

Ranboo screams.

His legs buckle and suddenly he’s kneeling on the floor. 

Ranboo tries to find something to hold on to in this rolling sea of thought. The papers on the wall. Tommy’s feathers. Tubbo’s rings. The jumper stuck to his back, soaked with sweat. And way down, something deep inside him screaming get me out of here get me out of here please I’ll do anything, but the thoughts just keep spinning.

He’s fake he’s fake he’s make Tubbo made him how could Tubbo make him why would he keep this from him is it all a lie what is happening he doesn’t understand he’s not real not real not real-

He watches as if behind a glass wall, unable to stop his body as he falls. His rationale dies as his fear builds, his body is clean and receptive to the rush of blinding heat in his veins. He takes ragged, shaky breaths when his voice box finally gives out on him, resorting to huffing crackles of shrieking sound as his enderman instincts finally take hold.

It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much--

He doesn’t understand, nothing makes sense, and he can’t stand the feeling of his breath on his face. 

His palms are sweating. Ranboo can feel himself slipping away. 

A spasm of nausea lurches through him, and he vomits to the side, pain making itself very clear in his ribs as he doubles over. 

There is yellow bile all over his blue jumper.

He knows how disgusting it is. He knows. He knows now for sure. 

He’s unnatural. Engineered in a fucking lab.

Someone’s hands on him. Burning, itching, trying to pull the skin off his very bones. Hands marred with dark scars. Tubbo. Ranboo cries out in shock, a flurry of emotions.

His hand goes flying out and collides with something solid and warm. The hands that grab and twist and pull suddenly cease and Ranboo scrambles away to the far corner of the room, widening his stance.

He stares back at Tubbo and Tommy, both stare back. Worried, horrified, guilty.. 

“Ranboo,” Tubbo begins, reaching out and baring a hand towards him like he’s some sort of rabid animal. “I know you’re scared, but if you could just--”

“What the hell,” Ranboo finds his voice. “What the hell is all of this?”

Tubbo’s expression turns twisted. “Ranboo, I--”

Tommy takes a step forward. “Ranboo, big man, why don’t we--”

Ranboo’s heart seizes. 

Tommy.  

They were made together. 

Side by side. 

He’s just like Ranboo. 

He reaches out and clasps a hand around Tommy’s wrist, yanking him forward. Tommy squeaks in surprise and stumbles, then Ranboo is stepping in front of him, arms outstretched, like he’s some sort of lion protecting his cub. 

Only Ranboo doesn't feel like a lion, not even a housecat, not even a mouse. He feels very confused, and very scared. 

“Get away,” He croaks, almost too soft to be heard. His mouth is coppery, his eyes wet and stinging. “Get away from us.”

The look on Tubbo’s face is heartbreaking. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His stormy eyes flick to Tommy. “Neither of you.” His jaw is red where Ranboo smacked him, but he can’t bring himself to care very much right now.

Ranboo’s ears are flat to his skull, his tail lashing back and forth. He frowns, lost. “You-” His breath hitches, then he demands, “You kept this from us. How could you keep this from us?”

Tubbo flinches back. He’s crying again. So is Ranboo. Hot, scalding tears.

Tommy demands, “What’s going on?”

“Why don’t you ask him!” Ranboo snarls, pointing a shaky, accusing finger at Tubbo. “You thought your little sob story would keep me in check, didn’t you? Thought it would stop me from wandering further?” He barks out a scathing laugh, his voice venomous. “And then you don’t tell me this? I’m such an idiot for trusting you!”

“Ranboo, please, I didn’t mean it like--” Tubbo says as he recoils, desperation thick in his begging voice.

“What’s going on!?” Tommy cries, louder this time, golden eyebrows furrowed. He turns to Ranboo, clutches at his sleeve. He ignores the vomit. “Tell me what’s going on! Please!”

He can see his own reflection in the half light of Tommy’s eyes. His luminescent blue irises glow brilliant and blazing, full of stars, meeting Ranboo’s gaze head on.

That sort of helps draw Ranboo out of his panic induced daze. He narrows his eyes. “You’re not a person, Tommy,” he says scathingly, silencing Tubbo’s attempts to object with a glare. “And neither am I.”

“What the fuck?”

“Don’t you find it strange that we both just happen to have the same wounds to the head that just so happen to give us amnesia? What are the chances of that?”

“But Tubbo said--”

“Yes, Tubbo said. But Tubbo lied, Tommy. We’re not real people. He created us .”

Tommy lets go of his sleeve, something horrified dawning on his face as he glances back to the tanks behind them, his pale face coated in a neon blue sheen.

Tubbo starts to object, his face morphing into something a little stronger, like he’s desperately scrambling to pull himself back together. “I didn’t--” Tubbo goes to touch him, but Tommy retreats back like he’s been burned.

“He made us in a lab, Tommy! Cell by cell - he designed all of it. All of us. Like we’re fucking rats for his little experiments.” Ranboo snaps, as something inside him feels like it’s breaking, tearing apart, jagged pieces cutting up his insides.

“I don’t-- I don’t understand.” Tommy rasps. Tubbo goes to touch him, but Tommy once again shudders away. Some sort of strangled noise leaves Tubbo’s gritted teeth, but he doesn’t try and take another step forward. Ranboo doesn’t know if he would let him. 

He hates this, he hates the pain on Tubbo’s face and the hurt on Tommy’s, the tension that stands between them. He hates this conflict - he hates what he's doing - but Ranboo is sick and tired of being lied to. He can’t look into Tubbo’s eyes and know that he;s been trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

He just wants the truth.

“Just-- Just..” Ranboo says softly, letting his shoulders sag. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He’s raw, splayed open. “It’s all a lie, isn’t it? All of it.”

“No! No! No! ” Tubbo says quickly, expression twisted, his voice cracks. “No! None of this is a lie! You don’t understand-- I need you! I love you, Ranboo-- I-I love Tommy! I haven’t faked any of that-- I would never do any of this to hurt you!”

Ranboo’s heartbeat pounds in his ears. He can’t even begin to process those words.

“But you did.” Tommy murmurs, wings and arms drawn around him, like he’s trying to cocoon himself away. He looks at Ranboo, then to Tubbo, with these big, teary eyes. “You did lie. And you did hurt us.”

Tubbo’s lip trembles, he twists away. His eyebrows are furrowed, Ranboo notes, and the skin around the… Well, the scars from the radiation, he supposes, is red as if Tubbo has absentmindedly scratched them. 

He sometimes does that which is probably the reason why they are so angry. Sometimes they bleed, and Ranboo patches them up for him. The bandage that he had attached to Tubbo’s neck this morning has fallen off. 

(Or did he rip it off?)

Tubbo finally turns his head, the dim light illuminating half of his face and drenching the other half in shadows. He looks like he wants to say something but seems to reconsider at the last second, closing his mouth abruptly. It reminds him of a fish out of water.

He closes his eyes, and his face is almost pained when he opens his mouth again and forces out a quiet ‘please’ through thin lips. For a moment, Ranboo lets his eyes flutter shut as he just stays there, completely still, trying to force his agitation down and his disorientation from the fore-front of his eyes.

Still staring at him, Tubbo goes to grab Ranboo’s hand then his hand clasps tight around his wrist, but the motion stops halfway—it doesn’t appear to be willingly, more so as if something had grabbed Tubbo’s slim wrist and held on tight, not budging even as he tries to jerk his hand away.

Then Ranboo hears it.

Nothing he’s ever heard before, some sort of crackly, murmuring noise. Like the shriek of an enderman but lower, more groaning and deep and automated. It sounds alive, different noises flowing together over Ranboo’s eardrums until it’s nothing but indistinguishable white-noise, like the sound of rapid water over rocks in a river. 

Then it clicks off, and silence resumes.

Maybe it’s Tubbo’s own fear paralyzing him, Ranboo doesn’t know, doesn’t bother to find out - all he knows is that Tubbo is gripping really tight - as he shuffles forward and slowly pries his arm out of Tubbo’s grip, sharp fingernails digging into his skin. Tubbo lets go, taking a stumbling step backwards. His shoe clinks quietly as it hits one of the metal boxes or something.

Tubbo doesn’t even seem to notice, his gaze still fixed on his palm and from this angle Ranboo can hear where the crackled humming static is coming from, and can see the hues of brown and grey. A small box sat on the far table with a long, thin wire protruding from the top. 

A radio?

It crackles and buzzes again, noisy and grating, like thunder in a grand canyon as it splits through their silence, and Ranboo winces.

Tubbo looks white as a sheet. Ranboo doesn’t know why.

“Tubbo,” he whispers softly, standing beside him. Tommy’s feathers brush on his other side, ever-present. “Hey. What is that?”

Tubbo doesn’t look at him. He just keeps staring at the radio, eyes unfocused and horror-filled. Something cold laps at Ranboo’s insides. Dreadful and dark and disquiet.

Tubbo shudders. The skin on his cheeks looks clammy. 

“It- ...It’s my radio.” 

His voice shakes in a way that Ranboo has never heard before. Tubbo’s always been maverick, a pillar in a crumbling temple. He’s never been daunted, not in front of Ranboo. The radio groans again and Tubbo cowers back a little. Seeing him like this, it’s terrifying. 

Tommy is the one to step forward. His footsteps are silent even as he hops over the discarded wires and coils across the dark tiles, and crouches beside the table, tilting his head and blinking curiously. Tubbo’s body turns to ice.

“Tommy…” Ranboo’s words die in his throat. All he can do is sit and watch. Adrenaline roars in his ears.

It hums again.

Tommy doesn’t flinch this time. Tubbo does. Ranboo grabs his hand. All arguments melt away.

“I don’t understand,” Tubbo says softly, ever so softly, softer than silk and spiderwebs and honey. “It’s not supposed to--... no one is there, why is it--”

It groans out something, something unintelligible, but something that definitely sounds like an attempt at words. Icy strands of fear claw their way down Ranboo’s chest, and there are pinpricks of cold poking at his ribs. Tommy grabs the radio, shakes it, and some sort of mangled cry slips past Tubbo’s lips, but still he doesn’t move.

“Hello?” Tommy asks into the thing - seemingly oblivious to the turmoil the two boys behind him are being swallowed by - once he finds the right button. “Hello? Anyone there?”

A pause, then it splutters, then a crisp. “Hello.” It’s muffled and buzzing.

It’s a voice.

It’s a voice.

Ranboo takes a shaky step forward, to do something, anything-- grab Tommy’s hand, grab the radio, pull it’s plug from the wall, smash it into oblivion, something, because he doesn’t know how one word can fill him with so much nauseating terror. Tubbo is stock-still beside him.

“Hi!” Tommy says.

“Drop it.” Tubbo says hoarsely, then again, sharper, “Drop it, Tommy.”

He bristles. “But-- But- I--”

“Drop the damn radio!”

Tommy does, and Ranboo doesn’t waste a second in yanking him backwards. Safe, safe, safe, he’s not safe, none of them are safe, what the fuck is that voice--

“Now, now, Tubbo, is that any way to treat your guests?” The voice purrs. 

Ranboo stills. 

Why was the radio still on?

It shouldn’t have been able to hear their conversation.

No one was touching it.  

It shouldn't be able to hear them.

“Dream.” Tubbo trembles.

“Tubbo,” the voice calls back. 

The sound vibrates around them, ringing in Ranboo’s ears. It’s not coming from the radio anymore. It’s in the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Loud. Abrasive. Intrusive. It’s everywhere. It;s not coming from the radio anymore.

Ranboo’s eyes catch on a tiny, flashing red light in the upper corner of the room above the door.

A camera.

“Tubbo. What a surprise , and it’s so nice to finally meet those little friends of yours.”

“What?” Tubbo chokes. 

The voice chimes. “Tubbo, I know what you did…”