Chapter Text
Sam woke up to the sound of vomiting. Well- He woke up to the sound of a strangled sob followed by coughing and wheezing.
He loved having a kid, there was nothing about it he would change. The only problem was his paranoia has skyrocketed. Every bump and nosie in the night was either an entruter about to murder his son or Tommy having a panic attack.
It was normally the latter.
Sam is quick on his feet, ignoring the annoyed huff Fran lets out as her sleep gets disrupted. He can hear Tommy sobbing from down the hall. Dry heaving coughs and heavy breathing. It's dark in the hallway, Sam keeps his fingers brushing the wall to keep from tripping over himself. Tommys door is left open by a crack.
Sam takes a deep breath. As much as seeing Tommy upset made him sick, as much as it scared him, he couldn't help if he wasn't calm. He pushes the door open.
It takes a few moments for Sam's eyes to adjust to the dark, when they do, It's a familiar sight. As much as it hurts, Sam has seen it before. Tommy sat up in bed with his knees pulled up, not yet touching his chest. His hands are shaking.
Tommys hands are just in front of his mouth. He’s hunched over himself, covered in throw up. It dribbled down his chin, poured over his shirt and the sheets below him.
It smells awful. Sam takes another deep breath, the sight makes him want to cry.
He crosses the room quickly and quietly.
“Tommy?” Sam asks, voice quieter than a whisper. He’s still a few feet away from the edge of the bed. Tommy is trembling, still spitting out puke and coughing his lungs dry.
“Tommy?” Sam tries a little louder.
Tommy flinches and curls away. “I’m sorry-“ the boy wheezes out. His sobbing picks up. His stomach sucks in and all noise is cut off completely before he throws up again. All over his hands, down his arms, covering his legs, the blankets, his chest.
Tommy lets out a high pitch whine, his throat too sore to cry, still hacking out spit.
“Hey,” Sam murmurs, “Hey kiddo.”
Tommy hiccups, “Made-made a mess- I- I’m sorry- '' Tommy's voice shakes, he sounds like a child. Sam can smell the vomit from here, the stench can't be doing anything good for his stomach.
“It’s okay kiddo, I’ll clean it up.”
“No-no- made a mess- I gotta- gotta fix it- gotta clean- '' His breath hitches and he starts sobbing too hard to talk. He tires, tries to speak through heaving breathing and crying. There isn't a coherent word, he babbles aimlessly, a mix of apologies and promises to clean his sick.
Sam takes a few steps closer. The idea of anyone looking at the kid in front of him and getting angry, making him wash himself off without comfort or help makes his head spin. He takes another deep breath, he won't lose his temper over someone who isn't here.
“Deep breaths,” Sam tries instead. Tommy shakes his head, curling tighter into himself. His sobbing comes from deep within him. He repeatedly sucks in his stomach while wails rip through his throat. He was crying so hard it made him throw up.
Sam’s chest tightens. Tommy was crying so hard he threw up, he could've been sobbing for hours before Sam woke.
“Kiddo? You need to breathe,” Sam is at the edge of the bed by now. Tommy flinches from him again, it's never not hurt, regardless of how many times the boy does it. “I can’t-'' He sobs.
“Yes you can, you can do it,” Sam puts his hands palm up in front of himself. Tommy's eyes flicker to them and he leans away letting out a small whine. “I won't hurt you, you just need to breathe kiddo.”
Tommy chokes on a sob and lowers his chin to his chest, entire body twitches with random spasms. The vomit in his hands spill over onto his lap while his hands shake. “I’m sorry- I’m- so-sorry-”
“It's okay, you're alright,” Sam slowly moves his hands, letting Tommy track his movement, and rests one palm on Tommys shoulder. Tommy tenses under the touch for a moment before leaning into it. “It’s alright, nookling.” Sam takes a deep breath, “repeat after me.”
In, out.
When Tommy hiccups, when his breath catches, when he coughs, anything to interrupt his breathing, he flinches. He hides his head in his shoulder and he whispers out an apology. Sam keeps his hand firmly on Tommys shoulder.
“Try again.” Sam mutters at every interruption.
He doesn't expect Tommy to calm down completely. He just needs the boy to be able to make it to the restroom without collapsing. Tommy is still hiccuping, tears still staining his face and hands shaking when Sam decides it's been long enough.
“Let's get you cleaned up, that sound okay?”
Tommy nods, sniffing and weakly wiping away at his face. Sam moves slow and deliberate, he wraps his arm around Tommys shoulders and offers his free hand for Tommy to take. The boy's hand is warm, having been soaked in throw up and sweat. Sam has to push back his own sickness at the feel.
It takes a few minutes to get Tommy to stand up. The boy is slow to put his legs over the edge of the bed, and even slower to stand. His legs are shaky and they give out almost immediately. Sam bends his knees to follow the boy half way down, and pull him back up.
Tommy shakes harder at the stress of keeping himself up, he grips Sam's hand so hard his knuckles turn white.
Sam steps forwards and waits for Tommy to follow. Tommys walking is slow, his weight leans onto Sam and his skin is hot to the touch. Sam fears he has a fever.
It takes minutes to walk down the hallway, Sam is cause to not let them stumble in the dark. When they reach the bathroom, Sam flicks on the light.
It was an easy contraption, the switch moved a small wooden block which allowed the redstone to activate and in turn, light up the room. Tommy had begged for Sam to teach him how, but ended up getting too bored to listen for longer than a few moments.
Sam sets Tommy down on the toilet and crouches down in front of him.
“I’m going to touch your forehead.” Even with the warning, Tommy leans away when Sam reaches up his hand. Tommys head is covered in sweat, his bangs sticking to his skin. Tommy is burning up, Sam frowns.
“Alright, let's get you clean.” He’s quick to grab a towel from beneath the sink and poor warm water over it.
“I can-” Tommy's voice is scratchy, nearly inaudible. Sam hums and looks over at him. Tommy sniffs and stares at the floor, “I can clean up- all of it- you don't have too…” The more he speaks the weaker his voice gets, as if the words were going to make him start sobbing again.
Sam kneels down again. “Nookling,” Tommy’s face turns red, either from the fever or embarrassment. “You don't need to worry about that, I’ve got it, okay?”
Tommys chin wobbles, “But it’s- I-”
“Shh,” Sam reaches up and gently touches Tommys face, “I’ve got you, okay?”
Tommy nods as tears fall down his face. He wipes them away with shaking hands.
“Here,” Sam says in a gentle tone, he holds Tommy’s wrist in his hand as he begins to clean. He wipes off the sickness and the sweat. He’s careful not to rub too harshly, avoiding hurting Tommys hands. He has re-wet the rag a few times, the vomit had dripped all the way to Tommy's elbows.
Sam is on Tommys second hand when the boy speaks up.
“Dad?” He asks quietly. Sam's head snaps up and he feels warmth bloom in his chest at the word.
“Yes?” Sam sets the rag down and begins to rub his thumb over Tommys knuckles, keeping his touch light.
Tommy opens and closes his mouth a few times. His knee starts to bounce and he looks around, anywhere but Sam's face. “I-'' He takes a deep breath and it comes out shaking. “Where am I?” He asks, his voice is barely audible.
Sam frowns and squeezes Tommy's hand, “You’re at home,” Sam reaches up and titls Tommys head so their eyes lock, “You’re home kiddo. We’re in the bathroom, down the hall from the kitchen.”
Tommy looks away again, and nods.
Sam continues cleaning him off. Both of Tommys hands, his arms, and his face. The crevices of his nose, his cheeks, his lips, and down his chin. Tommy is still the whole time, letting himself be gently moved and rubbed at.
The last thing Sam does is wet the rag and clean out Tommy's hair.
“Alright,” Sam whispers, “You're all good.”
Tommy doesn't say anything. His hands are in his lap, his shoulders are hunched into himself. Sam takes one of his hands and squeezes his fingers, “I’m going to get you a change of clothes, do you think you can do that?” Tommy nods.
Sam is quick to grab a handknit sweater Tommy had made himself along with long fuzzy pants. When Sam returns, Tommy hasn't moved, his eyes trained on the ground. His hands have a slight shake to them and he sniffs a few times.
Sam has to take another deep breath. This kid always managed to break his heart, in ways Sam couldn't name, in ways Sam didn't know was possible. It was always jarring seeing Tommy like this, he was always so loud. He was always so… big, taking up every room he was in.
He was different like this.
“Here,” Sam hands Tommy the clothes, “When you're done, meet me in the living room, okay? I’ll get you some water.”
Tommy frowns at the clothes in his hands and his fingers curl a little tighter, “You’re leaving?” He whispers. Sam instalty crouches down in front of him and touches the boy's shoulder, “Not leaving, I’m not leaving. I just want to get you something to drink, I’ll be right outside the door.”
Tommy looks deep in thought for a few moments before nodding, “Okay.”
Sam has a glass of water in his hands when Tommy comes out of the bathroom. The poor boy looked exhausted. He seemed hunched over, his head was hanging low. Sam reaches out a hand, “Let's sit down,” Tommy leans away from his touch but shuffles down the hall.
Sam tightens his grip on the glass before following.
Sam sits down next to Tommy and the boy moves away. It took a lot of persuading from Puffy to convince him that it wasn't personal.
“It's not that he thinks you're going to hurt him,” she said, wiping up the tea that she had spilled, “Sometimes he just doesn't want to be touched, sometimes it's overwhelming. The best thing you can do is wait for him to come to you.”
Sam moved a little too, he handed Tommy the glass, “Small sips, okay?”
Tommy nodded.
“Was it a nightmare or-”
“Memory.” Tommy cuts in. Sam nods. Memories were always worse with him, although nightmares could be more violent and hellish, there was nothing scarier than things that already happened, things you couldn't get away from. That's what Tommy said anyway.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Tommy shrugged. “There isn't much to say,” he mumbled. He smacked his lips a few times, “My mouth tastes bad.”
Sam huffed, “Drink more water.”
“Am I sick?” Tommy asked instead.
“I’m not sure, we'll see in the morning.”
Tommy’s body felt gross. There was more to it, but no word fit like the way gross did. Because that's what it was. He felt itchy, sweaty, hot, cold, he felt sick. And he really might be, it wasn't normal to feel dizzy every time you stood up.
Tommy remembers that day, Puffy had actually coaxed it out of him awhile back. He remembers the chill in the air, the blood on the ground, passing out. All of it. And if he thought too hard, he could feel all of it too.
He remembers waking up around sunset, not being able to move. His mouth tasted like salt and iron. He couldn't move, not even a little. His breathing came out wheezy and soft. He tried crying, yelling, even lifting a finger, but he couldn't.
He remembers waking up again that morning to Dream looking over him with a tilted head. He remembers being carried to his tent and drinking health potions until his body went completely numb.
He remembers Dream stayed without leaving for nearly an entire week. He remembers having his nose reset and his wrist wrapped for a month.
Tommy thought it was so great back then, he thought he was so lucky, even though it hurt.
He shutters.
Sam looks over to him, Tommy curls away. It's not that he's upset, or even scared. It's just… it's just the thought of hands on his body that makes him want to claw his skin off. He had never sobbed so hard he's thrown up, and he wouldn't recommend it. It hurt like hell and it smelt terrible.
He felt hazy and out of his body for a while, and suddenly he was on the couch feeling like he got hit by a falling tree.
Tommy wonders for a moment, how different it would've been if Sam found him.
Sam offered him a place to stay, offered him a room and food. Tommy was stubborn as hell those first few weeks determined to send the biggest fuck you to Tubbo he physically could.
But maybe things would have been different if he went with Sam. or if Sam found him there, bleeding on the grass shaking from the cold.
If Sam would've taken him home and treated his wounds properly. If Tommy would have held a grudge against Tubbo for half as long.
“Sam?” he chokes out. He still feels... Floaty. Still not fully in control of his body, he knows where he is, unlike earlier, but he still feels far away.
Sam hums.
Tommy frowns at the floor and lifts his legs up onto the couch. He wants to be as small as possible, curl up into a ball and disappear off the face of the earth.
“If I was-” Tommy swallows, “If I was hurt, what would you do?”
It takes Sam a moment to respond, “What do you mean?” His voice is sad.
“I mean like- If I was hurt- like I broke my leg or something- what would you do?”
Sam pauses again, “Tommy,” he sighs. He was probably going to go on some tangent, about how you can't change the past so there's no point in reminiscing over something that didn't happen.
But Tommys hands still felt warm from the sickness in them and he just wanted to know that there was someone who would've helped him.
“Please?” Tommy asks. He was going to have to do a lot of damage control for this one. Acting all sad and pathetic. It will be days of swearing and annoying the hell out of Sam to fix his image. Puffy said that it was ‘okay for people to see you sad and there is nothing to make up for’ Tommy just chose to ignore her.
“Okay,” Sam breathes.
“If you were hurt,” he begins, “Well the first thing I'd have to do is find you.” He huffs.
Tommy can see it, Sam walking through the fields of grass coming up to his knees.
Sam pauses, “You ask weird questions kiddo.”
Tommy finds it in him to smile, at least a little, “It's not weird bitch.” It doesn't have the bite it should've, but he tried his damn best, he was exhausted.
Sam shakes his head, “Well, I normally keep a few potions on me, I’d probably give you those.”
Sam would have knelt down and put Tommy's head in his lap. Tommy remembers not being able to see for at least a day, only big shadows and bright lights. Sam wouldn't have forced anything down his throat.
“If it was really bad, I’d take you to Ponk, if not, I’d take you home.”
It would've been the first time Tommy had been to Sam's base.
“I’d do anything I needed to, make sure you weren't bleeding, clean you up like I just did.”
Gentle scrubbing on his lip and nose. Wrapping up his ribs and cleaning the dirt out of his hair.
It was everything Dream did, but Tommy could only imagine how much warmer Sam would be. How much nicer it would've been if he wasn't holding his breath the whole time waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Hey,” Sam whispers, “Are you okay?”
Tommy didn't realize how bad his hands were shaking or the way his lip was quivering. Tommy nods and wipes his hands against his pants. He was fine.
He was fine.
Tommy was just thinking about that day, because apparently he had not gotten over it.
It would've been. Nice to have someone there. At all, really. Because if someone was there they would've seen something. It wasn't like when Ranboo used to awkwardly bring up bruised wrists and small cuts that Tommy could laugh it off. There was no way in hell Tommy could have done all that to himself.
If someone was just there then-
There was a hand on his shoulder.
Tommy falls forward off of the couch to make it go away. He scrambles to his feet and snarls at Sam, “What the fuck!”
Sam still has his hand out a little, his face is twisted up, “You weren't breathing,” he whispers.
Tommy shakes his head and looks away. He feels like such a child when he pouts his lip. Sam normally asked. Tommy shakes his head. He was being dramatic, it was just Sam, even though he suddenly felt worse, and his shirt was itchy and his hair sat on his head all wrong, it was fine.
He was fine.
“Tommy?” Tommy didn't respond, he didn't have anything to say that wasn't screaming or sobbing. “Can I ask why you wanted to know? What I would do?”
Tommy looks at the floor, he rubs one foot with the other. He feels too open. Part of him missed the little house under the hill, he felt so secure there.
Tommy shrugs, he didn't really know why- well, that wasn't true. He did. He wanted to know that if someone saw him they wouldn't have left. But there was no one to see, because it was just Tommy. He was doing great in exile! No need to visit him more then fucking once because-
“Kiddo, I need you to breathe.”
Tommy took in a sharp breath, it didn't make him feel better.
He had asked the question to himself a thousand times, and a couple dozen more to Puffy. The answer was always the same. ‘I don't know.’ but he couldn't help but ask again, he thought maybe if he did it enough times, he’d get an answer.
“Why did nobody help me?” he finally whispers.
He doesn't see Sam, but he feels the way his dad's shoulders slump and he can picture the frown on Sam's face.
“I don’t-”
“You don't know.” Tommy cuts in. “I was beat half to death and the best you can give me is I dont fucking know?”
He finally looks up. He hates that answer so fucking much. Quackity and Fundy yelling at Tubbo as he was dragged away only to never come and check up on him.
Tommy feels laughter build in his throat, “Its not fucking fair! I-I was left with him for a fucking year and the best anyone ever gives me is an I dont know!”
Tommy starts pacing, his body feels electric with energy.
“I’m sorry Tommy! If I knew it was that bad I would've come to Tommy!” He throws his hands in the air, “Maybe if you- if any of you bothered to fucking check up on me you would have! But no! Instead the only person to take care of me is the same bastard who hurt me in the first place!”
He’s crying again, and Sam is looking at him with big sad eyes. Tommy feels part of himself ache, part of him wants to crumple to the ground and let Sam hold him.
But he was so fucking mad.
Tommy laughs again and runs a hand through his hair, “You wanna know what I did Sam? You wanna know?”
Sam didn't answer.
“I said Tubbo was a good friend. That's it. I can't-'' Tommy giggles but he feels himself starting to cry again, “Lie to me! Just fucking lie to me!” Sam doesn't say anything, so Tommy continues, “I hate hearing ‘I don't know’. Just- fuck- please lie to me. Please come up with some excuse- any excuse- but don't just say you willingly abandoned me!”
He hated when he cried from yelling. Because he wanted to be mad, he wanted so desperately to be mad, indimating, scary. For people to take him seriously, to back down when he screams. But this happens every time. He just started fucking crying.
He hated crying like this. Because he had so much to say, so much to get off his chest and he could hardly stutter out a word. He felt like such a little bitch.
“I wish- I want- I want you to lie to me- I want everyone to-to lie to me.”
That would be so much easier. Some long convoluted lies about why Tubbo didn't have a single day off for a year.
He wanted a reason why he was alone on christmas, anything was better then I don't know.
He’s crying. Hot tears down his face and an itchy nose, he wants to keep yelling, but his throat is closing up as he speaks. His chest aches and his stomach hurts. Throwing up again would be a mess.
Tommy wipes at his eyes, his fingers are trembling.
He hears Sam stand up, but doesn't move his hands. Sam is probably looking all sad, and Tommy would break so easily under that look and everything he said wouldn't matter because he’d forget about it in the morning.
But he didn't want to forget, he didn't want to pretend it was okay because it wasn't. So he kept his hands over his eyes.
“Hey,” Sam whispers.
“Fuck off.” Tommy's voice cracked.
“A year you said?” Sam asks.
Tommy pauses for a moment, he lowers his hands but doesnt look up. “Ten months,” he whispers.
“Ten months,” Sam repeats.
It's quiet for a moment before Sam sighs, “You know there is no excuse anyone could give- no excuse I could give, that would make it up….”
“I know.”
“I don't think you want people to lie to you.”
Tommys lip quivers, he brings his hands up to hold himself. Despite not wanting touch, he wanted comfort. He was being difficult, but that wasn't exactly new.
“I wanted someone to help me.” His voice is soft, it's weak and each word shakes a little. Tommy tenses his shoulders, “I wanted- I wanted you. Why weren't you there? I needed you- I needed someone and-and you could have helped.”
Sam's fingers twitched at his sides, “I could have, and I didn't. And I will spend every day of my life trying to make that up to you.”
Tommy chokes. He's suddenly hiccuping and he can't stop it when he finally lets himself sob. “I wanted you there so-so bad- it was cold and-and it hurt and-”
“I know,” Sam whispers and he sounds almost as heartbroken as Tommy does.
Tommy lets himself lean forward. He didn't care if the touch was overwhelming, if it made his skin crawl or his head feel dizzy. He could picture the grass poking his back and the throbbing in his ribs and he wanted it to go away.
Sam slowly moves his hands up, giving Tommy plenty of time to pull away if he wants. Tommy doesn’t reach up to hug Sam back, he just rests his head on Sam's shoulder as his sobbing worsens. Sam wraps his arms around Tommy's back.
“I thought-thought I was gonna die-”
“I know,” Sam repeats and starts swaying them.
“It's not fair.”
“No, it's not.”
Tommys skin is burning, he feels nausea burning in his throat again. He can't throw up again, he doesn't want to, the taste of sick is still sticky and warm in his mouth. He presses his lips against Sam's shoulders, as if it would keep it in.
He doesn't know how he's standing, his legs are wobbly and his chest is aching.
“Why weren't you there?” Tommy asks again. Because there isn't any answer. It was as simple as that, but he still had to ask. There might be something he hadn't thought of, and maybe, some childish part of his brain still thinks adults have all the answers.
Sam hums deep in his chest, “You know the answer.”
“I do,” Tommy chokes out, he closes his eyes. “I just dont-dont like it.” He bites his lip hard enough to bleed.
“I don't either.”
Sam reaches up his hand and gently scratches at the nape of Tommys neck. It sends a tingle down Tommys spine, yet it makes his body melt. He feels something close to a whine build up in the back of his throat. He wanted to sob for hours, until the sun came back up.
“This is stupid.” Tommy mumbles. He didn't pull away from Sam but he could feel his arms start to ache at his sides, begging to push away. “I should've-should've been able to take care of myself.”
It was true. God- Fuck. Was he really that moldable? Wibur died and he clinged onto the first sense of belonging he got?
If he was going to be that fucking easy to manipulate maybe he desereve it. Naive baby Tommy couldn't tell if he was being abused if it hit him in the face. He doesn't know why his resolve went away so fast, why Dream got him that easily. He’d spent his childhood living alone and he wasn't strong enough to push one person away.
“If I just- If I just fought harder- none of this wouldve happened- Im so fucking-fucking weak Sam- I coudlve just- just been stronger and it wouldnt have h-happened.”
Sam pulled him in closer.
“No.” Sam says sternly, “Don't you ever say that.”
Tommy sobbed as his body shook, he felt like he was drowning, something pushing his shoulders down that made it impossible to breathe.
“Its-its true- its-”
“No.” Sam says again, “It wasn't your fault and it never will be. You were caught at a bad time, and he knew that. He knew that and used it against you. There was no strength you could've had that he wouldn't have broken down.”
Sam pulls back a little bit and Tommy doesn't fight him on it. Sam cups Tommy's face with one hand. His eyes are glossy and puffy. But he looks determined and set. “There is no such thing as being strong enough to stop it. And it will never be your fault.” Sam’s eyebrows furrow, “You were mourning, you were hurt, and your best friend just sent you away. He planned on that, because he knew that Tommy Danger Innit wouldn't stand for half the shit he did if you had Tubbo at your side.” Sam sighs, “There was a reason you were isolated, because you are strong Tommy, stronger than him and he couldn't have that.”
Tommy wipes at his eyes, “I should've k-known though- Wil-Wil never hit me.”
Sam pets Tommys cheek with his thumb,“It wasn't your fault kiddo, because you didn't do anything wrong.” he whispered.
Tommy pushes himself forward again. This time, he wraps his arms around Sam, holding the soft fabric of his shirt in between his fingers. He lets himself cry. Not scream or sob like he had before, but just cry. Hiccup and spit on Sam's shoulder. He lets Sam pet his back and hair and whisper in his ear. A steady stream of praise and comfort.
“I love you,” Sam whispers, “It wasn't your fault.” Sam repeats the words over and over again.
And somewhere deep down Tommy believes them.