Chapter Text
Tommy had practically been forced into the superhero life.
There'd been nothing else for him from the minute he'd been born, placed into strong - but undeniably gentle - arms as a warbling, whining babe and staring up at a determined expression.
He'd never really had the chance to even think about doing something else that wasn't 'saving the world' or 'valiantly sacrificing himself for the greater good.' He'd never been able to toe that line of barbarous villainy, never been able to disguise himself under dark hoods and fierce masks as he worked as a proud but targeted vigilante.
There'd never exactly been a chance for a normal life, either.
No public schooling with people that he could actually become good and close friends with; no clubs or hobbies that weren't to do with training and honing his powerful skills; no casual, family trips out to the cinema without the simmering fear of a villain attack happening right around the corner.
There was none of that.
Because Tommy's life was anything but normal, if he were perfectly and truly honest with himself (and everyone else), and never would be.
See, Tommy - Tommy "Theseus" Innit Craft, code name Big Man, hero name… currently undecided, had been born into a family of superheroes. He'd been born into a group of people that had been saving lives and kicking ass since before he had even been a damn thought in the vast universe.
There was his father, Philza Craft - a great man and an even greater winged hero. He was pretty much the best of the best these days, with his unbeatable skills and undeniable prowess when it came to just about everything that he did. Be it soaring through the air in a mad chase or overpowering even the beefiest of criminals, Philza could do it. (He always could.)
There was his older brother, Technoblade, a man of many little words but so much never-ending strength and resilience. He was kind of ruthless when it came down to it, all muscled and fierce, all snarling and brutal. There was never any mercy towards the villains, no leniency or kindness as he took them down. No, that was saved for his family and his family only - especially Tommy.
There was his other older brother, Wilbur. Wilbur was tricky; he was crafty and sly, composed of audibly soothing tones but the most venomous of hidden agendas. He was probably the most cunning of them all, too, with how his taunting voice and airy manipulation could have even the strongest men on their knees in a matter of mere moments.
And then his mother, the Great Goddess of Death, as she'd once been so kindly named. His mother had been a brilliant hero in her time, even with the touch of permanent demise emanating from the very tips of her slender fingers. (Seen as a mighty hero but as feared as a villain is what she had been before her… departure.)
And then there was Tommy.
Tommy, the youngest of them all, was a spitfire of uncontrollable energy and a need to prove himself that was far greater than any other emotion he might possess. He was a bundle of joy, a snarky little shit (as Wilbur had once dubbed him) and a boy with a heart of gold when it really came down to it.
He was charismatic. He was kind. He was determined and fierce.
But…
Compared to his brothers, compared to his father and his mother and then even some of his other hero friends, Tommy wasn't really anything special, as much as it pained him to admit as much. He wasn't anything to be exceptionally proud of - or scared of.
See, he didn't have Philza's broad, broad wings, he didn't have his ability to soar through the air at impossible speeds without breaking a single sweat, nor did he have the ability to command a full, disarrayed room with just a single shout of his compelling voice.
He didn't have Technoblade's practically unthinkable amounts of pure, unadulterated strength and durability. Tommy didn't have his fierce willpower, chilling combat abilities and inhuman vigour. Nor did he possess Wilbur's guileful mind and softened voice made up of a thousand, harrowing manipulations all at once.
Tommy didn't even have his mothers gift.
He just had… bits. Bits and pieces of his family's honed skills and talents, of their legacies, as if the universe had taken one good look at him, at his thin body and crooked smile, and decided that all he deserved were the scraps that everyone else had carelessly left behind.
A little agility here and there, a bit of advanced strength, some levels of undeniable intelligence that not everyone could hope to achieve even with the most profound of schooling. Nothing from his mother.
Tommy was, pretty much, just average. Mostly. Or at least a tiny hint above the average human being. He was like… a sidekick. A sub-hero. One of those guys who desperately wanted to be one of those sought-after, star-born heroes but came out more like a pitiful attempt than anything else.
He was nothing when compared to his family. (Not with his lack of highly regarded powers and skills, his inability to take on the most dangerous of villains, his young age and awfully reckless nature.)
He was nothing.
Which led him to where he was today, stuck, trapped, dust clogging his throat, his lungs, his face, choking him and wrapping around his shaking, quivering body in all of the worst ways possible.
It'd been a stupid mistake.
A stupid, stupid fucking mistake that Tommy was now suffering the consequences from because, of course, he was. Of course he was.
See, he'd initially just… he'd just wanted to prove himself. To whom? Everyone, really. To him, to his brothers, his father, his mother and his friends and all of the damn public that doubted him and picked away at his precious flaws - Tommy wanted to show that he could be a good hero, a great one even, no matter how many powers he didn't possess or how many failures he'd been thrown into.
Tommy wanted to show that he could be a beacon of hope just like Philza was, just like Technoblade was and just like Wilbur was. He wanted to show that he could take on any villain that came at him, no matter how big or small, how weak or strong or anything else.
Because he could! He could, dammit; he'd been training for all of his life, never having even a minute of break if it meant he'd be away from trying to grow better and tougher. He'd put hours upon hours into refining his added speed and agility; months spent sparring and fighting; weeks and weeks of tests and examinations.
All to be the best.
All to be seen.
All to be… useful.
Tommy knew that everyone thought he was useless, for the most part. He knew that more than anyone else. He wasn't strong enough to go on the more extreme missions with the rest of his family, nor was he capable of taking even something as normal as patrol on alone. He wasn't as famous or as awe-inspiring.
He was the weak little limpet of the hero society. The one that could only continue to cling on due to his last name and his familial connections.
So Tommy had boldly thought that maybe… maybe if he tried a little harder, pushed himself a little further - maybe if he took on a task that nobody else had heard of yet, then he'd finally be able to prove himself to everyone.
Hell, he could already see it now - 'Young hero, Tommy Craft, shines out as he takes down fearsome villains on a dangerous solo mission! You won't believe what he did next!'. He would be the talk of the town, the hot topic on the social media blog sites. Tommy would make everyone proud.
But that had been a big load of fucking bullshit.
Even as he'd been carefully slipping out of his bedroom window, quiet enough not to wake any of the other inhabitants of his large home, there had been a tingle of nervous apprehension, a slight pinch on the back of his neck that felt almost like a warning.
He shouldn't do it, he shouldn't do it, he shouldn't do it-
Tommy had pushed it away, at first, because heroes, well, they didn't get nervous. They didn't get scared or worried. They were courageous, valiant and bold, unwavering in the face of danger and determined almost to a fault. They didn't give up because of a few minor worries.
So Tommy wouldn't either, no, he had pressed onwards, bag slung over his shoulder, knives slid amongst his boots, and he'd taken off.
Rushing through the streets, wind whipping against his face, an undeniable grin splitting across his cheeks as he charged onwards. Brushing past the few people that were out, joy racing like electricity under his skin, hands outstretched beside him-
...Hands curled above him in a desperate effort, lungs shaking with each pained breath, legs quivering and mind spinning. Choking on each cry that left his lips, trying hopelessly not to give in to the agony, knowing that he'd failed again - again, again, again.
It hadn't been a fight. It had been a takedown.
Tommy had tried at the start when he'd first caught the villain in their plans. He'd thrown himself forward with all of the speed that he could possibly muster, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick, doing his best to run his mouth at the same time, just like Wilbur had taught him to do.
He'd made himself a nuisance, an inconvenience, something that would screw up whatever the villain had been initially planning. Tommy would claw at exposed skin; he'd wrap his legs around a vulnerable neck, he'd plunge his knife forwards in order to - not maim - but to scare.
But then things had really picked up.
Because this villain hadn't… they hadn't been scared. If anything, they'd been mildly amused, a little put-off and vaguely pissed all at once. Tommy was in the way, he was in the way, and they'd needed to put a stop to that.
So they had.
Tommy had blinked. His bones had snapped, skin split apart, ribs cracking and heart racing. He had never stood a chance, in the end, as he was thrown backwards and away, through shards of glass and concrete walls into unstable structures and groaning levels. He had never stood a fucking chance.
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
It was like a burning, searing pain that wouldn't leave him alone, an incessant sort of agony that had made a home within his hollow bones and weeping veins. Tommy wanted to get away from it; he wanted to peel away the layers of his body until he could finally pick off that festering, relentless throb.
He couldn't, though, not really, not when he was so preoccupied with trying to hold his arms up, to hold his body taut and firm in order to keep the- the fucking building from collapsing on him even further.
The villain had broken a building on top of him, in the end. A whole building, a mass structure of shattered windows and cracked floors, of concrete levels and bricklayers - a formation made to withstand pretty much everything that the natural world could possess. And they had just…
Tommy could feel another sob rising in his raw, raw throat, the feeling of it lifting upwards even as he did his best to keep it down - or was that more blood, perhaps? Watery bile? Thick, crimson vomit? He didn't know. He didn't know, but he could taste copper and sick and the harsh taste of salt as it crawled down his scraped cheeks.
He could taste his own guilt, too, though that was probably more of an awful manifestation than anything else. Guilt, remorse, a bubbling sorrow that was trying to cling to the back of his mind as he shifted underneath harsh slabs of concrete.
He shouldn't have tried to take down somebody so powerful by himself, no matter how determined he was to prove himself. Now the villain knew that the heroes were after them - or soon would be - now there was more destruction to clean up, more things to fix and messes to repair, and it was all because of Tommy.
It was all his fault.
He'd started this. He'd done something reckless and- and ruined it all, ruined everything for everyone else, and they were all going to be so, so disappointed in him. Tommy could already hear Phil's defeated sigh, see the shake of his head; could already envision Wilbur's dismissive scoff; could already picture Technoblade's simmering frustration.
Tommy had really fucked it all up this time, and there was nobody to blame but himself - his own failure, his own mistakes, his own stupid decisions.
He-
There was a loud groan above him, a creaking of metal joints and stone exposures shifting against one another in a grating sort of move. For a brief moment, Tommy felt a rush of ecstasy taking over his quivering form. Maybe somebody was here, maybe somebody had found him, maybe he was going to get to go home and-
And then there was quiet again. A lulling sort of quiet filled with the low, occasional echo, a hiss from a broken chunk, the chitter of a bat as it flew right above. But a quiet all the same.
Tommy couldn't stop the sob that time, a sob that was filled with tendrils of blood dripping down his slit chin; filled with bubbles of an acidic bile that had him wincing where he was; filled with all of his pained emotions together at once, leaking away, away, away.
He had hoped, for a mere moment, and then it had all been ruthlessly pulled away.
Away, where he couldn't reach. Away, where his broken, bloody fingers couldn't grasp out towards. Away, where not even Tommy's prior determination could push him.
Oh, but he wanted. He wanted, so, so badly. Tommy wanted to be able to grip onto the resolve he'd once so fiercely protected; he wanted to be even half the man he had been before he'd ended up so stuck and mangled.
Tommy wanted, and he pleaded and he-
He wanted to see his dad. He wanted to rush into Phil's arms, to press his face against his father's neck and hide away from the judgemental, scary outside world. He wanted to hear whispered words of reassurance and melt into a protective embrace where nothing could ever get to him again.
He wanted to see his brothers. He wanted to let Wilbur card long, slender fingers through his hair - massaging at his irritated scalp and tutting rather condescendingly even as he helped him. He wanted Techno to wrap him up in one of his large, weighted blankets, to be able to curl up beside the larger man on their plush couch, just the two of them.
Tommy wanted to go home-
And then a beep.
A beep, a low, dinging beep, a light springing up in the dark cavern that Tommy had been squeezed into. He could see the dust that covered the floor, the cracks and the shattered remains, the spikes of metal and the bent-
'Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone-'
His phone. It was his phone. It was Tommy's fucking phone that was going off and off and off, and that stupid, awful ringtone that Tubbo had put on for him because he thought it was funny and amusing and something that-
'Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone-'
-Tommy would enjoy. "It's your vibe, dude!" Tubbo had laughed as he'd whacked a hand over the blonde's shoulder. "You'll think it's jokes, trust me!" Yeah, this wasn't fucking funny anymore. It hadn't ever been, actually, no, it was just annoying and-
'I've got this feeling, so appealing-'
-and Tommy was half certain that he was about to lose his damn mind. Because he could see his phone, he could see the cracked screen, the plastic case that had lost a corner to it, apparently, and the little charm dangling off of the top. He could see it right in front of him, but-
'For us to get together and sing, sing!'
-but Tommy couldn't reach it. He couldn't, could he? He was still trying to hold up the destroyed parts above him, trying to stop everything from falling down and snapping his neck, so how could he let go to stop the fucking ringtone and pick up? He didn't-
'Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone-'
-even know his own strength. It was probably just pure adrenaline helping him keep still and secure, that hectic rush of epinephrine that was telling his brain to ignore the splinters in his bones; ignore the crooked ways that his fingers were being held; ignore the tears in his skin and the blood on his lips. Ignore it all, so that-
'Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding donana phone-'
-that he could stay alive. Stay alive and well and- and Tommy surged forwards into the tight space without a second thought, leg kicking up behind him, one arm still held up high and the other outstretched towards his phone-
'It grows in bunches-'
-and he clicked answer.
The building groaned, and it creaked, it let out an echoing bellow above him, there was a shifting of concrete slabs and metal poles and god, there was something splitting into Tommy's side, a piercing sort of agony and a rush of blood that pooled around him the very moment he'd moved.
It hurt, it hurt, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't-
"Tommy? Is that you?".
Ranboo?
"Ranboo?" A wheeze, a gasp, a desperate croak of his friend's name.
"Woah, man, are you alright? You don't sound too good."
No, he wasn't alright. No, Tommy wasn't doing well. No, Tommy couldn't stop the sweltering pain and the volcanic rush of agony that had started to-.
"Tommy?"
"Fine! Sorry, think I'm- think I'm comin' down with a cold." Lie to save yourself, lie to hide from the shame, lie to protect.
"Ooh, ouch. Need me to hang up?"
"No! No- It's okay." It wasn't; it wasn't, it hurt, it hurt so much, it hurt more than Tommy could ever begin to explain. "Just trying to- to wake up."
"Ah, yeah, it's pretty late, isn't it? Or early, I guess."
Was it? "Yeah- yeah- hey, uhm, what time is it, actually?"
"Can't check your phone?"
Tommy swallowed back a burst of bile - or what he assumed was bile. "Got my eyes closed. Screen... s'too bright."
"'Bout five in the morning right now."
Five in the morning. That meant that he had about an hour or so before Phil woke up and then two before Wilbur and Techno did. That was enough time to get out of his predicament, right? That was enough time to figure out how to stop- stop everything from collapsing around him and-
"Tommy? You there?"
"...Sorry, got distracted again, I-" Wheezing, wheezing, wheezing.
"Look, man, I can seriously hang up if you need me to. You probably need the sleep anyway, right? I'm just being a-"
"No! Ranboo, look- look, I'm awake now, right? There's no point in hangin' up now."
"I guess. Sorry, though, that you're sick."
Always the one to be kind, Ranboo was. Just the sound of his sympathetic tone almost had Tommy's lips lifting into a slight smile. Almost. "It's fine. Did- ah, did you need something, though?"
"Oh! I actually wanted to tell you about the fact that I just finished that show you wanted me to watch- The DreamSMP?"
Tommy really did smile that time, even if his face ached and his eyes watered at just the mere movement of it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah! It was so, so sick. I can't wait for the next season."
A broken laugh. Of course. Of fuckin' course. The show had seemed like something Ranboo would have liked, so Tommy had pestered and pestered and pestered until the other boy gave in and watched it.
Seems like it had worked, too.
"Tell- hey, tell me about what you liked." Distract me, is what Tommy really wanted to say, distract me from this rippling pain, from feeling as if his body was being split apart at the seams. Distract him. Save him.
And so Ranboo did.
He went on and on, his voice a lulling background tune to Tommy's throbbing, splintered mind. He was like the salve over a burn, the kiss against a crying baby's forehead. Tommy felt himself melting into it more and more with each second that passed by.
Or it could have been hours, honestly. Days, maybe. Tommy couldn't really tell - his mind was spinning, his body shivering, a constant throb becoming almost familiar to him, like a reassuring blanket of a twisted warmth.
Huh.
He was getting- getting a little sleepy, actually.
Almost as if his exhaustion was creeping up on him again, gripping onto his hair, curling around his throat. Gentle but unsure. He could go for a nap - a long one.
Yeah.
"And honestly, I don't know what they're planning on doing with the next arc, but I'm so, so excited because-"
"Hey. Hey, Ranboo…"
"Oh-! Yeah? What's up, dude?"
"I'm gonna- I'm gonna have a nap, alright? I'm-..." There was a heaving cough, a wet splatter against the ground.
"...Tommy? You good?"
"I'm sorry," croaking tones and ruined voices, "You gotta- shit, you gotta tell 'em I'm sorry, alright?"
Sorry for the accident. Sorry for the destruction. Sorry for not being good enough.
Sorry for never being good enough.
“I’m really, really sorry-”
"Tommy?"
"Tommy! Hey, are you- what's happening? Tommy-"
"Tommy!"