Chapter Text
Tommy was starting to get really tired. Of what, you may ask?
Everything. Absolutely everything. But right now, he was mostly tired of the stupid golden bell above his head. The more he heard it, the more intense dread settled upon him, like an alarm used far too long. After all, it indicated something he didn’t particularly enjoy: a patron was coming.
The bell had been there since Tommy had begun working for the Captain House—which, frankly, wasn’t very long, but it was still an old bell. Since the servants ‘accidentally’ forgot to clean it every time, it held a green-ish layer of mould and rust and a shrill, tinnish noise.
He had to admit, the bell did fit the… aesthetic, of his room. It was a converted annex room connected to the kitchen, much to the dismay of the cook and his never-ending storage complaints. There were no windows, it was dark, and it smelled of must. Every winter, cold would seep in through the floor, making Tommy himself cold, and he was often already in a bad mood as it was. A hearth was rushed to be installed when he’d begun using this room, but it clogged more often than not, leaving him cold and adding smoke onto the musty smell.
He supposed it was suiting, for someone like him.
Tubbo had dubbed it “the Lair, where the Dark Grace dwells” when he’d first arrived at the house. It was a fitting description, but Tommy wasn’t all too fond of it. He wouldn’t say that out loud, of course—Tubbo was trying to be nice.
He missed the mark on that one, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
The rest of the people at the Captain House all tried to be nice; Tubbo, Ranboo, and of course, Captain Puffy—but they all fell short. He felt more like a charity case than anything, and he didn’t want that. But at least they didn’t look at him like he was the scum at the bottom of their shoe as so many others did.
There was another member at the Captain House: Purpled. He wasn’t necessarily closer to Purpled than he was the rest of the House, but he appreciated the way the blonde didn’t look at Tommy with pity or unease. He didn’t stand up for Tommy with anything more than remarks in his favour, but he didn’t need that anyway. It felt a lot less suffocating, being with Purpled.
Still, no matter who he was with, he felt out of place, despite having lived there the longest.
There was one more person—or, well, animal—that made Tommy feel at ease. Shroud; a kestrel Tommy had found on the sea cliff’s outside of L’Manburg’s gates, starving and half-dead. Now, he was no healing Grace, but he’d still patched up Shroud and he’d dare say the kestrel was a close friend since.
Maybe that was lame, being friends with an animal, but Tommy didn’t mind. He’d be looked down upon anyway, what was the harm?
Shroud himself sat on the desk in front of Tommy now, eyes slit as he stared at the door. Tommy reached out his forearm, and the kestrel made no hesitation to perch on it.
“You think I should answer that?” Tommy muttered, looking down at the patron schedule in front of him. Tommy, it read, the Dark Grace. Some Grace he was. If he were a Grace, he’d be treated with respect, at the very least. His patrons wouldn’t have to be shrouded in secrecy; they wouldn’t be scheduling appointments in a back alley while using code names. None of the other graces had those measures in place. Because Tommy was not a Grace.
The bell chimed another time, and Tommy groaned. He took a moment before schooling his features into a neutral expression. “Come in.”
The door creaked open on rusty hinges, and Tommy could immediately tell this wasn’t one of his regulars. They walked in hesitantly, eyeing everything like they were one scare away from turning around and leaving.
Tommy wished they’d turn around and leave.
“What do you need?” He asked, petting Shroud like some sort of fairy tale supervillain. He was viewed as one anyway, why not up the dramatics?
“I, um,” the patron began, voice quivering, “I have a cat.”
Tommy just about rolled his eyes at her. Grace laws stated that you couldn’t provide your power to intentionally harm another person, but if the Grace had no idea of the ill intentions, it could be argued that they weren’t to blame. Given Tommy’s line of work, people had to get creative in making excuses. This, however, seemed to be one of the worst excuses he’d ever been given. “A cat?”
“Yep. And she’s looking very nice, and is getting the attention of all the other... cats—, but I don’t want kittens—”
“And you want to..?” He impatiently cut her off.
“I don’t want to harm the cat!” She quickly exclaimed, “just..”
“Give her a few warts?” Tommy supplied, watching as the patron’s face glowed in the dark lighting. He knew patrons absolutely adored when he gave the suggestions—it made them feel less the villain, like they hadn’t convinced themselves to do it and come here.
So he got to work. Pinches of this, dashes of that—he worked with precision. It was a simple elixir, after all, one he’d made a thousand times before. For the warts, he took Prince Henry the toad out of his cage, setting his Majesty down onto the table with a plop . The patron let out a surprised gasp, but he didn’t pay her any mind.
Once it was finally set, he pricked his finger, letting green blood well up for a moment. He counted to three and dropped it into the elixir. He needed only a drop before quickly moving his hand away and watching the potion activate with a sizzle. He stirred it with a wooden spoon until a plume of black smoke erupted from the beaker, signifying that it was ready.
The patron turned up her nose and coughed, and he once again resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“For your… cat,” He clarified, pouring the liquid into a vial and handing it to her, “The more you use, the more warts she’ll get.”
The patron nods and pockets it, not even daring a thank you before exiting the Lair.
As the door shuts behind her, a lump sits stubbornly in Tommy's stomach. No matter how many elixirs he made just like this one, it felt wrong. He was hurting someone, somewhere, even if he couldn’t acknowledge that by the law. He only had to do it in the first place because of a separate Grace law; you must serve your patron. So maybe it wasn’t by will, but he still knew how he’d be hurting someone right now.
The patron's dismissal still stings, as much as it shouldn’t. People came to him frequently, acting as though he were the monster for abiding by their demands. He had many regulars who paid him a pretty penny for his services, but they wouldn’t so much as acknowledge him on the street. He was looked down upon, shunned, for the disgusting, evil being he was. The last of a stamped race. A Vila.
A monster.