Chapter Text
The air is frigid this high up, a winter bite lingering even when the snow hasn’t started to fall causing his nose to turn red, and his fingers to numb.
A dull, grey crescent shines from the sky, it brightens the top of buildings when the lights inside don’t quite reach and he’s glad that there’s no one to see the state he’s in.
There’s no sound other than the few cars driving down below, an occasional loud beep whenever a reckless driver almost causes an accident. It makes his skin crawl with horrid memories, he’s never really liked the idea of driving around, rather opting for something safer.
The salty smell of the ocean doesn’t travel this high, but something humid is there and it stings in the best way possible. It clears his mind from the raging storm it had been, and he feels his wings shift.
Hopefully, it’ll snow tonight.
His bare toes curl around the sharp corner of cement, hard concrete digging into the thick skin of his feet. It grounds him even if it’s the only thing stopping him from falling into the open air. A strong gust of wind blows through his feathers, trying to push him away from the ledge, telling him to stay back, to keep clear of the dangers below.
If he believed in a higher power maybe he would have seen this as a sign, but no one has helped him before so why should he believe that some ethereal being is trying to now?
Heights had never scared him before. He was always confident in his ability to save himself, but there was a strange knowing stifling his thoughts, hammering in his head. He’s not as confident as he once was for… less than ideal reasons. And it’s exactly what causes his breath to hitch, eyes never leaving newly tarred roads hundreds of meters below. He wants to let go, to drop down and allow his wings to catch him, but he can’t. And, okay listen, it sounds fucking stupid, but he’s scared. He’s up here all alone and one wrong move can send him toppling to his death.
There’s a sound he can barely hear through the harsh winds, a slow continuous dripping. Something dull throbs in his hands and he glances down, unsure of what he expects to see. Then deep, crimson blood fills his line of sight, large red crescents indented into his palms. It must be panic or his survival instincts or maybe it’s just all him, wanting to wrap his hands around the nearest sturdy object, grip tight enough to pierce through his skin.
His avian instincts call for a flock, for a family to keep him from falling to the ground below, but with his mind made up, his bird brain stands no chance.
His wing aches.
It makes him remember why he’s even here, nothing but a dark reminder trying to stop him.
Soft murmurs fill the silence around him, people from his past taunting him, telling him he’s incapable. And he hates how they could be right. Because he had failed, pathetically so, at being a hero and the never-ending pain in his wing didn’t help his attempts to move on. He’d tried, Primes had he tried to be everything they had taught him to be, but it was never enough.
It doesn’t matter though, because he is determined to show them otherwise. He had always been able to prove people wrong and that’s the exact reason why he’s on top of the roof. He came up here to prove a point, to show them all how wrong they are, wrong they surely will be.
His bare feet shuffle forward, sharp cement digging into his soles, but it makes him feel alive and keeps him awake.
Stark red feathers spread wide, catching the wind in every way possible, but he stays rooted in his spot. An icy chill hits the exposed skin of his injured wing, and he shivers. Something akin to liquid nitrogen flows through his veins, freezing when it gets close to the tip of his primaries.
He takes a deep breath, fresh air burning in his throat and he allows his foot to slip, slowly sliding down the side of the building. And then he pushes off the roof with all his might, looking at the ground beneath him. He loses the feeling of cold concrete on his feet, then he’s falling, really falling. And there’s a creek behind him, from something wooden probably or rusted metal, then quick steps follow after. But the sounds of bare feet hitting the empty roof are lost to his ears…
“Tommy!”
“Tommy.” And he snaps back into reality, his blurry vision sharpening at a moment’s notice causing his senses to go into overdrive as he takes in his surroundings.
Strong smells of coffee, and a few distant voices, and there’s cosy lighting, comfy chairs and tables not too far away, his fingers brush over neglected stains and there’s- there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, large in comparison to his lean frame. It’s moving up and down following a set rhythmic pattern, burning him. He looks up, into striking green eyes, not familiar, but a soothing reminder non the less and it allows him to breathe again. “Are you okay?”
Tommy tenses again, shoulders drawing tight as he pulls away from Sam. “Yeah, big man. Just zoned out for a bit.”
It’s awkward, the hand hovering where it had just been resting on his shoulder, but he’s grateful. Sam had always been so understanding, giving him space when he needed it, there to talk when he wanted, a welcome presence that didn’t overwhelm him, and he also knew when to back off. It was clear that the man worried for him, sometimes his pupils would grow bigger, smoke escaping his mask when Tommy said something particularly concerning.
But Sam never pushed and even though he didn’t quite like the looks he sometimes received, he found solace in it.
He only hovers for a moment longer before disappearing into the kitchen, probably to do a stock count or sneak a snack to Fran. Tommy loves that dog and all her quirks. It’s probably the only reason he even tolerated his job at the café, cuddles and snoot boops kept him sane when the people drove him to insanity.
Hands stroking over soft white fur, a clear remembrance of animals long gone, perky tails and fluffy paws the only thing he thinks about as he kneels next to Fran.
The café bell chimes, a tiny squeak following as someone leaves the store, the door closing right after. The noises, soothing murmurs and bright laughter settle down allowing the atmosphere of the café to become quiet like it always does an hour before they close up for the day.
It’s 4 pm and he’s been working since around eight, a proper double shift that Sam had made sure to complain about, but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.
The day was still, uneventful, as the end of the month always is. People who work a nine-five job are usually too busy to leave their offices and their only customers are those who had just finished a graveyard shift, but even those are less, the majority opting to just go home and pass out. Besides, payday hasn’t arrived for most, money tight this late into the month and everyone is getting overworked, but by the upcoming Monday, he guesses, they’ll be booming again.
Sam emerges from the kitchen, manoeuvring his way from behind the counter and to the door, flipping over the little sign that said they were open, “What about an early day?” He asks and Tommy finds no reason to complain, limbs sore from constantly being on his feet.
A good night’s rest may do him well and he could even catch up with some magic-based documentary. It’s fun picking apart all the mistakes they make about the heroes and villains.
Maybe that should be concerning…
“Sure, man,” Tommy breathes, tension draining from his shoulders, “maybe you could finally have enough time to make that thing you promised me!” Oh, and wasn’t that a fun day?
Sam is absolutely brilliant with technology, and engineering some of the best things the world has ever seen with stuff most people think is trash. But, unfortunately, the world never sees them, something about his creations being used for the wrong reasons. And, yeah, that makes a lot of sense, but Tommy said he could make a lot of money with his designs, the counterargument being that the money the café brings in is all he needs.
“Tommy, you know I was severely sleep deprived that day.” Sam sighs making his way back to the kitchen.
“Oh, come on! Just think of it! Imagine the damage those lasers could do.” He starts cleaning absentmindedly as he talks. Grabbing a damp cloth from the back he makes quick work of wiping down the coffee-stained counter. His arms move in a continuous circle before hitting a dirty patch and he has to scrub a bit harder to clean the area.
“That’s the problem.”
A dash of whipped cream he must have forgotten to clean earlier makes him go to the back, needing to wash out the cloth before returning to his monotonous work. He sees Sam standing by the sink, rinsing out some dishes and Tommy happily trots to go stand next to him.
“But the crime! All you have to do is just put Nook somewhere and let it start stabbin’ shit,” he rants, trying to make Sam believe that a killer robot isn’t the worst idea ever. And, yeah okay, maybe it isn’t something that should make him so excited, given his history and all, but the amount that it could help on stealth missions would be immaculate.
Sam just sighs, lowering his head to look at the dishes below him before glancing up back to Tommy. “I can’t even begin to explain-” the bell chimes from up front and Sam immediately goes to dry off his hands, but he’s stopped before he gets the chance.
“I’ll get it.” Tommy drops the dirty rag into the sink, wiping off the excess water onto his apron, only receiving an unsure stare in return. He rolls his eyes, crosses his arms and gives Sam a look, “It’s fine. I’m still on the clock anyway.” And with that he makes his way to the front, muscles tired, but heart strangely determined.
-
It had taken him three years to get to this point. Three years of impossibly long hours spent sparring with trainers and it had taken days at a time to understand certain topics surrounding magic. His abilities granted him leniency in the most unfair way possible, but he was happy despite it. It’s the reason he’s standing on a podium in front of most of the city, eyes bright as they stare at the newcomers.
Ever since his first day at the school he had fought tooth and nail to prove himself. Pushed past reasonable limits, and failed again and again till all he knew was winning. The teachers had scoffed and the other kids had made fun of him, but the look on their faces when he was chosen…
He didn’t do all that for nothing though, he was determined to prove a point and the government had graciously provided a way for him to do so.
They got him into L’Manburg’s top hero academy, paying a large number of his study fees. And he needed to be the best he could be, because they were desperate, in need of him to turn the tides, to scare off potential threats to the Tower. And no matter how tired he got he couldn’t fail, wasn’t allowed to fail.
The government had been grateful, even allowing him to graduate early. It went against most rules and regulations. It stipulated that you needed to be sixteen, and do two years of apprenticing and only then—at the age of eighteen—were you allowed your Hero license. He’s fourteen, but it was easy for them to fake the documents-
“Our newest recruit. The top of his class, with an immaculate show of courage and determination-”
He steps forward, making himself known to the public and they all stare in wonder, eyes amazed by the blood-red feathers he so eagerly displays.
A mask covers the bottom part of his face, goggles hiding away striking blue eyes, his black hoodie is loose where it hangs around him, armour designed to make him look older, stronger than he is, but it’s also to protect him. It’s to protect everyone.
No hero ever shows their face to the public in fear of their family being targeted and people thinking or underestimating him would be a problem otherwise.
“Let’s hear it for the Vearrow!” And there’s a deafening sound as the crowd applauds, a few shouts and whistles reach his ears every now and then, motivating him with the excited tone.
He lets his eyes scan over the people, searching, focused on the memory of two blurry faces. He’s hoping, begging, that his parents have chosen to come to the ceremony so that he could watch as their gazes fill with their own guilt and regret.
He recognises no one.
“Vearrow! Great to have you in the ranks!” A man, a few inches taller than him, comes into view, hand covered in rings made of solid gold and silver extending and he grips it with meaning, squeezing a bit more than necessary.
In front of him is Schlatt, one of the most recognisable heroes because of his deep involvement with the public and politics surrounding the Heroes Commission. Dark, jewelled horns curl around the side of his head making him appear threatening, a shiver crawls up his spine as they make eye contact.
A sudden deep need for this man’s approval rises in his chest. He’s by far the most influential and, if he plays his cards right, he could make a big name for himself. “I have high hopes for you.”
Schlatt walks away, ready to give a speech of his own once the introductions are over and done with, but a strong, steady hand falls on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from the sharp horns and crisp suit. His eyes snap to the side, meeting a white mask with a stupid smiley face drawn onto it and he wants to laugh. It’s incredibly funny to see even if the man is known to strike fear into the hearts of the most dangerous people.
Oneiro steps in front of him, firmly blocking his view of the crowd, keeping the attention focused on himself. There’s knowing in the way he stands like he can see through the façade Vearrow’s put on and despite the fact that he’s wearing a mask that covers his entire face, he radiates pride and… compassion?
It’s not too unbelievable, they knew each other as friends after all. “Welcome to the commission, Vearrow.”
Their hands meet, a strong shake, not unlike the one with Schlatt, and Oneiro lowers his head close to his ear, allowing his voice to drop down to a whisper, “I am so proud of you, Tommy.” The sincerity in his voice is so abundantly clear and it causes a warm feeling to spread through him, knees almost weak at the praise.
His parents may not be here, have probably forgotten him and he may not gain Schlatt’s favour, but in the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t matter, because he has Oneiro and, soon, he will have friends. He will be happy.
He pulls away then, the smile clear in his stature even if it’s not visible.
Vearrow nods, a silent sign of gratitude and Oneiro disappears from his sight. He’s suddenly thankful for the goggles because no matter how many times he promises he’s the strongest man, and vows that he never experiences an overwhelming emotion, he’s tearing up.
This exact moment, where everyone is looking at him with so much adoration and love, false and momentary as it may be, this moment where people are proud of him, where the people’s care is more than he has experienced his entire life. He clings to that, blinking at the constant flashing of way too many cameras and he smiles.
Tommy smiles.
-
He’d only been working at Sam’s little café for a month when he meets Wilbur Soot.
It had been a normal day. He was doing pretty good, all things considered, even if exhaustion weighed him down. But it didn’t bother him much since it was a quiet day. Sam, of course, didn’t like this, complaining that he was putting too much pressure on himself. Tommy didn’t care about his judgement though, the man hadn’t seen him perform even at his worst.
The bell had pitched high as the fucker walked in, all gangly limbs and fluffy hair. He made his presence known with a flourish, coat flapping behind him like wet seaweed and it was a rather dramatic sight. And obviously, the dick decides to walk into the place as if he’s an esteemed guest.
Tommy hadn’t seen him before, though, but at that very moment, he knew that the man is a douchebag, which made his day all the more fun.
Then, the cherry on the fucking cake, he has the audacity to stop and stare at Tommy like he’s dirt on his shoe.
It only serves to boil his blood.
“What, bitch?” Tommy snaps, lips curling up into a vicious snarl.
It’s something that he had learned to do throughout the years, a defence mechanism when he feels threatened, even if it’s just some random guy staring at him. He’s used to people flinching and avoiding eye contact, but of course, this asshole wasn’t that easily frightened.
He only receives an amused half-smile, brown, almost chocolate, eyes sparkling with interest as they gaze upon him like he is the star in a universe of endless black.
Tommy’s shoulders bunch up, body tense as he glares at the man, initiating a tense staredown.
Okay, so maybe the day hadn’t been as good as he liked to pretend it was. It’s been rough, accompanied by his lack of sleep and it didn’t help that his morning started with a gruelling story on one of the news. He hadn’t even meant to click on the thing, just randomly switching it on for a bit of background noise as he got ready.
The moment he heard what they were talking about, he was racing for the remote, hoping to switch it off as quickly as possible.
He recognised the story. How could he not? It had been the centre of the public’s attention for a while now, and they loved to linger on it whenever they could, getting all the more views because of it. They particularly focussed on his disappearance and what it essentially entailed. The whole thing had only brought back old memories, the cold slap of wind against his ears, a phantom pain where important limbs once were.
It was about Vearrow, of course…
It caused panic, and fear so deep that he almost cancelled his shift, but he needed the distraction. So he got his shit together, ignored the way it felt like he was tearing at the seams, and came to the cafe thirty minutes early. Sam hadn’t asked questions, but he knew something was up.
Though, he didn’t mind Fran’s grounding presence at his feet as he sat on an uncomfortable stool behind the counter.
“Who the fuck are you?” The man asks unceremoniously, hands stuffed into his pockets. His brows furrow and he keeps his distance from the counter as if he’s unsure what to make of Tommy. But the smile never leaves his face and he seems completely intrigued by the situation.
“What’s it to you?” he asks, arms folding over his chest as an attempt at some sort of barrier. “Bitch,” he adds on, keeping his eyes sharp to emphasise how offended he is.
“I didn’t know you were hiring children now, Sam!” The man walks to the counter, firmly placing himself on the closest seat to Tommy, eyeing him with a dazed sort of fascination. He can just about see the dark turtleneck beneath a leathery trench coat, definitely not warm enough for the recent weather, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
There’s an aura around him, a smugness, almost a surety that could usually be seen around rich people…
Or dumbasses.
It’s strange for someone with a decent amount of money to come to a place in the lower districts. But he doesn’t have all the facts. Sam might actually know this guy. They could actually be friends.
Yeah, no, Tommy chooses to believe this guy is just an arrogant fucker, probably looking for a fight with the locals.
Sam stalks out of the kitchen, a peanut butter dog treat poking out of one of his pockets and it immediately catches Fran’s attention, her tail wagging at the sight. There’s a little towel in his hands as he dries them off, fingers twisting in it with practised ease, almost like he had been a doctor at some point.
He’s looking at the exchange with a dulled confusion before his body language tightens a fraction, just the right amount to put Tommy on edge.
“Hey, Wilbur,” he casually greets as he moves to place himself next to Fran, absentmindedly giving her the treat she was happily waiting for, “I’m not hiring children.”
Wilbur rests his elbow on the table, letting his head fall into his palm and his eyes drift to Sam, almost unwillingly, and it’s painfully slow like he didn’t really want to do it. “Then explain the twelve year old gremlin you have here.”
Tommy bristles, eyes sharpening as he glares at him with all the annoyance he can muster up and he allows his hands to curl in, a desperate need to grab something or to claw at someone.
“Fuck you, man!” He shoots up, moving to take a step back, to get away from this prick and his prying eyes, he needs to get out, to breathe.
Fluffy white paws trip him from their position protectively caged around him as it had been for probably the past hour or so and he stumbles back, arms shooting out for balance. Sam grabs his shoulder, steadying him while the man—Wilbur, he supposes—just laughs, high-pitched and scratchy, a stark contrast to the smooth deepness of his voice. His hands clutch his stomach, leaning back with the force of his laughter and it looks entirely too dramatic like he’s some fucking theatre kid.
“Fuck off!”
“Sam! Sam, I like the child,” Wilbur states, looking way too giddy for it to be any sort of okay and Tommy glares at him for it, cheeks flushing red in both anger and embarrassment. “What’s his name?”
Sam straightens, brows furrowing as he looks at Wilbur. His fingers curl slightly tighter around the towel in his hands, betraying his anger in the most subtle way.
Tommy has escaped from Fran’s paws, posture still rigid as he looks at the pure bother that this Wilbur character is. He looks down, dulled blue meeting the deep black eyes of the dog below him. She stares up at her owner and then back at Tommy, unsure of either tense body language.
“I think you can ask him like he’s actually here, because he is,” Sam’s voice is tight as he speaks, hidden annoyance in there somewhere, perfectly concealed.
“You’re no fun.” Wilbur rolls his eyes, head resting on his palm again. “What’s your name, child?”
Tommy freezes, eyes moving away from a panting Fran and he scowls with all his might. The fucking audacity, the audacity, of calling him a child right after Sam had explicitly stated that he was not, in fact, a child. Of course, he wasn’t legally an adult, only a few months away from seventeen, but nobody needed to know that, besides, he’s still a big man!
“Sam, I’m gonna kill him.” Tommy decides, sparking with a deranged sort of mischief as he stares at Wilbur, hands absentmindedly feeling around for- for something, never allowing his eyes to leave the target. And, not so surprisingly, Wilbur looks absolutely delighted at the declaration, like the weird-ass he is, but, by sunset, he’s going to regret every single one of his life choices. “Where are the knives?”
“We don’t condone killing in this cafe.” Sam’s quick to try and placate him, maybe he realises that it’s more than just a threat, but rather a promise of chaos and violence.
“That’s fine. I’ll make sure to do it outside.”
Sam sighs, one hand letting go of the rag to pinch the bridge of his nose. In a way, he looks like a tired dad. “No, Tommy–” And by the time he realises what’s happening, it’s too late.
Wilbur, the bitch, perks up at the mention of his name, a smirk worming its way up and onto his face. Tommy just about resists the urge to bolt past Sam and directly to the drawer full of too-sharp objects when he realises what’s been said. But instead, he freezes, eyes moving from green to brown and he almost snarls at the smugness he sees.
Tommy notes how even Sam has frozen in his spot, unsure of how he should be handling the rapidly escalating situation, but it’s clear he’s struck out, opting to try and deal with whatever happened next.
Wilbur leans back in his chair, lazily keeping eye contact. He has all the power in his hands, able to turn a tense situation into pure mayhem with only a couple of words and he’s just about to do it when he gets oh-so rudely interrupted.
“If you say one fucking word, bitch, I will shove a stick so far up your ass that popsicle sticks will be jealous.” And the café quiets, not that there was anyone in there besides them, but it goes unnaturally still. Wilbur’s stupid smirk falls from his face in shock and even Sam is looking at Tommy all weirdly.
“What?” Sam’s voice is exasperated with shock and that’s exactly what did it.
Laughter erupts from all of them. Tommy’s bent over wheezing, face red with the pure force of it, Wilbur’s laugh echoes in a high pitch, much more scratchy than before and Sam is barely making any noise, but he’s shaking rapidly from his fit of giggles.
And the moment is achingly familiar, the different types of laughter spread throughout the room, bouncing back and forth making it seem louder than it technically is. He remembers sitting with his three teammates at the kitchen table, faces hurting from how hard they all smile and he finds himself grinning with them despite the pain.
It was only a couple of weeks since they had been paired up, fighting and arguments a regular thing, their teamwork almost non-existent. There is anger and resentment and some other complicated emotions that they haven’t spoken about yet. But for the first time since they met, they’re all laughing and smiling. Content at the moment even after a day filled with unbridled tension.
And Vearrow had caused it.
No! Not the– well, maybe… He had caused the fights and the anger and the lashing out, hadn’t he? Maybe it was… A thought for another day.
He was the reason for the brightness in their eyes and their aching faces, and he had made them happy. Had made them smile, even if it only lasted for a few minutes.
Vearrow thinks it could be a moment he never forgets, how well they could get along if they just tried if they could just get over the petty emotions and talk things through. But he’s never been particularly good at that, always opting to push it to the side to deal with later, burying his own negative feelings in a desperate attempt to brighten the mood.
He chooses to focus on the happy moments, such as that one, and he seeks comfort in them, even if it only lasts for a moment.
Tommy looks at the two people surrounding him, one a stranger the other a—well, not quite a friend—and he can’t help but compare the two moments, a dull throb in his chest at the bittersweet memories.
He smiles despite the pain.
And if he went home that day feeling a bit lighter than he had, both Sam and Wilbur’s laughter echoing in his mind, well, no one has to know, a desperate secret for his mind only.
He clutches Henry like a lifeline that night as he collapses in his bed, a small smile sticking to his face with the idea of making someone laugh and it slowly fades as little rest and an eventful day brings exhaustion, dragging him into a deep sleep.
He knows it won’t last though, the smiles and friendships never do. His whole life he had been a source of entertainment for people, making a fool of himself just to get a rise out of them or making jokes in awkward situations to ease the tension. For as long as he can remember he’s made a majority of his personality a comedy act and, well…
He knows, Primes does he know, that the show can’t go on forever.