Chapter Text
In relative and logical terms, Tubbo is doing okay!
Schlatt’s in prison (The L’manberg court hadn’t even given him a trial. They just tossed him in a cell and didn’t look back), Tommy’s finally home, and Ranboo was doing pretty okay. He still Enderwalks sometimes, and every so often Tubbo will catch him mumbling to someone that isn’t there, but he hasn’t had any major panic attacks, so that’s good!
Tommy went to therapy with Puffy every Thursday, and Tubbo was happy for him. He really was.
It was just- it was a stupid thing, really. He knows it is. Because he’s safe, and Phil is good, and Tommy and Ranboo are happy. Any negative feelings he has about living there are irrelevant, because they’re not supposed to exist when he’s physically doing this well. He literally got what he wanted! A nice home, a loving family, safety, his dad in prison.
So what if Tubbo feels off every time Phil ruffles his hair, or when Wilbur pulls him into a side hug. It’s nothing. It’s not important.
He has to be okay. He is okay. He is.
(He’s having a hard time believing himself.)
______
Tubbo is currently sitting on the not-couch-couch (apparently it’s called a loveseat, but that’s a horrendous name and Tubbo hates it) fiddling with a piece from Tommy’s old suit. The raccoon hybrid himself hasn’t made any moves to try and get back into vigilante work, but Tubbo gets bored without anything to do. At least being on the run from his father gave him something to do.
The device was supposed to be a homing beacon, but when he first made it, he didn’t have the right materials so it became more like a homing broadcast.
Now though, thanks to Quackity’s incessant worrying, Tubbo has the materials he needs and several hundred materials he doesn’t need. Seriously, when was Tubbo going to use Nether Quartz of all things?
Nonetheless, the simple tinkering was keeping his scarred, ugly hands busy. He usually just wraps his arms in bandages, but they were starting to irritate the not-quite-healed flesh. Phil was making him take a rest day for his skin to breathe.
Tubbo hated it, hated looking at it.
Worse even still, he knows he’s not the only one.
Sometimes, Tubbo will look at Phil only to see the other not meeting his eyes. Sometimes he won’t even look at Tubbo’s face.
Tommy is just awkward, which he guesses is warranted, because Tubbo knows he’s being short with him, but everyone treating him like a ticking time bomb is starting to piss him off.
He’s the same Tubbo he was before he got kidnapped. He doesn’t know if they’re all wrestling with their self loathing, or just unintentionally (he really hopes it’s not intentional) being dicks.
Tubbo once walked into the living room after a shower with his bangs pulled back, explosion scars on full display.
Wilbur looked away. Techno left the room.
He gets it. He really does.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less though.
He would say that it makes him feel discarded and hated, and while that'd be true, it’s not helpful. Phil has other things to worry about. Tommy and Ranboo’s therapy (Phil offered therapy to all three of them, but Tubbo declined. He was fine.) was coming along okay Tubbo, but they still woke up with nightmares and had the occasional panic attack, so he didn’t really know how helpful it was. Techno told him some bullshit about ‘healing not being linear’, but Tubbo thought it was stupid. He has everything he needs and more so he's fine.
He’d have to be. For Tommy and Ranboo.
“Heya mate,” Phil says, ruffling Tubbo’s hair as he walks past. He shoves down the urge to flinch, instead making himself act normal. He knows Phil won't hurt him. There's no need for all these dramatics. “Watcha working on?”
“Reworking some pieces of Tommy’s suit.”
“I thought he was taking a break from hero work?”
Tubbo doesn’t miss the wording. Hero work instead of vigilante work. “He is. I’m just bored.”
Phil raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have anything else to be working on?”
Tubbo shakes his head.
Phil’s eyes dart over to the laptop discarded on the coffee table. “Nothing at all?”
“Nope.”
“So you’ve done your studies for the day then?”
Tubbo groans. “Why do I have to take these classes again? I already know advanced math, I can read, and L’manberg history is boring as fuck. Who cares that this dumb city is technically a country that succeeded in its rebellion? I don’t!”
“I know, history is boring as fuck, but I want you to take at least one year of actual school, even if it’s online.”
“But it sucks. It takes forever to read because I’ve got dis- diskel- fuck- dis-"
“Dyslexia.”
“Dyslexia,” Tubbo snaps his fingers “It makes the letters squiggly and it’s so time consuming. I could be doing more important things.”
“Like laying on the couch fiddling with your brother's tracker because you're bored?”
“Like working on projects.”
“Oh?” Phil says, and Tubbo thinks he’s imagining an annoyed lilt to his tone, but his heart shoots to his throat anyways. “And what about my garden?”
“I’ve run out of things to do in the garden.”
“Weeding?”
“Done.”
“Replanting?”
“Done.”
“Harvesting?”
“Done.”
“Jesus fuck kid,” Phil chuckles, and some of the tension leaves Tubbo’s shoulders. “Techno and I could barely keep the thing going with just the two of us, then you come alone and manage the whole thing by yourself.”
Tubbo shrugs. “It’s easy to focus on doing one thing a day. Some days I just pick gardening.”
“Can you pick homework?”
“No,” Tubbo frowns, crossing his arms and lazily draping himself over the back of the couch. “I will never pick homework.”
Phil just huffs a laugh, shaking his head fondly and walks away. Tubbo actually doesn’t know what the man does during the day. He gave himself a month off of hero work to ‘emotionally recover' from being with Schlatt and to ‘be with the boys while they begin their recovery’. Tubbo thought it unnecessary. He could do more by going back to work and keeping the city clean, not looking after Tubbo. Tommy and Ranboo needed extra attention, obviously, they’d been through far worse than Tubbo had.
He still feels guilty when the sight of Tubbo’s horns alone is enough to send Ranboo into a panic on some days.
But it’s fine. For Tubbo, at least.
(It’s not. Whenever he catches glimpses of himself in the mirror, horns on display, he wants nothing more than to rip them off his skull.)
But it’s okay. Ranboo is having fewer panic attacks, and Tommy has stopped staring at everyone like if he leaves for a moment they’ll vanish.
He’s also stopped trying to cut the white streak in his hair. After it came back a forth time, the raccoon hybrid gave up.
He still dresses like they’re in the dead of winter though. He’d told Tubbo in a hushed whisper after the other boy had come to comfort him after a nightmare that dying had brought on a persistent chill that Tommy can’t ever seem to get rid of.
If Tommy found Tubbo’s old puffer jacket on his bed the next morning, that’s none of Tubbo’s business.
So they really were doing okay!
(Tubbo really isn’t. He wakes up with vestiges of blood and bombs behind his eyes, hands shaking and clawing at his face because he just want it to stop-)
He’s doing better than he was at Schlatt’s, and Tommy and Ranboo are happy.
That’s what’s important.
That’s what matters.