Work Text:
Tommy knew he was running on borrowed time. He had been for a while, if he was being honest. He'd been trying to tie one last loose end, but every time he tried to write the ink turned red and the joke of a book became a cry for help.
The only reason he was still going, waking up every day and dragging himself through menial tasks to burn time, was Dream. They visited everyday without fail, ready to mess around and shoot the shit. Sure, they blow up some of his stuff, but that's just to show how much he trusts them! Besides, he doesn't need armor, he has Dream!
Dream shows up barely an hour after sunrise, and as is routine, digs a hole that Tommy tosses his crappy stone tools into. There's a flick of a lighter, the hissing of a lit Fuze, and a small explosion as the stick of dynamite detonates, taking his tools with it.
The rest of the day continues as normal, Tommy and Dream gathering some logs for... something, he doesn't quite remember. Was it his storage area? No, he'd finished that a few weeks ago. Oh, right! His little writing area! Maybe it would help him come up with the highly awaited sequel "how to sex 3."
The two work through the woods for a few hours, Tommy's makeshift wooden axe giving him more splinters than he can count, but by noon they've gathered a good few stacks of logs. Dream offers to stop for lunch and Tommy, not one to argue, agrees.
The pair head back to Logstedshire, sitting on some logs laid out around a crackling campfire. Dream reaches into his bag and produces a sandwich, and offers Tommy a spare slice of bread.
Tommy politely declines, the thought of eating making his stomach twist into knots.
Tommy turns away as Dream pushes up his mask to eat, busying himself with painstakingly stripping the bark off the freshly harvested logs.
"Hey, Tommy," Dream asks after a few minutes, "You wanna play a game?"
Tommy pauses. The last time Dream had asked him that they'd spent the day messing around with his trident, doing flips and spins in the rain.
"Sure!" Tommy chirps, setting his axe down, "What kinda game are you thinking, big man?"
"Something fun," Dream promises, "You can turn around, Tommy."
Tommy twists around and he catches the glint of something metallic in Dream’s hand.
"You ever heard of Russian Roulette?" Even though he can't see the man's face, he can feel the smile behind the words.
A revolver glints innocently in the light, silvery and regal reflecting the flames from the campfire. It's a simple six shooter, a balck polymer grip and chromed steel. Firearms were practically nonexistent this far out, as ammo and spare parts couldn't be put together in a crafting table. How Dream has one, he has no clue.
"I‐" Tommy balks, "Is that a fucking gun? Where the hell did you get it?"
Dreams tsks, "What did we say about asking too many questions?"
"Sorry, sorry," He flinches, "I just... Isn't that a little dangerous?"
"What, not a big enough man to play?" Dream teases, pulling out the cylinder. There's the glint of a brass casing as he loads a single bullet in and he spins the cylinder, flicking it shut with a click.
"I don't know, Dream," Tommys eyes flick from the revolver to Dream's mask, then back.
"How about I go first then?" Without waiting for a response, Dream pulls the hammer back and places the barrel against his temple, squeezing the trigger without a moment's hesitation.
Click.
"See?" Dream exclaims, "It's easy. Your turn!"
Dream holds it out and Tommy reluctantly takes it, the black grip uncomfortably warm. He slowly pulls the hammer back, staring at his reflection in the reflection of the steel. He looks like shit, eyes sunken in and locking color, hair oily and unkempt.
He evidently takes too long and Dream huffs, "What, you're gonna make me take the first turn and not even play?" There's a dangerous undertone to his words that Tommy knows too well.
"No!" He yelps, "I was just looking at it." He tries to calm himself down, telling himself he only has a one in five chance of losing as he lifts the barrel to his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as his finger twitches on the trigger, pulling it before he can lose his nerve.
Click.
Tommy practically throws the gun to the ground, his breaths quick and heavy as Dream takes it back.
"See! Easy," Dream praises, "You did good!" Some part of him preens under the praise, but every other part of him screams to run, to throw the damned thing into the fire and book it.
"There, I played, can we get back to work now?"
"Never thought I would hear you of all people asking to go back to work," Dream sniggers, "But it's rude to start a game and not finish it, Tommy."
He jams the end of the barrel under his chin and pulls the trigger again.
Click.
Calmly, as if he hadn't just gambled with his life, he brings the gun down from his head and holds it out for Tommy once again.
"Come on Tommy, we wouldn't want to be rude, would we?" Dreams' voice flows like syrup, sickeningly sweet against his ears.
Tommy takes it.
The sharp stabbing of panic had begun to fade, even if rationally he knew his odds of losing were worse than before. His hands feel detached from his body as he mechanically pulls the hammer back and slowly brings it up to his head once again.
Click.
Numb hands bring the gun down and Dream snatches it away with a laugh.
"Now you're getting the hang of it!" He congratulates, and Dream brings it back up to his own head.
Click.
Dream hands it back and Tommy brings it up to his head with barely a thought, finger poised on the trigger.
They say that there's a moment of clarity before death, so maybe that's why he hesitates, maybe that's why his brain finally takes back up the reins and freezes every muscle in his body.
There's only six shots, his mind whispers, this is the last one. Pull the trigger and you die.
"What's wrong, Tommy?" Dreams' voice floats in his ears, "You're not going to back out on me now, are you?"
"This," Tommy swallows a lump in his throat that screams to be let out, "This will kill me, won't it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"This is the sixth shot, there's only one place the bullet could be." Tommy looks up at Dream, staring into his cold, emotionless mask, "This will kill me."
The man's head tilts, and he can feel the amused look from through the porcelain, "And the other ones couldn't have?"
"But-"
"You're just trying to get out of playing, aren't you?" Dream accuses.
"No I-"
"I always knew you were a coward." He sneers, pushing up from his place on a log. Tommy had always been a bit taller than the man, but now he never felt smaller.
"Pull the fucking trigger, Tommy," He demands, "Or I'll do it myself."
Dream takes a step forward and Tommy flinches back, hand tightening on the revolver. Some small part of his brain screams to point it at Dream, to turn the man's face into a fine red mist, but he can't. Dream is his friend, he can't just kill him!
"If you don't play, I'm never going to come back," Dream threatens, and Tommy knows he's serious, "And you'll be alone for the rest of your pathetic life."
"Wait no please don't Dream please stay," He begs, "Ok, ok, I'll do it."
His hands quiver as if he's just been through a snowstorm as he slowly lifts the gun, savoring every second. Far sooner than he wants, the cold metal is pressed against the side of his skull and his thumb slowly pulls back the hammer, the cylinder spinning into place.
He squeezes his eyes shut as his finger tenses on the trigger, preparing for the jolt of recoil and shock of pain. Maybe he'll see Wilbur.
He pulls the trigger and the hammer drops.
Click.
After a moment he hesitantly opens his eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop and his brains to be scattered against the wooden walls of Logstedshire, but nothing happens, and Dream just looks disappointed.
"Did you really think I would just let you die?" He scoffs, "You're mine , Tommy. You die when I say you can."
And so he turns away, pulling out his axe and some logs and begins to strip the bark from them, ignoring the battle raging in Tommy's mind.
The cylinder slides open and Tommy fishes out the round that should have killed him. There's no primer, and the gunpowder is all gone. It was just a game.
Tommy loses track of time, staring at the bullet in his palm and the gun on his lap, but he's brought back by the glint of metal in the corner of his eye.
There, resting innocently in the dirt, is another bullet. It's half covered in mud and ash, but when Tommy plucks it from the ground and brushes it off on his shirt, it's good as new. The primer’s still in place and the gunpowder’s still there as far as he can tell.
Tommy looks up at Dream, who still has his back turned, then back down.
You're mine, Tommy. You die when I say you can , runs in his mind like a skipping record.
It's not your time to die yet, Tommy.
Tommy loads the revolver.
The cylinder clicks closed and he pulls the hammer back, the single bullet sliding into place as he raises the gun.
"Dream," He spits, and Dream lifts their head slightly, "Fuck you."
The peaceful silence of the woods is briefly interrupted, birds squawking and scattering to the skies as a single gunshot echoes through the trees. Then, just as suddenly as it had happened, it is gone, and the woods are silent once again.