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“When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition at that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is ‘So it goes.’ ” - Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five.
Wilbur dies on a Tuesday.
Just after he turns to Tommy, his face dusted with dirt and soot, a tired grin on his lips, his mouth open as if about to cheer, he takes a claw straight through the back. He's stabbed all the way through- so far that Tommy can see the red-stained tip poking through the black leather. Wilbur’s smile dims, the light in his eyes following, and when he tries to speak, there’s only blood. “Tom-” is all he can gurgle out before the claw retracts and he’s dropping limp to the ground.
“Wilbur!” Tommy screeches, turning into a flurry of motion and blades, slicing the animal into pieces, a million milli-seconds too late. He's already sobbing when he's done, his vision already blurring over. The ground feels like it's shifting under him as Tommy throws himself down at his teammates' side. He can't feel his hands, but he still attempts to plug the bloody wound with them anyway. "Wil, Wilbur, you-"
"Tom-" Wilbur coughs. More blood. It pushes through his teeth, squeezes through the gaps in Tommy's fingers. Tommy isn't useful here. Tommy isn't helping. Wilbur is going to die.
Tommy? He hears in his ear- his comm, going off, Phil and Techno and other voices that Tommy can't pick apart right now. Tommy, status report. Tell me what you're looking at.
Tommy doesn't answer. Wilbur takes his last trembling breath. All Tommy can hear is the sound of the air leaving his blood-slick lungs.
Tommy. What is going on? We're coming- let us help you.
Tommy doesn't listen. He pulls away from Wilbur's side, bile rising in his throat. He stumbles to stands on shaking legs, finds his stray knife on the ground and picks it up with blood-coated hands.
Tommy? Tommy? Are you hurt? Are you-
Tommy impales himself with the knife in one quick, practiced stab.
His last thought is this: he is not losing his best friend like this. He is not losing his best friend at all.
Tommy wakes up to the sound of Phil yelling.
His eyes snap open, his heart jumping in his chest. Tommy has one moment of peace where he can't quite place where he is before it all rushes back and he's falling out of bed in his haste to get to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet. He makes it, even with his feet getting caught in the blankets and him smacking his forehead against his side table painfully.
"Fuck," Tommy whispers to himself, sitting back on his heels on the cold tile floor. Outside of the door, Phil is still yelling- or, calling really loudly, for Tubbo to stop doing whatever it is that he's doing at eight in the morning. Testing tech, is what it is- Tommy knows without going out there, because that's the same exact thing that Tubbo was doing yesterday morning at eight.
The day that Wilbur Soot died.
Dies. Died. Whatever.
"Fuck," Tommy says again, swallowing around the queasiness threatening him again at the thought. "Fuck, shit, balls." He looks down at his fingers. Pale and trembling, but not red stained. No blood. When he pulls himself off the tile floor and flushes the toilet, he stops at the sink to wash them thoroughly anyway.
Tommy looks himself in the mirror when he's finished. You've got a second chance, he thinks, eyes glowing. Don't waste it.
…
"-it's inside of the batter, Tubbo! Inside!"
Tommy shuffles out of his room and down the hall to the open plan half-kitchen, dining room, living room, where Phil is standing with an apron and a pink bowl of batter, and Tubbo is standing with wild hair and a remote in gloved hands.
"It's waterproof, Phil, don't worry about it," Tubbo dismisses, pulling himself up to sit on the island counter cross-legged. He's not supposed to do that, not while Phil is cooking, but the day that someone successfully tells Tubbo what to do and he listens is the day that the world well and truly ends. "It'll be fine."
"Tubbo," Phil says slowly, deceivingly calm, "it's not the robot that I'm worried about."
Tubbo tries reaching over with his gloved hands and Phil bats him away. "Don't touch. If I make a pancake with metal in it, I'm giving it to you, and you better eat it all."
Tubbo rolls his eyes, then catches sight of Tommy lingering in the doorway. "Tommy! Tommy, come here, come look at what I made last night- or, this morning- or, I don't know-" Tubbo hops off the countertop and grabs Tommy, pulling him to the dining table which is actually covered in stray pieces of metal and screws and tools.
"Tubbo!" Phil yells, "get your stuff off my table!"
Tubbo blows a raspberry in Phil's direction. "This is why I need a workshop, old man!"
"He's not going to get you a workshop, Tubs," Tommy says, his eyes drifting over to the hall, waiting for a glimpse of Wilbur. He's usually out by now. He was out around this time yesterday. "If he did, he knows you'd never come back out."
"You think if I'm annoying enough, then he won't want me to?"
Tommy huffs, amused. Wilbur died yesterday in his arms and still, Tubbo can make him laugh like Tommy's never known hurt. "I mean, only one way for you to find out, right? What's all this?"
"This," Tubbo throws out his hands like he's presenting, "is the next big thing. A machine that can, and will, freeze a moment in time- just one- while the rest of the world moves on. So all those times we have to deal with rampaging aliens about to hit buildings full of people? Done. Now we just zap this at it in the right second and the alien is frozen, giving us enough time to save some lives."
Tommy blinks at it slowly. "Tubbo, it looks like it's in pieces."
"Well that's because it is." Tubbo picks up a wrench. "Give me seven hours on this bad boy and I'll have him together in no time. Well, seven hours with breaks. I bet if I grinded on this long enough it could be done in, like, four. Maybe three. Maybe if I-"
"Have you slept yet?" Tommy interrupts, already knowing the answer but just wanting Tubbo not to start grinding on it on their dining room table.
Tubbo waves the hand with the wrench in it, almost smacking Tommy in the head. Tommy will take that one as a no. "Sleep is like, not real. They made it up to keep us obedient."
Tommy can't possibly follow that line of thinking, because his eyes, again, drift over to the hall where this time, Wilbur is shuffling through, wearing Techno's tee shirt and rubbing his face tiredly. Tommy's hands clench under the table, but he doesn't make any sudden moves towards him.
He has to be normal. He can't just-
"Morning," Wilbur says, suddenly right behind them both. A hand falls into Tommy's hair, ruffling in a way that would probably annoy Tommy if he wasn't just dead only a couple of hours ago. "Why is the table covered in metal?"
"Hi Wil," Tommy breathes, drinking in the sight of him. Wilbur pauses, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Tommy," he says slowly. "What did you do?"
Shit. "Fucking nothing," Tommy pushes him away. "Mind your business." Then, for lack of a better plan, he blurts, "Tubbo hasn't slept yet!"
Wilbur's attention is immediately rerouted. "What?"
"Like I said, sleep isn't a real thing. We're being spoonfed all these fictional concepts by the Man." Tubbo bangs his wrench against whatever metal piece isn't cooperating with him. "They just want to keep you complacent."
"If complacent is another word for functioning, then yeah," Wilbur argues, reaching over and taking the wrench from Tubbo's hand. Tubbo snaps his teeth at him, but Wilbur stands strong. "I am the Man. Go sleep. You'll be useless to us later if you're tired."
Tubbo glares, but dutifully sweeps all the metal off the table, somehow gathers it all in his arms and storms away.
"I'm going to regret telling him what to do, aren't I?" Wilbur sighs, and Tommy should laugh, but he can't help but think about his warm, wet, red hands and the feeling of life fading under his palms. "Tommy? Tommy?"
Tommy blinks. "Huh?"
Wilbur reaches out and puts the hand not holding the wrench against Tommy's forehead. Tommy, unable to think better of it, closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "Hey, you alright?" He asks, voice low. Tommy wants to press closer, dig his face into Wilbur's neck and be lulled by the pulse beating there. He wants it right by his ear. Strong and loud enough that it erases the lingering sound of death. "You seem…out of it."
"M' fine," Tommy lies, "just tired."
Wilbur pulls away. Tommy manages not to chase the touch. "What is with you all and not sleeping?" He pushes Tommy lightly. "Go back to bed, I'll bring you food when it's done."
Tommy wants to stay- he wants to not let Wilbur out of his sight- but he nods and slinks away, back to his room.
He's got to figure out how to keep Wilbur alive today. He's got to do his job.
For a while, no one thought Tommy had a power. Tommy included.
His mother and father went to get him seen, and they- the power professionals or whatever- declared him useless. Of course, they didn't say that, but it was implied in not so many words that, yes, you son is without a power- he is completely and utterly ordinary. He will never be able to do all of the things that he wishes to. Have a nice day!
Tommy was crushed, and his parents were relieved, and he figured his life would go on with its monotonous beat until he died. That's how they wanted him- how they preferred him.
Leave all the saving to the heroes, Tom, his mother would say. Stay safe. You could be an artist instead. Or a chef.
Anything except what you want, Tommy heard. Tommy, in his parent's placating remarks, heard the rest of his life being just another person in the crowd, shepherded away from any danger. Kept safe and clean and healthy. Kept carefully.
And then, he died.
Quite early, but later that day, his parents took him out. They didn't say what it was, of course, but Tommy knew. For them, a celebration, for him, a balm. They went to the mall, they bought him a coke, they let him drink the whole thing all on his own.
It made his stomach curl.
Later, they were in the parking lot, and Tommy, still unburdened by the threat of risk- still chasing thrill by its tail- tried running across the road to his mother. He didn't look both ways.
It was quick when the car came.
He got hit, flew, and the moment that he hit the ground, everything was dark. Seconds later, he woke up because his mother was knocking at the door asking him if he was up and ready for his doctor’s appointment. It was the same thing she said yesterday morning, and the doctor's appointment went exactly the same as it already had.
I'm sorry, you just don't have any powers. Twice over.
That whole day was Tommy scrambling, freaking out and trying to pretend that he wasn’t. He tried to remember all his responses, and did everything he did before, but this time, he didn’t run out into the street. He paced himself, pulling back against the chase of the thrill, and this time he had the bizarre experience of watching the car that killed him speed by without him.
After that, Tommy realized that this was it. This was the power that they said he didn't have: his death. His own mortality was his power, and as much as it hurt, it was powerful.
It was hard to explain, though. He’s honestly lucky that Phil believed him when Tommy told him. Although, he probably wouldn’t have if, in his interview, Tommy didn’t let himself bleed out, come back and match the man word-for-word in all his questions.
“I’ve been here before,” Tommy said to Phil’s shocked expression. “You’ve been here before too.”
Phil, of course, once prompted, remembered, which, other than a person coming to that conclusion on their own, is the only way that someone would ever remember any of Tommy's resets.
“You- you stabbed yourself in front of me,” Phil gaped, horrified. Tommy nodded. "You…you died."
Tommy nodded again. Phil was frantic when Tommy did it too, fumbling for his phone and calling for help and half- jumping across the table, wings flaring to try and plug Tommy's wound, but by now, at seventeen, Tommy knows how to die even when people are trying to save him, so here they are.
“I’m alive now,” Tommy said. “Despite. That’s my power.”
All of a sudden, Tommy had a job- die to save, the only way that he can help heroes the way that he's dreamed of.
The alarm goes off sometime after one.
Tommy, at Wilbur’s behest, went back to his room and tried to rest. Unfortunately, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wilbur, pale and lifeless under his own hands. Needless to say, Tommy stopped trying to rest. Wilbur brought him food, and Tommy said a quiet thanks, then pretended to eat it. He waits, and waits, and counts the seconds, and then when he's sure of the time, he goes back out to sit quietly at Techno’s side.
“You’re up late, Theseus,” he notices, taking a sip of his tea. Tommy mumbles in response, watching across the room as Wilbur helps Ranboo stretch out his leg muscles. “What’s going on? Hm?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing- nothing, or nothing-something?"
Tommy cracks a smile, peeling his gaze away from Wilbur to look at Techno. "Nothing-nothing, Blade, I swear."
"And you'd tell me if it was something?"
After today, I won't have to. "Yeah," he says outloud. "I would."
As soon as Tommy makes that promise, the alarms go off. He tries not to see it as an omen. He can't say that he's successful. He rushes to get dressed, falling in practiced line in between Ranboo and Tubbo, and soon, they're all ready, out on the roof, about to load into their jet.
Tommy, impulsive, reaches over and snags Wilbur's tight sleeve. "Wil," he goes, trying for a steady voice, "stick by me?"
One of the things that Tommy loves about Wilbur is the way he doesn't question Tommy in moments like this. "Yeah," Wilbur nods, brushing their hands together. "I've got you."
Tommy's chest loosens.
He's confused, Tommy can tell, but all he does is nod and adjust his comm. When they go out, the situation on the ground is the same as it was the day before: a scientist at a nearby lab was experimenting on animals, melding their DNA, injecting them with hormones and steroids, making them stronger and bigger and much more dangerous. With that, all it takes is one slip up for them to get loose and then suddenly the city has turned into a Jurassic Park movie: screaming citizens, destroyed property and beasts stomping through their streets.
“God,” Wilbur says, voice pained, “who would do something like this?”
“Someone fucking stupid,” Tommy grumbles, eyeing the crab-tiger hybrid with very familiar looking claws.
Phil delegates them, putting Ranboo and Techno on population control, putting himself and Tubbo on air control, and Wilbur and Tommy on the ground fighting, just like last time. Tubbo fires up his jet pack and Tommy risks one last glance at Wilbur before their faces are covered by their own masks.
It'll be alright, he thinks to himself. Just one more fight. Keep him alive until the end. Easy.
...
Not easy.
First off, fighting giant mutated beasts, even for the second time in a row that day, is not something you get used to. People are not meant to dodge a scorpion tail while also jumping back from tiger teeth. Tommy is not a good multi-tasker, but even Tubbo, who can do seventeen projects at once and still teach a lecture on them, is struggling over the line.
"Fuck," Wilbur shouts, somewhere off to his left. Tommy immediately turns and looks, stomach hurting, thinking about stab wounds and red hands, but Wilbur's downed his beast and is standing with a hand on his hip, leaning on his bow staff, catching a breather. "I'm going to take a day off after this. I can’t even talk to these guys. It’s like they’re not in there."
Tommy turns back just in time to duck a large paw trying to palm his head off his body. He throws out a kick, activating the knife in his boot. The beast whines and tilts- listing to the side. The fight is over.
"God, this is depressing," Wilbur frowns. "who the fuck would operate on helpless animals? Who even needs to see a scorpion and a tiger melded together?"
Tommy doesn't respond- usually he'd love to banter, but he's distracted by the fight winding to an end around them. He can see Phil swooping by, wings out, a downed eagle lizard limp on his back, and he can see Techno, strong and steady, with two bear- wolf pelts over either shoulder. The fight is over, all that is left is the clean up.
And Wilbur's death.
"Wil," Tommy goes, reaching out a hand- Wilbur steps closer, and just as they're about to touch, there's a shout from somewhere ahead. Ranboo, panicked, their comms crackling-
It was playing dead! It was playing dead! Someone-
All of a sudden, crashing through the evacuated building in front of them, comes a giant creature; something Techno must have been the one to put down due to its sheer size. A bull with white fur and large bear-like teeth. And it’s charging straight at Tommy.
Fuck. This is what he gets for wearing red and black, huh?
Tommy's chest squeezes, fear overtaking him. He sees the whites of the animal's eyes just before something slams into his left and knocks him to the ground. Tommy tumbles, spinning in the dust left from broken buildings, but looks up in time to see Wilbur get trampled to death.
"No!" Tommy screams, his throat convulsing in such a way that the scream sounds like it's being squeezed out through rocks. "Wil- no, you-"
Tommy? asks Phil. Tommy? Status report?
Tommy looks away, dropping to his knees on the concrete. He tenses, shaking, curling up onto himself, curling over his own stomach, which is desperately flipping. Wilbur was just there. He was- Tommy was supposed to save him. This was supposed to be it. How is it that Wilbur ended up saving him instead?
Tommy! Phil snaps. Respond.
He pulls in a ragged breath. "It’s Wilbur- it's- he's- " Tommy stops himself. What could Phil do? How can Tommy explain? Wilbur is- he’s-
No.
Tommy takes a deep breath and settles his nerves. One more time, he thinks, then he pulls out a knife with shaking hands and barely holds it still enough to jab it into his person.
Phil's yelling again.
Tommy opens his eyes and he feels like a reanimated corpse. It's been a while since he's had to reset so much, and it's taking everything he's got, and not to mention the emotional toil of watching Wilbur-
He turns over, curling his arms tight around his stomach. He can't think about it. Just-
Wilbur does this thing sometimes. When he gets nervous, or worried, he'll sit somewhere, close his hands into fists and recite the most basic facts that he knows. With every fact, he unclenches one finger, until he's got open, ready, steady palms. The facts change from day to day- some days he's more solid on his knowledge of chemistry, of anatomy, of biology. Other days he's shaken enough just to recite his name and birthday, over and over and over.
Tommy, hunched, curls his hands into balls. He's got two facts. One: he needs to save Wilbur. Two: he will save Wilbur. Tommy repeats these over and over to himself until his hands are open and ready.
One more time. Just one more.
Tommy waits until he's sure that everyone is awake, and then comes out. He moves slow, avoiding the food offered and again, finding his place by Technoblade's side. Wilbur is laughing across the room, in front of them as he kneels beside Ranboo. Tommy tries not to look.
“You’re up late, Theseus,” Techno says- again, he's got a mug of steaming camomile. “What’s going on? Hm?”
Tommy hesitates. “Nothing.”
“Nothing- nothing, or nothing-something?"
Tommy is quiet for longer this time. His stomach can't stop curling tighter and tighter. He couldn't eat something even if he tried. "Techno," he starts, distant and wondering. "If we go out in the field today, would you mind pairing with Wilbur?"
Techno hums. "Not at all. I'm curious though- in what world would you not want to pair yourself with Wilbur? You guys are always-" he raises a hand and crosses his fingers. Intertwined.
Him and Wilbur, intertwined. That first couple of months after they met- inseparable. Back to back and side to side and-
Grave to grave.
Tommy takes another deep breath. He feels like he's inhaling glass. Not in this world- this world where Tommy brings death everywhere he goes. He can’t risk it with Wilbur. Wilbur is too much to him. "Just- wanna try something new today, you know? Mix it up."
Techno seems satisfied with that, and Tommy manages not to throw up when Wilbur's sudden high laugh sounds very, very, briefly, like a scream.
...
"Can I go with Ranboo?" Tommy asks, startling Phil and making Wilbur look at him, almost hurt.
Phil's gaze jumps from Wilbur, to Ranboo, then back to Tommy. He seems wary. "Uh- of course you can, but-"
"Thank you." He says quickly, not wanting to hear it. Of course, Tommy can’t get off that easy, because-
"You want to be on population control?" Tubbo asks, skeptical. He just knows Tommy too well, is all. He knows that the only thing Tommy hates doing more than crowd control is like- pushing papers after the debrief. Tommy's told him as much. Complained loudly and throughly that it was the most boring job in the whole world. That he'd rather die then be stuck doing that.
Well, Tommy got his wish.
"What's in it for you?" Tubbo asks.
"Nothing," Tommy snaps. His temper's short. His veins feel buzzy. Exhaustion and panic and adrenaline. He needs to get out on the field. He’s sure of this plan, he just needs the opportunity.
All he wants is to see tomorrow. All he wants is for Wilbur to see tomorrow. He doesn't have time for questions, or Tubbo, or Techno, or are you alright's.
Tubbo raises an eyebrow, but before he can be questioned any further, Techno speaks up- good old Technoblade. “Come on Wil, me and you. I’m not Tommy, but I'd say I'm just as good.”
Wilbur, reluctantly, agrees and Phil sighs. In any other case, Tommy would be warmed by how Wilbur seems to just want to fight alongside Tommy, but not now- not on this continuing day. This never ending Tuesday. Wilbur being near Tommy is deadly, and Tommy, maybe selfishly, doesn’t want to see him die again.
...
Crowd control is perfect for Ranboo.
The boy is more squeamish around violence and prefers human interaction- as an empath, that makes perfect sense.
I can't influence other people's emotions, Ranboo had said when they first met, all I can do is feel them. The depth of them, the weight. Where they come from. Where they lead. My whole life has been spent watching, really. I'd like the opportunity to be able to actually do something with all of this.
In another life, Ranboo would have probably been a teacher or a nurse or something with careful hands and a steady voice, but in this world, he’s a superhero, and he’s soothing to the many people screaming in terror. Tommy imagines that they're a lot alike- people telling them what they can and can't be, giving them limits based on nothing concrete. So what Ranboo doesn't like violence? So what all Tommy can do is die? Why can't they be what they dream to be?
“Tell me where to go,” Tommy says, and Ranboo takes a short breath, surveying the damage- a stretch of street that had a beast crash through it. Maybe even two. There are shattered store fronts, turned over cars, bent lamp-posts. Tommy can hear moans of pain, and crying- people, either trapped or just scared and huddling away from where they last saw the charging animal.
“There,” Ranboo points to a smashed up bakery. “There’s a mother and child in there- they’re not injured, just scared. And hey- put those knives away.”
Tommy makes a face, then sheathes his knives. He makes his way over, stepping over the torn up roads and broken glass. He hops through the shattered store window and creeps around the darkened shelves.
"Hello?"
There's a sound, like someone shuffling, then a sniffle, and a lock of brown hair peeks from behind the counter. A woman, curly hair, and a teen pressed close, with brown hair that would match if not for the one white streak at the front.
Tommy kneels in front of them, ignoring the shards of glass. "Hi, I'm Theseus. Do you know me? I'm a hero."
"I'm Puffy," the woman says, her eyes are wide, skirting around behind Tommy, looking for threats. "And this is Fundy, my boy."
The kid at Puffy's side, almost Tommy's age, flickers in and out of sight, turning invisible and visible like a switching light.
"Are the monsters gone?" Puffy asks.
"They're off the street for now," he says. "If you come with me, I can get you to be seen by someone. Take care of any injuries."
Puffy nods, shifts, but Fundy clutches at the counter still. "The bakery…" he says, voice a warble. His hands flicker in and out of view, and Tommy winces.
"I'm sorry about your bakery." He says. "When we get all these animals rounded up, I'd be more than willing to come and help you rebuild. Maybe some of my teammates would come too. But first we've got to get you out, okay?"
Fundy squints at him, but then nods once, and stands.
Tommy leads them out, guiding them away from the rubble and over to an ambulance, where Ranboo is standing with another mother and her daughter, and a family of three.
Puffy pulls ahead, but Fundy stops, turning to look at Tommy. "You promise you'll help?"
If I make it to tomorrow, it'll be first on my list, he thinks. Tommy nods though. "I promise."
Fundy hesitates, but follows his mother, and Tommy turns away, stepping back. Maybe this was the play all along. Crowd control isn't so bad. A bit less action packed, but Tommy needed this calm. The buzz in his veins, which Tommy now can identify as fear, is finally gone.
Everything is fine. He's okay. He might even live.
Wilbur!
It's Techno.
But it takes Tommy a moment to place the voice. He sounds nothing like Tommy's ever heard him: loud and urgent, almost edging on desperate.
Fuck, he says. Phil, I need you down here- this building- we weren't careful and It looks like we missed an open electric line. It caught on the carpet and now there's a fire. Wilbur is still in there.
Tommy stops still. Ranboo, at the ambulance, helping Puffy into the back, stops as well.
On my way, Phil says, ever stoic and professional. It's impressive, the way he compartmentalizes. Allowing him to focus on solving whatever problem is at hand instead of panicking due to his own emotions. He tried to teach Tommy once, just Tommy moves on impulse and is spurred by emotion. He couldn't stop it if he desperately wanted to. He lives like a live-wire. So what Phil manages, is astounding.
It's impressive. Very. But it's also very useless. Tommy knows what will happen. He knows that, no matter how hard they try to get Wilbur to safety, it won't work. The building will weaken, the smoke will thicken, the rooms will become hazy with heat. Wilbur will turn on his comm, not to ask for help, but to say a wheezing goodbye, because that is the kind of person Wilbur is. Wilbur will make them listen to his final breaths and Tommy will leave this field, this day, without his best friend.
Yet again, Wilbur will be gone.
"Theseus," Ranboo calls, pulling Tommy's straying attention. "Breathe. We can go over and help Crow right now. Everything's good here- we can go. Whisper will be okay."
Tommy stares at him helplessly.
How freeing it must be, to be unburdened with the knowledge of the truth.
The comm crackles again: Wilbur.
"Guys," he pants, gulping desperately. "I don't think there's a way out-"
Tommy rips out his comm. Ranboo shifts towards him, most likely sensing that he's about to do something reckless.
Tommy unsheathes his knives.
"Tommy," Ranboo says, alarmed, forgetting their hero names completely. "What are you doing?"
Fundy and Puffy, pressed together in the truck, watch him with wide eyes. Tommy doesn't bother turning away- they'll never remember this anyway.
Only Tommy ever does.
Tommy and Wilbur met the second day.
When Tommy was approved to work with Phil's team of heroes, he walked into the offices, ready to sign on the standard issue contract.
He was nervous for a lot of different reasons, but he had to keep his calm about him. He needed to read all the terms, all the conditions, every last bit of fine print. Phil seemed nice, but everyone seems nice right before they realize that they can take advantage of you.
In the lobby of the office was a guy sitting in one of the black plastic chairs. He seemed innocuous: brown hair, glasses, sweatshirt with a beetle on it. He was wearing converse just like Tommy's, and so Tommy just took a chance-
"I like your shoes," he said, and the guy looked up. He smiled. Tommy remembers thinking that he has a very kind face.
"Thank you," the guy responded. Then he smiled cheekily. "I like yours. Are you here to sign in?"
Tommy nodded.
"Go and give the front desk your name. I've been here for ten minutes though, so if they call you in before me, I'll know this system is fucked."
Tommy remembers laughing, then going to sign in and sitting back down- just one chair away from the guy. They introduced themselves and Wilbur, of course asked, what's your power?
Standard question, but Tommy's learned to be wary.
Anyone could be looking for him.
Tommy winced a little, then mysteriously said, you'll see soon enough.
Apparently- Tommy didn't know this at the time- but apparently, Wilbur loves a good mystery.
They spend a lot of time together. Actually, the first three weeks after being signed, they're basically glued to each other's sides. They train together, eat together, sometimes they pull their blankets from their separate rooms to the common room couch in order to watch old hero films until dawn.
I'm gonna figure you out, Tommyinnit, Wilbur had said. You are an interesting guy.
Tommy shrugged, and hoped, if this inseparable friendship is what he got for being confusing, that Wilbur never would.
They go out into the field around their second month together. Tubbo has these rocket boots that sometimes short out and makes it so that Phil needs to swoop in and catch him before he falls to his death. Ranboo is on the ground because of his speed, even if he refuses to do any real damage to any of the people they fight. Technoblade ruins a few buildings because he doesn't know how to handle his own strength.
Wilbur too, was in a grey sort of area, but not because he was adjusting. His power was his hindrance. He could communicate with animals- any and all, fish and birds and cats. Tropical and forest and mountain-terrain. All of them. Tommy tested himself- he bought them both tickets to the local zoo, and made a whole day of taking Wilbur from exhibit to exhibit and making him ask all the animals to do tricks for them. It's not that Tommy didn't believe him, it was just an excuse, really, to spend time with him. And by the end of the day, when Tommy had a tee shirt with a lion on it and Wilbur had a turtle cap backwards on his head, Wilbur probably knew it too.
So his power was real, it was just- not particularly aggressive. Especially not compared to Phil, with real wings that could carry the weight of over two human-people, or Techno, built from rock, who could shatter mountains with just one hit. Wilbur, like Ranboo, wasn't built for battle, but what made it worse was that he refused to use it at all on the field.
You could make a swarm of bees attack someone, Tubbo exclaimed. Or- or, prompt a lion to bite someone's leg.
But Wilbur shook his head. I refuse to bring innocent animals into a fight that we could win without them. I'm responsible for what I choose to do with my body- making them fight without that choice? I would hate someone doing that to me.
Quietly, Tommy agreed. Having no choice in how you are used- it was awful. But he also watched, nervous, as Wilbur met Phil's eyes in a challenging stare.
Throw me off this team, the look said. Go on. Do it.
Surprisingly, Phil only nodded. I won't make you, he said, and Tommy was stunned.
How do you just refuse to use your power to its fullest extent? How do you set these boundaries? How do you say no when asked?
Tommy thought- he was taught, that when someone tells you to do something and they're a higher rank than you, you just do it, no questions or qualifications allowed. You never negotiate. If someone says rush into this crumbling building, implying you are expendable, then you just start running and worry about the rest later. If someone says throw yourself on this blade for the good of the world, then you take a breath and let yourself fall.
Wilbur seemed to disagree. And Phil too. Phil never asked him to die. Phil never laid a blade against his neck, waiting for the moment where it all went wrong.
And fuck, did it go wrong.
The first couple of fights were awful. Unbalanced and uncoordinated and they, nine times out of ten, ended up causing more destruction than they prevented, but Tommy was never expected to shoulder all the weight.
They just- adjusted. Shared the risk equally.
Tubbo built a jetpack with less faults and married himself to air-control. Ranboo confessed to not enjoying ground fighting, and used his speed to race people to and from medical teams. Techno learned moderation with his strength. Wilbur showed his own speed and agility- getting a staff and using it like a lever, flipping and jumping much like a cat himself.
Try these, Tubbo said once, handing Tommy blades. Two short silver knives, sharp and serrated, with a leather handle that held Tommy's grip.
Tommy had tried working with all sorts of things before this- guns (too loud, too messy), a bow and arrow (Tommy fidgeted too much to be patient), even a jetpack similar to Tubbo's. (Very soon Tommy found that he liked being flat on the ground.) He was burning through weapons like there was no tomorrow, so Tommy just shrugged and gave it a shot, not expecting much.
They were perfect.
It was very easy for Tommy to get the hang of them- their weight, their length, their sharpness. It was easy for him to learn to use them- how to slice, how to block, where to apply pressure. It was like fighting with his hands, except his hands could make you bleed.
Finally, finally he was as deadly as everyone else around him. Finally he wasn't just a walking target to be hit for the greater good.
Tubbo doesn't know it, but handing him those knives, and every knife after, was a physical reminder to Tommy. Just because his power is death, doesn't mean he needs to die to help.
It was nice, Tommy thought. Having them all not know. Or not care. And then-
"I still haven't figured you out," Wilbur said. He had just barged into the medical room where Tommy was getting checked out. They did that sometimes- ignoring the rules for each other, going where they weren't allowed because the other was there. The nurse startled when Wilbur pushed into the room- jumping back like he was caught doing something wrong, but Wilbur didn't pay him any mind.
Tommy wasn't even hurt, really. It was a trigger happy dude who could control lightning. Tommy may have gotten a little bit shocked, yeah, but the dude got also got a bit stabbed, so really, in Tommy's opinion, all this fuss was too much. But Phil liked seeing his team members taken care of though, so-
"Yaah?" Tommy responded, resisting the urge to bat away the hands of the nurse, who's gotten over his surprised and is back to poking Tommy like he's a sea-sponge.
"You're not super strong," Wilbur paces in front of Tommy's bed, counting off on his fingers. "Or a mind reader- I've mentally screamed at you enough to test it- and you're definitely not a healer or like, I don't know, a teleporter. You'd probably be on time more often if you were."
Tommy rolled his eyes. He was smiling though. Wilbur may be dumb, but he's Tommy's best friend.
"Your power has to be like mine," Wilbur concluded. "Something that can't really be used in battle."
"Sure," Tommy gave, eyes crinkling, just wanting to make fun of Wilbur as much as possible. Of course, just then was when the nurse treating him decided to sink a needle deep into Tommy's right arm.
Tommy stiffened, lashing out, actually knocking the hands away now, and throwing himself in the opposite direction, but it was too late. He could feel his arm going numb. Whatever the man injected him with is already coursing through him, making its way to Tommy's vulnerable heart.
The second Tommy knocked the nurse away, Wilbur launched himself between Tommy and the nurse, which was great, because he was still trying to lunge at Tommy. Wilbur easily fended him off and knocked the needle to the ground where it shattered to pieces.
Tommy had enough mind to slap an open palm on the hospital alarm, and they went off. It was only five seconds before the door was thrown open and Phil and Techno were there. Easily, the nurse was completely subdued and Tommy was left to stare at the shattered glass needle on the ground, half shaking, half numb, his heart slowing in his chest.
"Tommy?" Wilbur asked, panicked, whirling back around to look at him. "Tom?" he reached out, fingers trembling. Tommy let Wilbur grab him, let him pull Tommy close like he was a cold, sickly kitten on the side of the road. Which, to be fair, was how Tommy felt. "Tommy, fuck- what was that?"
Techno knelt down to look at the shattered needle. He touched the shards with a rare delicate hand. "Pain-killers." he announced gravely. "A huge dose." When he looked up, he seemed despaired. "A fatal dose."
Dream, Tommy thought. Even still, the man is his first thought. It's always Dream. Even now. Even still. Can't let his possessions run free without getting a hand on them.
"Fatal? What do you mean fatal? Who would- why-" Wilbur stuttered, holding Tommy tighter, as if he could pull Tommy into his heart and leech the pain from him like that.
Phil didn't speak, he just looked at Tommy, expression regretful. Tommy sighed softly.
He moved, pulling himself out of Wilbur's arms as best he can with his weakening body.
"Tommy-" he tried, but Tommy shook his head.
"Wil," he said, his words slurring slightly. His tongue felt like sandpaper. "Listen. You want to know my power?"
"Tommy, no- you- what the fuck are you-"
Tommy reached up, pressed his hands against Wilbur's face. He stopped talking. "Just wait for me, alright? I promise I'll explain when I'm not dying. Just wait for me."
Wilbur blinked, eyes huge and wet and confused. And then got even more panicked when Phil calmly handed Tommy a scapel. Internally, Tommy thanked Phil- he's never experienced it, but he assumed being poisoned was not a fun way to die.
"Tom," he stuttered. "Tommy, what are you doing? Phil?"
"Close your eyes, Wilbur," Tommy said, speaking softly through the pain racking through his body. Wilbur didn't listen. Which, how could Tommy blame him? If their roles were reserved, Tommy would never, in a million years, let Wilbur do what Tommy was about to. "Please. For me."
Wilbur's eyes flicker from the scalpel to Tommy's face. He looked utterly terrified, but thankfully, he closed his eyes. When he did, a few tears slipped down his cheeks. Tommy reached up to brush them away, ignoring the way Wilbur leaned into the touch, ignoring the way his breath hitched.
"I'll be back," Tommy whispered, then pulled away and killed himself.
Tommy went through the day again: breakfast, training, the alarm, the lightning, the stabbing, the win. Quietly, on the ride home, he told Phil about the nurse, he wanted to keep it secret, but of course, Wilbur overheard. Phil promised to deal with it, and that's how Tommy ended up in his room later, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Wilbur.
"You remember now?" Tommy asked, and Wilbur, eyes on the carpet, nodded carefully. He hasn't looked at Tommy since he overheard, and it makes Tommy nervous that he can't gauge where Wilbur's head is. He just kept curling his hand into a fist and slowly uncurling it one by one on the way home. He would probably do it now if Tommy wasn't watching so closely.
"Wil." Tommy said. Wilbur looked up, breathing funny.
"You died," Wilbur sounded ill. "In front of me. You were dead."
"I'm here," Tommy reached out. He put his hand on Wilbur's chest. Slowly, Wilbur covered Tommy's fingers with his own. Tommy pulled Wilbur's hand over to his own chest, over his heart. "I promise that I'm alive. I promise that I'm here. Listen. Just breathe and listen."
Wilbur inhaled, then exhaled, going quiet. Tommy made sure to breathe steadily, letting his heart work in his ribcage. Both of their hands, intertwined on his chest, rise and fall with his breath.
He, of course, understood more than most. For days after his first death- that one car crash outside of the mall- Tommy would shut himself in his closet for hours at a time and let all the outside noise be muffled just so he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Just so he could be reminded that he wasn't dead. Tommy needed that time to listen. He needed to be convinced that he was alive.
"You hear that?" Tommy whispered. "I'm alive."
"You're alive," Wilbur repeated, just as soft. He sounded like he was beyond grateful. Like Tommy's life was the greatest gift he would ever receive.
Wilbur squeezed Tommy's hand once, then let go, finally less pale. "This is your power, then," he said after a moment. "What, revival?"
"Sort of. It's like a self-contained time loop. If I die and activate my power, I can choose to reset the day and avoid death again."
Wilbur was quiet. "But…" he started, "you still die."
"Yes." Tommy nodded. Anyone else and he would've been surprised at their intuition, but behind Ranboo, Wilbur is the most empathetic person Tommy knew. And being second only to an actual empath- it said something.
"You still feel it. All those deaths."
Tommy nodded again.
"That's- that's horrible," Wilbur whispered. "That's fucking awful, Tommy."
Yes, Tommy thought. But there is worse.
White coats with pens sticking out from the breast pocket. Straps around wrists and needles in vulnerable patches of skin. Being told this is for the people and then being jabbed. And then being stabbed. Being killed and being killed and being killed.
At least here, when Tommy raises a knife to his own stomach, it's on his terms. No one is doing it for him. No one is calling him a good boy for dying.
Something in Wilbur's expression made Tommy want to be vulnerable, so Tommy carefully peeled off his tee shirt, pulling it over his head and bunching the fabric in his hands. Of course, Wilbur's eyes instantly zeroed in on the many knife wounds scattered across Tommy's abdomen. Closed scars of various sizes- some deeper than others, some more jagged. Some of them- most of them, unwilling.
"The scars never fade," Tommy said, watching Wilbur's wide eyes. "I'm marked for every return."
Wilbur didn't speak. He reached out slowly, brushing his fingers over a cluster of knife wounds at Tommy's side- all the same knife, all in the same spot, as if Tommy had been stabbed over and over and over. Day after day after day. Wilbur would see the difference immediately- he would know routine when he spotted it.
"What is-"
"Those are- different." Tommy swallowed. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut tight, but he knew that if he did, he would see a familiar green. He would hear echoes of voices- trust me, Tommy, this is for the best. This is how you can help. Don't you want to be a hero? "I'm- it's hard. With a power like mine. It's rare and it's useful. People are desperate for a reset. All types of people."
"Useful?" Wilbur asked, catching Tommy's eye.
"I used to be used," Tommy admitted quietly. "For reckless heroes that wanted fame. I was their eraser. Lamb was what they called me. I never went out unless it was a code red. Unless they needed a death on-site. That was what I was there for. They- they only ever wanted to kill me. I just I just expected the same here, so that's why only Phil knows about my power."
If Wilbur looked horrified before, it's nothing compared to what he looked like now.
"Tommy," he breathed, pulling away. "You- God, Toms. We would never. I would never. Seeing you die in front of me- I- I never want to see that ever again. If I can keep you alive forever, I would."
Tommy smiled, loosened by the admission. "Immortality, huh?"
"I'm gonna figure out immortality for you," Wilbur joked, but he sounded too firm to be completely joking. Tommy laughed anyway, then pulled his shirt back on, hiding his scars. When they were away, Wilbur seemed able to breathe easier.
"I promise, Tommy," he said. "That you'll never have to be anyone's eraser again. You'll never be someone's sacrificial lamb. Not as long as you're with me. I'll fight anyone I have to. Use all the power I have. I'm not letting that happen to you ever again."
Tommy, with the hesitance of someone who's had a million promises broken, believed him.
Wilbur saved me, Tommy thinks when he wakes up on his fourth Tuesday of the week, so I'll do anything and everything that I can to save Wilbur in return.
Wilbur dies in a lot of different ways: stab wounds, gun shots, collapsed buildings, fires.
One time Tommy cradled Wilbur's head in his lap as he shook because he begged Tommy not to leave him as he bleed. Tommy sat in the shower for hours the next morning fully clothed- not even bothering to go down to breakfast. Another time Tommy selfishly left Wilbur to die alone so he didn’t have to watch the way his life drained from his eyes. When he woke up, Tommy couldn't even look himself in the mirror- couldn't even accept the warm hand that Wilbur offered in greeting- his guilt felt tangible and he was choking on it.
Tommy tries a lot of different things.
He tries hurting himself before the fight to try and make them all stay behind, but that ends with only Ranboo staying, and them both listening to Wilbur's death over their comms. He tries only guarding Wilbur's back in the fight- hovering like a mother bird, but that only resulted in the both of them being overrun by the animals and killed. He tries telling Phil that Wilbur isn't fit for battle, but that only ended with Wilbur pissed at him, and having him die being mad at Tommy was- fuck, it was worse than awful.
Nothing works. Everything Tommy tries just ends with him looking for a way to die to reset the day.
Tommy's so tired. So, so, tired. All he wants is for Wilbur and him to see tomorrow. But will he have to run himself into the ground to get it?
He starts writing notes around the thirty-sixth Tuesday.
He steals a notebook from Tubbo's bedroom and curls up the corner of his room, letting the morning pass him by as he lists out everything that he's tried and what happened when he's tried it.
How long does Wilbur survive when Tommy is around? How long it takes for him to die when he isn't? What does Phil do when Tommy yells for him when Wilbur is hurt- does the help ever come, how quick, is it enough for him to be hurt and then healed? What does Techno do when Tommy confesses, quite vaguely, that Wilbur needs protection in the field today- how many extra seconds does Wilbur survive with Techno watching his back versus when Tommy does, and how many more citizens die because Techno's attention is split? How long does it take for something to injure Wilbur once Tommy believes the fight is over? Does any of the things that Tommy tries matter? Is Wilbur destined to die? Is Tommy destined to grieve?
By now, Tommy is familiar with his own aches and pain, but horrifyingly, Tommy also gets to learn what all his friends' grief sounds like - the way Tubbo wails when Wilbur takes a hit for him and doesn't get back up; the way that Techno spins into a rage at anyone around him when Wilbur falls to his knees at his side; the way that Phil dives to the ground, talons out, eyes red, feathers molting; the way that Ranboo shakes and trembles like he's coming apart at the seams, like every feeling he's ever felt is trying to come out of him in one go.
Every time it's so new for them. Every time they fall apart like nothing will be the same ever again. And the worst part is, Tommy thinks, is how they don't ever turn to him. They never ask- Tommy, please. Tommy, just this once. Tommy, for Wilbur. None of them. Not once.
He stays after Wilbur's death once, just to see- Wilbur is run through with another claw, and he dies in Phil's hands, and they all gather around, saying their goodbyes, holding Wilbur so he isn't alone. Tommy waits, faded into the background of the moment. He waits, and waits. Phil presses a kiss to Wilbur's forehead. Techno turns away and squeezes his hands into fists like he could crush the concept of death in his palms on his own. Tubbo stands, and brushes by, his steps forceful, eyes bright and sharp. Ranboo watches him go, pale, and then his eyes find Tommy's. He lights up, and Tommy thinks, here it is- finally, but it's only a fresh round of tears, and Ranboo reaching out a hand, going, "Tom. God, Tommy, you didn't get to say good-bye."
They never ask- and they never expect. But the voice in Tommy's head, which started out as Dream's, and has now faded to his own, goes, die. Die. Save him. Die. Work, little lamb. Do your job.
They don't ask, but Tommy gives his life anyway. He has to. The last thing he hears cannot be Wilbur's wheezes of pain, or his pants, or his screams. The last thing he sees can't be Wilbur shaking, or bleeding, or reaching out for help. The last thing he feels can't be just numb, cold grief.
He prefers the blade, at this point. The feeling of warm red trailing down his arms. He prefers the brief black that he gets. Anything but Wilbur, dead.
Tommy wakes up steady, now over the nausea that passes through him from seeing death so close.
Yet again, Wilbur's blood is all over his hands- it's been a month now and Tommy doesn't know if he'll ever be clean of the red.
He, with his aching bones, pulls himself out of bed, and shuffles to the bathroom. He splashes his face with water, if nothing else, then to remind himself that this is a new day and tomorrow was a different time. All the days are blending now, and any sleep that he manages to get feels less like relief and more like a drain. This helps, even slightly.
He's got a new plan today- something he hasn't tried before. He'll go, steal out of here and head to the city ahead of them all. He'll be there when the animals begin to stampede and he'll fight on his own.
Maybe, if he wins the battle alone, then they won't even need to come out. Of course, Wilbur could still die at home: choking on his food or slipping and falling and cracking his skull, but it's much easier to safeguard against that. Wilbur's never died at home before, and he's died out there almost thirty-eight times now. Tommy will take his chances.
He's also running out of ideas. He's trying not to think about it, but the second that he can't think of anything else to try, he'll have to resort to something drastic.
He's already concluded that he'll keep dying for days and days on end if only to keep Wilbur alive for these few hours.
He pulls his suit on, straps his knives close, and cracks the window, dropping out of it. He wanders the city, ignoring his buzzing phone, waiting and waiting for the first screams of panic. When they do sound, they sound in front of Puffy and Fundy's bakery. He runs over, rounding the corner, not even pausing for a second before he tackles the panther-armadillo to the ground. His knives sink into its back, and Tommy catches view of Fundy, in the- thankfully- unbroken window, eyes wide, jaw open. Then the panther bucks, trying to get Tommy off its back, and Fundy flickers out of view in a panic.
Tommy holds on- he keeps the panther under him until it stops fighting, but then has to quickly duck so not to get swiped by the claws of the eagle-bat swooping down. Which- what the fuck even is that? Why would someone want to combine those two animals?
He rolls off the limp panther, trying to yank his blades free. They don't budge and Tommy can't give them another pull before the bird from hell is flying low, trying to grab Tommy by the shoulders again. Shit, he thinks, dropping into a roll, he didn't realize how helpful air-control was. He can't give anything his attention for longer than a second, and- fuckin' hell, is that an elephant down the lane?
Tommy very suddenly, very vividly, misses Technoblade.
He yanks for his blades, and this time they pull free, just in time for a monkey- bird to jump at his face.
"Fuckin' Wizard of Oz fans," Tommy gripes, swinging wildly, metal cutting through the air. There's one, then two, then three, and suddenly, Tommy can't see. And then, on top of it all, there's a growl from behind him and Tommy prepares to be mauled, when the monkey-birds drop from the sky one by one. Tommy steps back, confused. "What?"
Fundy, with a red tipped chef's knife in his hand, flickers into view.
"Fundy," Tommy breathes.
Fundy glares. "How do you know my name?"
Thankfully, Tommy gets attacked by a lynx-hare, so he can't comment further on his own slip up.
Fundy, Tommy finds, is actually very good with a knife. Maybe it's his years of growing up in a kitchen, or maybe he's got some secret past that Tommy knows nothing about, but that combined with his invisibility, makes him the perfect partner to fight along-side, to protect the bakery. Tommy thinks they're winning the fight, moving together so well that it almost feels like Tommy's got another pair of arms-
And then the crab-tiger finds them.
It pounces on Tommy immediately, knocking him in the dirt, claws digging into his chest, squeezing the breath from him. His knives go skidding across the concrete, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Fundy flickering, looking panicked, but smartly wary.
"Don't come closer!" Tommy manages, voice tapering at the end as the beast presses down harder. "Stay back!"
Fundy listens, thank god. But across the road, Tommy hears a familiar voice. "Tommy? What the fuck- Tom?"
Wilbur.
Tommy welcomes death this time- he's almost relieved about it. At least Wilbur survived this time.
The thought does niggles in. If Tommy dies permanently, then maybe Wilbur will survive. The universe works like this- an eye for an eye, a life for a life. Tommy for Wilbur.
Tommy would. He would in a heartbeat. If only he knew for a fact that Wilbur would survive the day after he was gone. If only he didn't know that Wilbur would curse his name forever if Tommy let himself die. If only he wasn't selfish with wanting to spend the rest of his days in Wilbur's proximity. If only, if only, if only.
There is one time that Tommy thinks he’s got it.
They all survive till the end of the battle. Hurt maybe; Phil with a broken wing and Ranboo with fire-licked palms, but they're all beautifully, deliciously alive.
Tommy, every five seconds, can't help look over at Wilbur, watching the way he curls a careful arm over Tubbo’s aching shoulders, trying to support him as they make their way back onto the jet to get checked out by medical.
It's beautiful, Tommy thinks, all their groans of pain. It means they're alive.
Phil gets seen, then Tubbo, then Techno pushes Ranboo too as well, knowing his propensity for hiding his own hurts.
Wilbur and Tommy wait, standing side by side, half leaning on each other in twin states of exhausted relief- Tommy, admittedly, for slightly different reasons. He's so tired and so happy, that his vision is going, eyes welling with tears, because as the clock ticks closer and closer to ten, then eleven, and soon twelve, the closer Tommy and Wilbur are to Wednesday.
Tommy might just get to hug Wilbur while the man isn't bleeding to death. The thought thrills him.
"You alright, Tommy?" Wilbur asks, reaching out, touching a hand to Tommy's back briefly. Tommy, too tired to speak, just nods. Eyes lidded, the only thing keeping him from falling into Wil, is the fact that he looks like he's barely holding up himself. "Good. Good."
Then-
"Tommy?" He says again. Tommy hums absently, eyes still on the clock. "Tom, I think-" Wilbur makes a weird sound. "I think something is…wrong."
And then Wilbur collapses to the ground.
It feels like slow motion.
Tommy turns, reflexes kicking in, and he tries to catch the man before he hits the tiled floor. He catches Wilbur's arm, and his weight drags Tommy down as well. His knees slam to the ground and Tommy doesn't quite remember saying anything, but people began rushing over, and there was screaming, and Tommy felt the tears- once happy and relieved, now terrified and helpless- fall down his cheeks. There was a growing blotch of red on Wilbur's suit, getting larger and larger, and Tommy hadn't noticed it. Tommy hadn't seen.
Stupid fucking sacrificial Wilbur, putting Tubbo’s dislocated shoulder and Ranboo’s burns over his own fatal bleeding.
Tommy's head, still stuck in slow motion, swivels to the clock. Eight minutes to twelve- if Wilbur dies before Tommy, then Wilbur dies for good.
Panic seizes him. They're in the medical wing. There are no weapons allowed. It's why that rouge nurse had to inject Tommy with slow-acting pain-killers. Before you come in, no matter who you are or where you're from, you're stripped of your weapons. They took Tommy's knives and Tubbo's gear and Wilbur's staff. There's nothing for Tommy to-
He scrambles to his feet, letting worried nurses replace his spot at Wilbur's side. He pushes through people, knocking down carts and medical gear until he gets to Phil's room.
Phil's laying in bed on his stomach, wings out, breathing deeply, probably just as tired as Wilbur was, but his eyes snap open when Tommy bangs the door open.
"Tommy?" He asks, eyes sharpening. His good wing puffs like he's tensing. "What's going on?"
Tommy doesn't bother responding, knocking trays and things away- they were going to numb Phil so they could reset his bone, all Tommy needs is a dose big enough to stop his heart. All he needs to do is poison himself in seven minutes.
"Tommy, what are you-" Phil moves, trying to pull the syringe out of Tommy's hands, but Tommy stumbles back, falling to the ground. He doesn't stop, fumbling with the needle, and injecting himself in the arm, in his most visible vein. "Tommy!"
Phil launches himself off the bed, broken wing flexing, probably quite painfully, but he gets to Tommy's side, bracing a hand at Tommy's back and one on his cheek. The hold is gentle, and careful, and Tommy knows he doesn't deserve it.
"Tommy?" Phil's eyes are wide and the blue is startling. "Tommy, why would you-" then Phil's mind seems to catch up with him. His eyes narrow. "What's happening? What's going on? Did something happen?"
"Wilbur," is all Tommy can say, before his throat closes. Before his insides burn away.
Wilbur. Wilbur. Only Wilbur.
God, he hates when he's right. Death by poison is an awful way to go.
Tommy wakes up on a Tuesday, and this time, he's already crying.
He can't breathe, he can't move, he can't stop freaking out. All he can think of is the clock, telling Tommy he had eight minutes. Eight minutes was the only thing in between Wilbur's death and Wilbur's life. If Tommy tripped, if Phil didn't break a wing, if Tommy stared at Wilbur laying there for just a little bit longer, Tommy would have lost him for good.
All of the stuff he did, everything he's tried- he's failed. He's not doing his job. He can't keep this up. He feels like he's falling apart from the inside out. He feels like the poison is inside of him now- stuck there, never to leave.
Tommy tumbles out of his bed, and out of his room, almost falling to the ground there in the hallway, still feeling the fading effects of corrosive chemicals leaving his system. He barges his way into Wilbur's room, slamming against the door so hard that it smacks against the wall behind it.
Wilbur is sitting there, in bed, looking like he just woke up. He's got his phone in his hand and his hair is a mess and he's wearing Technoblade's superhero merch as pajamas.
And he's breathing.
He's breathing, he's breathing.
"Tommy? Dude, what the fuck is-" Tommy cuts him off by careening forward and slamming into his chest, curling his arms tight around him and burying his face into the man's neck, already sobbing, already trembling. "-wh- Tom? Tommy? Hey, hey-"
Wilbur drops his phone and curls his arms easily around Tommy, rubbing his palms up and down Tommy's back, pulling him closer. His voice goes quiet, soothing, gentle.
One time they went out together to eat burgers because they were sick of Phil forcing healthy food down their throats. They wore civilian clothes, ate a lot of awful shit, and had a great afternoon, just the two of them. On their walk back, Wilbur found a couple of ducklings stuck in a box.
They weren't clean, they were clearly scared, and there was no pond to be found- so Wilbur kneeled down and Tommy watched. He talked to them in a quiet voice, a voice that told, even Tommy, that everything would be alright. That Wilbur was here now, and because he was, nothing would ever hurt again.
He uses that voice now: everything will be alright, Wilbur says without speaking, I'm here now- nothing will ever hurt again.
He cradles Tommy, and it feels just like that one time- before Wilbur knew any of the things that Tommy could do. It feels like being pulled so close, like he's trying to take in Tommy's aches and Tommy's pains.
"I've got you, Tommy," Wilbur says, rocking slightly. "I'm here. You're alright, I promise."
"Please," Tommy whispers, voice cracking and dipping. His throat feels shredded. Crying and screaming and begging. Death and death and death. "Wil, I can't do this anymore. I can't."
"Do what?" Wilbur tries to pull away, tries to look Tommy in the eye. Tommy holds tighter. Wilbur stops trying. "What's going on, Tommy? What have you been doing?"
Tommy whimpers, just burying his face further into Wilbur's neck. His pulse is thumping there- rushing from confusion and lingering adrenaline from when Tommy startled him. He's scared too, Tommy can tell. Tommy wants to tell him, but fuck, Tommy promised himself that he wouldn’t ever tell. He promised that he'd keep it all quiet until he found a solution.
He doesn't want any of them to remember the many ways that Tommy's failed wilbur. The many ways that he's been coated in blood that's not his, the many ways he's slipped up doing his one job.
He wouldn’t want them to remember all of those trials, but fuck, he needs a steady hand. He can’t do this anymore, he just can’t.
He needs help.
"I keep trying to keep you alive," Tommy admits, shaking. "I keep- I'm- I'm trying, I'm sorry, I'm-"
"Keep me alive? What are you-" Then Wilbur stiffens like he's been shocked. "Wait. Wait. I remember you-" He stops, as if the word dying was a curse. "You- wait, Tommy, I remember." He goes quiet. Shifting through the sudden memories. When he does speak, he takes a moment to swallow, and then asks, like he'd rather not know, "Tommy, just how long have you been doing this?"
Tommy takes two deep breaths, then finally pulls away, shifting backwards. This time, Wilbur doesn't let go, keeping hold of Tommy's wrists, laying his fingers on Tommy's pulse like the second that he lets go Tommy might kill himself again.
"I- I don't-" Fuck. Focus Tommy. "I have notes, I just need to rewrite them cause they kept getting undone and-"
"Fucking hell, Toms," Wilbur says, brushing his thumb back and forth over Tommy's wrist. Tommy wants to cry again. "Alright. Alright, take a breath. Breathe and come with me."
Wilbur keeps Tommy tucked against his side, as close as he can get, and brings him to the common room, where Phil, in the pink apron, is making breakfast. Tubbo is there, annoying him, as he's been for the past thirty-nine Tuesdays. They're having pancakes. Again.
"Don't touch." Phil says, smacking Tubbo's hand away. "If I make a pancake with metal in it, I'm giving it to you, and you better eat it all."
Tubbo rolls his eyes, then catches sight of Tommy and Wilbur. "Tommy!" he goes, then pauses, taking in Tommy's pallor and the tear tracks on his cheeks. Then he sees Wilbur's expression. "Tommy? Wil?"
Wilbur doesn't give Tommy the time to speak. Thank God, because Tommy wouldn't know what to say. "Phil," he says, "emergency."
Instantly, Phil drops the spoon and steps out of the kitchenette. Tubbo follows helplessly, putting down his remote. All Tommy does is blink, but suddenly Techno is there and Wilbur is pulling him over to the couch, and they're all settling around him. It's a sight- Phil in a bright pink apron and Tubbo with grease on his cheek and Technoblade with his sleeping eye-mask stuck to his forehead.
It's nice that they're all here. Here for Tommy, no less. But they're also all talking at once, worried and confused, and Tommy is so fucking exhausted that he can't do anything but blink.
“Everyone, hush.'' Phil demands, seeing they're not getting anywhere. They all fall silent. “Wil, Tommy, what’s going on?”
“Tommy’s been resetting,” Wilbur announces, and they all immediately look at him.
Because of this, Tommy can see the exact moment that all the memories flood their heads. Phil jerks backward, horrified. Tubbo's eyes narrow into slits. Techno's fists curl into balls. Ranboo chokes, no doubt remembering that one time that Tommy killed himself right in front of him, stab wound to the gut. Blood's always unsettled him- if Tommy was thinking clearly, he would've spared Ranboo the sight.
“Tommy,” Phil says- then stops, unable to voice anything else but: “Why?”
“Wilbur was dying,” Tommy says brokenly. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
Wilbur inhales. “Tommy. You can't-" he stops, measuring his words, managing his emotions. "Tommy, I said that you're not an eraser, you aren’t-”
“What was I supposed to do?” Tommy snaps, tears welling up again, chest aching. “What could I have done? Wilbur, you’re- you mean so much to me. I can’t just- please, I can't figure out how to save you. I need to save you."
Wilbur hesitates, then reaches out and covers Tommy's shaking hands with his own, squeezing once. "I hear you. I hear you, Tommy. I do- but not like this."
"How else can I do it?"
"How many trials did you tell us what was going on?" Techno asks suddenly. Tommy stops.
"What?"
"I asked you, every day- I said what's going on. Every day I asked you if you would tell me if something was wrong." Techno says. "Every single day."
"I didn't want you to have to remember!"
"But you had to," Techno replies. He lets that sit for a moment. "What did you think would happen when you finally saved Wilbur? Were you just never going to mention it again? What about the next time something like this happened? Were you just going to shoulder every burden and handle it all on your own? Are you just going to die and die and die and not give any one of us a single say?"
Tommy stays quiet.
"Tommy," Ranboo whispers, horrified at his silent answer.
"You need to trust us, Tom," Phil says, stern, but somehow gentle at the same time. Not mad at him, just upset- just guilty. Tommy knew he'd feel this way: Phil takes their safety so seriously. Phil loves them. "You need to allow us to help you. You are more than just your power. Death can't be your solution before you talk to us."
Tommy presses his palms to his closed, wet eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."
Arms close around him, pulling him in. A heartbeat presses against him. Wilbur.
"You're alright, Tommy. You're okay."
They, even though they don't have the time to, let him cry. They let him break down again, curling into Wilbur's arms. Ranboo comes over, putting a hand on Tommy's cheek, whispering, God, Tommy, you're so exhausted.
It's nice. Being cared for. Especially after a month of nothing but death.
They let him settle there for a while. And then Techno goes and gets a notepad. Phil brings over food, because Tommy admits that he can't remember the last meal he ate. Wilbur and Ranboo keep close, pressing Tommy between them, as he recounts the things that he's tried and how it's failed. Techno writes it all down, zero judgment. They're all there for him whenever he falters and verbally stumbles- all except Tubbo, who got up while Tommy was crying, disappeared, and hasn't been back since.
Tommy's trying not to think about it.
He talks until he can't anymore, and then Ranboo brings him water to soothe his throat.
"I'm gonna make a call," Phil says, motioning Techno to come with him to the other room. "You said that these creatures break free around twelve thirty? From the science center?"
Tommy nods.
"Alright, if I call the director, we can have someone over there well before this happens. No animals, no fight, which means less chance of being injured."
"Tell them to watch the bakery," Tommy blurts nonsensically. Phil pauses, and clearly thinks Tommy's gone mad from all the dying, but no- "Puffy's bakery. Please. Just-"
"Okay, Tom," Phil steps forward. He puts a careful hand against Tommy's cheek. There's a scar there, Tommy knows- slashed across the cheek by a talon from one of his forty deaths. When Tommy was studying it in the mirror- back when he could look himself in the mirror- he wondered whether it looked like a mark left from Phil's own mechanical talons. As Phil brushes a careful thumb over it, he knows he has his answer. "I will. I promise. Whatever you need. I'll be right back."
He pulls away, taking Techno with him, leaving the three of them on the couch together.
"You should rest," Ranboo says, voice tight. "You haven't slept well in over a month, Tommy. If Phil's plan doesn't work, and we have to go put into the field-" he stops. "I just, I don't want to think about you fighting tired."
Tommy gears up to protest, wanting to say that he's done it before and been fine, but Wilbur tugs at his arm and all of a sudden all of Tommy's arguments die before they can be voiced.
"I'm not gonna move," Wilbur promises, pulling Tommy to lay down, to lean his own head against Wilbur's chest. "I'm gonna stay right here, Tommy. Listen. Just lay here and let us take care of it all, okay? Rest and listen."
Tommy listens, and hears Wilbur's heart thumping a slow beat under his ear. Wilbur's arm curls around his back, keeping him still, and his other hand comes up to card through Tommy's locks.
He's much too hypervigilant to let himself sleep deeply, but he does rest; closing his eyes and letting his muscles relax, letting his breathing level, matching it all to the steady sound of Wilbur's heart.
He doesn't sleep, so he's just conscious enough to hear when Phil comes back in the room and says that they're sending another hero team out to the center to observe. He's just conscious enough to hear when Tubbo comes back into the room three hours later, talking about his moment-freezing gun. He's just conscious enough to hear Wilbur, under him, say, do you think it will work? and for Tubbo to reply, deathly serious, yes.
He's just conscious enough to hold Wilbur tighter when they're both zapped.
After that, he's truly asleep.
…
Tommy wakes up in the morning with Wilbur’s heartbeat under ear and his breath whistling beside his head.
"Morning Tommy," Wilbur whispers, into Tommy's curls. "Happy Wednesday. Phil's making eggs- do you want some?"
Tommy nearly cries. He doesn't though- he's done with that. It's finally Wednesday. "Yes," he says, the word coming out like a relieved sigh. "Yes, please."
Before he moves though, he wraps his arms around Wilbur, and buries his face into the man's chest. Wilbur's alive, not bleeding, not in pain, not leaving him.
Finally, he can live. They both can.
...
On Thursday afternoon, Tommy goes to the bakery alone. He's dressed in civilian clothes and he waits in line to order a muffin. Fundy hands it over with the normal customer service smile, not recognizing Tommy at all. Not that he would even if Tommy was in his suit- the loops are over, and Fundy doesn't need to remember then.
Except, Tommy can't get over the way Fundy ducked and swerved like a natural hero.
When they brush hands Tommy leaves behind a slip of paper with a question and a number on it.
Do you want to be a hero? Call here.
By the time that Fundy reads it and looks back up, Tommy is gone, as if he was never there.