Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You’re an idiot.”

Tommy huffs a little in irritation, kicking his legs out a little from where he's sat on Wilbur’s mechanic table. 

His suit’s still on, pressed to his arms and legs with spandex, but a blanket has long since been thrown over his shoulders to equivocate for Wilbur’s freezing ass building. 

(For not the first time, Tommy is envious of Wilbur’s iron suit. That guy undoubtedly has some sort of industrial heater built into there).

Normally, Tommy would try and crack a joke about this sort of thing, but his tongue is dry.

Just as he is normally not allowed to sit on tables—something about how sixteen year old children would destroy the projects that usually are on the tables, blah blah blah—he figures that today’s special. 

Special his ass.

Between the fact that he’d gotten beaten to hell and back in an alleyway by six guys—which there wasn’t supposed to be, he swears that he had only seen two robbing that store—and being saved by Iron Man of all people, it was pretty shit overall. 

Well, okay. 

Maybe in another life that last part would be cool as hell—no, it’s still cool, but he dismisses that thought—and he’d be running to tell Ranboo and Tubbo about it, but now he’s an Avenger. Being saved by another Avenger, especially from something as simple as a robbery ambush, is embarrassing. 

What’s even more embarrassing, though, is the look on Iron Man’s (no, Wilbur Soot’s) face.

If there was a name for an expresson just in between concern and downright murderous, then that’s what he’d call it. 

Ever since Wilbur had dragged his ass out of that alleyway, he’d been wearing that expression. It was probably there underneath that iron mask when he’d first arrived but Tommy just couldn’t see it. 

To make matters worse, he’s only said two sentences since he’d finished off the other robbers in the alley and pulled Tommy to his feet.

The first: “Let’s go,” and the second, “You’re an idiot.”

(Technically, he’d also offered Tommy a ride on the back of his suit, which the kid had declined without hesitation. The idea of his friends or the media seeing him, the Spider-man, on the news getting a piggy-back ride on Iron Man’s back, was more painful than swinging back to the Soot Tower—which felt like he was being kicked in the stomach all over again). 

“I’m not an idiot,” Tommy defends finally, coughing a little over his words.

They’re coarse, still rough from how loud he’d been yelling for them to stop, for how much he’d been begging for someone to save him.

He pushes the thought away. He’s safe now, here in Wilbur’s big ass building with more security than probably even the Pentagon (not that it needs it, anyways), so there’s no point to reflect on the past. 

“You are,” Wilbur affirms, and Tommy would internally cheer about having a new sentence come from the man, if it weren’t basically the same as the previous. 

Tommy breathes out heavily, watching the man cross the floor with a med kit in his hands. He’d originally insisted for Tommy to go to the hospital but the kid refused. 

The last thing that he wanted to do was have Aunt Puffy call up and find out he’s been hospitalised. She’d throw a fit, probably ban him from returning to the Tower, etc. It’d be a whole thing. 

“I’m not an idiot for trying to stop a robbery,” he responds, narrowing his eyes as Wilbur sets the kit down on the table beside him and flicks the lid open. “They were going to hurt someone if I wasn’t there, Wil. You saw them, right? They could’ve—”

“They could’ve killed you,” Wilbur interrupts, shooting him that look that tends to shut him up immediately. 

The man turns away, shaking his head so that his mess of curls fall into his eyes. Some of his fringe sticks to his forehead with sweat.

So he does have a heater in his suit. Of course he does. That just begs the question for the existence of a double unit AC as well. 

Wilbur always has been high maintenance like that, so Tommy suspects that he’s right. He doesn’t ask. 

“But they didn’t,” Tommy points out, tilting his head. He tugs the blanket closer around his chest when Wilbur’s jaw sets.

One thing that Tommy’s learned since being recruited by Soot’s program eight months ago is that it’s never good when he does that. 

He wouldn’t call himself an expert of Wilbur’s tells, but he just kind of knows.

Call it a sixth sense, if you will. The man typically teased that it was his metaphorical “spidey sense,” but Tommy preferred to call it his super genius super awesome never-before-seen telepathic deluxe. 

At least Ranboo thought it was cool (after Tommy had elbowed him in the side enough times for him to admit it).

Once again, Tommy’s reminded that now’s not the time to bring shit like that up, so he quiets and taps his hands against his thighs. 

The silence remains for the next couple of minutes as Wilbur inspects Tommy’s face, eyebrows furrowed together in concern. It’s rare for him to show such blatant emotion like this that’s not automatic anger, but maybe it’s just that sense again. 

Still, clear as day, Wilbur’s face is painted and corroded with worry. Tommy holds himself from saying, “If you keeps making that face, it’ll stick that way.”

With a simple back thought to the last time he tried to speak, though, he figures that now may not be the time for jokes. 

So, he swallows, and allows the man to continue his check for injuries. Usually Wilbur would use one of his robots that are built for this sort of thing (Tommy is definitely not the first nor last to be beaten and bruised on the top floor of the Avengers Tower), but didn’t because Tommy asked him not to.

It was a dumb excuse, obviously, and one he could hardly remember, but it had worked. (He definitely remembers, and it definitely wasn’t because he’d told Wilbur that he’s allergic to the shit they put in robots. All robots, he had to restate, when the mechanic had just raised a self-assured eyebrow).

After a while, Tommy’s certain that he’s almost free from Wilbur’s wavering hands—which have already identified the bruising blooming on his cheekbones and the cuts down his neck—but is quickly sat down again when the man gives him a look. 

“Listen to me real quick, Tommy,” Wilbur begins, using that classic Mr. Soot voice that he puts on whenever he’s conducting an interview or interrogating a prisoner. Tommy’s grown familiar with his serious voice since he’s known him, but for not the first time, he misses the old gentle tone. “Are you hurt anywhere else that I need to know about? Shoulders, arms, sides, ribs…?”

There it is: Tommy’s inevitable demise.  

One thing that he had to promise Wilbur back when he’d made his totally believable excuse about being allergic to robots was to tell the truth about his injuries.

No matter how severe or minor, he always had to tell Wilbur, or at least some other adult.

It’s embarrassing. 

Wilbur’s not his dad (even if a part of him keeps prodding at him about that, but that was another topic for another time). 

He doesn’t need to be constantly looked after or fawned over; he’s a hero. He’s fine.

Swallowing the mirth—or maybe blood—that’s gathered in his throat, Tommy shakes his head. Sure, his side might be a tad fucked from where that guy had been kicking him over and over again, but he should be fine. 

His ear might have gone to shit too, now that he’s thinking about it. One of the fuckers had shot their gun during the tussle, like a dumbass. Horrible shot, too; Tommy could remember it clanging against a dumpster in the background. 

“I’m fine,” he forces out when Wilbur just levels him a look of disbelief, hating the way his words slur over one another. He shakes his head a little,  frowning a bit. “I’m fine, big man. Really.”

It’s obvious that Wilbur doesn’t believe him, but the man exhales anyway, raising his hands in mock defense. 

“Alright, kid, I believe you,” he affirms, gently placing a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go on and get cleaned up, then? Be careful of your face when you’re taking your suit off in the bathroom, though. It’s a bit banged up.”

Tommy offers a watery smile.

If I get up right now, I will pass away. Half jokingly.

“Okay,” he says instead, stretching his legs out a bit. His side screams in pain, but he ignores it to hop onto his feet. 

For a second, he stabilises himself against the desk, feeling one of Wilbur’s hands press down onto his other shoulder. 

“Do you need me to carry you?” the man jokes, but his tone carries some seriousness.

“No,” Tommy clutches the blanket closer around his arms, feeling strangely like a child again. “I'm okay. Honestly, stop worrying about me, you old- you old man.”

Wilbur hums, tone bordering between the lines of fondly amused and an ever-remaining hurricane of concern. Tommy knows that the man’s hands are probably just itching to check him over with FRIDAY, but he doesn’t make any move to. 

“If you’re certain,” Wilbur mutters, letting go of Tommy’s left shoulder. 

The loss of contact invites a swoop in the boy’s stomach, dangerous and dropping like a roller coaster rolling through his lower abdomen.

The hand moves back to his shoulder because of course, Wilbur had noticed, and of course, the worried expression has returned at a tenfold. 

“Kid?” the man shakes his shoulders a little, and ugh, God, after years of being on a team of people that get hurt nearly daily for fun, you’d think that he knows not to shake them when they’re hurting. 

The nausea is a bit of an afterthought, but Wilbur must read the way Tommy’s face pales, because his hands become solid placeholders rather than a shaking force. 

“Tommy, can you hear me?” Wilbur asks, eyes scanning the boy’s face. The truth is, yes, Tommy can hear him, but he doesn’t really feel like speaking.

Why? Because he can choose not to, and definitely not because if he does, he might be sick all over Wilbur Soot’s freshly polished floor. 

So, he hums in confirmation, and reaches out to balance himself on the table behind him again. He lets go of the blanket—just getting in his way now, innit?—and sits on the edge as he’d done before. 

He’s pretty sure he says the words “Just a minute,” but judging by the way it just comes out in garbled muttering, he’s not too sure how much of it Wilbur understood. 

Whatever. It’s not his problem if he can’t hear him. He’d probably rather leave the man in a fog of confusion than get sick or pass out on the floor. 

Those would be the worst case scenarios, he figures, other than receiving an unauthorised FRIDAY scan or being caught with his head flush against Wil’s shoulder.

(The latter of which has happened before. Tommy tried to delete the photo off of Phil’s phone multiple times, but it always seems to reappear again somehow. Maybe he’ll just get Tubbo to help him hack into it later).

Tommy frowns a little, tapping his finger against the table. 

He’s sure that Wilbur’s speaking to him still, but the words are lost to the rushing of water that covers his ears. Shit, had he lost his hearing in both after that dumbass shot his gun? That would suck. 

He shakes his head a little, forcing the thoughts away. He’s had enough time to regather himself and stabilise his feet that don’t seem to want to work. 

Really, all he wants to do is maybe take a nap on the sofa with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy droning on in the background (Wilbur’s favourite movie, he’d learned a few months ago), but he knows the man would throw a fit if Tommy got dirt and rubble on his cushions. 

So, he guides himself to sit up straight once more, and instantly regrets it when a shot of pain goes through his side, almost entirely engulfing him. 

As much as Tommy would love to say that he’s pain tolerant, sometimes it gets the best of him. 

Being Spider-man only has its perks with the whole flying and super strength thing. He figures he’d better toss in the whole spidey sense into that category as well, although he’s certain that’s entirely him and not the being a superhero part. 

When Tommy gathers his surroundings again, the nausea hits him all at once. This time, it’s worse, nearly forcing him to double over right here. Which would suck, obviously, as much of Wilbur Soot’s important shit is scattered around the floor from where he’d pushed it off with the sweep of his arm to make room for Tommy. 

To top it all off, yikes.

Has Wilbur’s office always been this spinny? 

Maybe he’d left another incense burning before he’d left to come get him. Tommy always had to remind him to put it out before leaving.

Stars, it was like he was his secretary instead of his technically-coworker.

Sidekick or intern were probably better terms, but Tommy preferred coworker (that way, he could shoot a prideful grin at Tubbo and Ranboo and repeat for the seventh time this month alone that he was an Avenger now).

Tommy blinks a couple of times, and then recoils. The overhead lights are brighter than before, but then again, he hadn’t remembered lying down. Wasn’t he just desperately trying to sit up normally on Wilbur’s mechanic table? 

He turns his head to the left, blinking past the blurry film that covers his eyes to view where the man’s gone. Not to his surprise, Wilbur’s sat in the chair right in front of the table, but his face registers something entirely different than before.

Instead of concern, there’s complete horror and… fear? Is that fear? Tommy couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen Wilbur—the mighty Iron Man of all people—afraid. No, scratch that, he’d never seen it. 

“Mr. Soot?” he slurs out, disregarding the time that Wilbur had said formalities aren’t necessary anymore, kid in his state of exhaustion. 

When Wilbur doesn’t respond to him, still holding that mouth agape look about him, Tommy reaches his hand out. Without hesitation (something he rather lacks when delirious), he grabs the man’s hand and interlaces their fingers.

“Are you okay, Wil- Wilby?” he questions, letting his eyelids droop a little. He’d remembered the no formalities thing this time. Cool. Tommy’s so cool. 

No, he’s tired. Tired and cool, the most dynamic duo of them all. 

Would Wilbur care if he took a nap on the table? Maybe he’d encourage it; he always seemed to want Tommy to sleep when he got sick. Now shouldn't be any different, right? 

Then again, the man is a neat freak. 

Whatever. Tommy figures that the prick would just have to get over the take a shower you smelly child thing, too.

Tommy is going to pass out right here on this table, where he’s comfortable, and there is absolutely nothing that Wilbur Soot could do about it. 

Even so, Tommy figures that he’d have to be stupid not to see that something’s wrong with the guy.

He allows his eyes to close fully, letting out a soft breath. Maybe he could talk to Wilbur about it in the morning when he wasn’t so tired. 

They usually spoke about important things over dinner, but who cared if Tommy rescheduled that to breakfast instead? He decides that it doesn’t matter now, but… maybe he could ask, just once more.

When he opens his eyes again, he frowns. Rather than faced with bright fluorescents, Tommy’s flush against someone’s chest, head tucked into their neck. It’s slightly warmer than before, but he still feels cold. 

He tries to speak, but no words come out. His head still hurts and everything’s woozy. The mere idea of turning his head slightly upwards to see who’s carrying him makes him feel like he’s going to be sick.

Swallowing his embarrassment, Tommy closes his eyes once more and drifts. 

It’s slow when Tommy wakes again, a heavy feeling pressing heavy against his chest. 

The first thing he notices before he even opens his eyes is the smell of sterile.

Not that an average person can  smell it, but he can. Techno was just stupid. Stupid I’m a god from outer space asshole.

He doesn’t know shit about sterilisation. 

Then, Tommy frowns, nose wrinkling a bit more. There are sounds, but they’re distant.

People bustling around like he’s back at school again, passed out in the lunch room while kids file in, trusting that tug at the back of his mind telling him that there’s no immediate danger.

Wilbur used to laugh at the so-called tug,  dubbing it Tommy’s spidey sense.

That was probably better than what Tommy had been calling it in the first place, anyways; he catches himself calling it that on occasion as well, always receiving a smug grin from Wilbur himself.

Annoying prick.

Wait.

Tommy’s eyes fly open and it’s like the whole world explodes.

White, bleached walls cloud his view, fluorescents over head making him sink back into the pillows and bedsheets with disgust.

He’s always hated the Tower’s med bay. It had always felt like a hospital for people that could actually pay their medical bill.

Definition: the too-rich-to-breathe population that Wilbur Soot has found himself in since he was born into it. 

Exasperated, Tommy lets out a sharp breath, turning his head to the side. He’s alone in the med bay with just his thoughts and the constant annoying beeping of his heart monitor.

Does he really need that? It isn’t like he’s dying or anything. In fact, he’s in tip-top health if you look past the probably-bruised ribs.

He sits up slowly and instantly lets out a wince that startles even himself.

Instinctively, his hand flies to his side where the flare of pain had originated from.

So maybe his ribs are broken?

It didn’t feel like a break—he’s broken them before—but it felt like something similar, just… exponentially worse, if that is even possible.  

He’d known that something was wrong, but maybe he’d misjudged it. Sometimes the inner workings of his body were completely abnormal to him, like a strange pattern of shapes and colours that only made sense if he put them into their respective order. 

Whatever; that’s in the past now. 

Now, he needs to focus on getting the hell out of this hospital bed, potentially ending Wilbur Soot’s life, and heading home before Aunt Puffy notices that he’s been gone too long. (May have to move option two to later in the week. Option three seems to be approaching its immediate end).

With a flourish, Tommy rips the IV out from his arm and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The pain is instantaneous and harrowing, but he’s had worse, he’s sure. 

Ignoring it, he grasps into one of the bed railings, and tries to haul himself upwards onto his feet. 

Which, of course, doesn’t work at all, and would have sent him sprawling into the wall, if it hadn’t been for someone catching him. 

Tommy looks up instantly, ready to thank his saviour, only for the words to die in his throat. 

“Do you have a death wish?” Wilbur questions, a blank expression levelled on his face. It reads you’re in more trouble than you’d bargained for.

Tommy swallows dryly.

“No,” he croaks out, then coughs to clear his throat. “No, I don’t.”

Wilbur raises his eyebrow, gently maneuvering Tommy by his under arms back onto the hospital bed like he’s a fuckin’ toddler. 

“I’m not a child, you know,” Tommy grumbles, smacking Wilbur’s hands away half heartedly. 

“Then don’t act like one,” Wilbur rebuttals with venom in his tone. 

Tommy recoils a fraction; yikes. Clearly a sore spot for the both of them. 

Wilbur exhales, brushing a hand through the front of his fringe. 

He looks tired and like he’s aged a couple of years or so. Tommy’s almost certain there’s a new gray hair that’s sprung its way out from his fringe, which makes him resist the urge to call him old again. 

Wilbur’s even got his iconic, round-frame glasses pushed up his nose, although they look as though they’ve been knocked askew.

Now that Tommy sees him, though—like, truly sees him—there’s also a new plaster stuck over the bridge of his crooked nose.

Deserved, he thinks smugly, folding his hands in his lap. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” Wilbur suddenly says. Tommy’s head shoots up fast enough to nearly send him toppling over the side of the bed again. Did Wilbur just apologise? Like, genuinely?

Upon seeing Tommy’s raised eyebrows, Wilbur huffs.

With ease, He takes a  seat in a chair that’s been pulled quite close to Tommy’s hospital bed. Once he’s settled, Wilbur crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters, but there’s a fondness to his tone that had not quite been there before. It brings more comfort to Tommy than it should. “I am sorry, really. I shouldn’t be yelling at you right now of all times, but…”

Wilbur takes a shaky breath, and Tommy can’t help but feel a pummel of concern boil in his gut. Another thing about Wilbur was, despite being quite the drama queen, he never cried. He wasn’t a crier, especially because of other people.

It’s completely out of instinct that Tommy reaches his hand out, palm face-up and inviting. It isn’t much, but he’s grown accustomed to this being his and Wilbur’s thing.

Honestly, he’d go as far as to say it was like a family tradition for them. How stupid it sounds, though, for holding hands to be some type of family tradition. 

Even so, it means a lot to him.

Once, Tommy had been upset about not doing as well as normal on a math test — well, he was upset about a lot of things that day.

The test itself, the fact that there was a period of time where he and his friends weren’t talking (because he was clearly hiding something and they couldn’t bear seeing him bruised every other week without knowing why), and the anxiety that followed being a superhero.

Being Spider-man has its downsides, but Tommy knows that comes with being any form of celebrity. Hero or otherwise.

There’s a beat of hesitation before Wilbur takes his hand, giving it a kind squeeze. His are warm, familial… hell, everything about Wilbur Soot is familial. 

Maybe it's just because he's Tommy's mentor, though, that he sees him in a familial way. Technically, he could say that he sees everyone in the Tower like that: Niki, Techno, Phil... okay, well, Jack's an exception. That guy's a real asshole.

“You scared me,” Wilbur speaks suddenly, making the boy's head snap up. The man refuses to meet Tommy’s eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Tommy’s breath halts in his throat.

He’d admitted it.

The Iron Man, the multi-billionaire mansion-owning member-of-the-Avengers Wilbur Soot, has admitted to being afraid. 

Tommy isn’t sure if this counts as a win or not, so he stays quiet. Internally, though, he's on the cusp of celebration.

(He could picture the metaphorical YouTube titles now: The big bad Iron Man has admitted to feeling an emotion?! Not clickbait, click for more details!) 

“Look, I’m really not the best with emotions,” Wilbur starts up again, snapping Tommy from his reverie.

He taps his free hand anxiously against his kneecap, smiling a little when Tommy gives him a reassuring hand squeeze. “I’m a bit—uh, too emotional sometimes, too under emotional in others; basically, kid, I’m a wreck. But I do know something.

“Three nights ago was probably one of the scariest moments of my entire career. Except for that time my best friend nearly killed me, but”—Tommy laughs here, and Wilbur’s smile grows a little—“But, seriously. I… Jesus, Toms, I thought you were about to die. You were bleeding everywhere and…”

Wilbur shakes his head, clearly not wanting to relive the memory. His free hand moves to brush the fringe from his eyes once more and Tommy notices again just how exhausted the man looks.

“It’s something we can talk about another time when you’re not… you know. Hooked up to machinery in the hospital, but…” Wilbur clicks his tongue, finally looking up to meet Tommy’s eyes. Tommy decides it’s best if he doesn’t mention the fact that he actually took his IV out before he’d tried to get up. “You can’t do that to me again, kiddo. Not to me, not to Puffy, to Phil; none of us. I don’t want you to go blaming yourself, either, but you still should’ve said something about it.”

Here, Wilbur rolls his eyes and waves his hand a little, “I know you’ve got your weird thing with robots and whatever despite being a member of the Robotics club in school”—Tommy winces. Shit; he’d forgotten about that fact. Wilbur definitely just went with the whole ‘allergic to robots’ thing to humour him—“But I still could’ve gotten Ponk or- or at least Phil to check you over.”

Wilbur takes a breath, meeting his eyes again, “I mean, shit, Tommy. You had a gunshot wound placed right under your ribs. If I hadn’t gotten you to the medical bay when I had, you’d…”

Have died is left unsaid, but the man’s hand tightens around Tommy’s as though he’d confirmed it out loud. 

Then, his eyebrows furrow as something clicks.

“Gunshot?” he echoes, blinking. “What do you mean, gunshot? I didn’t get shot.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow at him. When he speaks again, his voice is a complete deadpan that could rival even Technoblade’s. 

“Tommy, you got shot during the scuffle in the alleyway,” the man states, watching him unblinkingly. “Fuck if I know how, but for some reason, your mind went into shock before you were even shot so you didn’t feel it.”

Wilbur leans back in his chair here, but doesn’t move to let go of Tommy’s hand. “The doctors were just as bewildered as I was, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it figured out by now.”

With his free hand, Wilbur points at Tommy, almost accusingly.

“It seems like we’ve finally found a flaw to your spidey sense, kid,” he says, and Tommy gasps irritably.

“There are no flaws with my super genius, super awesome, never before seen Spider-man deluxe,” he quotes with a tired grin, lifting his chin slightly into the air.

Wilbur rolls his eyes, swaying their intertwined hands from side to side a little, “Right. So you’re saying that the whole time that you were bleeding out on my desk without a clue was just a fluke?”

“Yep,” Tommy pops the ‘p’, trying to smother the grin that’s plastered on his face. To no avail, but neither of them mention that.

Instead, Wilbur leans forwards a bit, raising an eyebrow that makes Tommy suddenly feel like he’s in deep shit.

“Basically, what you’re telling me is that you knew about the gunshot the whole time and just decided not to speak up about it?”

…

Fuck. 

Wilbur’s got him, and he must know it, because he lets out a warm laugh.

“It’s alright, Tommy,” his tone switches to that annoyingly patronising one that’s all high-pitched, “It’s okay to admit that there’s a flaw with your senses.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy rebuttals, letting go of Wilbur’s hand and repositioning himself back into the hospital bed. 

He winces when he moves his legs back under the bedsheets, not missing the way that his friend’s face drops a little back into concern.

“Let me help,” Wilbur says. It’s not a question.

“I’ve got it,” Tommy rebukes, letting out a hiss of pain when he tries to awkwardly pull the hospital sheets back over his legs. 

Wilbur shoots him a look and Tommy decides to just not argue with the man. 

For the next couple of seconds, he’s forced to wallow in embarrassment once again as Wilbur pulls the bed sheets and comforter—the latter of which Tommy’s one hundred percent certain isn’t from the medical bay—up to the boy’s chest. 

It’s when Wilbur’s actually tucking him in like he’s a baby that Tommy finally reaches out and smacks his hands. 

“Quit that, you freak,” he jokes, and Wilbur just snorts.

“Sorry,” he amends, before holding his hand out again. 

Tommy blinks, reaching his hand out to put into Wilbur’s again, but the man pulls away with a raised eyebrow.

Oh.

With an exasperated huff, Tommy holds out his left arm, lips pursed. It’s with ease and a slight pinch that Wilbur slides the IV back into his arm.

Ugh. Tommy has always hated IVs. They’re so uncomfortable. Who wants a needle in their arm for longer than two seconds like how it goes when you’re getting a shot? Fuck that shit.

When Wilbur finally settles back down into his chair and offers his hand again, Tommy takes it without hesitation. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he blurts out, and Wilbur hums. The man adjusts his free hand so that his chin is tipped into the palm, carefully watching Tommy with warm eyes. His posture looks like second nature.

“It’s alright,” Wilbur brushes his thumb against the back of Tommy’s hand, like a parent would to a sick child. “We can talk about it when you get out of the hospital, alright? For now, just get better.”

Tommy settles back into the pillows, nodding a little. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters. “Thanks, Mr. S— Wil.”

A small smile forms on Wilbur’s face and he squeezes Tommy’s hand again.

“Of course, kid.”

After a couple more days in the hospital, Tommy’s finally given the notice that he can continue his recovery back home. 

Normally, regular people would be kept longer for a stomach wound, but Tommy’s superhuman or whatever. Blah blah blah, doctor talk, blah blah blah. Wilbur could take care of it; he usually did. 

The best news yet, though, is that he’s given clothes from home to change into—a throw-over hoodie that smells of freshly baked cookies and incense paired with baggy sweats.

It’s all according to plan, Tommy’s sure of it when he leaves the bathroom dressed back into his regular clothing. Until of course, something goes wrong, because something always seems to go wrong.

Something, in this case, being Wilbur Soot. 

Apparently, when Tommy is finally allowed to leave, Wilbur decides that he wants to kill him.

Not literally (if he had for real, Tommy would already be a corpse back in the man’s mechanics room) but figuratively. 

“I can walk, you fucking prick,” Tommy complains loudly, slumping against the wall. Wilbur’s stood in front of him, arms crossed over his chest with that classic scowl resting on his features. “I don’t need you babying me, Wil.”

“Just because the doctor released you early doesn’t mean you are fully healed yet,” the man states, lips pressed into a thin line.

He narrowly dodges Tommy’s last sentence. Of course he does. Fucking prick.

“I’m literally standing just fine!” Tommy argues, motioning harshly towards his legs.

Sure, he is kind of leaning up against the wall to hold himself up better, but Wilbur doesn’t need to know that.

The man clicks his tongue, raising one eyebrow and shifting his weight to the side. 

“I’m not budging, Toms,” he states coolly.

Tommy groans, tossing his head back. 

In search of backup, he turns to where Phil and his aunt are standing on the other side of the room. There is matching expressions of amusement settled on their faces. Assholes, truly.

(Honestly, though, it’s good to see Puffy finally back in high spirits. The first thing that she’d done when she’d seen that Tommy was awake was give him an earful about how he’s grounded and a damn fool for doing that without backup and what the hell were you thinking, Thomas Innit?)

“Phhhillll,” Tommy drawls out, resting the back of his head against the wall. For dramatic affect, he reaches his arm out towards the man. “Help meeee.” 

The poor guy raises his hands up in mock defense, “No way, Tommy. Don’t look at me.”

Although it is a bit of a last resort, Tommy turns sheepishly to his aunt.

“Aunt Puffy?” he begins meekly, offering a strained grin. “Please tell this asshole that I am a big man that does not need to be carried out of the hospital when I am perfectly capable of walking myself out. Oh, also, emphasise the part about me being a literal superhero.”

Puffy raises her eyebrows, a smirk playing on her lips. 

“As much as I’d love to help you, Tommy,” she begins, shrugging her shoulders coolly. “I completely agree with him. You were shot, kiddo. I certainly doubt that you’re able to walk on your own.”

Tommy gasps, pressing a hand over his heart with one hand and smacking Wilbur’s outstretched arms away with the other. 

“Bullshit,” he whispers in aghast over Wil’s annoyed mutter of “stupid spider sense”. “I can walk just fine, thank you very much. Here, I’ll prove it to you.”

With ease, Tommy walks across the room, from the wall where a television hangs—that he’s watched far too many episodes of Spongebob on with Tubbo and Ranboo when they’d visited—to the hospital bed.

He huffs tiredly when he reaches it, hands grasping the edge of the bedpost. As tired as he is, he offers both Phil and his aunt a grin in an attempt to prove himself. 

“See? I am standing perfectly—shit!”

Without much warning, he’s scooped up from the ground from behind. That’s what he gets for not paying as much attention as usual, he supposes. 

Tommy grumbles indignantly as he is pressed into Wilbur’s jumper that smells nothing like Wilbur and far too much like stale hospital espresso. 

“Seems like you’re not standing very well to me,” Wilbur teases with a smug look on his face. He might as well have said looks like your sense still isn’t working very well. 

Absolute asshole. He and the rest of the one percent are all going to hell. Slash jokingly. Tommy is the one percent.

“Die,” Tommy hisses kindly, struggling a little in the man’s grasp.

It’s not like he’s going anywhere, though; even if Wilbur is completely human, he’s still a six foot six strong-as-all-hell dude. 

“Don’t threaten Mr. Soot, Tommy,” Puffy reprimands, and the boy rolls his eyes. 

Puffy’s always the mediator between the “children” when Phil isn’t.

They’re like a dynamic duo at times, Tommy figures; a mother and a father.

Phil’s wife, Kristin, is always terrifying when teamed up with Puffy, though. A mother and mother duo is horrifying.

“Whatever, just—” Tommy readjusts himself in Wilbur’s arms, settling the side of his head against the man’s shoulder.

For extra measure, he pulls the back of his hoodie up over his hair, relishing the smell of freshly baked cookies. He missed the smell of something other than hospital food and hand sanitiser.

With an exaggerated sigh, as though the very world itself is crumbling down, Tommy mutters, “Just- let’s get this fucking over with, alright? I want to go home.”

Wilbur chuckles a bit, jostling the kid a bit so that he can hold him easier.

“Whatever you say, spiderling,” the man teases. 

Spiderling. That’s a new one. Tommy decides that he doesn’t like it simply out of spite. 

In retaliation, Tommy amends by elbowing Wilbur harshly in the sternum. 

——

For once, Tommy’s glad that he took Wilbur’s carrying offer (although this time it wasn’t so much of an offer as it was a forced suggestion) because checking out of the hospital is an absolute nightmare. 

The first thing that Tommy notices is that there are far too many fucking people here.

He’d been certain that they were in Wilbur’s personal medical bay back at the Tower, but upon seeing the crowd, he’s not too sure.

Instinctively, Tommy tucks his face into Wilbur’s neck in the hopes that nobody can see it. Even still, it feels like all eyes are on them. 

Wilbur did put on a disguise before sweeping him up, but Tommy doubts that it will do much to hide him.

If there was anyone that was as five star celebrity as a five star celebrity could get, it would be billionaire five-mansion-owner Wilbur Soot. 

For not the first time, Tommy internally curses his fate. 

The gentle rocking of being carried pauses near where the front desk must be.

Overhead, Tommy can hear both Phil and Puffy speaking.

So that’s why they had come. They’re acting as personal bodyguards, metaphorically speaking. 

Again, Tommy is beyond aware that Wilbur doesn’t even need bodyguards to begin with, but he strangely suspects that they’re here more for him than they are for Wilbur.

Tommy knows full well that Phil is some sort of black belt—in karate, he believes—but it’s Puffy that he would fear in this sort of situation. She can be terrifying. He would know first hand.

Swallowing down whatever warmth that brings up in his throat, Tommy resorts to curling further into Wilbur’s arms. He might imagine it, but he’s almost certain that he can feel the man tug him closer protectively.

“The car’s ready?” Wilbur mutters overhead.

To Tommy’s left—or right? He can’t tell—he hears Phil hums accordingly. 

“It is. We’ve also got a couple more people standing by  outside to clear any crowds that could happen to form,” the man confirms, using his classic I’m Wilbur Soot’s manager voice that makes Tommy laugh. 

“Good. Puffy and I are going to get Tommy checked out at the front desk,” Wilbur shifts his weight, humming. “Can you make sure that everyone’s in place by the time we’re finished, please?” 

Tommy resists the urge to comment pretentious fuck. He swallows his words though when Wilbur straightens his back and begins walking again. 

Missed opportunity, but whatever. The man’s heard him say that multiple times beforehand anyways.

Tommy remains quiet, face still buried into Wilbur’s neck.

They reach the front desk again—hadn’t they already been there?—where the person behind it greets them with a kind, “Hello, what can I help you with?”

“Thomas Innit is checking out,” Wilbur responds in his cool ah-thor-a-tive tone.

Tommy rolls his eyes internally. He can practically see him tossing a stupid smile in the nurse’s direction. 

Nobody will ever have more women than Spider-man does. That’s a fact, no matter what Technoblade wants to say. 

“Alright,” there’s the sound of nails against a keyboard for a moment. “Are you his father?” 

Tommy just about chokes on his saliva. To his surprise, Wilbur seems to do the same, arms clutching the boy tighter.

“No, I’m—sorry, uh, my name’s Wilbur Soot,” Wilbur coughs a little, clearly just as startled. “I’m his mentor at work. His aunt’s just over there, though, if you’d like me to get her instead.”

There’s more clicking on the keyboard and the woman hums approvingly, “Oh, Wilbur Soot. That’s right, you lead that program. It says here that you’re also one of his emergency contacts. Is that correct?”

“That’s right,” Wilbur confirms. 

Tommy holds back a laugh. That program. Wilbur’s probably going to end up moping later on that the girl didn’t want his autograph or something. 

The woman behind the desk hums again. It seems that nurses like to do that.

“That’s fine, then. If I can just get yours and his aunt’s signature, Tommy will be good to go. I’m guessing the doctor already gave you the sheet containing his prescriptions and how to care for him outpatient, right?”

Wilbur nods, “They did. Eret’s always been a great doctor. Would you give them my thanks if you get the chance?”

There’s a smile in the woman’s voice when she speaks again. 

“Of course, sir.”

Then, directed to Tommy, she calls, “I hope you feel better, kiddo.”

Tommy smiles weakly into Wilbur’s shoulder. 

Kiddo. 

For the first week that Tommy is back home with he spends it catching up on schoolwork that he’d missed.

Definitely because he wants to and totally not because the second he stepped foot into his apartment, Puffy grounded him on the spot. 

It’s not all that bad, though.

When Tommy doesn’t have his eyes glued to a worksheet, he takes up the remaining time to hang out with Tubbo and Ranboo.

Even though they’d visited him quite frequently at the hospital (Tubbo had sent Wilbur every death threat known to man just to be let into the room), he missed being with them outside of that hellhole.

“We were so worried about you,” Ranboo scolds when they’re hanging out together, watching as Tommy sets another rolled ball of cookie dough on the sheet.

Tubbo’s helping—or at least, he’s kind of helping, if one counts handing Tommy haphazardly-made balls of dough, only for him to take extra time to mold into a better looking one. 

“I know, I know,” Tommy sighs, patting a ball of dough down onto the sheet so that it sticks. “You’ve only told me like, fifty times.”

Fortunately, Tommy’s side happens to be doing far better than it had been a week ago.

It still wakes him up at night with a jolt of pain sometimes, but it’s nothing that he hasn’t grown used to.

With a sigh, Tommy reaches out to retrieve another ball of dough from Tubbo. This one looks a bit like a square. Is he trying to make every quadrilateral or something?

Whatever. More important things at hand.

“I’m sorry for worrying you both,” Tommy begins, repeating this for what must be the fourth time.

He holds his palm out to the left, patiently waiting for Tubbo to press another misshapen dough ball into his hand.

“I know you’ve heard this story a million times, but I swear, I had no clue there were that many people there,” Tommy continues, glaring at Tubbo. “I didn’t even—Tubbo, big man, are you just gonna keep shaping the dough even though I’m just gonna reshape it when you hand it to me?”

Tubbo shoots him a sharp look. Guess that’s a yes, then.

Rolling his eyes, Tommy leans against the countertop and turns back to Ranboo.

“I didn’t even know that I’d been shot,” he explains, sounding a bit like a broken record at this point. “I mean, one second I was fighting these bad guys, and the next, I was waking up in a hospital bed.”

Ranboo gives him a pained look. 

To his left, Tubbo huffs, reaching out to slap a parallelogram-shaped dough onto his friend’s hand.

“You’re a dumbass, that’s what you are,”  Tubbo starts, already turning to make another ball of dough. “You could’ve called us, you know. We could have helped.”

Tommy lets out a breath of air, blowing the curly fringe that’s begun to fall into his eyes. His hair grows too quickly. It’s probably grown about an inch or so since he’d been out of the hospital. 

“It’s over now, guys,” he amends, slapping the dough onto the pan before giving both of his friends a look. “Seriously. I’m alright now, see? I’m out of the hospital, I’m back home, all is fine. Minus the whole being grounded thing, but I guess that’s a win too since I don’t have to go to school.”

“You don’t have to go to school because you were shot a week ago,” Ranboo points out, and Tommy kicks him in the shin.

“Don’t ruin the fun, Ranboo. Jesus,” Tommy shakes his head, rolling out the last piece of cookie dough that can fit on the pan and slapping it down.

Tubbo grumbles irritably  beside him, stuffing the star-shaped dough he’d been rolling into his mouth. 

Tommy decides to ignore him, still glaring at Ranboo, “Such a buzzkill sometimes, you are. I don’t know how Tubbo puts up with you.”

Beside him, Tubbo sighs, dragging his finger through the leftover dough that got caught on the sides of the bowl.

“No, but seriously, mate,” he chimes in, sticking the dough into his mouth. Tommy’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Try being neighbours with him sometime. Absolute nightmare.”

To Tommy’s right, Ranboo scoffs in annoyance.

Tommy’s almost certain that he had been gearing up to say something about that salmon named Ella disease or whatever, but now he has to defend his honour.

“You invite me over daily, Tubbo,” the man points out with a tired tone. 

“It’s because I pity you,” Tubbo quips without hesitation, making Tommy keel over with laughter. 

The three of them continue to bicker while Tommy puts the tray of cookies into the oven, jabbing Ranboo in the side until he sets a timer on his phone for fifteen minutes.  

When they settle down onto the kitchen floor, cross-legged and still bickering about whatever topic comes to mind—from Minecon to the difference between their school’s strawberry and chocolate milk—Tommy feels a rush of warmth pass through him. 

He missed this, he figures, grinning at the slowly rising cookies in the oven and pointing out in passing about how chocolate milk is and always will be superior, you guys are just stupid. 

Sure, they’re probably never going to let him live down what had happened, but for now, he figures that it’s left to rest (especially with how the topic has completely diverted into an argument about how good Nesquick’s strawberry milk is). 

For now, he lets himself relax. 

Tommy hasn’t seen Wilbur for a while.

It’s not a big deal, obviously—it’s not like Wilbur is his biological family or anything, and the man’s clearly busy, what with being Iron Man and all—but it still hurts a bit. 

Maybe it’s better this way, though.

He had saved Tommy from a far bigger gang of people than the kid had expected, and Tommy had nearly bled out on his floor… so, it’s to be expected that the guy doesn’t want to see him.

After another week passes that Tommy’s out of the hospital—and another Saturday that he misses movie night with Wilbur, Phil, and a couple other people in the Tower—he can’t help but start to feel slightly antsy. 

Does Wilbur possibly want to remove him from the internship program?

Tommy wouldn’t blame him, he had pretty much put his life on the line when he’d dove into rescue without really examining his surroundings beforehand, but it wasn’t like he had died from it or anything.

He is still very much alive, last time he’d checked. 

Time passes, and two weeks turn into three.

It’s on the weekend before Tommy’s getting ready to go back to school that something changes.

On this day, it’s pouring rain. Like, not just a slight drizzle, but a full and total downpour.

Usually, Tommy hates rainy days; they make his job a lot more difficult and result in far too many days chugging cold medicine in the hopes that he’s not sneezing all throughout third period the next day.

Recently, though, he’s taken quite a liking to them. It’s nice to hear the gentle pitter-patter of rain against his bedroom window when he’s cooped up on his bed or at his desk, books tossed this way and that. 

One thing that he’s realised, too, is that he would much rather have a rainy day and go outside to have a sunny day where he can’t.

Tommy’s always been what Puffy calls a free spirit. 

He thinks that she means that as a nicer phrase than outright saying that he quite literally never sits still, but whatever.

It’s fine, though.

Throughout his time being grounded, Tommy’s been allowed to take walks to the nearby park every other day so long as Puffy, Phil, or one of his friends accompany him.

Today, though, just so happens to be one of those dreary days. The ones where he wants to do something, but also doesn’t really feel like going outside.

One thing, though, is that he’s realised he is actually quite lonely. It’s a do something with someone else kind of day, then. 

Board games would be fun, if everyone he knew wasn’t so busy. 

Aunt Puffy’s out of the house today to run her bakery downtown, Ranboo and Tubbo are both busy with their clubs at school (one is in theatre, the other in stage design. A little thing that Tommy calls double theatre kids. A horror, really).

So, Tommy pulls his phone out and calls the only person that he can think of. 

“Hey, Phil,” he leans his head against his bedroom window, listening to the rain fall against the glass and watching the people pass by below. “Do you want to come over or… I don’t know, play a video game or something? I don’t really care what, I’m just… bored.”

Not even ten minutes later, Phil shows up at his door with a bright grin and a car waiting out front.

“Hey, Tommy,” he greets kindly, tapping the tip of his umbrella against the floorboards while Tommy pulls on his raincoat. It’s an old thing that barely even fits him now, but it’s better than nothing.

“Hi,” Tommy responds with a grin, pulling the coat hood over his head. “What’s the plan for today, big man? Are we gonna go play video games like last weekend?”

Phil hums, reaching out to open the front door for Tommy when the kid’s pulled his rain boots on.

“I was thinking that maybe we’d go to the bookstore or something,” he offers. He waits for Tommy to walk past through the door before shutting it firmly behind him. “We could also go to the Tower, if you’d like. Niki’s been talking about how much she misses you. Jack, too.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, his keys jingling together when he locks the front door. He only has two on his key ring; one for his house, and another that doubled as a keycard at the Tower. The rest of the stuff on the ring were just gadgets he liked to keep, mostly gifted to him by Tubbo or Ranboo.

His favourite was the little fucked-up Iron Man figurine they’d found on the side of the road. It looked as though it’d been run over three times with a car, but Tommy had kept it. 

Wilbur hadn’t found it very funny. Jokes on him, though, because Tommy finds it hilarious.

“I know for a fact that Jack didn’t say he missed me,” Tommy replies once his door is locked. He tossed his keys back into his over-the-shoulder bag, shooting Phil an eye roll. “I think he’d rather die than say that, actually.”

Phil chuckles in response heartily, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

“Well, he didn’t have to say it. I could just tell,” he assures, pressing his hand against Tommy’s back to guide him to the elevator. 

Not that Tommy needs guidance or anything, but he’s learned not to argue with Phil, especially with the not-so-recent event. 

“The Tower’s fine, then,” Tommy shrugs, stepping into the elevator with the man and pressing the lobby button shaped like a star. 

A part of him wants to ask about Wilbur, but he swallows the words.

He’d already asked Phil about the man a couple of times over the past few weeks, always on their walks; always an array of “How’s he doing? Is he busy?”

He always means “Is he too busy to hang out with me now?” but the words are never  said out loud. 

Once, Tommy had let slip that he was worried Wilbur wanted to remove him from the internship program, and Phil had instantly dragged him into a hug. 

“He would never do that to you, Tommy,” he’d promised, arms tight against the boy’s back. “And even if he did, I think you’d have a lot of people to back you up, including me.”

Tommy had laughed wetly, pressing his face into Phil’s shoulder.

He always seemed to know how to make him feel better. 

“The Tower sounds good to me,” Phil says now, another grin plastered on his face.

His default mode, Wilbur’s joking voice says in Tommy’s head. 

“Cool,” Tommy confirms, watching the elevator doors close. 

A part of him almost expects that he might see Wilbur in the halls at the Tower, but he decides not to get his hopes up. The man’s busy, and really, Tommy shouldn’t be bothering him as much as he had before.

Wilbur has responsibilities and Tommy certainly doesn’t have to be one of them.

He’s a big man. Hell, his seventeenth birthday is only four months away. 

As the elevator hums, Tommy relaxes his shoulders a little.

It’s not like Wilbur’s his dad or- or his brother or anything, no matter how many times they used to joke. That’s all they are; jokes, right?

Tommy shouldn’t be this upset that he’s lost contact with him recently.

(And yet, as Phil chatters about the board games that he’s got tucked away in one of the storage closets at the Tower, Tommy can’t help but wish that Wilbur could be there with them, too).

——

The Soot limousine is out front waiting when they walk through the lobby.

The rain nearly clouds his vision of the limo from the inside, but Tommy could recognise that stupid, sleek black car with a silver S on the side anywhere. 

It’s almost nostalgic, stepping outside of the winding doors to his apartment complex and out into the rain. The best part of it, though, is the limo itself.

Tommy has always had good experiences riding in the Soot limousine, like that one time Jack made him laugh so hard that Coca-Cola actually came out of his nose.

Or the other time when Technoblade had tried getting in but was too muscular and tall to even get in. When he had managed—which took forever—he looked incredibly out of place. It was hilarious.

One of the main running jokes, though, is between Tommy and Phil.

The passenger seat of the limo is always empty.

According to Phil (and also confirmed later by Wilbur), the drivers always sit by themselves.

It’s only on special days that Wilbur attends parties or gatherings where they’d have a bodyguard sitting up front with the driver as to make more space in the back for the rest of them as well. 

It really isn’t the best joke—Tommy would argue to say that it’s quite mean, actually—but Phil seems to find it hilarious. The poor limo driver, sentenced to loneliness.

Now, as the rain patters against the hood of his coat and cars speed by, splashing water onto sidewalks and over hoods of parked cars, Tommy turns with a teasing smile to Phil who is—strangely enough—not standing beside him any longer.

Frowning, Tommy turns around in a circle once, squinting through the pouring rain.

Had Phil already slipped into the car or something?

It may sound slightly impossible, but it isn’t completely out-of-the-norm.

The guy is pretty slick, but not that slick. This must be a prank of some sorts. Despite his exceeding age, Phil does actually happen to be quite the prankster. Ugh; he's thinking the word prankster. Tommy needs to put a restraining order up against Tubbo.

Huffing, Tommy closes his eyes for a moment. He stands there, ignoring the sounds of rain pattering against the hood of his jacket, and focuses. There's a particular tingle at the back of his mind, whispering behind you, and just ahead. 

Following the feeling—the sense, rather—Tommy turns, opening his eyes. 

Standing in front of the passenger car door, more than five feet away, Phil is... laughing. He's laughing. Lord.

It’s a bit hard to see with the pouring down rain, so Tommy yells his confusion out with cupped hands.

“You just gonna leave me alone down here, is that what this is?” he scrutinizes, feeling his heart sink a tad. Was this some weird elaborate bit to make him feel better or something? 

Phil waves him off, looking particularly amused about something. 

He tries to yell something back, but it’s hard to hear over the downpour, so Tommy pretends that he’d heard something (as he does most of the time when people speak to him, really) and turns away.

With a confused huff, he pries the back door open and crawls into the vehicle. It’s been a while since he’s been in one of the Soot limos—probably since even before the night he’d been rushed to the hospital.

Whenever he and Phil went to the park, Tommy always insisted on walking or catching the bus there. He was cooped up inside for long enough that being inside of the tinted windows of a limo wasn’t something he’d really be looking forward to on his days outside of it.

Just like he remembered, the back of the car smells distinctly like hot chocolate. If anyone asked, it was because there are secret air fresheners hidden in the whole conditioning system of the limo, but Tommy knew a different story that involved one gigantic chocolate fondue fountain and one particularly drunk Wilbur Soot. 

Tommy plants himself on the nearest seat and slams the limo door shut. Ugh, the fringe of his hair had gotten caught by some of the wind blowing and now sticks to his forehead. He’s always hated that feeling. 

For once, Tommy’s glad that he’s riding in the back seat by himself. If Phil were here, he’d probably kick his ass for what he’s about to do.

A disgusted grimace resting on his face, Tommy leans his head over his knees to shake the water from the curls. 

He pushes his hood down, blatantly ignoring how it’ll probably ruin Wilbur’s leather seats—fuck his rich ass leather seats—and shuffles his hand through the front of his fringe. 

“Oh, god, please don’t ruin my floors.”

Tommy just about jumps through the ceiling of the car, letting out a sharp yelp when the top of his scalp makes contact with it. 

Wilbur Soot—think of the devil, really—is sitting on the other side of the limo, one leg crossed over the other. 

He looks pretty sheepish, actually, with his hands pressed together and a strange smile on his face. (There’s a bit of amusement hidden underneath it that disappears quickly).

Other than that, though, he just looks like the same old Wilbur. 

Stupid glasses, eyebags, freshly pressed and polished suit that makes Tommy raise an eyebrow. He knows for a fact that Wilbur hates wearing suits. Any chance he gets, he chooses not to wear one, so why now?

Oh, right, Tommy thinks, he's probably got some meeting to attend to. What a dumbass. 

“Hey, kid,” Wilbur's the first to speak for once, ring and forefinger tapping against his kneecap. “It’s nice to see that you’re alright.”

Both of Tommy’s eyebrows raise now. 

“Uh, yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably as the engine rumbles to life. “It’s nice to see that you're alright, too, I guess.”

Silence falls for a few minutes, only interrupted when Wilbur clears his throat. 

“Look, I’m sorry for disappearing on you,” he begins. His words are rushed, no longer strung together with a flair of eloquence. This is real; genuine. “I’ve been really busy in the Tower recently trying to take care of some things and haven’t really had the time for anything or, well, anyone.”

He pauses, swallowing. His eyes flick to the front of the car (where Tommy notices Phil’s face very nonchalantly glancing behind him every few seconds. And he’d had the nerve to call the man stealthy earlier). 

“That’s not the only reason though?” Tommy assumes, tilting his head to the left. His words startle Wilbur, basically telling him he’s right without it being verbally confirmed. 

“It’s not,” Wilbur drags a hand down his face. He looks exceptionally tired today. Then again, he looks tired every day. 

He should probably take a vacation. Tommy makes a mental note to bring it up when the guy isn’t being… whatever the hell this is. 
 
“Tommy, I need you to hear me out for a second, alright?” 

Slowly, Tommy nods. He resists the urge to scoot a seat closer to Wilbur and offer the man his hand just as he had in the hospital, instead interlacing his own fingers together comfortably in his lamp. 

“It’s in the past now, so I don’t want you to go blaming yourself or- Gods, I don’t know, locking yourself away or anything,” Wilbur begins, waving his hands around dramatically. “But, that being said… you  scared the shit out of me, kid. I know I’ve already told you once, but I really don’t think I have ever been that scared.” 

“Except for that time you almost died in a cave,” Tommy points out; an olive branch. 

Wilbur smiles a little, but it still wavers. 

“Yeah, except for that time,” he affirms, then swallows. “But, uh- Tommy, I’m going to be honest with you here—and feel free to tell me if this is overstepping anything, but… you’re like family to me. You’re… Gods, I don’t know.”

He takes a breath, “I just know that you’re my kid, Tommy.”

Here, Tommy freezes. 

Just as it had the last time—when the woman at the front desk of the hospital had thought that Wilbur was his father—his breath catches in his throat. 

“And I’ve never, uh, I’ve never had a kid, or—shit, okay, I don’t—I’m not a good parent, per se,” Wilbur admits, anxiously twisting the gold ring around his finger. “I’m not exactly a good role model, either, but I’m a superhero, so that’s something I’ve had to try and learn how to be, and—honestly, I still don’t think I’ve got it figured it out.

“One thing that I’ve always wanted to be, though, is a good role model. A hero, a father, or- or a brother—anything, really,” Wilbur’s eyes widen a fraction and he lifts his hands up, palm face out. “Not if- Jesus, fuck, okay. I’m not—look, kid, you’ve already got a guardian, and I’m not trying to be weird and say, ‘Oh, hey, yeah, can I adopt you?’ or anything, I’m just trying to explain…” 

He exhales sharply, running a hand through the front of his hair. 

“You’re family to me, Tommy,” he says slowly, now looking the kid in the eyes. “And seeing you… I don’t know, almost dead... I was terrified. So, I fled, just as I had when Sally died, and how I had when…”

He quiets, but Tommy knows where he’s going. 

Sally’s death was something that Tommy heard about in the news when he was a child. He hadn’t paid attention to it back then, not ever quite as fascinated by dramatic politics as some of his friends used to be, but he’d heard about it. The city had mourned, but Wilbur had fallen from his high horse. 

Four years afterwards, when Wilbur had finally become the Iron Man that he is today, his best friend was killed in an accident. It wasn’t so much an accident as it was a direct murder. 

Tommy could see it in the way Wilbur’s jaw clenched when they passed by the memorials set up on different areas of the street for those who were killed during the alien invasion as well. 

Tommy had been on a school field trip during that, but he could distinctly remember coming back to a city in shambles. 

Taking a deep breath, Tommy scoots a seat closer to Wilbur, reaching out to put his hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Wil,” he begins, offering a smile, “You’ve always been like some sort of… big brotherly, borderline parental, fuckin'—you get it, yeah? I mean—” he laughs, shaking his head, “You took me in under your wing when I had nothing, big man. If anything, I’ve always thought that you took me for nothing more than an annoying kid.”

Wilbur laughs wetly, reaching out to rustle Tommy’s hair, “I mean, you are a pretty annoying child.”

“Only when you first get to know me,” Tommy quotes from his first encounter with Wilbur, lifting his chin in mockery. 

Wilbur rolls his eyes, then pauses. Slowly, he raises his arms in offering.

It’s without hesitation that Tommy leans into them, face burying into the crook of his neck. Wilbur always gives the best hugs.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you much, kiddo,” he whispers into his ear, running a hand through the back of his hair. “I promise I will be now, though, if I can be.”

Tommy sighs, sinking into the man’s arms, “You don’t have to be. I can take care of myself, you know.”

There’s a smile in Wilbur’s voice when he responds, “I know, I know. You’re a big man. But you’re still sixteen, Toms. I know you don’t need a lot of help, but if there’s ever anything, Puffy and I are here for you.”

He huffs a little, sounding almost jokingly agitated as he says, “Techno’s here for you, too, when he’s not away on… whatever planet that fucker’s from. Niki, Jack, Tubbo, Ranboo… we’re here for you, kid. You just gotta tell us when you’re hurting.”

Tommy hums, pulling back from Wilbur to flick him in the forehead, “Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t before.”

To his surprise, Wilbur leans forwards, pressing his forehead gently against Tommy’s own.

“It’s alright, Toms,” he reassures, then frowns, pulling out his what Tommy would now classify as a mildly parental expression. “I worry about you, that’s all.”

Tommy snorts, nudging the man in the side and settling against his shoulder.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Wil, I’m Spider-man,” he crosses his arms over his chest, pressing the side of his head against Wilbur’s shoulder. “I’m the best when it comes to working alone.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow, slinging one arm around the boy’s shoulders loosely. 

“And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re an Avenger now, too,” he reminds, grinning a little. “Working together is integral to being a part of the team, you know. It was in the papers.”

“There were no papers, you dickhead,” Tommy huffs, pressing further into Wilbur’s side. The sound of rain hitting the car windows adds a nice, almost calming ambience. “You’re just making up shit now because you think that if you speak with authority, people will believe you.”

Wilbur winces at this, air sucking through his teeth with a hiss sound.

“Damn, Tommy, you’re kicking a man while he’s down, here.”

“You’re the richest man I know,” Tommy deadpans, shooting Wilbur a glare. “The only thing that you’re down in is the looks department.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, reaching the hand around Tommy’s shoulders up to gently hit him upside the head. 

“Child,” he comments, aghast. “Absolute child, you are. If I wanted to, I’d leave you on the side of the road. Then you’d have to walk all the way to the Tower by foot in this hard ass rain.”

Tommy clicks his tongue, “You wouldn’t.”

When Wilbur shoots him a look, fear sinks into his chest. As soon as the man turns towards the front of the limo, acting like he’s going to tell the driver to pull over, Tommy just about jumps out of his skin. 

“Wait, wait, I regret, I regret—” the boy begins, already holding his hands palm out in mock defense. “I regret, I regret. You would, you definitely would. This just makes you that much more of a prick, though, you realize that, right?”

Wilbur resettles in the seat, smirking.

“You won’t be saying that for long when we get to the Tower,” he responds, his tone akin to a sing-song.

Instantly, Tommy’s eyes narrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean, king?” he questions, far too skeptical. “Have you got something planned for me when I walk in? Ohhhh, Wilbur Soot, if you fuckin’ prank me like I thought Phil was doing, I’m gonna stab you right in the face.”

Wilbur bursts into gentle laughter, leaning forwards a tad.

“It’s not- kid, I’m not pranking you—even if that is a pretty good idea,” he shakes his head wildly, snorting. “But no, I’m not pranking you, Tommy. It’s a present, actually.”

“A present?” Tommy’s eyebrows raise. “What present?”

If possible, Wilbur’s smug look increases.

“A little birdie told me that you’ve been wanting a suit upgrade,” he says, not even mentioning how that little birdie is Tommy. 

It’s not like Tommy begs for a new suit or anything, he just complains about how awful it is travelling in the one he currently has. 

Or, well, had. The gunshot had pierced through the fabric so it’s currently in clothing rehabilitation. (Definition; he was having to sew it back together himself).

“You’re kidding,” Tommy responds once the pieces have slid together, forming the perfect puzzle. 

His heart lifts just as his hope does when Wilbur just shoots him another smile; it’s not so much smug as it is proud this time, though.

“Wil- Wil, you’re—oh my Gods,” Tommy whispers, pressing his hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna be sick- Wilbur, what the fuck? Are you- is this the prank now, is this it? You’re fucking with me, right?”

Wilbur laughs, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not fucking with you, Tommy,” he promises, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I have a photo of it right here, if you’d like to—”

“No!” Tommy snatches Wilbur’s phone, practically throwing himself onto the man’s lap and tossing it away. 

As it bounces on the limo seat, Tommy blinks, suddenly remembering that he is, in fact, not currently play-fighting with Tubbo or Puffy, but speaking with Wilbur Soot.

“Uh, hey, I’m sorry,” Tommy mutters, sitting up straight. “Sorry, Wil. That was uncalled—”

To his surprise, Wilbur’s bent over himself, laughing. His hand’s pressed to his chest and his laugh sounds far more genuine that Tommy’s ever heard.

“It’s alright, Tom,” he assures once he’s caught his breath, coughing a little. “Sorry, you just— you’re funny, kid. I’m guessing you want it to stay a surprise, then?”

Tommy smiles warily, “If that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Wilbur’s grin turns sly again, “Brother.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy rebuttals instantly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’re dumb and I hate you.”

“If you say so.”

The smirk hasn’t left Wilbur’s face.

Tommy glares at him, watching the smirk grow wider. 

Don’t say it, he thinks bitterly, shifting in place. Don’t say it, you fucking asshole.

“Little brother,” Wilbur’s tone is full of teasing and Tommy lets out a groan, smacking the man square in the chest. 

“Die, die, fuck you, oh my Gods. You’re such an idiot and I hate you,” Tommy complains, glaring at the man who is now wincing and clutching his chest. “I hope that I broke your ribs, you prick.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, still clutching his chest, “You’re not that strong.”

“I once threw a car at a bad guy,” Tommy chirps proudly. “It weighed, like, more than two hundred pounds.”

“Did you crush him?”

Tommy purses his lips, “Does it matter?”

“I mean, yeah,” Wilbur shrugs, “If you killed someone, that could remove quite a bit of your integrity as a superhero, you know. Right, because how can you be a superhero if you’ve murdered someone?”

Wilbur tsk’s, shaking his head.

“You simply can’t,” he says, as though he knows everything. “That would make you a vigilante, I reckon.”

“Reckon my ass,” Tommy quips without even thinking about it, crossing his arms over his chest harshly. “You’re a liar and- and a fraud. You can’t say shit about what makes someone a hero and what doesn’t. Have you seen what you used to do, king? You’re a— a hy-poh-cryt-eye-cal ass.”

Wilbur’s façade breaks and the corner of his mouth twitches, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“It’s hyp-o-critic-al,” he points out, much to the kid’s chagrin. “Also, you’re evading my question.”

It’s not like Tommy did kill a guy or anything—because that probably would’ve been a lot cooler on his track record—but he did kind of hurt someone.

“I maybe, kind of, sort of… threw a car at someone in a Walmart because they were telling me off for being obnoxious or something,” he smirks a little at the memory. 

Sure, he’d been promptly banned from Walmart, but whatever. The place sold guns and shit, who cares if he chucks a vehicle at an annoying ass customer? He’s saving someone from having to deal with their ass at the register, anyways.

Wilbur, however, frowns. He blinks a few times as he lets this information settle and process through his head. Tommy can practically see the wheels turning.

It’s going to be great when it clicks for him. 

After a few moments, skepticism floods Wilbur’s face and Tommy internally thinks Ah, here we go.

“You said you were inside?” he questions slowly.

Tommy nods, “Yep.”

“Walmarts don’t have cars just sitting around like malls do.”

“Nope.”

A pause.

“Tommy, did you throw a toddler car at a customer?”

“Actually, it was a Barbie Princess Dreamcar,” Tommy corrects astutely, as though this makes it any better. “And no, before you ask, the customer was not a toddler. I’ll leave the metaphorical child punting to Technoblade.” 

Wilbur’s nose wrinkles in that way where he can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or burst into tears.

Then, he just sighs tiredly, rubbing at a space between his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger.

“Was the person at least an asshole?” he questions. Something in his tone tells Tommy that Wilbur is being borderline rhetorical, but he answers it anyways.

“Yeah, like I said, they were telling me off for being obnoxious or whatever,” Tommy copies Wilbur’s sigh but stretches his own out dramatically. Just to add to the extra flair of theatrics, he stretches out against the chair, back pressed up against the man’s side. “They had it coming.”

“Hmm, well, can’t argue much with that, then,” Wilbur responds coolly. 

“No, no you can not, because you would’ve done the same thing if you’d seen him,” Tommy sniffs. “Right wanker, he was.”

The corner of Wilbur’s mouth twitches, confirming that he definitely would have done the same thing too.

“I don’t doubt it,” he comments fondly, ruffling Tommy’s hair.

——

As soon as the limousine arrives at the Tower, Tommy is ushered right into Wilbur’s main mechanic room. 

Instead of being plastered just with blueprints, scattered papers, and multiple bulletin boards, this room also contains the real shit.

Multiple rows of iron suits sit on display, both makeshift and newer models. The one closest to the door makes Tommy nearly pass out—it’s the oldest of them all, made entirely out of different pieces of debris and rubble found inside of a cave. 

He forces himself to look away, though (narrowly missing Wilbur’s big smile at how his mouth remains agape in fascination).

Although Tommy would normally be completely enamoured by the glittering suits encased under fluorescents, his eyes are almost immediately captured by the suit that rests comfortably on the front table. 

From the way it shines under the overhead lights, Tommy can tell it’s made of iron; similar to Wilbur’s own suit, but far more flexible. 

The overall shape of it, from the black iron-cased spiderwebs that trail down the arms and up the chest, remains the same as Tommy has always known.

Hell, everything about the suit is the same, minus a few minor upgrades (although he’d classify the whole it being iron thing as a major upgrade, Wilbur brushes it off as no big deal).

The first time that Tommy tries it on, though, is when he sees the full update that’s been made. Rather than simple cameras for him to see through, every part of his suit’s interface has been remodelled. 

A part of Tommy suspects that this is what it’s like to be in the Iron Man suit, which does absolutely nothing to settle the growing warmth in his chest.

(It's always been something that he's kept quite hush-hush: that secret, 'I idolized Iron Man before I knew who he was' thing. He still does, of course, but he'd never admit that, either). 

Niki, who had rushed to see him as soon as he’d walked through the front lobby, snaps multiple pictures of him posing in his brand new, Soot manufactured, iron suit.

As much as it would normally make him laugh that she takes photos with three different cameras—“I need a polaroid, a digital, and a phone copy, Tommy!”—he doesn’t say a single word about it this time. 

Once the photos have been taken and Tommy’s chatting comfortably with the rest of the team (who had all gathered to congratulate him on making a good recovery from his bullet wound), Tommy texts Aunt Puffy a photo of his new suit.

She responds with a phone call. She didn’t really like texting much, anyways. 

“You’ve always wanted to be like him when you were a kid, remember?” Puffy says over the phone, a brightness to her voice that tells Tommy she definitely knew about this shit. Then she adds on (because clearly she’s hoping to kill him), “Plus, you two are probably going to look even more like you’re related than you already do out in the field.”

Tommy promptly hangs up on her, sending a glare at Wilbur’s curious expression, who is sitting beside Niki on the other side of the room. 

Later, when everything’s settled down and Tommy’s sitting comfortably on the big sofa in Wilbur’s living quarters (which are gigantic, it’s a wonder he can even find his way around it), he thanks him for the eightieth time that day.

This one, though, is more genuine, paired with a strong hug that neither lets go of for a while. 

When Wilbur gets up to use the bathroom at some point, Tommy immediately turns on Phil and begins to chew him out for not telling him about his stupidly evil plan.

Phil just smiles and, as though he hadn’t heard a single word from Tommy’s mouth, tugs the kid into a warm hug with a “Welcome to the family, kid” whispered into his ear. 

Neither one of them mention how Tommy has already been a part of the family for a long time now, but the boy smiles as though it had been said anyways.