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If there was one thing that would remains true about Hermes, about Wilbur, no matter what situation or life or challenge he’s put into, it would be that he loves.
Wilbur is ready to give his heart to those who ask for it, prepared to handle the pain that comes with trusting others with his soul just a little too easily. He knows the consequences, but Wilbur would never lets himself become jaded if he can help it. Not when he’s seen the result and pain and loneliness that come with it.
And as ready to give himself up as he is, that doesn’t mean Wilbur isn’t scared of handing himself over so readily. As much as he hates the loneliness that comes with being jaded he is terrified of giving too much of himself before he’s ready and ruining his ability to love so easily.
He likes to think that’s what lead to his talents. Wilbur’s ability to dart out of harms way at a moments notice and rush to the people who might need him relating to his desire to give himself up and his need to protect himself at the same time.
It’s tough to balance, those two priorities of his. To be ready to love others but also love himself just as much. Especially when he has a history of falling so easily into self hatred.
But Wilbur’s healed and he became Hermes, and he’s learned what it means to love himself without losing his love for others.
Which is what, when Wilbur first met the vigilante, drove him to share that same love with someone he was supposed to arrest for doing a hero’s job without the legal red tape.
The vigilante has several names as of right now. Theseus from Techno (”How many times do I have to tell you to call me Protesilaus when we’re in costume?” “As many times as you like, I’m not calling you something that sounds like an erection pill.”), Copperhead by the public and news outlets (”He’s blond?” “They’re talking about the snake, mate. Probably relating to his flexibility or something.” “Oh. It’s not the worst they’ve come up with.”), but to Wilbur?
To Wilbur he is Tommy. An eighteen year old kid that saw injustice in the world that heroes got too caught up to pay attention to. That red tape and the corrupt kept them from getting to even when they’d seen it and really wanted to do something and decided to fix it himself.
To Wilbur he is everything, and to Tommy Wilbur wants to be the very same.
A grunt to Wilbur’s right prompts him to look over at the very vigilante he’d been thinking about. Blond hair hidden by the red hood of his jacket and blue eyes piercing into Wilbur’s own from behind his mask. The bandanna he usually uses to cover the lower half of his face was pulled around his neck, revealing a mouth curved down into a considering frown.
Wilbur can’t help but smile, reaching over and tugging the cloth back over Tommy’s face. He earns an eye roll for his efforts, but he doesn’t protest and he doesn’t pull it back down so Wilbur counts that as a win.
“The fuck are you doin’ out here?” Tommy asks, voice raspy from disuse and exertion. The sound makes Wilbur look a bit more closely at him, noting the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, the rumpled state of his clothes, the hole decorating the edge of Tommy’s jacket.
“You’ve run into trouble already?” Wilbur teases, earning an irritated glare from the teen that has him snickering.
“Fuck off, you didn’t answer the question,” Tommy snaps.
That’s the thing with Tommy. He’s terrifyingly observant, a skill important in any form of hero work. And while it puts Wilbur at ease to know the vigilante is anything but incompetent, it also irritates him when he can’t hide something he’d rather let fester.
“I’m just thinking,” he finally answers, looking out over the city he’d sworn to protect when he’d turned twenty-one and he was legally allowed to sign up to be a hero.
Tommy paused, and though Wilbur isn’t looking at him anymore he can tell Tommy hadn’t turned away. Could tell the vigilante is looking for something in his posture or tone to get a read on him.
Wilbur isn’t sure if his friend found what he was looking for, but he doesn’t push Wilbur to expand further as he shifts so his legs dangle over the edge of the building dangerously.
“Purse snatchers have some real fuckin’ balls,” Tommy groans, and Wilbur lets out a laugh.
“Is that what’s got you looking so roughed up with the night this young?” he asks, eyes going from the horizon to the streets trailing below. They’re still, this area of the city more run down and less inviting for civilians to stay out after dark. Wilbur is really only here because it’s one of the main spots Tommy patrols.
Maybe he should be a little more worried, that Wilbur’s never had a patrol route with this area of town. Maybe he should talk to Hypnos or Dream about distributing the routes around the city more evenly.
If they do that, Tommy would be more likely to get caught by a hero and arrested. Wilbur files the thought away for later.
“Alright, bitch, what’s on your mind?” Tommy snaps, pulling Wilbur out of his head when the concern buried under false irritation registers.
“What do you mean?” he asks, deciding to play stupid. The decision is met with a harsh punch aimed for his shoulder that he lets land because it’s either that or move away from Tommy.
“I’ve been complaining about purse snatchers for the last five minutes and you haven’t made fun of me once,” Tommy snaps, glare drowning in worry leveled at Wilbur, “so tell me what the fuck you’re thinking about that has you so distracted.”
This time, when Wilbur laughs, it isn’t a surprised cackle or amused chuckle. Just a puff of air he forces out of his nose as he bumps his shoulder against Tommy’s affectionately.
“Thinking about how vigilantism is still incredibly illegal and I should probably bring you in, since you’re so eager to punch me.”
“You could’ve dodged that fucking easy,” Tommy retorts, glare sharpening so harshly Wilbur suddenly understands why the public was so quick to compare him to a snake.
Right now, Wilbur is looking at Copperhead, not Tommy. He’s somehow pushed a button he didn’t mean to and now the vigilante is gearing up to strike.
Wilbur, idiotically, stupidly, adoringly, softens.
“Sorry, Tommy,” he whispers, his voice so quiet that, if it weren’t for the faint traces of wind carrying them, he doubts the words would’ve reached the vigilante’s ears.
And just like that, Tommy drops his defenses. His shoulders sag and he slouches forward until his chest is pushed to his thighs. The display of dexterity not surprising but no less amusing as Wilbur witnesses it.
“Just tell me what’s wrong, big man,” Tommy demands, begs, pleads.
Who is Wilbur to deny him? How could Wilbur withhold his heart when he’s never been one to restrict it from others in the first place?
“I’m just… Worried, I guess,” he finally answers, looking back to the city’s outline.
“You’re always worried, gotta give me more than that,” is Tommy’s answer, and gods above if this child doesn’t know him then Wilbur has never been a hero a day in his life.
He snorts, settling a hand over Tommy’s back and rubbing circles into it. The action is just as much to give affection as it is to soothe himself. Tommy doesn’t stop him.
“I’ve been thinking about you being a vigilante a lot lately,” Wilbur starts, feeling Tommy tense under his hand but barreling forward before the kid got the wrong idea, “not that I’d ask you to stop. We’ve already had that conversation.”
“Damn right,” Tommy mutters, but underneath the grumpy tone Wilbur can hear the affection, and he smiles.
“It’s more the fact that… There’s a lot of people who don’t like you, like they should,” he continues, letting Tommy shift until his back is pressed to the concrete barrier guarding the roof and his head is pillowed in Wilbur’s lap. Without Tommy’s back to rub, Wilbur moves his fingers to run through Tommy’s hair.
“Just one of the things that comes with being a vigilante, innit? Same with heroes.”
Wilbur hums in response, eyes tracing the outline of buildings in the distance.
“I suppose. But I’d rather you be liked more than you’re hated,” he says, returning to that barely there whisper he’d used before.
Tommy didn’t react to the words this time, and Wilbur assumes that means he either hadn’t heard him or he’s done with the conversation.
Without Tommy pushing for conversation, Wilbur lets the two fall into silence. Content to run his fingers through his friend’s hair and relax as much as he can with the thoughts swirling in his mind. The night is quiet, and the stars rotate to the west as time passes. Making room for a sun that wouldn’t be ready to rise for several more hours.
And then Wilbur’s communicator dings, breaking the atmosphere and pulling a sigh from Hermes’ lips.
“Guess that’s my cue,” Tommy snorts, pulling from Wilbur’s lap and readjusting his hood back over his head. Wilbur resists the urge to whine at the loss of contact, swallowing it back with an irritated huff as he looks at his communicator.
[Protesilaus]: Midas is looking for you.
[Hermes]: midas can kiss my ass
[Protesilaus]: I’ll tell him you said that.
Wilbur rolls his eyes, trusting that Techno wouldn’t actually do something that would risk his safety. He pauses, looking over at Tommy who has yet to make his way off the building and get back to his patrol.
“What?” he asks, brows furrowing at the kid’s hesitation.
“Just… I don’t care if people hate me, as long as you don’t.”
The words steal the breath from Wilbur’s lungs and make his chest ache with the desire to pull this kid close and keep him safe within his arms. Instead, Wilbur gives him a smile. Tommy hovers for only a second longer before he’s taking a running jump towards the next building over, hands gripping at practically invisible holds and climbing up the brick to make his way forward.
Wilbur watches him until he can no longer see the vigilante, and then he groans as he looks towards the towering building of the heroes headquarters.
Why the fuck is that building so tall and obvious? It has to be a hazard or something with powers existing the way they do.
“Alright,” he mutters to himself, “time to see what Midas wants to turn to gold today.”
With a step, Wilbur’s back to where he was confined, shaking his hair free of any crawlies that had the misfortune of being in his way as he ran. The building is bright, practically blinding and constantly drawing complaints from light sensitive citizens but only deaf ears ever hear them. Stepping inside was hell on Wilbur’s eyes, white walls and fluorescent lights practically mini suns to eyes adjusted to the dark.
He ignores the pain outside of a small wince, waves a polite hello to the man working the front desk, and then decides to walk up the stairs.
If Schlatt wants to steal Wilbur’s precious time with Tommy, he is going to waste as much of his time as possible.
Wilbur is rewarded when, five minutes into his trek up the stairwell, agitated footsteps carry down the concrete walls.
“Hermes!” Schlatt snarls, anger and agitation raising Wilbur’s hackles and making the idea of walking up the steps even slower much more appealing, “get your ass up here!”
Well, can’t go against a direct order he supposes.
“Fuck!” Midas yelps, Wilbur giving a wicked grin in victory when Schlatt stumbles backwards, taken off guard by his sudden appearance at the top of the stairwell.
“Is there something you need, Midas?” Hermes asks, leaning against the railing of the stairwell while the man recovers. Midas scowls at him, hands going to readjust his suit jacket, one finger lifted away from his person as a safety precaution.
Midas is such an on the nose hero name.
“Office, now,” he barks, Wilbur rolling his eyes but following the other hero through the door where other heroes were waiting for their patrol shifts to hit or relaxing after just getting back. Eyes are on them, but Midas scolding Hermes wasn’t a new event and wasn’t nearly as entertaining as the first few times it happened.
Techno and Phil are hanging on the usual couch Wilbur claimed, neither of them looking in his direction but Wilbur can tell they’re paying attention.
“What’s this about, Midas? Don’t like that I didn’t sign up for the patrol I was on?” Wilbur jabs, familiar carefree grin settling on his features.
“No,” Schlatt grits out, “this is about that vigilante you’re assigned to bring in.”
The grin falls and Wilbur stares daggers into the back of Midas’ head.
“What about him?” The question comes out tight, a warning to the man in front of him that he needs to choose his next words carefully. He doesn’t.
“More about you and how you haven’t brought that criminal in,” Schlatt spits, glaring at Wilbur over his shoulder and stopping when he notices that Wilbur is no longer following him.
“He’s slippery,” Wilbur says, the excuse coming easily to his lips because like fucking hell is he going to break the trust he’s built in Tommy before he got the chance to give the kid the option of staying with him, of meeting Techno and Phil, of becoming family.
“Bullshit Hermes!” Schlatt snaps, turning on Wilbur with his face red in anger. “That piece of shit vigilante has you wrapped around his fucking finger and if you’re not going to bring him in I’ll send someone like Siren out instead who will actually do their job!”
Wilbur snarls, and before he can consider how stupid his next decision is, he’s got Schlatt pressed to the wall with his hand tight around his throat. The entire floor seems to go quiet, and Schlatt’s pissed off, over confident expression drains into one of actual fear for two seconds before he replaces it with a mask of confidence.
“You are not going to do that,” Wilbur starts, voice low and squeezing his grip around Schlatt’s throat just enough to let the man know he means business, “you are either going to let me stay on Copperhead’s detail, or you will lose one of the most popular heroes in this agency and all of the money I am making you by letting you sell me out to the public.”
Schlatt’s glare deepens and he stays quiet, but Wilbur doesn’t give him the option of freedom from his grip until he gets a confirmation.
“And when you leave I just send out another hero to take in the vigilante,” Schlatt says and the grin Wilbur gives him in response is something dark.
“Not if I—”
Before Wilbur can get the threat out, there’s a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Techno standing behind him, his head shaking when he has Wilbur’s attention.
Wilbur’s lip curls, and he releases Midas and lets him drop to the floor with a choked gasp.
“I’m not letting you give away my Copperhead assignment,” Wilbur says, tone final. When he turns to the rest of the floor to see the heroes there staring at him, his scowl deepens.
“None of you will let him give you my Copperhead assignment.”
“Of course not, Hermes,” Siren— Niki, speaks up. Her expression is bored but Wilbur can see how irritated she is that Midas had attempted to throw her under the bus. He’ll have to send her flowers after tonight.
Wilbur nods, sneers at Schlatt, then goes to the locker rooms where he can grab his civilian clothes. He’s done with being a hero tonight and if he’s lucky Tommy will stop by before his patrol is done and he has to get home.
The crow sitting on the bench in front of his locker prompts a scowl, but he does nothing to shoo it away.
“I’m not apologizing, if that’s what you’re here for,” he grumbles, shoving his thumb onto the print reader for his locker. The crow caws like it’s laughing and Wilbur’s face goes red.
“Oh shut up, dad. I may be a hero but…” Wilbur pauses, grip on the metal door (that had swung open once he punched in his ID number) tight.
“But you’d do anything for that vigilante, I know mate,” Phil says, out of his bird form and rubbing a firm hand over Wilbur’s back.
Wilbur heaves a sigh and pushes his forehead against the locker next to his before nodding.
“Yeah. He’s just a kid, and I—” Wilbur swallows, then gives his dad a pleading look and receiving a kind smile.
“I know, Will. Maybe don’t put your job at risk next time something like this happens, but I know.”
He scowls at the reminder, reaching a hand in to grab his clothes. His handling is rough, and when he closes his locker it slams shut with a loud clang. Wilbur only simmers down when he sees his dad flinch, apologetic look taking over his features.
“Sorry. I just. I’d do anything for Copperhead, he trusts me to keep him safe, and I fully plan to do that. Even if it means losing all of this, even if it means becoming a villain to do so. I’ll do it.”
Phil searches his face for a moment, seeming to look for something in Wilbur’s expression. Wilbur doesn’t get the chance to try and figure out what because the next thing he knows, his dad is pulling his head forward to place a kiss to the top of his curls.
“We’ll figure it out. You get home, Protesilaus’ patrol finished an hour ago but he wanted to wait for you before leaving. I’ll deal with Midas.”
Wilbur nods, relaxing at his dad’s affection and promises to be on his side in the mess he’d just made for himself.
A mess he’d make twenty different times, if it meant keeping Tommy from jail. If it meant keeping Tommy’s trust.
If it meant Tommy eventually coming home to a family who will love him for every little thing that makes him who he is.