Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy is still eating dinner by the time Dad comes home, shucking off his coat, hanging up his keys, toeing off his shoes in routine familiar to the pair of them.

“It’s late. I didn’t think you’d still be up,” he says when he enters the kitchen, helping himself to a slice of pizza where Tommy pushes the remaining half towards him, having opted for takeout as opposed to cooking for the pair of them where he’d gotten in late himself; Wilbur’s gig over at the coffee house having run longer than usual where some of his newer songs were big enough hits with the gathered crowd that they’d convinced him to play a few of his old ones too.
Of course, after that they all wandered back to Wil’s place to drink and chill and celebrate. Niki and Jack had passed out on the couch, Ranboo in the guest bed (it was the only space big enough for him) while Tubbo had fallen asleep on the bed at one point, but fallen off, content to giggle into the carpet where he’d got more drunk than the others realised.

Rather than staying and crashing, Tommy opted to head home—they live a short enough walk away from one another, Wil knows Tommy will be back by the time the others are starting to wake up, if not off his own back then because Phil has packed him up with food and drinks and told him to go take care of his hungover friends—and Wil had volunteered to walk him home, quoting Shakespeare and declaring himself a gentleman.
Tommy had declared him an idiot, but he’d accepted anyway.

It’s not been long since Wil left, but enough time that Dad didn’t see him on the road, so hopefully that means he’s back home and not crashed in a bush somewhere. Tommy tells him as much, smiling to himself when Dad laughs, rolling his eyes. The first time Wil had taken Tommy drinking the pair of them had ended up in the backyard, each in their own respective bush, hooting at each other like owls.

“You’re home later than usual,” Tommy says, after he’s finished a slice and Dad has eaten two, now stood at the counter, back to his father as he makes them both tea. He hears more than sees the way Dad pauses where he’d been dipping the crust into the garlic sauce, eyes flicking up to Tommy’s as he glances over his shoulder, catching the knowing look.
“If Wil is taking you into town tomorrow, don’t bother heading up towards Claremont. The road through the forest is closed.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Nasty accident. Driver didn’t see the bend and ran off the road,” Dad says, finishing off the last of his crust. “River’s pretty deep this time of year.”

Tommy nods quietly, finishing making the drinks. By the time he moves back to the kitchen island, shuffling in on the barstool directly next to his father, there’s only two slices left in the pizza box, more cold than warm. He leans up against him as he hands him his drink and he lets Dad ask about Wil’s gig, lets Dad distract him a little while longer as he tells another story about how Jack’s a lightweight and Tubbo can’t drink as much as he thinks he does and Techno went home early again because, for an English Major, he doesn’t know the definition of fun; already deeply asleep by the time the others all rocked up at his and Wil’s apartment, ready to keep the party going.

Eventually, conversation peters out again, but Dad doesn’t make to excuse himself to bed. Simply waiting.

“Who were they?”
“Hit and run,” Dad says, and Tommy feels his chest lurch for the hollowness of his voice and the words themselves, eyes flicking up to Mom’s photograph on the fridge. “Released without bail, charges dropped because there was no hard evidence to pin him to the crime except the kid’s blood scrubbed clean off his dented fucking hood and enough money to turn heads of anyone willing to say otherwise,” he says, voice growing steadily heated but he hides it behind a sip of tea and not for the first time Tommy is grateful Dad never turned to drink to fill the void. His therapist suggested fishing. Carpentry. Something to do with his hands.

Dad found something alright.

“He had three accounts of reckless driving on his record, and by his insurance bills, this wasn’t the first accident he’d been in.”
Tommy likes that word. Had.

“Did you run him off the road?” he asks, taking a sip himself, mind already turning over tools in the garage, how long it might take to get the car panels wrapped or painted, or if it would be quicker if Tommy takes it for a spin, to get into a road rage and bait some idiot into hitting him—
“No. Nothing so novice as that,” Dad says, his smile returning as he reaches up to ruffle Tommy’s fringe, more than likely knowing where his son’s head was at. “That corner is a hairpin and speed junkies take it too fast as it is. I simply blocked the road with my car. Gave him no place to go anywhere except through the barricade and into the river.”
“Good. Can’t exactly afford your bail on the measly pocket money you give me,” Tommy nods, dodging Dad’s hand as he scoffs the last of dinner before grabbing the box and dropping it into the bin on passing. He pauses though, because this is the part that he doesn’t like to hear, but he knows he won’t be able to put it out of his mind. He can’t think of any recent hit and runs in the news or online, but Tommy knows that kind of thing only gets talked about months, even years after the incident, once it’s been through the courts.

Still.

“The hit and run victim,” he says to his feet, knowing that he doesn’t have to ask, but in all the times that he’s tried, he’s never quite been able to get out the entire question. Dad’s hesitation is answer enough, but Tommy needs to hear it.
“He didn’t make it. He died before he made it to the hospital. He was nineteen.”
“My age,” Tommy breathes, and he hears the way Dad’s breath stutters just the same. Knows that that was what he was thinking when he learnt the boy’s name. The man’s. Knows that that was what he was thinking when he watched the swerving headlights leave the road.

It takes a moment to compose himself. It always does.
Anger and sadness coils like a serpent in his stomach, but when he turns back to his father, he is predominantly proud. “At least he’s gone now. At least he can’t hurt anyone else ever again.”

Dad watches him; Tommy familiar enough with the way his guilt eats at him. But not enough to stop. Not enough to clear up the messes that other people purposefully ignore. “Tommy, you know I do this to protect you, and others like you. The people I kill—”
“Are murderers and those that hurt others, I know Dad. You told me that enough times after you refused to kill my college professor.”
Dad smiles. “Homework isn’t harmful.”
Tommy rolls his eyes playfully. “It is when it’s set over the summer holidays.”

But Dad is still unsure, and he doesn’t relax until Tommy moves back to wrap his arms around him, whispering into his shoulder; “I love you Dad.”
“And I love you Toms.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t,” Techno warns, as Tommy makes to open his mouth and tell Wilbur to hang up on whoever the fuck is on the other end of the phone; the same asshole that has Wil torn between swearing to the point that they’ll have to dedicate an entirely new dictionary for him, and trying to talk some common sense into whilst simultaneously fighting the urge to bang his head on the kitchen wall.

“What’s that about?” Tommy asks instead, turning to Techno while Wil continues not-quite-but-might-as-well-be-shouting in the kitchen—some fucker called Jared that is making Techno antsy if the way he’s staring at his book but not actually reading—poking him with his foot when Techno doesn’t make to answer him at first.
“That’s Wil’s friend,” Techno says, but the way he says friend is all bitter and twisted, as if what Techno was really saying was that Jared was something Wilbur brought in on the bottom of his shoe and hasn’t been able to get rid of since.
Which isn’t far from the truth actually, when Tommy prods and pokes Techno a few more times to get the truth from him, but it’s more like Wilbur took pity on Jared back in college when his girlfriend kicked him out and he’d stayed for about two months, leeching off the twins until Techno and Wil had had enough. They’d been forced to call Sam to give them a hand to throw him out the apartment, but the parting wasn’t pretty in the slightest and still Jared has the nerve to come back every few months looking for charity he really doesn’t deserve.

Seems like he’s back again, but it doesn’t feel like Jared is asking for spare change this time.
Either way, Tommy’s hackles are raised and he’s about ten seconds to marching over to Wil and hanging up for him. Three seconds too slow though, because Wilbur does it first, powering off his phone completely rather than simply switching to silent before leaving it on the kitchen worksurface and making his way over to the lounge where Tommy and Techno have the tv paused, mid-Hocus Pocus, even if Halloween isn’t for another two weeks.
Tommy shuffles slightly on the sofa, letting Wilbur get comfortable before leaning his entire body weight on him, elbowing him in the ribs when he dares to complain.

The movie starts back up, but none of them are paying much attention, so it’s not like Tommy is bothered when Techno finally puts down the book he’s not reading and meets Wil’s eye. “What does Jared want now?” he asks, straight to the point, not even pretending to beat around the bush. And with Tommy’s elbow in close proximity to Wilbur’s ribs, he doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t hear him.
“Drugs.”
Techno snorts. “I thought he was an asshole, not an idiot.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he can feel that way his own brow folds into a frown, sitting up so Wilbur doesn’t bare any of his weight. Wil’s eyes flicker at the movement, looking wary and sheepish. Guilty too. He smiles the same way Dad does when he’s guilty; the notion tugging lightly at the corners of his lips but little more.
“Why would Jared ask you for drugs?” Tommy asks, and doesn’t like the way Wil’s eyes dart hurriedly back towards the tv. “Because I tried drugs once, back in college, and either someone overheard George and Sapnap teasing me for how I’d reacted, or some other reason, but from that point everyone thought I did them regularly. I guess it didn’t help that I hung around with Fundy regularly.”
“And Schlatt,” Techno adds.

“Schlatt and Fundy were known to deal,” Wil says, ignoring his brother to explain to Tommy, not sounding nearly as worried as his wandering gaze implies. “It was practically common knowledge that if you needed something, you went to them. Jared thought that I was getting drugs off of either one of them and asked me to get him some, but when I told him no, he asked for me to give him their number, and there was no way I was doing that either,” Wilbur scoffed. “Jared is my problem; I’m not letting him bug my friends just because he got pissed at his own dealer and tried to steal his drugs off him.”
“You think he’d try the same shit on Fundy or Schlatt?” Techno pipes up. Wil snorts. “Fundy maybe. Schlatt no way. But like I said, Jared is my problem. As much as Schlatt is an ass sometimes, no one deserves to deal with Jared.”

Their attention turns back to the tv, although Tommy knows that none of them are really paying any attention to it; Wil is certainly distracted enough by thoughts and his phone, even though he’s turned it off and left it in the kitchen. Techno doesn’t even bother reaching for his book.

“I could always just set my dad on him,” Tommy says into the quiet before he can even think what he is saying.
“As much as your dad is amazing at his job, Toms, he’s not a police officer anymore,” Wil says, not bothering to lift his head off the back of the couch. “He works with the people that call the police. And, okay, guess I fit into that category if I was going to talk to him, but he’s—”
“A victim’s advocate, not a foot officer or a detective,” Techno pipes up, which says his mind had already been on the same train of thought.
Tommy wasn’t talking about his day job though. It’s the after-hours he’d been talking, but considering that the only two people that know what Phil does on his late nights is Tommy and Phil himself, it’s not like Wil or Techno knew that.

“He could help,” Tommy says, internally bashing himself with a few hundred insults because Wil and Techno don’t know and it’s as dangerous for them as it is for Phil and Tommy should they. He throws himself a curveball and follows it’s trajectory.
“He knows the law and he knows the ground work,” he says, not letting his eyes leave the tv, the epitome of nonchalance. “He’s got a much better idea of what can be done in your favour than either you or I do, and he’s an adult. They’re the people you go to when you have problems you’re struggling to solve yourself,” Tommy adds.

He’s learnt, in their three years of friendship that Wil and Techno aren’t used to relying on anyone other than themselves; the pair of them having picked up that habit long before they jumped the proverbial ship that was their foster home—not bad, not like some of the horror stories out there, but desperate to be free from someone else’s decisions—so they don’t automatically think of reaching out elsewhere.
They’re better with accepting favours from Phil now, be it him buying them pizza when Tommy invites them round, or giving them a lift when the buses are cancelled and it’s raining heavily, but it seems that asking him to deal with Jared is still something that they—or more specifically Wil—is uncomfortable with.

“Just a suggestion, big man,” Tommy shrugs as he sinks back into the sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table, smiling to himself when the twins take their cue from him and copy. He takes it as a win when neither of them tell him to keep things quiet from Phil.

Chapter Text

Despite not actually making a promise to keep Jared’s name a secret, Tommy doesn’t actually tell his dad about him. Instead he does a little digging, flicking to his second Instagram account: the one that he uses to keep up to date with new game releases, DLC announcements and mods for the games he does play.
As well as the local news.

Now, Tommy uses it to skim through familiar faces, particular not to like or accidently double-tap as he scrolls through Wilbur’s feed of song clips, Lovejoy promotions and candid shots of himself, his bandmates and his friends.
He has to scroll back as far as three years, back to before Tommy knew either him or Techno, before Jared starts cropping up in the back of photos, but it’s a while more until there’s one where he’s tagged so Tommy doesn’t have to leave a trail of having searched his name. He uses the built-in link Wilbur gave him three and a half years ago to put a face to Jared’s name. And a surname.

Jared Marks.

Tommy’s mark.

Twenty-six, as tall as Tommy but he’s got weight to him. There’s little on his own Instagram, but Tommy skims through mutuals and twitter and photographs as he watches Jared shift from college dropout to drug addict.
There’s a flicker of pity that sees him setting his phone aside—Tommy has sat with Dad enough times, listening to a case about some kid that slipped off the path, a home life too rough or isolating, bad friends in bad places, a need for escape and a slippery slope that society prefers to use as scapegoats rather than offering real, genuine help—but then two nights later Tommy catches Wil outside his apartment block where Techno won’t hear, whispering into his phone, Jared shouting loud enough Tommy can hear him from the road, Wilbur sagging defeated on his doorstep because he hasn’t seen Tommy yet, and that all it takes for Tommy to pick up the hunt again, sniffing out Jared’s usual hangouts like a shark tasting first blood.

Then, the night before Halloween, Tommy slips his feet into his new shoes, tucks his hair into a beanie he’s once snagged off Wilbur and hits the pavement with an easy, almost excited pace. There’s nervousness too, and guilt because Dad is out working tonight—working working, because Halloween brings out all the stupid teenagers that egg houses and think vandalism is the new “cool thing” because apparently chain smoking cigarettes to get lung cancer is too expensive to beating wing mirrors off an Audi. Dad, having once been a foot officer, is teaming up with Sneeg, an old colleague to help boost force numbers for tonight and tomorrow—which has left Tommy in the clear when he’d know Dad would pick up on his jittery-excited-nervous attitude that didn’t correlate to meeting friends at the coffee house while Niki is on the closing shift.

Jack helps keep Tommy’s mind off of his later plans—not deliberately, he’s just doing really bad Elvis impressions with the broom that he’s meant to be using to sweep the floor—as much as Tubbo and Wil, who are bouncing their energy off one another like they’re kids on a sugar-high despite the fact that neither of them have had anything stronger than coffee. (Oh, wait, it’s the caffeine.)
Technoblade isn’t here, he’s working himself, writing up a summary report for some bigshot company overseas for a freelance job that Tommy has tried to understand but never could, while Ranboo his similarly preoccupied, although he’s being held hostage by a university assignment that has been fighting him for the past week. They’d both skipped on hanging out tonight so that they could at least attend the Halloween party tomorrow night; Scott and Jack hosting while everyone else buys their way in with food or a bottle of alcohol.
It’s a good excuse for Tommy’s excitement whenever Niki throws him a curious look to his bouncing leg, or Wilbur whines at him for the fiftieth time because he’s not listening, but none of his friends pick up on Tommy being any weirder than usual so it’s all water under the bridge.

Until it’s time to leave, and instead of migrating towards Wil to crash at his place, or be walked back home, Tommy slips off to the side street that would take him deeper into the city. Niki, Jack and Tubbo are already gone—Jack giving them both lifts—so it’s a little awkward to try and shrug Wil off exactly, but Tommy manages with a few excuses and a few jokes and a flash of his wallet because he wants to pick up food from the 24/7 express.
Wil offers to walk with him, of course, but Wil also has a Lovejoy meeting tomorrow morning, which leaves Tommy alone, chasing the pavement at something-gone-midnight, heading deeper into town.

As he walks, he finds himself palming his hands, wishing they were weighed down with something to aid him. Dad never tells him all the details of his own machinations, but Tommy has noticed a pattern where he’d always protected by something, be it his car on a dark road with hairpin-turns and steep drops, or a crowd on the train platform, or a target that had no chance of fighting back.
Not like Tommy could’ve hung out with his friends with a tyre iron up one sleeve, but the adrenaline is beginning to warm him now, and his fingers tingle for cold rusted metal, or the varnish of a baseball bat that would extend his reach and protect his own hands when the fighting starts.

Because it’s going to be a fight.

Tommy knows that he’s being brash. He’s only known Jared’s name for two weeks; he’s only known where he frequents for one and he’s got no ploy to lure him away from maybe-mightbe crowds other than his own thing figure and lanky frame that marks him as easy pickings for a desperate drug junkie looking for cash for his next hit.
And maybe it’s stupid and brash for Tommy to have pulled on new shoes and an expensive-looking jacket, form-fitting enough to emphasise his lacking muscle, although loose enough that it doesn’t restrain his movement, but Tommy doesn’t have anything else—no authority to bluster; no car to block a road like Dad; no real know-how to a car’s engine to cut brake lines although Tommy wouldn’t anyway because there’s no guarantee that Jared would be the only victim—and that’s left him stalking down an empty street gone midnight, skirting as naturally as possible through the shadows, eyes on the express at the far end of the road.

It's his alibi. His reasoning for being out so late, for being here on the edge of town instead of back home raiding a near-empty fridge.

He pulls his beanie off as he enters, to give the CCTV a chance to recognise him; navy blue jacket looking washed out in the stark fluorescent lights as he snags himself food that can be thrown together for a late-night meal, keeping his head down when the sliding doors part again and a crowd of youths stumble in. Tommy eyes them quietly from one side of the aisle—five faces, none of them Jared even though he lives a street away from here, and every Friday frequents at the Letterman pub, spilling out onto the park; Tommy’s hunting ground.

Tommy pays with his card and makes small talk with the cashier so she’d have better chance of remembering him if things went south and he needed someone to confirm he was in the area for a mundane chore. He knows the cameras saw him, but shops don’t always keep their CCTV and Tommy has listened to Dad’s stories enough to know backup plans need backup plans, and this might be his first hunt, but he wants to do this right.
He doesn’t flirt with her—he’s not an ass and she doesn’t seem to be the type to be interested in the game anyhow—but he wishes her a good night and gets a warm smile and a farewell in turn so he takes it as a win.

There are more people outside the express; friends of those still inside, being louder than they need. They eye up Tommy as he passes, but don’t make a move to follow—the same type as Jared, looking for easy cash or an easy fight even if Tommy’s not the one to give it to them. He’s looking for one man in particular, and maybe tonight isn’t the night the night that their paths will cross, but Tommy has placed himself in a position that chance might at least allow it and—

And there’s a familiar face stalking towards him on this side of the pavement.

The streetlamps shine down on gaunt skin, on poorly healed tattoos and dirty clothes that are a thirteen year old’s wet dream of becoming a wannabe gangster. His voice is hoarse almost, vicious and sharp as he spits insults and threats into his phone, careless to anyone that overhears him even if, as far as Tommy can tell, its only him and his mark on the street.

Tommy’s mark.

Jared Marks.

He’s colourful but uncreative with his insults, putting the bare effort to keep his voice to a respectable level considering the time, but still loud enough that, from the end of the street, Tommy can still hear him perfectly: “—was being nice, Wil. I gave you a week and all you’ve been giving me, is fucking excuses. I’m done waiting. Good luck performing with two broken hands and a broken jaw. Because that’s what’s gonna happen,” he snarls, far too happy to be dishing out threats.
To Wilbur.

Anger warms him as much as adrenaline. Tommy curls his hand tighter around his energy drink, and although all he wants to do is march up to the motherfucker and punch him square in the jaw, he forces his footsteps to slow. There’s an alley between them, and if Tommy times it right, their conversation will get to last a little longer before someone looks out their window and calls the police.

Tommy stares at the ground rather than glaring as Jared makes his way closer, none the wiser, still spitting insults like he has the spine to back them up and not a group of jumped-up junkies same as him, looking to beat on random people and make quick cash off innocent kids trying to impress their mates with the wrong stunt.

“You can’t hide behind Techno forever. And it’s not like you got no mommy or daddy to help you, whereas I’ve got friends” Jared sneers and Tommy’s thinks how nicer he’ll sound when he’s tried to speak through broken teeth. He pauses, listening, and Wil’s reached the end of his patience, seemingly insulting him. Jared scoffs. Tommy half hopes he chokes, half hopes that he’ll savour the moment when he chokes Jared, the pair of them slowly coming up on the alley.
He adjusts his grip on the can, not caring to how it spills over his fingers slightly, much preferring to have a heavier swing than the contents. He lifts his chin, straightens his back and lets his glare slip into disgust and contempt that is just as genuine; the light of the streetlamp above him illuminating his expression perfectly as Jared finally lifts his eyes from a curled fist, having thought nothing of the stranger walking towards him until he sees the look Tommy throws his way like he’s less than a second thought.

It’s his turn to sneer, his turn to dig his fingers into Jared’s impatience and trigger-happy anger with a smile as condescending as his tone. “Pathetic,” Tommy spits, almost a whisper, but loud enough to be heard; the alley way a gaping chasm of darkness to his left as he continues; Jared’s own feet stumbled to a standstill at the utter gall of this stranger that saunters past, uptight, cocky son-of-a—

“The fuck you say to me‽” Jared spits, as predictable as a toddler and a temper-tantrum. Tommy turns to meet him, watching Jared drop his phone from his ear, watching the screen go black as Wilbur is forgotten about in favour of Tommy. He just sneers at him again, laughing to himself. “Stupid as well then,” and his voice is anything but warm, instigating this fight even if there are no witnesses to say otherwise, except for the fact that Tommy has mapped the route he knew Jared has taken and he’s logged each recording doorbell and he knows there are six on this side of the street alone.
There are witnesses, except most of them are asleep in their beds. They’ll only know what their cameras recorded in the morning, when the open their phone to notifications and the horrific scene of a kid getting jumped by a drug junkie.

Tommy turns away, conscious of the cameras, conscious of the faint blue light next to the door of the house cornered by the alley—knows the motion of Jared walking past has triggered it’s system to pay attention—and forces himself into the nonchalance of a kid on a late night stroll because insomnia is a bitch and there was no food in the fridge.

“Bastard,” comes the warning, and with it, a fist coming for the back of Tommy’s head, and although Tommy’s not strong, he’s quick. He’s no stranger to bullies and beatdowns at secondary; his lanky figure and dead-mom like a bullseye for bullies, but that only made him fast enough to dodge their blows, fast enough to out run them when they chased him after school and it’s years of getting shoved around that rise up like a serpent now, vicious and venomous.
Except, cameras, Tommy thinks, and allows Jared’s fist to at least graze him before he makes a show of stumbling away, out of shot of the second, but that’s all Tommy allows before he darts forward with his own fist.
The one curled around a near-full can of monster that slams into Jared’s face and makes him cry out.

Tommy doesn’t stop there, doesn’t give him a chance to recover, and throwing his neatly plastic-bag-wrapped-alibi to one side, shoulder barges Jared into the alley, counting his lucky stars when he goes tumbling into a garbage bin and can’t keep his footing.
The only advantage Tommy has it surprise and maybe speed. But Jared is a thug who is used to roughing up kids and girlfriends and mates when he’s in a foul enough mood, and all too soon he’s on his feet, swinging a haymaker that is more anger than grace, but it’s got his weight behind it and Tommy feels the brunt of it slam into his chest.
It hurts, he won’t lie, but Tommy’s adrenaline and anger are far stronger, and in the dark of the alley he only barely gets a glimpse of Jared’s face twisted in anger before he’s launching a fist at it, swinging wide enough that the can, still in his grasp, is what connects and Tommy feels it crumple, feels the drink splash over him and he doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty that he hopes its blood.

The fight is close to how Tommy thought it would go, and to every cry of pain or grunt that Jared gives because Tommy landed a blow, split his knuckles on skull or ribs or face, felt the weight of his foot sink into Jared’s gut, he’s given just as much, if not more in return. His eyes are watering from where Jared’s fist caught him across the cheek, thankfully not his nose but his forehead is searing with pain and it’s difficult to keep up with everything that is happening. He loses breath as something punches him in his chest, feels his mouth fill up with blood when a fist or a foot catches his jaw, feels his hands wet when Jared spits his own mouthful of blood as they both tip sideways into an alley wall.
Something clatters, something smashes—maybe a bottle, maybe something from the garbage—but there’s an ice-white pain in Tommy’s side and he gasps, fingers blindly fumbling, hating himself because he’s stupid and brash and he’d known he wouldn’t have been able to take Jared out through sheer strength, but he could set him up for a fall Jared would never be able to get up from, but he’d overlooked how much it was going to hurt.

Tommy’s hands curl around something. It’s a glass bottle, half-smashed, leaving glittering shards on the concrete, but Tommy doesn’t care for that when he feels a grip on the back of his neck; wet fingers slipping around his throat to choke him and it’s a mix of adrenaline, luck and that still-burning-acidic-anger that Jared would’ve attacked Wilbur that sees him rolling over to crack the bottle across Jared’s face, knocking his head to the side with enough force that his spine will hurt from the brunt of it.
His consciousness slips enough to send him toppling into the ground. Tommy doesn’t leave nothing to change, grabbing a fistful of hair and what feels like his ear before lifting Jared’s head up and smashing it into the alley floor three, four, five times before the only sound that leaves him is a pitiful gurgling and heavy breaths.

Tommy’s panting too.

Cameras, he thinks, and allows the adrenaline to plummet into panic, legs kicking out pathetically. He scrapes his hands on the ground, biting back a hiss as he breaks skin; throws a fist into the wall and has to bite back a scream when his finger jams with enough pain to tell him he’s broken three of them on a badly thrown punch. There’s cold on his face that isn’t tears or spilt energy drink, but Tommy doesn’t want to leave things to change and lets his balance topple him into the wall, into the floor, into his own puddle of blood from a split lip, bitten tongue, cracked knuckles.

His head is pounding and he’s unbalanced as it is, but Tommy does very little to help himself as he stumbles out the alley. Let’s himself fall into something solid, but it’s a wall instead of a car—no car alarm to wake up the neighbourhood—and instead Tommy starts fumbling around in his pockets for his phone. He’s got to go through the proper channels, he tells himself, pushing his worn mind towards plans and backup plans and machinations. Any scared kid, recently mugged, would call their parent, and that exactly what Tommy is trying to do.
Proper channels though. Dad’s told him a thousand times that police calls get recorded.

This one will be no different.

Chapter Text

Tommy frowns at the cracked screen when he pulls his phone out, knowing that Dad’s not going to help him get it fixed when the truth of what actually happened comes out. But his phone is working enough that Tommy manages to thumb the number nine enough times his phone figures he’s trying to call someone and it connects him to the authorities.

“Hello, Emergency,” comes through, soft and professional in a way that pours acid down Tommy’s throat because she sounds so much like Mom.
“H-help,” Tommy stutters, thinking back to all the emergency documentaries he’d watched when he was about ten, seeing his parents as heroes because Dad was a police officer and Mom a call handler—it’s how they’d met—thinking back to the things Dad has told him because it’s not like he was preparing Tommy for this—doesn’t want Tommy to copy him; doing this kind of thing to keep Tommy safe but knowing at the same time he couldn’t do more than hope his son would chose something different for his life because telling him not to is beyond hypocritical—but it’s enough for his voice to crack, for the fake fear to pool into a glimpse of real worry because this is Tommy’s first hunt and it’s nothing like Dad’s.
Besides. His mark is still currently alive.

“Alright sweetheart, I’m here to help,” the lady says, and gods, she sounds so much like Mom that it makes Tommy choke, emotion flooding in as adrenaline washes out. He stumbles, off the wall, towards his plastic-bag-alibi where it’s been emptied out into the street. He might have a concussion, or some damage to his ears because he doesn’t keep his balance as easily as he’d like, and he ends up on his knees at the rear of a car.
“Tell me your name, tell me what’s happened,” the woman coaxes.
“M’ name’s Tommy,” he answers, around a fat lip, blood in his mouth. He’d bit his tongue at one point, but it hasn’t stopped bleeding yet.
“Hi Tommy. My name’s Puffy. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Someone attacked me. He—it hurts,” he says, and it’s not hard to sound pitiful when he’s gasping around a tight chest. Hopefully he’s just bruised his ribs instead of broken any. He’d felt Jared’s heel against his chest enough times that it’s a possibility, but he’s hoping otherwise.

Puffy’s voice takes on an edge of alarm as she works to keep Tommy calm despite the fact that he’s mostly giving her faux-emotion. She asks him where he is, where the man attacked him is, if he was armed. Tommy answers, but he keeps it vague, just like any panicked kid would be had they just fended off and attacker and now finds themselves bruised and bleeding on the side of the road.
The street name is easy enough; he’s close enough to home that no one would blink twice at Tommy knowing exactly where he is or why he was taking the long way home from the shops, but allows himself to stumble about “Jared,” apologising for fighting back, repeating he was scared over and over, apologising because he didn’t know what else to do and that it hurts.

“Alright Tommy, alright,” Puffy hums to him. He can hear her typing on her keyboard, hear when she calls over a supervisor to update others around them. “I’ve got an ambulance on the way to you now as well as a police unit. I want you to stay on the line while we wait for them, okay Tommy? I want you to keep talking to me, I don’t want you falling asleep if you’ve got a head injury so you’ve got to try and stay awake. Can you do that for me sweetheart?”

“My dad,” Tommy whispers back to her, and this time it’s not an act. His adrenaline has left him now, and all he feels is cold and hurt.
“My dad’s police,” he says, the words cotton in his mouth. “Your dad is a police officer?” Puffy asks.
“Phil,” Tommy nods, even if she can’t see him, sighing in relief as darkness washes over his vision and the streetlamps no longer sting behind his eyes. His head is pounding and for some reason it’s hard to keep his train of thought. Puffy is still talking to him, trying to get him to talk back.
“Phillip Craft. He’s with—Sneeg tonight. I was—there was no food. I went to get food,” Tommy breathes, until his mouth fills up with blood because he’d bitten his tongue and by the gap in the back of his mouth, also lost a tooth; emptying his mouth without so much as spitting it out but instead letting it all splutter and choke him in a horrible gurgling sound where he’s so exhausted it’s hard to turn his head.

“Tommy? Tommy talk to me.”
“Blood,” Tommy mouths. Fuck he’s exhausted. Fuck this was a stupid plan.
“Alright, Tommy I want you to roll onto your side for me. It might hurt, I know you’re hurting, but you need to keep your airways clear okay. Try and lay on your side, or tilt your head enough so that the blood drains out your mouth okay. Ambulance is coming on blue lights and sirens, you should be able to hear them soon.”
“Cold,” he tells her, “n’ wet.”
“I know Tommy, but you’re doing so well. Can you tell me where you’re bleeding from?” she asks, but Tommy just feels generic pain all over, he can’t tell which slight scrape is worse than the other. He’s damp on his chest from the monster can that had spilt out all over him sometime during the scuffle, and that’s not a pleasant sensation, but it’s the damp stickiness also making him cold, despite the fact he’s still snug in his coat.
Lack of adrenaline, his mind supplies, but that’s a guess far more than it is an answer, expect nothing else explains why he’s so cold.
“That’s okay sweetheart you’re doing so well. Just—I need you to put pressure on it okay?” Puffy’s voice hums. “Try and stop it bleeding. Use the whole of your hand, okay?”

Tommy nods even if he doesn’t entirely understand what Puffy’s trying to get him to do. It’s just a drink. And fuck, he’s tired.
There’s an ice-white sting of fear in his gut because this is far more pain than he’d initially calculated, and he didn’t think he’d be this out of it. He thought he’d at least be able to stumble a street over, make it look like he was trying to hide from Jared—make it harder for people to find him so he’d suffer his injuries a little longer—but he’s sprawled out on the pavement, half tipped into the road, blood in his mouth and over his knuckles and in his hair and fuck, Dad is going to freak.

There’s a warm voice hushing the whines in his throat.

“M-Mom?”
“Ambulance is nearly there Tommy,” she tells him, but Tommy still can’t hear the sirens.

What he can hear though, is a set of footsteps and a hushed voice. He blinks open an eye, not realising he’d closed them, glancing towards the house nearest to him, that might’ve heard something, but it’s as dark as the rest of the street; no lights on in the windows.
Instead the sound is coming from down the road, where Tommy had come from, and he can see the shape of two people; strangers heading home after a night out or on their own errand that was far less stupid than Tommy’s.

“Mom, there’s someone—” Tommy breathes, eyes flicking to the phone in his hand, slack, screen lit up blue where he’s still connected.
“It’s Puffy, darling. Your mom’s not here right now but she’ll be there soon. I need you to stay awake, alright? We’re trying to get in contact with your dad.”
“There’s someone here,” Tommy tells her, not sure why, but his mouth his moving before his brain can catch up. He doesn’t hear what Puffy says in response, because it’s at that point when he’s noticed—either because he was heard, or the two strangers registered the dark shadow shape half-strewn across the pavement was that of a person—and suddenly the footsteps turn into heavy pounding, one telling the other to call an ambulance as the taller of the two rushes to drop down beside him.

Fuck.

Tommy knows that voice.

“Tommy‽ Fuck! Techno, it’s fucking Tommy!”
“Wait—Tommy? How? What in the—?”

Puffy’s talking, raising her voice to try and be heard; Tommy can just about hear her beneath the sound of Wil and Techno’s panic, tears creeping at the corners of his eyes as panic and pain rise up and it’s Wilbur’s face nearly inches from his own, hands on his cheeks so very gentle.
“Fuck, Tommy—Tommy what happened?” he’s asking. The phone in his hand is gone, replaced by a warmth as Wilbur takes his hand, and physically recoils when Tommy bites out a cry because it’s the same hand that he launched into Jared’s face, and it’s the same hand that he’s pretty sure he’s broken. “Sorry, sorry, oh gods, Tommy I—”

From behind Wilbur’s panic, Tommy blinks through heavy eyes to see Technoblade has taken his phone and he’s trying to keep himself calm while talking to Puffy, explaining to her that they’re Tommy’s friends, practically his older brothers, and she’s explaining to them in turn what she can make out of what has happened: that Tommy got attacked by a stranger, and that there is an ambulance on its way, coming on blue lights and sirens.

“Tommy, Tommy oh gods you—there’s so much blood,” Wilbur stutters, hands flying uselessly over Tommy’s prone form like he’s terrified to touch his chest. A voice in the back of his head is berating him for the stupidest of stupidest ideas and now things are about to get a lot more complicated, but there’s a second, confused, because he and Jared had punched each other a few times and it’s not like Tommy’s got a nosebleed so—

“Call Dad,” Tommy mumbles around a mouth full of blood and saliva. Dad isn’t stupid. He doesn’t leave things up to chance. He’s cool-headed in a crisis and he’s murdered plenty of people and got away with it that that whole coincidence of Tommy getting beat-up by Tommy’s pseudo-brother’s ex-friend will be smooth sailing for him.
What won’t be is gonna be the panic of Tommy beaten up.

Fuck.
That wasn’t in the plan.
Tommy hadn’t thought Dad, he’d only been thinking about how to buy himself more fucking time.

“Yeah—yeah I’ll call Phil, I—you’re okay Tommy you’re gonna be—Fuck, what happened?” Wil asks, and Tommy’s definitely got a head injury because he’s laid on the pavement, watching his pseudo, might-as-well-be, practically-already-is-brother faff and flail, and all he can think is that Wilbur would struggle with the family business. Good thing that Dad’s got that covered.
Tommy, not so much, but he’ll figure out his own style as he goes on. He’s only nineteen, he’s got plenty of years to hone the art.

Wilbur fumbles with his mobile while Technoblade stays on the line with Puffy. He’d ducked his head into the alley briefly, and by the dull whump of something heavy colliding with something else, and heavy groan resounding from a still mostly-unconscious had confirmed for Puffy that Tommy’s assailant was still breathing before folding himself down on Tommy’s side, right next to his spit-blood-puddle.
“You’re gonna get your clothes dirty,” Tommy tells him, and it makes Techno laugh. “I don’t care about that Toms. Just making sure you’re okay.”
With Puffy’s permission he balls up his coat and tucks it under Tommy’s head, pushing his fringe out his face, although not all of it because he’d cracked his scalp and blood has dried a clump of it to the side of his face. More theatre makeup than anything dangerous, but Tommy had bashed his head for the sake of the ambulance crew, not his brothers, and a wash of guilt floods over him, fresh tears on his cheeks, lip quivering.

When the ambulance crew arrives it all turns into a bit of a blur. Techno and Wil don’t leave his side, although they do shuffle slightly out of the way to allow the three paramedics to check Tommy over. One of them slips into the alley, but then soon enough another ambulance is turning up and Tommy’s three-man team have him on a stretcher that is far too uncomfortable. Inside the ambulance is painfully bright, but they dim the lights for Tommy’s sake, and his arm hangs off the board, held by Wil and Techno both as they do their best to fill the paramedics in on the situation, relaying what Puffy had told them and what scraps they know of Tommy’s medical history.

Tommy drifts in and out of attention. He never falls unconscious, but sometimes he’s listening to the paramedic giving him the run-down of his injuries—could-be-broken wrist, broken fingers, a shallow stab wound to his hip because of course Jared had tried to glass him with a bottle before Tommy had been able to knock him out which explains why Wilbur is freaking out as much as he is, why he was struggling to stay awake and why he was so fucking cold—and then the other half of the time he’s listening to his own voice in the back of his head, and Dad’s own remarks because police calls are recorded Tommy, that’s always something to keep in mind if you’re ever in trouble.
He’s in trouble now, and it’s not because of the blood loss.

Tommy is lying in a hospital bed, an IV and a blood bag in one arm and a hell of a lot of stitches littering his body by the time Dad rushes in, still in uniform, looking haggard, terrified and out of breath. Sneeg and Jordan are about four steps behind him, but Tommy hardly gets the chance to notice they’re there before Dad is wrapping his arms around him—gently—whispering Tommy’s name into his hair, holding him close despite the bandages and butterfly stitches and the brace on Tommy’s right hand.
“Tommy, Toms, fuck—I thought—”
“I’m fine Dad,” Tommy whispers, but he’s already crying, guilt and regret welling up inside him like he’s been stabbed all over again, but this time he feels it. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m fine.”

Dad breathes a staggered sigh of a relief, and although his grip loosens a breadth, he still holds Tommy to him like he’ll never let him go again.
Tommy doesn’t mind. He sinks into his Dad’s embrace, eyes fluttering closed as Techno offers to fill Sneeg and Jordan in on the details while Wilbur declares he’s going to go find the night tray and grab them all hot chocolate each.

Tommy doesn’t drink his.
He’s asleep in Phil’s arms before Wilbur makes it back to the hospital room.

Chapter Text

Two broken fingers on his right hand; sprained wrist; three bruised ribs (thankfully not broken); an inch-deep stab wound to his hip; a concussion; a missing tooth; a split lip; bruised knuckles; a cracked cheek bone; bruising and grazed skin across his chest, stomach, forearms, face, and Tommy’s worst pain is the panic he made his father feel.
He’d learnt it second-hand from Puffy’s radio to him, that informed him his son had called the emergency response line after getting attacked with very limited information other than that he was dazed, injured but conscious and aware of his surroundings, before that was near-immediately followed up by Wilbur’s panicked call because he and Techno had found Tommy lying half in the road, near-unconsciousness with a shift heavily soaked in blood and they were currently in an ambulance heading to the hospital and Tommy was too out of it to respond when Phil was on loudspeaker.
To say he panicked was an understatement.

Tommy’s first hunt could’ve gone a lot better.
But at the same time, it could’ve gone a lot worse.

The hospital doesn’t need to keep Tommy for long. He’d been admitted close to three in the morning, and by eleven he’s being rolled out in a wheelchair to Dad’s car that Sneeg and Jordan had worked to bring to the hospital as soon as they learnt that Tommy was okay. He ends up sitting in the back, strapped in but pillowed against Technoblade, who had stayed alongside Wilbur even though Dad had offered to give them the cash for an uber. They’d both politely refused and now they’re climbing into the car right along Tommy; Tech in the back being a very comfy heater while Wilbur’s in the front, making idle small talk with Dad to keep them both distracted as Dad drives them home.
It's not far, less than an hour, but Tommy sleeps through most of it, lulled by Techno’s warmth and the gentle motions of the car, stirring only when Wilbur is pulling him into his arms as gently as he is able; the only one that can comfortably carry Tommy because of their height. The painkillers in his system are doing wonders for all his little aches and pains, but he’s as stubborn as a mule and grumbles loudly when Wil moves towards the stairs.

“Sofa day,” he says instead, narrowing his eyebrows when Wil doesn’t immediately move to carry him into the living room. “We’re all watching movies and doing nothing else,” Tommy decides for them, marking it down as a win when Wil sighs and Dad quietly laughs in agreement, mumbling something about tea and changing out of his uniform. He didn’t even have to ask for emergency family leave. Apparently while Tommy was getting tests done, Sneeg and Jordan sorted that for him.

Techno heads upstairs, but that’s because he’s fetching blankets and pillows, even though Tommy doesn’t end up needing one when Wilbur plants himself under his head, carding his fingers ever-so gently through his fringe and spends near the entire afternoon looking like he’s on the edge of tears. At one point they all change—Wil and Techno stepping out the room as Dad helps Tommy pull on joggers and a baggy sleep-tee so that his bloodied clothes can be washed, or thrown—and the boys come back with fresh clothes where they’d popped home for less than ten minutes (record time) for spare clothes.

Aside from that, it is a sofa day, where they take turns in picking movies, but Tommy doesn’t miss that they’re all ones that he loves and he tries his hardest not to sleep through them, but apparently his energy reserves are being used up on working to replenish his blood and heal the dull-aching wounds of his hunt-gone-wrong. Small sacrifices, but definitely worth it.
Sometimes Tommy wakes up, not aware he’s drifted off, and Wilbur is crying. Or has cried. Techno and Dad have similarly reddened-eyes despite the fact that none of the movies are particularly sad, but none of them leave between Tommy drifting off and waking again.

When night rolls round, Wil and Techno text their excuses of going to Jack and Scott’s Halloween party, and adhere to Tommy’s request to tell his friends that he’s sick instead of the truth of why they’re not coming because he doesn’t want to risk the chance of putting a dampener on his friends’ evening, having promised that he’ll let them know the next time that one of them calls, (which most likely will be Ranboo or Tubbo as soon as they wake up late tomorrow, dealing with a night of drinks).
Dad buys them Italian takeaway to be delivered, and they eat in front of the tv; Tommy half propped up between Dad and Wil as they throw on another action flick; something fast-paced enough to keep everyone’s attention so they don’t worry as much. That’s what Tommy hopes at least, even as he feels his eyes drifting and Dad’s arm pulling him steady against his side.

It’s normal to be this tired, he’s been told, by doctors and Dad both. He’s familiar with healing injuries, both his own and those that he’s worked with in his job, but Tommy can see the worry when it’s his son healing bruised ribs, a sprained wrist and a stab wound instead of a stranger who he can help and then forget about. Or get revenge for, if needed.
Maybe Tommy didn’t kill Jared, but he’s a dead man because of his actions regardless, whether Tommy gets a second shot at him or not.

He wakes to Avatar’s credits to find Dad draping a blanket over Wil; Techno already asleep under the sofa throw in the armchair; big enough that it’s comfy enough to sleep in. For one night at least.
Having realised Tommy is awake, Dad comes to kneel beside him, brushing his fringe out his face. “You sleeping here, or do you want to head up to bed?” he asks, feather soft and so very fond. His head too heavy to keep upright for too long, but he’s not exhausted enough that words are difficult and he can’t help the guilt that rises up, spilling out of him in another whispered apology. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”
“Sssh Toms. I’m just glad you’re safe. We can talk about it tomorrow if you’re up to it. Just rest.”

Dad presses a kiss to his brow, lingering. Tommy breathes him in, lets him wipe away one stray tear before he changes the tv to the 24/7 music channel and dropping the volume to be the gentlest hum knowing that Tommy’s going to be drifting in and out of sleep and that the background noise will be soothing to him if his mind decides to play tricks while he’s asleep.
Tommy watches him, words in his mouth, but with Wil and Techno close by, he keeps himself quiet. They can talk about it tomorrow. Tommy can apologise, explain himself and brace himself for Dad’s reaction.
Tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes far too quickly.

Wil and Techno are still dead asleep by the time Tommy awkwardly stumbles his way into the kitchen, thinking of nothing but food, coffee and pain meds. Dad’s sat, hunched over the dining room table still in last night’s clothes, laptop open, phone out and a dead look in his eye far too similar to how Tommy had caught him a few times those first few months since losing Mom, when all Dad could do was chase details about the case against the hit-and-run fucker that got off without anything ever being taken to court, and Dad had been swallowed up by both his grief and his anger.
Now those emotions are strung out, taut as piano wires where they’re around Dad’s wrists, puppeteering his actions and it startles Tommy with ice in his veins and fear far more painful than anything Jared had inflicted on him.

“Dad?”

He startles hard when Tommy speaks, knuckles rapping lightly on the door in a ditch attempt to pull Dad’s mind away from what could have happened. In his rush to buy himself more time, and to get Jared the fuck away from Wilbur, he’d overlooked this part of his plan; overlooked the pain and fear Dad would feel before he directed his thoughts into revenge had Jared not succumbed to his injuries, and it’s what has him picking up his feet; ignoring the way the movement pulls at the butterfly stitches on his hip as Tommy crosses the kitchen in a few large strides, arms open to embrace Dad, sinks into his side with an apology and so much love he thinks his heart is going to burst.

“I’m okay Dad,” he whispers, guilt and self-hate like a vice around his neck as Dad trembles in his arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know that,” Dad whispers right back. “I know that you’re fine, I just couldn’t—I kept checking on you, in the night, and my head was just— so full of thoughts, because what am I doing, Tommy, if I can’t keep you safe?” The last part slips into a touch of anger, both their heads turning to the computer that Dad has been hunched over for who knows how long, skimming through the local news and anything he could find of the incident. There’s a cold cup of coffee and his phone is open on his chat history with Sneeg, who has been supplying him as much information as he could before he clocked out, with a promise he’ll be round in the afternoon when he wakes up.
Something about doing Phil’s grocery shopping so Dad doesn’t have to leave Tommy alone.

“He’s a dead man,” Dad vows, anger like a prowling beast edging his voice with something dangerous. “As soon as I know what I need to, he’s a fucking dead man.”

“Jared Marks,” Tommy says, his voice despondent. He has to physically hold himself still when Dad snaps his head round to look at him.
“Twenty-six. Unemployed. Currently living with his girlfriend, No. 6 Oakbank Road. Drug addict. Has been in and out of jail for the past three years for petty theft, drug possession, vandalism and assault. Fridays he usually drinks at the Letterman Pub on Park Street or he hits up Foremont with his mates and they pick fights with the college students from the other side of town. I wasn’t expecting to meet him last night. There was a chance I wouldn’t have run into him for a few weeks.”

Tommy doesn’t tear his eyes away from the computer screen, but out his peripheral he can see Dad’s wide, mouth slack. “Tommy…” he breathes, but it’s too soft for him to make sense of the emotion and, in a stab of panic, speaks up. Speaks faster.

“He’s been bothering Wil for years now, but it got worse about three, four weeks ago. At first he was just after money here and there, or other things, I don’t really know, Wil and Techno were very quiet about him. Then, beginning of October, he started asking Wil for drugs. He thought Wil could get them for him because Wil had a reputation back in college. That’s where they know each other from,” Tommy adds, wet eyes flicking to Dad’s, but fear sends them darting to the wall, to the table, to the computer, to the window overlooking the garden where the sun is still rising because it’s November and the day starts late.
“Techno knew that Jared was trying to get Wilbur to help him, but then Jared started threatening him and I think—I overheard Wil promising to give him much more money than he usually would because he couldn’t give him the drugs and he just wanted Jared to leave them alone. Wil didn’t know I overheard. He’d been hiding it from Techno too, but I couldn’t just stand aside,” Tommy says, chin level and he’s ashamed and he’s angry at himself at the pain he’s put his Dad and pseudo-brothers through, but he’s not ashamed of what he’s done and he’d so it all over again if it meant he’d swing a little harder and make sure he waited until Jared wasn’t breathing before he called for help.

“Tommy,” Dad breathes again, and there is so much emotion—disbelief, confusion, surprise, uncertainty—but no sharp anger and Tommy feels like he can take a deeper breath. Hurts, because, bruised ribs, but the thought is there.

“He was threatening Wil when I found him. Said he’d get his friends to break Wil’s hands so he couldn’t play. And he wouldn’t have stopped there. Dad, that bastard is a monster,” Tommy hissed, tears on his cheeks, “he was gonna hurt Wil, would’ve hurt Techno too, I couldn’t—I couldn’t just stand by—”
“Oh Tommy,” Dad hushes him, standing up to draw Tommy into a hug, steadying him where he’s shaking from emotion and pain; his painkillers long-since worn off, but he doesn’t make to pull away from Dad’s hug, half slumping against him, burying his face into his father’s neck.
“I wanted to protect him,” he whispers. “Like you protect me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dad asks, his hand cupping the back of Tommy’s head, holding him up as he sobs against him, pain coming back harsher than before but Tommy doesn’t make to pull away and go down a couple of painkillers when all he wants is his dad, feeling nine instead of nineteen, curled into him. “Tommy, I could’ve handled it.”
“I don’t know,” Tommy whispers, and that’s the truth. “I just… I thought…. Dad, when you kill people, no one is in real danger. They’ve already hurt someone, and they might do it again, but Jared was threatening Wil and I just… couldn’t wait,” he admits, letting the words rush out with the tears. “I couldn’t… I didn’t know how to kill him, but I knew how to get him away from Wilbur. To give him more time.”

“What the fuck?”

Tommy and Phil pull apart sudden—Tommy’s chest flaring with pain but he hardly feels it when he’s met with Wilbur stood in the kitchen doorway, Techno hovering at his shoulder, eyes wide.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

“You attacked him?” Wilbur says, but it’s no louder than a whisper, staring at Tommy while Tommy stares back like a deer in headlights; Wil’s gaze flicking to Phil because he hadn’t just overhead Tommy confessing the truth, but he’d heard that Dad also—
“You—”

“Why don’t you both come sit down,” Dad says, raising his voice just enough even though the tone is soft, although Tommy can hear the silent command.
He nods subtly towards the breakfast table, where Techno and Wilbur have sat countless times before, but now their eyes stare at it like the empty chairs have dead bodies in them. Maybe they think that they will be the dead bodies.

Tommy feels sick.

The twins must realise there’s no running, either from a look Dad gives them, or the tone of his voice. Or maybe they’re terrified of what might happen should they try.
Tommy stands statuesque and barely breathing, far too aware of the way Wilbur doesn’t dare look at him, nor touch him as he moves to the table and sits. Techno, usually one to keep his thoughts and emotions hidden behind nonchalance is openly scared. It’s not a good look at him.
“Toms,” Dad says as soft as feather down, hand coming to touch his shoulder. Tommy doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing, and lets Dad guide him to his chair so that he’s sat opposite Technoblade. He keeps his head down. Stares at the varnished wood and follows the grains, hands joined, turning his fingers because he can’t sit still but he can’t bear to lift his head either.

Dad takes his time, not moving to sit down. First, he closes the kitchen door, and Tommy’s not the only one to react to the sound of him softly closing the door, but he doesn’t flinch like Wilbur does and he doesn’t track Dad’s movements like Techno does; the pair of them ramrod straight in their chairs while Tommy is near folded, head ducked, in pain but terrified to make a sound.
Dad has told him a thousand times to feign ignorance and disbelief were he to ever be caught, but he’d said nothing about what to do if it was Wil and Techno, and Tommy the one near-murdering people.
So he keeps his head down, lets his fingers trail the grains of the wood, counts his breath, listens to Dad fixing the four of them drinks.

The silence is like a noose around Tommy’s neck but he can’t do anything to break it. He sits, waits, counts his breath. Turns the words he’s said over in his mind and can’t help the way his eyes flicker up ever so briefly, bracing himself for Wilbur’s disgust, but finds that his eyes are on Dad’s computer screen and the news reports he had up that tell of Thomas Craft, a nineteen year old attacked on his way home late Thursday night, the offending twenty-six year old, Jared Marks, was currently sitting in police custody awaiting charges.
There’s a passage stating that there is no known connection between the pair but that Jared Marks is a known offender and a question to police action that had allowed such an attack to happen in the first place, because they don’t know the truth.
Tommy isn’t sure how much Tech and Wil know.

Dad finishes making tea and comes to sit at the table. He sets a cup each in front of everyone, but Tommy is the only one that reaches out to take hold of his, accepting the painkillers Dad hands him, and ignoring the fact the tea is near-scalding, washes down the pills. His tongue is numbed by the pain, but he already feels numb so he doesn’t even notice.

“What now?” Techno asks, and it’s a testament that his voice doesn’t waver. He sounds scared, and unsure, but he doesn’t waver.
Dad dips his head. “I ask you to keep this a secret. To act like you never heard anything.”
“What? No threat?” Wil spits, but they all know that his anger is a cover to his fear. He seems to realise who he’s speaking to—not just Phil, Tommy’s dad and the person that has helped him out several times, but a man who he has now found out is a serial killer, and has seemingly raised his son to believe that murder is acceptable—and Wilbur shrinks back down into himself, fingers twisted in his lap, leaning closer to Techno.
They’ve only ever relied on one another, but against a serial killer, and one firmly settled in the city’s police force, they’re vastly outmatched.

“No,” Dad says, and he’s smiling. It’s melancholic.
Tommy knows if this were anyone else—a stranger, a bystander—then things would be different, but these are Tommy’s friends, two he’s considered brothers even though he’s only known them for three years, but it feels like he’s known them his entire life. He knows he’s not the only one that considers them family, although whenever Phil mentions his “other sons” it’s only when Tommy is the sole person in earshot.

“No threats. No ultimatums. Just… if you are going to speak of this, I ask you don’t mention Tommy. I want to keep him out of it.”

Tommy turned to him, eyes just as wide as Wil’s and Techno’s, hand reaching out no matter it’s his right and it’s braced, two fingers broken, one jammed. “Dad—”
“Tommy hasn’t killed anyone. The other night was… the first time he’s tried,” Dad continues, voice soft, and there’s the barest question in the way he turns to his son, a hidden question in his eyes that Tommy answers by holding his gaze, because yes, this was the first time.
He’d thought about it, once, sixteen and angry when one fucker crossed the line about teasing him about his mom, but all he’d ended up doing was dragging the kid behind the bike sheds and slamming his head against the wall enough times to make him cry and whimper.
Tommy’s reputation as weak and bulliable had saved him from anyone other than Dad hearing about it because the fucker’s ego wouldn’t have survived if they’d heard that Thomas Craft, lanky string-bean who would rather skip PE to play piano in the music hall, managed to beat up someone on the hockey team.
Maybe Dad already knew, from that moment, that Tommy wasn’t always going to walk the straight and narrow.

“Tommy hasn’t killed anyone,” Dad continues, making no move to drink from his mug as much as the other three at the table. “I have.”

Silence sweeps in, broken only by the distant sounds of the world outside the window; cars on the road; people waking up from a late night of Halloween parties and drinks; birds scared by barking dogs and a far off siren on the motorway.
“Why?” Techno asks, either brave enough, or shocked enough to broach the question. Or maybe he’s struggling to see the murderer that Wilbur can see. Or maybe he sees more, gently reaching out to skim fingers around the handle of his offered mug no matter how Wilbur’s eyes narrow towards it, then him, like he’s trying to warn him. “You’re not denying it. You didn’t even try. So why.”

“Kristen.”

Dad’s voice is on the edge of hollow. He’s been able to talk about her without all the anger rising up, but it’s different here. Still, it’s been four years, and although it’s not easy, it’s at least easier.
“She died because of a hit-and-run. She called the police while she was laid in the road, and was aware enough to give them make, model and a partial licence. She was, laughing,” Dad says, taking a deep breath. Tommy reaches out, hand over his, letting Dad run his thumb over the back of Tommy’s hand. It’s his turn to stare at the table, words stripped of as much emotion as he can, because it’s one thing to talk about Kristen.
Another thing to talk about her death.

Something else entirely to explain how it was her death that started Phil down the path of killing those that exploited others, manipulated the justice system for their gain, and those that preyed on others.

“The phone call was recorded, so I got to hear it when the—during the charges. She was making jokes with the responder, because they were Kristen’s colleagues. I got to the hospital and sat with her. Five days later, she slipped into a coma and didn’t wake back up.”
Tommy’s grip tightened, and so did Dad’s. Techno’s hands curled more firmly around his mug, pulling it closer to him though he still doesn’t drink, he’s stopped looking like he wants to run.
Wilbur is… conflicted. Sympathetic, and staring at his hands, and there is clear distress in his expression, but there are sharp lines of anger too.

Dad takes a deep breath and sighs it out. Grounds himself with the heat of the mug in front of him and strains to keep his voice level. If Wil is angry—scared-confused-disgusted—then Dad is murderous.
“The person that killed her settled it out of court because he had the money,” he spits, barely able to keep the words from cutting as they fall out his mouth like bloody knives, drenched in pain six years old, opening up old, barely-healed wounds. Wil and Tech flinch, hands snapping together like magnets. Wil’s chair screams against the linoleum but he doesn’t try to get up; a deer in the headlights as Dad’s eyes snap up and he explains it to them.
Because he wasn’t pushed over the edge. He walked up to it and willingly jumped.

“My wife’s death surmounted to ten penalty points on his licence and a seven grand fine. He was a biochemist working in one of the country’s highest-paying pharmaceuticals. The money barely made a dent in his wage.”
Tommy remembers it. He remembers Jordan and Sneeg just as angry, remembers hearing snippets of conversation at Mom’s funeral, remembers that everyone else was angry too even if he was numb and Dad’s half-smile was far too fake to be fooled by.

“But it wasn’t about the money,” Dad continues, right hand gripping the table to anchor himself to his chair as rage swells up like dragon fire in his throat. There’s only one man that can evoke such a reaction, even if he’s been dead nearly just as long as Mom.
“It was about the fact that my wife was dead and he had six previous accounts, and had changed insurances three times in the previous five years. He knew the system. Knew how to work it in his favour. It was never about the money.”

Wil and Techno look mortified. They knew parts about Kristen’s death—having heard bits and pieces here and there when Tommy was having a bad day, or a memory wouldn’t leave him alone, or something reminded him of her and he’d shared it because it was a funny memory; having been filled in here of there by Tubbo who’d known Tommy since first school year—but this is different.
This isn’t Kristen passing and Phil and Tommy mourning.
This is Kristen dying, and Phil exacting a justice that was robbed of him, and exacting his own with each stranger that followed.

Maybe he took it personally with those involved in hit-and-runs. Maybe he took it personally when nineteen year old kids were the victims, surviving or not. Maybe Phil’s idea of justice was had always been skewed and Mom’s death was the catalyst, it didn’t change the fact he did what he did to protect Tommy and anyone else that would befall harm from the greed and callousness of others.
It didn’t change the fact that Dad was a murderer.

He takes another breath and lets the quiet settle from behind his mug even if Tommy knows it’s not nearly cool enough to drink comfortably. His own tongue is still numb from having swallowed pills, but he takes Dad’s cue and seals his lips with ceramic. Techno’s motions are jerky, but he drinks too.
Wilbur’s mug remains untouched.

“What now?” he asks, when three mugs are empty and the room is heavy enough that Tommy feels like he’s struggling to breathe. Wilbur is still waiting for the threat. For the violence. Maybe he thinks Dad’s style is unrefined as Tommy’s; blood and mess everywhere just like what had been splattered all across the road, the pavement and the alleyway.
Maybe he thinks Dad’s just waiting for them to make the wrong move, or say the wrong thing and Dad will exact the same on them.

To protect Tommy.

Dad holds Wilbur’s gaze. Even though he’s scared, Wil doesn’t look away, but Tommy sees the way he squeezes Techno’s hand. Either in reassurance or apology.

“Now, Tommy rests. You can stay, rest, have another sofa day if you want. Or you can go home,” Phil says, calm, unphased when Wilbur frowns, because he’s not being threatened like he’s waiting for. “And pretend this didn’t happen?” he asks, incredulous but not quite as sharp as before. This time Techno squeezes his hand. Reassuring. Questioning.
“When it’s appropriate, I’ll take Tommy to the police and he’ll give his statement that reflects the story he narrated Friday night,” Dad says, continuing as if Wil hadn’t spoken. “In the next few days, you’ll get a call too, because you’re the connecting factor between Tommy and Jared, even if, right now, Jared being the one to attack Tommy was a coincidence,” he says, and there is a weight to his voice, because that is Tommy’s narration and that’s the only version of the story they want anyone else to know.

“I won’t ask you to lie,” Dad says, and those six words stop Tommy breathing entirely. Ice white panic floods his brain, and by the startle on the twins faces, they weren’t expecting it either.
“I just ask, that before you say anything, think. Think about how scared you were when you called me, because Tommy was laid in the street, three in the morning, bleeding because he’d been stabbed. Think about how angry you were when you found out it was Jared.”

And they had been angry.

Between moments of consciousness and delirium Tommy had heard snatches of whispers and insults. He’d heard Techno kick Jared in the alley to get a response when Puffy asked if he was still conscious. He’d heard the hiss in Wilbur’s voice whenever they said Jared’s voice, but he’d been exhausted on top of scared for how drastically his plan had changed because it had been Wil and Techno who found him, and made things all the more complicated.
Now, everything feels like it’s falling apart.

The four of them sit in quiet, no one pushing to speak.
Tommy stares at the brace on his hand. Feels Dad’s warmth where he holds his fingers between his own; callouses of his love pressed into his skin and Tommy is terrified to lose something so simple. It has always been a possibility, Dad told him that, and each time he’d reassured him he’d always promised that he’d do whatever it took to keep Tommy safe. He just didn’t realise that, if things did go wrong, he’d lose so much that he’d taken for granted, he’d lose—

There’s a quick rap on the front door that makes Wilbur, Techno and Tommy sit bolt upright in their chairs—Tommy quick to fold back down, hand pressed to his chest where the sudden tension had pulled on his ribs; Dad’s only thought for his son—not bothering to turn as the front door rattles and opens to Sneeg’s spare key, hands ladened with grocery shopping because he’d promised to do so as a favour to Phil, so that there was less for him to worry about when Tommy was just out of the hospital.
He calls a greeting, somewhat quiet, probably thinking Tommy’s still asleep, and Phil calls back to tell him they’re in the kitchen. He says nothing to Wil and Techno’s stiffness but stands, ready to make another cup of tea, hand lingering in Tommy’s for another moment as Sneeg wrestles his way down the hallway with bags laden, breaking into a smile when he sees Tommy at the table, but it softens, saddened somewhat because Tommy’s in pain from the sudden movement. He’s surprised, not so much by Tech and Wil being round, but by the tension in their bodies, flashing a raised brow to Phil who just shakes his head at him with a mouthed “later.”

“How much do I owe you?” Dad asks instead, grabbing a bag, beginning to unpack it.

He's a master of keeping his cool, and keeping up a mask of emotion. Tommy is envious, but he’s learning and although he usually hides things behind excitement, this time he pulls on a cloak of exhaustion and pain, straightening up—slowly this time—as Sneeg unloads his arms, placing the shopping on the counter. “A meal. Once Tommy’s back to full health we’re going out. The missus was thinking Italian or that new steak house that opened up on the waterfront.”
“Sneeg—”
“Take it up with her. If you’ve got the balls for it,” Sneeg grins, shrugging Dad off so that he can draw Tommy into a gentle hug.
“Hey slugger. How you feeling?” he asks, subtly side-stepping the obvious tension between the four of them, focusing on Tommy instead of Wil and Tech who are sharing glances with one another and Sneeg, a police officer, never mind the fact he’s Phil’s friend and colleague, and potentially someone who can help them even if Phil’s made no threats.

Instead, they keep their mouths shut.

It’s awkward, but Sneeg doesn’t ask even though he’s noticed the tension, making idle small talk until Tommy’s reserve energy has him practically falling asleep at the breakfast table despite the fact that his world is practically crumbling around him. Techno uses this as his cue to usher Wil up, excusing the pair of them. Sneeg offers them a lift, despite that it’s a twenty minute walk—ten minutes if they run—Tommy holding his breath from where he’s sat, because friend or not, Sneeg could be the last nail in the coffin. Phil doesn’t say anything, letting the boy’s make their own decision, preparing himself to deal with the fallout.
But not even he can hide the hurt flash across his face when Wil accepts; the emotion softening into understanding and acceptance as he walks the three of them to the door.

And when Sneeg is in his car, Tommy keeping himself upright on the living room doorframe, Techno and Wil on the drive, looking like they don’t know if they should just run, Dad tells thanks the pair of them for helping Tommy when they found him; grateful of the coincidence of Techno’s unstable sleep-schedule and Wilbur’s habit of late night strolls that had put them on the same street.
Neither look like they know what to make of Dad’s words, staring at him as he steps back with a forced smile, ready to close the door. Just before it closes, Wilbur finally lets his eyes fall on Tommy. He can’t make out his expression before the door blocks his sight, and before it’s even latched Tommy feels his body give out—from stress, from panic, he doesn’t know—slumping into a pained tangle of limbs with a too-shallow heave of air.

Black spots cloud his vision. His chest feels like there’s a mountain on it. He can’t breathe. Everything is falling apart.
He can hear Dad, see him out the corner of his eyes crowding close, grounding him with tight arms and a soothing voice, but all Tommy can focus on his own shredded apology, gasped words, fingers clawing into Dad’s shirt because everything was falling apart.

And it’s all his fault.

Chapter Text

Tommy doesn’t sleep. He’s exhausted, but he can’t.
Dad had stayed by his side, holding him close as he wrestled his way through a panic attack; carrying him into the living room and promising him everything would be okay even if that wasn’t something that he could promise.

Tommy apologised until he was hoarse, and then, numb and terrified, waited in the living room, eyes on the window, watching the driveway, breath hitching every time he heard sirens on the motorway, even if he knew that a police assault squad wouldn’t come with sirens. Dad knows what Tommy is waiting for, but there’s nothing he can say, and nothing he can do.

They both wait.

About one, an hour since Sneeg took Wil and Techno home, Tommy’s phone lights up with a text message from Tubbo playfully complaining about the fact he’s got a hangover. Tommy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look past the notification so Tubbo won’t see that he’s been left on read when he does get back to his phone in half an hour or so when he starts properly waking up.
He just sits and waits.

At two, Dad brings in food for lunch and more painkillers. Tommy swallows them down and goes back to staring out the window.
At three he’s got six more texts from Tubbo, two from Ranboo and a couple dozen from all his other friends wishing he’d been able to come to the Halloween party, that it sucked that he was sick, but as soon as he was better to give them a ring and they’ll meet up.

At eight, Tommy is woken by a gentle touch to his arm that sees him lurching upright like it was a lightning strike, terror bitingly painful, coiling around his chest, ignoring his sprained wrist as he reaches out in blind panic, bruised ribs screamed, taut stitches burning. “No, no don’t touch him!” he yells, grabbing a hold of the arm around him, high-vis and body armour vivid in his mind as he screams, “don’t touch him, let go! Let go!” until its Dad’s voice that breaks through the nightmare with a shout that rattle Tommy’s terror-drenched mind.
“Sssh Tommy it’s just me,” he hums as soon as Tommy stops thrashing, his heart tripping and tumbling over itself as his breathing eases into something panting instead of air ripping through shredded lungs. “I thought—I thought—”
“I know,” Dad hums, pulling back from where he’d been draping a blanket over him, having startled him awake, hands reaching up to cup Tommy’s face and thumb away the tears.

It’s dark outside, the streetlights reflecting bright off of Dad’s car on the drive; the street beyond empty.
“I don’t think they said anything,” he edges slowly, like he’s worried saying as much out loud will make it untrue, but there’s thought in his words because if Wil and Techno had something, then something would’ve happened by now.
Right?

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. The words make him feel sick. If he hadn’t… if he’d involved Dad from the beginning, used the proper channels if he hadn’t had a plan to kill Jared quietly, then none of this—none of this—

“How did it start?” Dad asks softly, taking place beside him on the sofa. It feels reminiscent to how Tommy would ask. Careful. Trusting his Dad not to keep the important secrets from him.
So he takes a breath and explains.

He starts at the beginning; the first night he caught Wil and Jared arguing, what Techno had told him, that there was already alarm bells considering that Sam had to come and help them kick Jared from the house.
Then, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook. Tommy explains he’d used his second account to find what he could about Jared, using Wilbur’s tags rather than a traceable search history and how he’d pieced together everything he needed to know about Jared from seething Facebook statuses about exs and government and the unfair world; using Jared’s girlfriend’s love for the internet and social media to notice a pattern of pub nights every Friday because she complained about it often enough.
Then Tommy had made the route twice before, noting doorbell cameras, CCTV, and logical routes Jared would take from the address to the Letterman Pub, to the nearest shop which he’d stepped into the very same night for an alibi; having made small talk with the cashier so she’d remember him in case someone needed to corroborate his story as to why he was out at three in the morning.

And then, when their paths did cross, Tommy jumped on the chance. He knew he’d be injured, knew he’d be roughed up because the plan wasn’t to kill Jared outright—a murder in a busy street was a sloppy kill, even for Tommy’s first—but if Jared succumbed to a little head trauma then he wasn’t going to lose no sleep over it.
The plan had been jail time. An arrest to get Jared away from Wilbur and Techno, to keep him safe and give Tommy a chance to come up with a more permanent plan to keep Jared away. He was playing the long game.

“I won’t lie, Toms. I’m not happy,” Dad says, when he’s finished. He keeps his eyes on his feet, knowing as much. He doesn’t regret attacking the bastard, even now, even with everything, but he regrets the fear he put his Dad through. The panic he put his brothers through.
If he can still call them that.

“I never wanted you to kill someone. And it’s not how I would’ve handled the situation, but… fuck, Tommy, I’m so proud.”

Tommy lifts his head. Dad’s smiling at him, a little teary-eyed, but genuine. “And yeah, that’s fucked up to say,” he laughs, as tears spring to Tommy’s eyes too, as if he hasn’t cried enough lately, “but I am. Still wish you would’ve come to me, but you had a pretty good plan, even if the execution of it was a little wrong.”
“Shame Jared fucked it by stabbing me,” Tommy nods.
“And Wil and Techno turning made it more complicated by being there. But still,” Dad says, drawing Tommy in. “So proud. I’m sorry you thought you had no other choice, but still, so very, very proud.”

Tommy smiles into his chest.
They say nothing of the twins knowing the truth. They say nothing of Sneeg possibly knowing the truth too. They say nothing of anything, really, until Tommy’s body aches and tiredness tugs at his conscious again. After painkillers, a drink and a small snack because he’d skipped over lunch, Dad shoos him up to bed, swallowing down the fear that as soon as Wilbur and Technoblade speak the truth, then he’ll lose simple moments like these too.

It takes Tommy an entire week to stop thinking his world is three seconds from crumbling.

Because it’s been a week, and the only police that come to the house are Sneeg and Jordan, out of uniform, coming to see their colleague and check up on the boy they’ve known since he was born.

The first time, Tommy was masking a panic attack for an entire hour, until Sneeg couldn’t bare Tommy’s silence no longer and stole his switch from his bedroom and bullied him into a 1vs1 of Mario Kart, because apparently it was the only time they’d be as good as one as another when Tommy’s only got seven fingers to work with; three strapped up on his right hand.
Monday, late-morning, Jordan brings Crumb, his niece and police-trainee, to conduct Tommy’s interview, after having pulled some strings stating it would be a good learning experience. The interview is as professional as it could be when it’s done at the breakfast table, and the recording device is somewhat distracting with the way the light flickers, but Tommy sticks to the narration that he wrote the night before Halloween and plays the same note of fear he had when he’d been on the phone to Puffy, although it’s dialled back a lot.
They then proceed to play a few rounds of Mario Kart and Crumb smashes Tommy at each and every one of them, no sympathy where he’s down three fingers.

Monday night, Tommy nearly gets the rest of his ribs bruised when Tubbo barges his way into the house, torn between making sure Tommy was okay and yelling at him for keeping everything a secret for as long as he had. He’s saved by Eret, who had given Tubbo and Ranboo both a lift, bringing gifts by way of friends and snacks, and holding Tubbo back long enough to explain he hadn’t wanted to ruin his weekend. “As if a Halloween party matters, you dickhead,” Tubbo had scoffed.
As soon as their shift ends, Nicki and Jack turn up too, having heard shortly after the others. They brought food too, determined to make up for Saturday, but with Tommy still so tired and not all that energetic, it turned into a Mario Kart tournament and (for everyone aside Tommy on pain meds, Jack and Eret as designated drivers) a few rounds of drunk Jackbox.

The only lull was when Nicki said she’d invite Wil and Techno, and Tommy wasn’t able the hide his sudden alarm. He hadn’t stopped her though—hadn’t explained when Eret tilted their head in silent question—but the fear was realised when Wilbur had offered up an excuse for the pair of them before he’d really had a chance to hear Niki out, claiming it’s been a long day, that he’s writing a new song, and Techno’s in the middle of cooking dinner, it’s kind of sudden really—
“Don’t push him, Niki,” Tommy had said, fingers stalling on the remote that saw him plummet to eighth place, ignoring the way the room seems to grow smaller. “They’re— they’ll—… They’ll come round when they want.”
Tactfully, no one says anything, and Niki is quick to (politely) say bye to Wil before returning to the game. Tommy caught Tubbo and Ranboo’s eye though, and knew he’d only stalled the questions.

They don’t manage to corner him until Thursday. Even then Tommy didn’t say much. Just hummed and shrugged and looked pitiful enough his friends dropped it.

After two weeks, Tommy starts finishing his days without feeling absolutely exhausted.
Jack has become his volunteer uber driver, taking him to Uni in the mornings. On the days Dad is working—returned to work the same day Tommy headed back to Uni—Eret picks him up along with Ranboo and Tubbo rather than leaving them to get the bus, and by Wednesday, despite the fact that Tommy still gets out of breath going up stairs and he’s using his laptop to take notes instead of writing, things feel relatively… normal.

Except the gaping hole in Tommy’s chest.
Because he hasn’t seen Wilbur or Technoblade since they left with Sneeg.

He tries to take comfort in the fact that they’ve kept both Tommy’s secret and Phil’s; reflected in the statement added to Tommy’s case and the fact that Dad’s still working; that Sneeg isn’t acting any different and nothing, aside from their own absences, has changed.

Tubbo think it’s guilt.
Everyone knows about Jared now—who he is, what he did, that he’s an addict and a bully—and he’s still currently in police custody awaiting further charges, and by the intensity of the attack there has been no release date set yet. Tubbo thinks Wil and Techno keeping their distance is because of some twisted sense of guilt; that if they’d spoken up about it, to Phil or to anyone, then Jared might’ve never got the chance to hurt, and potentially almost kill Tommy.
Ranboo thinks there is something else going on, having pointed out if that truly was the case then Tommy would just barge around their house, tell them both they were being idiots and that would be that. Except Tommy skirts the conversation. Shrugs his shoulders, keeps his hands in his pocket, head down and is never the first to mention the brothers’ names.

Dad doesn’t mention them either, but Techno’s favourite coffee is kept stocked, even if Tommy prefers tea, and Wilbur’s snacks still occupy the top shelf of the pantry cupboard.

It isn’t until the first week of December that they see one another again.

Tommy is walking through the park wrapped up in a new coat, head down, phone (new screen) on shuffle as he heads to the shops with nothing on his mind other than food and the hope that he’ll pass his driving test soon so that next time he can just drive instead of bracing the cold. The winter chill brings back all the aches and pains, but it’s a small price to pay as Tommy hums to Wil’s band’s newest release.
They’d debuted it at the coffee house like they’ve done with all their songs, and although Tommy had waved off everyone when they invited him to come and hang, he’d caved when Niki said she’d open the back door and he could listen from behind the counter—in the office even, so no one would see him.
It's a slow song, one Tommy’s heard being written since the first time Wilbur had hummed it when they’d been laid on the kitchen floor, a beer and fish and chips between them, and its well on its way to becoming his new favourite song.

Even if Wil’s not talking to him anymore, at least he’s got his music.

A sound pricks his ears, and Tommy lifts his head before he registers the sound is his name. It’s Skeppy, ahead of him, smiling bright in stark contrast to Technoblade, beside him, completely unaware of the way he has stilled, as surprised to see Tommy as Tommy is to see him, who’s feet stall just the same.
“Tommy! Hey! How have you been, are you better now?” Skeppy asks, pumped up because it’s still somewhat early in the day and considering they’re heading away from the train station, the pair of them have only just met up so Skeppy hasn’t had a chance for his excitement to mellow. Tommy mentally kicks himself for the way his feet stumble, focuses on Skeppy’s infectious attitude and forces a smile that hopefully doesn’t look as fake as it feels.

“All good man, how are you?” Tommy grins and lets Skeppy’s babble wash over him like he isn’t painfully aware of his proximity with Technoblade, feigning coldness to wrap his arms around himself, looking nowhere but Skeppy, trying to keep up but feeling like he’s just downed a can of coke with half a dozen mentos.

At the first lapse in conversation, Tommy tilts his head towards to the side, taking a half step, stumbling over his words, promising to catch up with Skeppy later, hurrying to one side, eyes flashing to the hurt on Techno’s face—
“Tommy, wait,” he says, hand darting out to grab, but he seems to think better of it and the motion dies before it can really begin, and Techno drops his hand to let it hang by his side. Tommy stares at him, mind blank of excuses, because the month of silence—the last thirty-seven days—was enough for him to figure out that neither of the brothers wanted anything to do with him or his Dad anymore, so he finds himself thrown for a loop when Techno had stopped him.
Finds himself unable to move, waiting, while Techno glares at a space neither here or there, consumed by a flurry of thoughts.

Enough time passes for Tommy’s body to debate a panic attack before Skeppy takes the first step. Literally. “I’m gonna go on ahead,” he says to Techno, a fraction of his earlier energy, soft smile for the other’s sakes before spinning on his heel and giving neither Techno or Tommy a chance to stop him.
Not that either of them try.

The quiet is as deafening as it had been back in the kitchen, three empty mugs and one cold.

“I…” Tommy tries, and nearly bites his tongue. His ears are hot but his cheeks are freezing. He feels stupid and even though he’s been silently praying for everything to go back to normal, he’s physically having to keep himself stood still because everything in his body is telling him to run so that he doesn’t have to hear Techno’s insults or his anger. He’s been holding himself together with string and glue this past month.
One word will shatter him.

Technoblade looks like he’s in the same position.

“I haven’t heard from you. Since… well,” he says, the last word holding far more weight than one syllable should allow, but Tommy is kind of reeling from the fact that Technoblade is talking to him, and he doesn’t sound angry. Uncomfortable, and strained, but nothing that Tommy was expecting. He doesn’t know if he should run, jump for joy or straight up just pass out. His heart is hammering and his lungs are still debating a panic attack.
He settles on shrugging despite the motion is as stiff as ice.

“I assumed that you’d block my number,” he says, looking everywhere else. “Figured that you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”
It sounds harsh, but that’s the truth of it. It’s a reasonable deduction to make after a month of silence; after Wil and Technoblade turning down every invitation from their friend group when the realise Tommy was going to be present. As soon as he’d realised—about two weeks really, sometime mid-November—so Tommy started making himself less available, opting to stay in, feigning Uni assignments or straight up just not answering his phone and sneaking out to the coffee house if Niki was on shift, using the side entrance in case their friends had taken their usual seat in the back corner.
Best to avoid awkward moments.

Although it’s awkward right now, and despite the flight instincts humming in the soles of Tommy’s feet, he doesn’t want to leave. Neither of them know what to say, and the silence is uncomfortable, but Tommy is determined to wait; soaking in Techno’s presence despite the awkwardness surrounding the pair of them He lets himself be just a little selfish, refuses to be the first to leave because even this awkward, uneasy chance meeting is a balm to the aching hole in his chest that’s been there since the day Wil and Tech left.
He doesn’t know what’s going to come of this conversation. He doesn’t know what will come next, and a few extra seconds are enough to risk Techno’s patience. Worth the risk of the final nail in the coffin, should he realise the right thing to do is turn the pair in.

“He misses you; you know,” Technoblade tells the pavement.
And then softer, like it was a secret. “I do too.”

Tommy wants to reach out with two hands and grab hold, wants to cling tightly to the words and wrap himself up in the warmth they bring. But he’s cautious.
“Doesn’t change what I did.”
Out the corner of his eye, he sees Techno stiffen slightly before standing up a little straighter, head turning to Tommy. “What you’re still going to do.”
He’s right, if not because he thinks that Tommy will hunt Jared again if he ever gets out of jail, determined to never let him hurt or threaten the twins ever again, then because of Phil, who’s entire purpose is to protect Tommy.

Techno rolls his shoulders, and just briefly, Tommy wonders what would hurt more; if Technoblade punched him, or the fact that Technoblade punched him. Either way, he wouldn’t fight back.

Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets and leans back against the wall behind him, body language just a touch more relaxed.
“What does Phil say?” he asks, as nonchalant as possible, eyes still not on Tommy, but he realises after a moment, not so much because he’s difficult to look at, but because Techno is keeping an eye on the fact that they’re in public—in a park—and their conversation isn’t one that their of them want to be overheard.
He keeps his voice light and his words vague. “I can’t imagine he’d want you to pick up his hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby,” Tommy growls instantly, because it’s not.

Dad doesn’t get enjoyment out of killing people. He’d rather not. He doesn’t hunt the people that are remorseful, he doesn’t hunt those that are caught by the system, that are imprisoned and made to pay, the ones that accept the wrongs they’ve done and change.
Dad hunts monsters that use the system to exploit others; the ones that don’t see others beyond something to be used, abused and thrown away once they’ve been bled dry of uses, be that money, entertainment of whatever other sick things they indulge in. Dad hunts people that hurt others deliberately, to protect Tommy and people like Tommy; to protect brothers that don’t think they can rely on anyone but each other; to protect best friends that have moved countries or cities to study at the same university; to protect people that pick up any shift they can so that they can afford the over-expensive apartment that they call home.

Dad hunts monsters.
He doesn’t enjoy it.

“It’s not a hobby,” Tommy repeats, cowed slightly, by the startle on Technoblade’s face. He’s always been particular about what he revealed; his emotions and thoughts always held behind a mask of indifference to those that didn’t really know him, and although Tommy does, it’s not a look he’s familiar with and it’s unnerving almost.
He swallows, trying to find the words. Trying to find a way to explain.

“Its…. Love. His and mine,” he says, voice as soft as the wind, hands shaking ever so slightly, but it’s not from the cold.
He swallows again, puts emotion into his voice and straights just as Technoblade had, lifting his gaze, his chin, staring his older-brother figure in the eye and declares himself unashamed of it. “I might regret parts of it, and I know that I could’ve gone about it differently and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, but we are, and I’m not ashamed. Not of Dad either. I know that neither of you get it—”
“I do,” Technoblade interrupts and that’s….

Oh.

“Sort of,” he shrugs, discomfort sweeping back in like it’s a confusing thing to have emotions and empathy to someone who loves his brothers so strongly that he was willingly to kill for them.
“Not to the extent that you and Phil…” he says, trailing off with a wave of his hand because he’s not sure how to put everything into words. Tommy doesn’t care. He’ll listen to him stumble and hum and muddle his way through because Technoblade is trying to understand them—understand him—and it’s not like he approves, or Tommy is looking for his approval, and okay maybe there is something messed up in keeping the secret that Phil is a serial killer and Tommy is well on his way to following in his footsteps, but it’s the first time in weeks that Tommy truly believes his world isn’t going to be torn at the seams.
And there is hope that he didn’t lose two people he considers very important.

Technoblade has lulled back into silence, but its thoughtful. He’s looking at the floor with a pensive expression. Like he’s debating speaking, or trying to figure out the best way how to phrase it.
Then, nodding to himself, and flashing Tommy a small smile that knocks the air from his lung, softly hums, “I don’t know if you know, but Wil and I were going to meet him that night.”
He shrugs, like it’s simple, and it takes Tommy a moment to realise that they’re talking about Jared.
That they’re talking about that night like it was any other night and not Tommy’s first hunt.

“You told Phil that you heard Jared threatening Wil. He’d just got home and he was pacing around the kitchen, and either he thought I was asleep or in my room or— I wasn’t, I was in the living room, so I heard Jared threatening Wil,” Techno says, with just the faintest ghost of anger slipping into his tone.

“I confronted Wil about it and I think he knew there was no point beating around the bush, because he finally told me the truth about everything that was going on behind my back: about the threats; about the money he’d already handed over; about the times Jared and one of his mate caught him behind the coffee house and roughed him up—” which Tommy didn’t even know about and he’s suddenly gripped viciously by an anger so violent he wishes he had killed Jared and damn the fucking consequences, “—so I said that that was enough, Wil didn’t have to put up with that any more, and I was going to go rough him up instead.”

Tommy blinks.

“Wil didn’t agree, he wanted to try and talk with Jared first so I let him tag along. But I knew it wouldn’t be worth it, so Sam was going to meet us closer to his place. We knew where Jared was living, his girlfriend is actually a pretty sweet girl. Sally was in the foster system too—one of the houses Sam lived in for a time—but her parents are still kicking around. Kicked her plenty of times too. Turns out Jared just happened to say the right thing and she thought he cared for her. At least he never laid his hands on her. We’re all regretting not having chased him away sooner.”

Technoblade isn’t embarrassed. He’s not meeting Tommy’s eye, but it’s not out of embarrassment.
Shame, maybe, but not for his words, or for the anger he feels because of the bastard currently awaiting to be served time at the out-of-city jail. Shame instead—and gods Tommy hopes he’s right—for the weeks of silence he and Wil have held because despite everything, they understand. They needed time, and maybe they still need more, because there’s a world of difference between threatening a couple of bruises and a couple of weeks nursing a bruised ego compared to six foot under.

“I texted Sam at the hospital. He and I are waiting for Jared to get out of jail, and then this time, we were going to get our payback,” Technoblade continues, like every word he speaks doesn’t confuse and warm Tommy at the same time.
“Wil’s… torn about it,” he says, and there is real regret in his voice. “But he’s far less innocent than you’d think.” He meets Tommy’s gaze and holds it, expression soft and if Tommy were a weaker man, he’d start crying.

“Phil knows. You were asleep on the sofa. Wil told Phil he was going to beat the shit out of Jared. Phil said he’d join him.”

If he were a weaker man.

All Tommy wants to do is close the gap between them, throw is arms around Techno and apologise to him until he’s hoarse. He’d done the same to Dad a few times since, either in the living room when all he could do was stare out the window, or at the breakfast table when food was too hard to swallow and tasted like ash in his mouth, or in the middle of the night when he woke up screaming because too many hands were dragging Dad away and Tommy was powerless to stop them.

All Tommy wants is his brother, but he’s cautious. He’s spent four weeks trying to come to terms with the twins’ rejection that it’s a hard thing to throw aside so easily.
“Is Wil scared of me?” he edges, and hates that he sounds like a child. “Of Dad?”
Techno, at least, takes a moment to think through his answer before he speaks, genuine when he says, “I don’t know. We haven’t exactly talked about it. But if you came to the apartment, I don’t believe he’d turn you away.”
It sounds too good to be true.

“You can’t be certain.”
“Not about everything,” Techno agrees, but he smiles and if Tommy were a weaker man, “but Wil loves you just as much as I do, if not more. And I’m pretty sure his Love is the same definition as yours.”

But all that Tommy can recall is Wilbur’s silence, sat across him from the breakfast table; the mug he refused to drink from because he no longer trusted Phil; the horror on his face as the door closed and he caught a glimpse of Tommy collapsing into a pile of limbs like a puppet with cut strings.

“Fine, don’t believe me?” Techno huffs, and he’s the one closing the gap between them, Tommy’s eyes wide suddenly, only taking a half step back for Techno’s hand is out of his pocket and he’s thrusting his hand out. He’s holding his keys; the one that have his apartment keys, spare car key to Wilbur’s car, and the pig keychain Tommy gave to him on his last birthday.
“Here,” he says, familiarly stubborn. “You’re terrified he won’t open the door? Barge in. That’s what you do,” and there’s a smile, real, genuine, and it’s as warm as a hug he’s been deprived of for far too long. “You’re loud, you’re brash, you don’t think, and I know that because the last time you didn’t properly think you got stabbed,” he jokes, dropping his voice slightly, and then his arms are around Tommy, and his cheeks are wet and he can’t breathe but it’s a good feeling.
Techno pulls him in, mouth near Tommy’s ear and murmurs, “so go and argue with Wil.”

He steps back and doesn’t mention Tommy’s tears. Tommy doesn’t mention his.

“Now go. I’ve left Skeppy waiting long enough. And you better be there by the time I come home,” Tech says, raising his voice as he walks away, facing Tommy as he goes. “We haven’t had a sofa day in a month. I’ve got a new movie you’ll like.”
“One with subtitles?”
“You bet.”

Tommy watches him go, feeling lighter than he has in… well. He looks down at the keys in hands, at the grumpy-ugly keychain. There’s still a sour feeling of fear in his stomach, but it’s not as sharp as before.
And when he gets to the edge of the park, instead of turning right to the shops, turns left, towards a familiar apartment.

Chapter Text

Barge in, Technoblade had said, and yet Tommy’s been standing outside the apartment door for who knows how long.
Long enough for his toes to be numb in his shoes and for him to have started shivering, because it’s the first week of December and it’s already cold as balls, even without the wind, and Tommy had dressed himself up to wander to the shops, not to stand outside Techno and Wil’s apartment for half an hour.
He buries his chin deeper into his collar and keeps repeating Techno’s words over in his mind, trying to psych himself up to just, take that last step, throw himself off the cliff, brace himself for the fall and open the fucking door.
The keys rattle in his hand, not entirely because of the cold, but Tommy still doesn’t move to put them in the lock.

It takes for the neighbour to come home, bundling her arms with grocery bags and giving Tommy a confused, suspicious look that sharpens each time she makes trips in and out of her house. When they catch eyes, Tommy flashes her an awkward smile, lifting up the keys to show that he wasn’t anyone suspicious, and the flimsy excuse, “we had a fight. Just, waiting for that courage.”
Her expressions softens immediately. “Sorry is always a good place to start,” she tells him encouragingly, before grabbing the last bag and heading inside.

If only it was that simple.

The keys rattle and the door swings widen like a creature’s maw when Tommy finally works up the nerve to unlock it. Stepping inside is familiar, with Wil and Techno’s coats on the hooks by the door; snow-wet shoes on the radiator and a mess of things on the console table that have either been emptied out of pockets or just haven’t been put away. There’s the muted sounds of Wilbur’s guitar coming from the living room and it feels like yesterday Tommy was pushing his way in, kicking his shoes off, dumping his coat on the floor and ignoring his older brother to raid his fridge instead.
Now, Tommy is terrified and wistful and he wants Techno by his side, hands curling painfully tight around the edges of his coat when he hears Wil raise his voice, fingers paused over guitar strings and the bark of knowing laughter.

“What did you forget this time, you idiot?”

Tommy can’t move. Can’t speak.
He hears the sound of Wilbur putting his guitar to one side, hears his bare feet on the vinyl wood, hears him coming and although Tommy is desperate to do something—to move, to call out, to run—he can’t and it’s all he can do to remember to breathe when Wilbur steps into view.

His smirk falls off his face instantly, and Tommy’s grateful he’s only surprised, not sure what his own expression is as he unfurls one of his hands, holding up Techno’s apartment keys and the ugly-grumpy keychain.

“Techno… gave me his key,” he says, although his voice gives up halfway through and it comes out more of a whisper. In the dead silence of the apartment, Wilbur hears him anyway.
He says nothing. Just stares, eyes wide, surprise the most prominent emotion, giving Tommy no sign that he is welcome anymore. He’d rather take Wilbur’s continued silence than angry-snarling-spitting insults and Tommy, the coward, backs up instantly, dropping his eyes, his gaze, voice choked up as he stumbles an apology.

“You know what, this was stupid,” he says, and hates how weak his voice is as he drops Techno’s keys on the console table, wincing when it clatters, makes too much noise like the blaring horn of a car careening down the motorway, out of control, five seconds from smashing into the guardrail; “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, I’m just gonna go—”

“Tommy.”

Tommy stops, hand on the door handle, eyes shut, braced. He knows it’s going to hurt. He’s stupid for coming here.
But he still trusts Techno, and he’ll let Wilbur hurt him.
It’s the least he can do.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers, unbidden. He wants to cry again, but he’s already cried in front of Techno and he’s cried himself awake with every nightmare for the past for few weeks; he’s exhausted, all he wants is dry land and a hand to haul him up off his knees and into a warm embrace. Dad is always there for him, each and every night, but Tommy craves the others in his family.
It’s why he was weak enough to come here in the first place.

“Tommy.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers again, far quieter. He’s not brave enough to turn around, nor open his eyes even as he hears Wilbur coming closer, lungs stuttering to a halt when he feels arms wrapping around him and Wilbur drapes his weight over Tommy’s shoulders, pulling him back into his chest.
“W-Wil—”
“I’m sorry,” Wil hums, voice soft, muffled where his lips are pressed to Tommy’s hair. The words make Tommy laugh, but the sound is broken. “That’s what I’m supposed to say,” he whispers, accommodating the lack of space between them. He’s not crying, but his voice is wrecked and quiet and he’s shaking like he’s sobbing. Or maybe that’s Wil.

They stand there, Tommy waiting, ready to give Wilbur everything if only it will keep him this close. He tries to apologise, but every time he tries, Wilbur hushes him and he’s the one that apologises like he was the one to attack Jared and get beat up and reveal that he and Techno have been the ones killing for the past six years.

“I didn’t get why you and Phil do what you do,” he whispers eventually. Tommy stares at the front door and is comforted by the yellow sleeves of Wil’s favourite jumper wrapped around him; haven’t noticed the mundane detail earlier, too panicked to take in more than anything that wasn’t a warning sign. He sinks deeper into Wilbur’s arms. Let’s his brother hold him.
“I still don’t, not really. Not completely,” he hums. “But I was angry when I found you lying there, when I found out it was Jared and I wanted him to hurt, just as much as I was hurting,” he whispers, his arms curling tighter, as if he’s the one responsible for Tommy getting hurt because if it wasn’t for the threats and the money then Tommy wouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first place.

“I’m not strong. You know that. Not like Techno or Sam. I used to get picked on in school, not just because I was a foster kid with no parents, but because I was a music kid with a loud mouth. I hated my parents when they abandoned us, but I’ve never wished them dead, so I don’t understand how you and Phil could so easily….”
He trails off, unable to make himself say it, arms curling steadily tighter, like he needs to prove to himself that Tommy is here, not lying in the street, bloody, too close to death because Jared nearly—

“I don’t like it. I can’t promise I do. Any sane person wouldn’t like it. But I can’t be sane because I still miss you and I…

“I understand why.”

Tommy doesn’t need Wilbur to understand his reasons. He just wants his brother back—both of them—and he wants to come and lounge on the sofa while Wilbur plays guitar and Techno tears apart new movies with their poor dialogue and bad plot; game nights and drunk nights where Ranboo steals the guest bed, and Tubbo sleep walks, and Niki picks a victim to practice her makeup, and Jack embarrasses himself, and Sam hogs all the food, and Eret tries to stop everyone from getting hangovers, and Dad turns up the following morning with breakfast takeaway, sports drink and painkillers because they all got hangovers anyway.

He turns, in Wilbur’s arms, not breaking his grip to throw his own arms around his brother, pulling him in. Wilbur cups the back of his head and squeezes him closer, like he’s trying to make up the distance of this past month, words spilling out of him that Tommy tunes back into, not needing Wilbur to understand but beyond grateful that he’s trying; “and I’d do anything to protect you and Techno both, and Phil only cared about keeping you safe, he didn’t try to hide anything; he didn’t care that Techno and I— that if we said anything at all, everything would be over, and then Sneeg was there and I thought it was a trick, and I thought there was something in the tea, and I was driving myself crazy with fear,” he says, sounding as breathless as Tommy feels.
“I wanted to understand. I felt like I needed to. I was angry too, and I kept freaking out, and—Techno started hovering because I was distracted one night when I was cooking and I cut myself, but all I could see was your blood all over my hands and I wanted Jared dead, so bad. And I didn’t feel guilty about it. I kept thinking it was a shame you hadn’t managed to kill him, but then, I didn’t want you to have to kill him, because he should’ve never hurt you in the first place, and you—

“Tommy, you were willing to kill someone for me,” Wilbur breathes, like it’s some great revelation.

Not to Tommy.
It’s simply his love.

“Techno said he hurt you,” he says into Wil’s shoulder. “Jared beat you up and stole your money with a friend.”
“He didn’t beat me, he just hit me twice and I gave in way too quickly,” Wilbur corrects him. “I told you, I’m not strong. I don’t think I could ever do what you and Phil do.”
“I didn’t think so either,” Tommy confesses. Wil makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t make to pull away. “Dad never wanted me to copy him. He always said I should try and help people other ways first; that I should always go to him, Sneeg or Jordan and through the proper channels. But I overheard Jared threatening you one night and I couldn’t. He was like all the other people Dad went after—looking down on other people, hurting others to gain something—and I just… couldn’t stand aside,” Tommy says, wishing for his words to make sense. For Wilbur to hear just how much he loves him.

Wil gives him a light squeeze, and then, slowly, pulls back. Tommy doesn’t bother to hide how red his eyes are, crying in both brothers arms barely half an hour apart. And when Wil smiles at him, soft and unsure but so very fond, it isn’t like Tommy will be stopping anytime soon.

“Never again, okay? Never put yourself in danger like that, for my sake?” he asks. “Because if anything were to ever happen to you Tommy, I can’t promise that I’d hold the same restraint I did this time. It would be a massacre.”

Technoblade was right.
Their definition of Love was the same.

And although Tommy can’t promise he won’t ever stand by when he can protect his family, he promises that it won’t be as disastrous as this time. He’s still refining his style, after all.
He’s nineteen. He has time.

Wil draws him back into a hug. “Missed you, baby brother.”
“Missed you too Wil.”

Chapter Text

Dad is close to plating up dinner by the time Tommy and Techno come stumbling in through the door; Tommy laughing near-hysterically, Techno bemoaning his fate because apparently he’d made a mistake to accept Tommy picking him up from the airport instead of catching the train for the majority of the way.
“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Tommy grins as he shucks off his coat, throwing his keys on the counter as he saunters into the kitchen, snagging chips off of a plate still next to the stove.
“Worse,” Techno moans, as a hand comes to hit at Tommy’s, Wilbur hissing at him, “off, off, that’s my plate Gremlin, get your own.”

“Tommy, drinks,” Dad directs him, before the pair can playfully kick off, ignoring Tommy’s whining because Wil is sat at the table doing nothing, ignoring his computer and the mess of paperwork where he’d been focused on preparing and organising for the Lovejoy tour that starts mid-spring. He’s about to start clearing it away, to lay the table, but Dad just says they’ll eat in the living room—a rare treat considering Techno’s back home after being in the states for ten months.
Tommy rolls his eyes when the two of them finally get close enough to hug, ducking past to make a beeline for the sofa, reserving both his seat and the tv remote even if he ends up kicking his feet with Wil and getting out-voted so that they end up putting on a new superhero series. He ends up stealing chips when Wilbur isn’t looking, and teasing Technoblade who is battling to keep his eyes open, insisting he’s fine every time Dad tells him to take the spare room.

It’s a fun evening, and the four of them are enjoying themselves, soaking in the peace of good company and episodes that aren’t too long but filled with enough action to keep their attention.
So Tommy doesn’t want to say anything when Dad’s face flashes with a dark expression when he reads his phone, having got a text, or a notification of some kind. Dad knows he notices though, eyes flicking up to the others, catching Tommy’s and the questioning glance that lays there. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make to, and probably wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for Technoblade’s foot to nudge his leg. Wilbur must catch the movement out the corner of his eye because he was facing the tv, turning his head in confusion.
Between Dad’s expression and the other’s eyes watching him, he pauses the tv.

“Phil?”
“It’s nothing that can’t wait,” Dad says, laying his phone, face down, on the arm of the sofa, feeling much the same as Tommy, not wanting to bring attention to anything less than the peacefulness of the evening. But Tommy isn’t the only stubborn one in their family and Dad has always promised to never keep the important things from him, so he settles back against the cushions and waves idly to his phone.

“Jared’s release date is predicted for May.”

It’s been fifteen months since Jared’s attack went to trial and he started serving what was supposed to be a three year sentence. Some hot-shot defence lawyer had been sniffing around, trying to reduce the ruling so Tommy already had an idea that Jared Marks wouldn’t be serving his entire sentence, but he had thought he’d at least have another year, or at least another six months. He isn’t sure if he’s angry or surprised. Maybe both.
Beside him, Wilbur is as tense as a coiled spring; Technoblade no longer half-dozing on the sofa but suddenly sharp and alert, brow folded in anger, hands curled into fists.
“Finally,” he murmurs, but in the tense silence of the living room, he’s easily heard.

“Slow down,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “We’ve already waited fifteen months,” Wilbur tells him, like that’s excuse enough, but Dad just levels him with a look. “And you can wait a few more. There’s no point throwing everything away for sloppy revenge.” Wil frowns, opening his mouth to argue, but Tommy just nudges him with his foot, breaking out into a grin. “He’s not saying no. He’s just saying to slow down. Think things through, so it doesn’t turn into the same mess as last time.”
“No stabbing,” Techno pipes up.
Wil rolls his eyes, but its fond. “No getting stabbed. Other than that, I’m making no promises.”