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For as long as Tommy can remember, he’s always had nightmares.
They’re the perk of being rescued from an underground cult and being forced into a civilian life like nothing ever happened. It was only four years ago Tommy had been rescued (and rescued was a generous overstatement at that) and had thrown into a worse kind of torture.
Tommy would be a fool to compare his time in that cramped up bunker with only the likes of Dream, Punz, and George to keep him company with his life in the foster care system, but it’s the only life experience he has. And if he had to pick one, sometimes, he thinks he’d pick going back with Dream if it meant not having to deal with a much bigger, awful demon.
Highschoolers.
Tommy’s worst fucking nightmare.
“You look like shit,” his classmate says, only proving his point and inner monologue. At eight in the morning, Tommy can only blink and scowl at his nosy lab partner, a boy named Tubbo, who thinks just because he was also a big news story survivor that they should be best friends. He hates to admit that he likes Tubbo because he doesn’t want to think that’s why they’re friends. Not that he’d call them friends-- not to digress.
“I didn’t sleep well, asshole,” Tommy sighs, rubbing at his eyes. His nightmares never have let him sleep. He’s tried everything to avoid them. He’s slept at weird times, in short increments, in different places, in pajamas, with socks on, and none of it works. No matter what he does, Tommy wakes up at 3am shaking and trembling.
Over the years though, Tommy had grown used to the nightmares. They never got easier, but he got used to them. He learned to handle them.
Until, as of late, they got a whole lot fucking worse.
“How am I supposed to face my wives without my beauty sleep?” Tommy continues to gripe. He plops his face down against the desk. He doesn’t even bother to raise his head as his teacher walks into the classroom and clears his throat.
“I dunno, how are you gonna face your scary foster brothers with those eye bags?” Tubbo asks, sending a tremor down Tommy’s spine.
“They won’t notice. Wil’s got practice late tonight, and Techno’s been in one of his quiet moods. I’m sure it’s fine.” Tommy’s eye twitches at the mention.
Techno and Wilbur, his two foster brothers, have been overprotective since they’ve met. They didn’t even like Tommy at first, and Wilbur made sure to tell him that every change he got. Even then, Wilbur was picking fights with kids bigger than him just to make sure Tommy didn’t get a single hit on him. They were protective, insanely so, even when they didn’t like him.
And now that Wilbur and Techno -- maybe saying liking him is a stretch. But they’ve definitely had some bonding in their couple of months together. And those months were enough to make their protectiveness triple in size.
Letting them see his eyebags and find out he hasn;t been sleeping?
Yeah. Not an option!
“Maybe you can just take a nap during class,” Tubbo whispers as an afterthought.
“I know you’re not advocating that my class is your kindergarten nap time,” his teacher huffs, suddenly drawing attention to the two of them. Tubbo sheepishly ducks his head whereas Tommy just cackles an awkward apology (without sounding apologetic at all).
Despite his best efforts to stay awake in the class like he had intended to, Tubbo’s idea grew more and more appealing as time went by. The text on the whiteboard became blurrier and blurrier with each passing second until his eyes finally fluttered shut, and his head faceplanted into the desk.
“Mr. Innit, I need--”
“You can’t wake him up!” Tubbo hisses. Tommy pretends to still be asleep, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to raise his head. He yawns into his folded arms and lets Tubbo fight like a lion-hearted mouse.
“Is there something about Geometry that’s boring to you?”
“Yes!” Tubbo cries out. “Your boring ass geometry lesson isn’t as important as the years of drama he got from cult-shit. You ever been a cult sacrifice before, ma’am?” There’s a beat of silence, and Tommy tries his best not to laugh and give himself away. “No, but you’ve gone to school to teach shit geometry, huh? Yeah. Let him sleep.”
There’s a beat of silence. Tommy waits for the teacher to snap, but somehow it never comes.
“...I think you meant ‘trauma,’ not drama, Tubbo,” his teacher adds, and that’s the last he hears from her aside from her leaving footsteps.
Class goes by without a hitch, and by the time the bell rings, Tommy’s managed to sleep a few winks.
He still feels groggy and awful. There’s no doubt that the black eye bags are permanently wedged under his eyes. They’ve always been there, but they’re somehow so much worse today.
“I have a friend that does make-up,” Ranboo supplies at lunch time. “Niki, you know her? She could put some concealer on you.”
“I don’t need any make-up,” Tommy huffs. Then, he bats his eyelashes at the others surrounding him at the cafeteria table. “I’m just as hot without it!”
Tubbo, around a mouthful of burnt, cardboard pizza, says, “For the eyebags--!” A mess of crumbles fall out of his mouth and spills out on his lap.
“Ew,” Ranboo comments, throwing a napkin his direction only for it to get ignored.
“I don’t need it. They won’t notice, I’m sure.”
--
It might’ve been Tommy’s Famous Last Words.
For the record, he had been right. Wilbur had late practice - according to his text, he wouldn’t be home until past ten, and his friend Quackity was dropping him off. Phil had brushed it off like it was no big deal (apparently, Wilbur has a habit of staying out late when with his friends), and Techno had retired to his room early on in the night.
“We’ll just leave him be,” Phil had explained with a simplistic ease. “Techno likes his quiet time to recharge, but he’ll come out when he’s ready.”
“Oh, but when I hole up in my room, it’s a danger to myself and a concern,” Tommy had mocked back. He got shot down soon after that with Phil crying out how it was different.
With the two others out of the way, it was only Phil and Tommy in the house. The sensible option would be for them to go out to eat or pick up something, but Phil had decided tonight was a great time for them to cook tacos.
“It’s just browning some meat. We can handle that, right, Tommy?”
If Tommy had spoken his Famous Last Words for the day, those were gonna be Phil’s.
They were supposed to be cooking together, but Phil was doing the majority of the work.
Not to say either of them were really great cooks.
“You know,” Tommy begins, voice low in his throat, void of its usual mirth. “I’m surprised they let you foster kids when your cooking skills are that bad.”
“Well, that’s why I adopted Techno,” Phil replies quickly in the same deadpanned tone. “So he can cook.”
Tommy looks down at the unsuspecting mess of ground meat.
“But Techno’s not here.”
He gets a short hum in response. Phil gnaws on the bottom of his lip.
“What if,” Phil starts, already plucking the home phone off of the receiver, “we order pizza?”
The two make an abrupt decision to order two pizzas. Phil gets his special keto pizza that Tommy doesn’t dare touch and Tommy gets his allergy friendly white sauce pizza.
By the time the pizza arrives, Tommy’s curled up on the couch. His eyes are threatening to drift close, despite it being relatively early in the night. It’s hardly past six, and Phil has the TV remote in his hand as if he’s ready to pick a movie for the night.
It’s their tradition, Tommy and Phil’s favorite to do when they’re alone in the house. Other times when it’s too nice outside for Phil to justify being couch potatoes in the living room, they go to the park where Tommy can run around - Phil occasionally trying to run to keep up with him. Other times they go out for ice cream and come home to play a multiplayer game together. On the days where one of them doesn’t feel like playing, one will play so the other can lean against the other and just watch, occasionally backseat gaming when the opportunity arises.
Typically, Tommy would be ecstatic any other time, but today he can hardly keep his head up. His lack of sleep hadn’t hit him until the school day had taken its toll and he had gotten off of the bus.
Phil sets a few slices of his pizza on a paper plate before setting a glass of chocolate milk down on the table beside him. He hadn’t even asked for it. Phil had just known it’s what he always craved when he ate pizza.
The small remembrance was enough to make Tommy’s face flush before hiding his face behind his knees. He shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth.
“What should we watch?” Phil asks. His plate remains untouched on his lap. Tommy eyes the TV with a weary gaze as he skips over the horror series in their continued watching.
“I thought we were finishing Annabelle. ” Horror movies weren’t typically their favorite, but everyone in the house likes to get festive for the spooky holiday.
“Well,” Phil says, clicking his tongue as he scrolls through the titles, “I don’t think you’d last very long.”
White-hot offense runs through Tommy at the slight. He gasps around his mouthful of pizza and shoots an offended expression towards Phil’s direction.
“I’m not a pussy, Philza, I can handle some -- who do you think I am? You may be the bravest man I’ve ever met, but I’m - I’m a big man.” Tommy’s tangent is cut off by Phil’s sudden laughter.
“I don’t doubt you could,” Phil says, even though the both of them know Tommy can’t make it through any of the scary movies he insists on watching without snuggling up next to whoever is the closest and covering his eyes. “But I meant before you fall asleep.”
Tommy’s offense turns into widespread panic at the drop of a hat. He stiffens on instinct, preparing to fight back the claim, but his words fall short on his tongue.
It’s no secret Tommy struggles with nightmares. Tommy has a big disclaimer on his file before any parent willingly takes him into his own. It reads all about how Tommy has a tendency to wake up in the night from nightmares.
Most parents always agree. They don’t think too much about it until they see what they mean. As a child, Tommy often woke in the middle of the night screaming, crying, and thrashing around in his bed. Sometimes he’d accidentally hurt the little foster brothers or sisters sleeping soundly next to him or the poor soul who chooses to grab his arm as he’s hollering.
Not many foster parents were willing to keep him - arms scratched up and bloody and face a white pale color - after that.
By the time he was older though, the nightmares become easier to handle. They didn’t stop. They never got less scary. But Tommy learned how to bite his tongue to keep himself for waking up people in the house. He learned how to calm down his heart afterwards and fall back into an empty and restless sleep afterwards. Tommy always has nightmares, but now, he rarely wakes up from them.
Until, recently that is. About a month or so after he’s lived in the house.
“I’m not tired,” Tommy admits, a lie heavy on his tongue, after the long stretch of silence between them.
Phil doesn’t look phased. He doesn’t even look mad or upset that Tommy lied. He doesn’t look him in the eye as he takes another bite of his meal.
It’s quiet for another stretch of silence until Phil gulps down his bite and says, “You can nap here. I can keep watch.”
Tommy shoots him a cold hearted glare (or at least, what he hopes looked cold hearted and menacing).
“I fostered a kid not too long ago with nightmares. I told you about that before, didn’t I?” Tommy wants to tell him he doesn’t want to talk about this, but for some reason, he listens. He listens as Phil talks about things he doesn’t want to hear. “Poor kid came out of a real nasty home. He’d wake up screaming about his birth father finding him. Asshole was in jail, of course, but it didn’t click for him. For a long while, it didn’t.”
Tommy pauses. “I don’t dream about Dream,” he says before having to laugh. “Hah. Dreaming about Dream.”
Phil doesn’t smile this time. “You’ve gone through a lot of stress. It can be scary, sneaking up on you. But I can keep watch, if you want to sleep. In case you have another one.”
“I haven’t been having them,” Tommy lies, voice cold and stern. “Not for a long time.” It’s a lie, but when he speaks next, it’s only the truth. “I know that bastard is rotting six feet under ground. He isn’t in my dreams.”
“Okay,” Phil says, and that’s that. “Do you want to pick a show?”
Tommy picks a comedy show. He makes it through one episode before his eyes are drifting shut against his will. He doesn’t wake from a nightmare, though. He only stirs when a door in the background shuts.
He stirs from his spot on the couch where he’d slumped over on his side. Phil is gone, but there’s a light on in the other room indicating he wasn’t asleep yet. The living room was cleaned up, remnants of dinner put away, and a blanket was wrapped around Tommy.
He sighs softly, rubs at his eyes, and drags his feet into his bedroom.
Tommy all but is ready to collapse into his bed. He doesn’t bother turning on his light before stumbling into the room. He reaches for his fairy lights, the one decorating his closet as a makeshift lamp, and flicks the switch. When he turns around, a hunched up figure in the room catches him off guard.
He jolts in place, a hand over his chest, as he stares at the hunched figure. He can tell it’s Wilbur, even from the back of his head.
“Wil, what’re you doin’ in my room?” Tommy sleepily slurs, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s so late, get out.” Wilbur doesn’t reply, so Tommy huffs under his breath before charging towards him. A lazy grin dances on his lips as he presses his palms hard against his back until Wilbur is falling forward. “Ha, gotcha, bitch!”
Instead of reeling around to face him, Wilbur falls on his side. Tommy stills immediately, a panic running through his veins, and he crouches down at his side.
“Wilbur?” he questions, anxiety dripping off of his voice. He rolls Wilbur over, and a stench of rotting copper hits his nose. He covers his face with his free hand as he takes in the sight of Wilbur - bloody and wheezing - on his bedroom floor. “Wilbur, oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck? Wilbur-- what happened?”
Tommy tries to scoop him off the floor, but the dead weight is more than he can lift up.
“Techno! Phil--Fuck, someone help!” Tommy screams, struggling to wrap his arms around him. He pulls him up by his shoulders to yank him into his lap, and he holds his head up. “You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay, I gotcha-- fuck. Phil! Phil!” He’s screaming as hard as he can, but no one’s coming. Wilbur’s hurt, he’s dying, and no one’s fucking coming.
“PLEASE!” Tommy breaks. Tears are rolling down his face, he knows it, and Wilbur’s crying too - bloody streams of red dripping off of his face. There’s an aching wound in his creme colored sweater, but Tommy only wipes the bloody tears off of his face. “Please be okay, pl-- PLEASE! Someone help me!”
No one ever comes.
Tommy rocks back and forth, keeping Wilbur tucked close up against his chest, until there’s hands pinching at his shoulders. He screams again, curling himself over Wilbur’s body as if to protect him from the attacker, and he lashes out with his foot.
Whoever his attacker is must be strong because he wraps his arms around him with no hesitation, and Tommy screams again - only for him to be ripped around to face his attacker.
Technoblade stands, face pinched with worry, in his pink pig pajamas. His hair is ruffled in every which direction, and there’s a small trickle of blood dotting down his cheek.
“...Are you with me now?” Techno asks, blinking up at him slowly. The lights are on in the room now, but who had turned them on? They were just off.
“Tommy? Can you tap my leg three times if you can hear me?” Tommy’s face contorts into a grimace as a gentle voice fills his ears. He turns his head minutely, noticing the body tugged towards him. Wilbur has struggled to put some distance between them, he can tell, but there’s no bloody wound staining his sweater. There’s a spill, but it was nothing like it just was.
Tommy reaches out hesitantly and taps Wilbur’s leg.
“Okay, good, good,” Wilbur breathes, beaming up at him with a gentle smile.
Tommy has the words. They’re deep in his chest, threatening to bumble out of his lips, but they never make it far enough. Instead, he reaches out for Wilbur, and the arms around his shoulder are trying to pull him back once more.
“N-No,” Tommy grunts out.
“Shh, Wilbur’s okay,” and it’s Phil, there’s no mistaking it. He stands close by, and Tommy blinks up at him helplessly.
“He’s - there’s red,” Tommy tries, fumbling with his sweater.
“It’s not mine,” Wilbur replies, eyebrows furrowed together.
“Oh, thank god,” Tommy exhales, visibly slouching as relief courses through him.
“Thank god?! You’ve scratched yourself up,” Techno huffs. “Here. Turn.” Tommy obeys after a moment - the words taking too long to process in his head.
Tommy sits still, blinking and unsteady, as Techno begins to dab at his arms. He looks away at the blood, knowing once the image gets in his head, it’s impossible to get rid of.
“Oh,” Tommy says finally, after what feels like hours. “I had a bad dream.”
A short scoff from behind him. They’ve moved to the bed, so Techno can sit in the chair in front of him as he cleans his wounds. Philza wipes at his face with a wet rag, even though he’s sure nothing is injured there. He’s desperate for the comfort, so he leans in anyways.
“But -- you were hurt,” Tommy tries, struggling to piece together what happened. “Was that the dream?”
“No, no, I wasn’t hurt until I--” Wilbur’s slip up in words made Tommy’s eyes pop out of his head. “It’s just a little scratch, Tommy, I know you didn’t mean to.” Tommy curls in on himself, smacking away Techno.
“I-- I hurt you?” Tommy screeches, like that wasn’t the exact fucking thing haunting his dreams. “You’re always -- but it was never me. Not in my-- I--” He’s hyperventilating, he knows, because Phil is doing that annoying ass counting thing he does. 1-2-3-4, hold some bullshit. Tommy hears the numbers and lets them out.
He breathes.
Wilbur wasn’t.
“They’re not usually like that,” Tommy seethes, clutching at the sides of his face. “You were -- no one was coming .”
“Oh, Tommy, we’re here,” Phil coos, low and gentle in all the ways Tommy always was.
“No one ever comes for me,” Tommy says, and a hiccup in his chest sends his entire body jolting. “But you have to save Wilbur. I can’t-- I couldn’t help him, and no one--! No one came, and they have to come, because it’s Wilbur !”
Tommy’s seething again, burying his fingers in his scalp and yanking at his hair. Wilbur gently cards his fingers through Tommy’s messy hair, finding his trembling fingers before pulling his hands away. He hushes him, a soft humming sound, as he interlocks both of their hands. There’s blood on Wilbur’s shirt, but it’s not his. It’s not his.
“What… what do you mean by that, Tommy?” Techno asks. It’s silent in the dark bedroom aside from the father clock ticking away and Tommy’s strangled breathing.
“No one ever comes to save me,” Tommy says simply, as if he was discussing the weather. “But this time…” He begins to tremble violently once more, and Wilbur squeezes his hands. “It was Wilbur. And nobody came.”
“We’re here,” Phil says. “We’re right here, Tommy.”
“I don’t -- I don’t want this anymore,” Tommy huffs, breaking the grip off of Wilbur. “I can’t stay here - not if - I can’t do these dreams anymore.”
“We’re… causing you nightmares? Was it something we did?”
Tommy could almost laugh.
“I don’t really know how to tell you, Big Man, but the issue isn’t you. Unless fucking up taco meat and loving someone--” His voice breaks on the word, “-- makes you the problem, it’s just me.”
“I don’t - I can’t take these dreams. Wilbur -- Wilbur was dying, bloody and, it was all my fault, no one was coming-- ”
“But I’m okay,” Wilbur supplies. He is. He isn’t bloody or bleeding. Only Tommy. Only Tommy. “We’re all okay, Tommy.”
“I rather go back to having trauma dreams about the fucking cult than watch you die again,” Tommy huffs. “So… Call my social worker. I’m out. Goodbye forever--!” It’s half dramatics, but half truth.
Tommy can’t take those dreams anymore.
“That’s the price of loving someone, isn’t it?” Wilbur hums, smiling wryly up at him. Tommy glares at the wannabe poet at a little ways past three in the morning. “You love someone, you worry about them. It keeps you up in night.”
“I hate it, I hate you, ” Tommy says, but his trembling lower lip gives him away. The way he breaks down into a short sob as Wilbur cards him close to his chest, wrapping his arms around him with a simplistic ease in a similar fashion to how Tommy was trying to do in his dream.
“Thank you for protecting me in your dream. Thank you for loving me,” Wilbur says, holding him tightly. “I got you now.”
Tommy squeals, a broken off noise as he sobs ugly and harsh against Wilbur’s shoulder. He shakes his head frantically. The affection, the cuddles, the attention is too much for him to bare when his nerves are already fried off. He shakes in the grasp and reaches out desperately towards Phil and Techno.
“I’ll protect you, mate,” Phil comments, and the motherfucker’s no better.
“Stop it!” Tommy cries out, covering his face with his hands.
“What did I do?” Techno hisses as Tommy tries (and fails) to kick him with his foot.
“Stop -- stop making it so hard,” he screeches, and despite himself, despite his rapidly beating heart and the goosebumps slowly fading away, he laughs. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ love you bitches.”
“And how’s that workin’ out for ya?”
Tommy manages a lucky hit to Techno’s rib cage.
“Well, alright,” Techno huffs, as he holds his chest. “It’s not my fault you’re too lova--”
Tommy begins to scream again, but this time, it falls off into a choked off laughter as Wilbur shouts out a, “Ewww, Techno’s soft--!” His chest hiccups with the effort of laughing until he’s trying to hide away against Wilbur again.
“You know what, I think we should watch a movie,” Wilbur says suddenly, earning a surprised glance from everyone in the room.
“It’s three am,” Phil tries.
“And you bitches had movie night without us,” Wilbur continues. “Movie night. Non-negotiable.” Before Tommy can even try and negotiate it, Wilbur is scooping him up bridal style and marching off into the living room.
They settle in slowly, in a makeshift blanket pile on the couch. Sandwiched between Phil and Wilbur - Techno choosing the other end because he gets too warm at night, he sucks on a juice box Phil had grabbed for him.
“No scary movies,” Phil demands gruffly, but Wilbur was already selecting Up to watch anyways.
It turns out not to matter because Tommy falls asleep against Phil’s chest not even twenty minutes into the movie. No one dares to move off the couch, and this time, Tommy doesn’t wake up from a nightmare.