Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy woke to a familiar ache in his bones and the mattress dipping beside him. He made a low noise of discomfort, squinting as Dream hung a lantern above his bed.

“Dream,” Tommy mumbled, turning to press his face against his foster parent’s leg in an effort to hide from the light. “Hurts.”

“I know.” Dream’s voice was smooth as he pressed his broad palm over Tommy’s forehead. “Not feeling good, huh?”

Tommy only groaned softly, swallowing the saliva that gathered under his tongue.

“I told you,” Dream said with gentle exasperation. “You’re not strong enough to be running around like you were yesterday. You need to be more careful.”

Tommy could only nod weakly. This was hardly a new phenomenon. He’d been a sickly kid for as long as he could remember, and even longer than that if Dream’s account was to be trusted. And of course it was. After all, Dream had raised him. The village hadn’t known what to do with an infant whose parents had died. The nearest orphanage was a hundred miles away, and they’d had no way of getting him there. Tommy still counted himself lucky that Dream— barely an adult then himself— had been willing to take him in all those years ago.

“I’ll get you your medicine,” Dream said, rubbing a soothing hand over his hair. “I think you’d better stay in bed for the next few days, huh?”

Tommy scrunched up his face, displeased, but he couldn’t deny how awful he felt. His bouts of illness always snuck up on him; one day, he’d be up and about, feeling on top of the world. The next, he’d be back in bed, a fever or some other malady keeping him down.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Dream let out a breath through his nose. “It’s not your fault,” he said, and Tommy’s heart clenched at Dream’s kindness. He was beyond patient, even with all of Tommy’s faults. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Tommy let his eyes drift shut, pressing his forehead more firmly into Dream’s leg in silent gratitude.

“Don’t go back to sleep yet,” Dream said, patting his hair. “You need your medicine.”

Tommy made a disgruntled noise, but he didn’t fight it as Dream pulled away. It seemed he’d hardly blinked before Dream returned, a familiar bottle in hand. He was lucky his medicine didn’t taste bad, what with how often he had to drink it. Dream held him upright as he sipped at the small bottle. As he swallowed the last of it, the tug of sleep grew stronger than ever. His eyelids were too heavy to pry open and the moment Dream let him go, he collapsed back onto the bed.

“Sleep,” Dream said, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. The last thing Tommy remembered was a steady thumb wiping away a lingering drop of medicine from his chin.

The next few days were swallowed by the haze of sleep. Tommy remembered little, save for Dream’s presence drifting in and out of his room, spooning broth into his mouth and monitoring his fever. When he finally woke long enough to register more than his own pain, Dream was at his bedside and sunlight was streaming in through the window.

“Dream?” His voice was hoarse with disuse. Despite the ache in his bones, he felt better than he had in ages.

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was thick with relief. “Are you with me this time?”

Tommy nodded sluggishly, swallowing past the film of sleep.

“It’s been four days,” Dream said. His hand was heavy where it pressed to Tommy’s forehead. “You worried me, kid.”

“Sorry,” Tommy croaked. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know, darling. I’m just glad I was here to take care of you.”

Tommy hummed in agreement. He didn’t know what he would do without Dream.

By the afternoon, he felt well enough to sit at the table and eat. His muscles still felt weak, but that was hardly a new sensation. His hand trembled as he spooned soup into his mouth under Dream’s watchful eye, but he was determined to do it himself. By the time he finished, he was utterly spent.

“We’re running low on supplies,” Dream said, clearing his bowl and moving to wash it. “So when you’re back on your feet, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you for a few days.”

“Okay,” Tommy agreed. With only one parent, it was hardly unusual that he was left alone. He knew Dream felt bad about it, so he tried not to complain. Besides, he’d been lucky: so far, he’d never gotten sick while Dream was away.

Two days later, Dream was packed to leave.

“I’ll be gone a week at most,” Dream repeated for what had to be the fourth time. “You know the rules. Don’t go into my study, don’t use the stove, and stay inside the house. I don’t want you talking to anyone in the village.”

Tommy nodded. He was intimately familiar with this spiel of Dream’s. “I’m fifteen now,” he said. “I’ll be good, I promise. You don’t have to worry.”

Dream’s lips thinned pensively and he pressed a heavy hand to Tommy’s head. “I’ll be back. A week, tops.”

Dream left in the morning. By the afternoon, Tommy’s head was pounding. He needed his medicine, but the only store of it was in Dream’s study, where he was forbidden to set foot.

But if Dream knew he was sick, he would surely want him to take his medicine, Tommy reasoned.

The door to Dream’s study was heavy, thicker than any other door in the little house. It wasn’t locked. Tommy practically preened at the implication: Dream trusted him. He knew he would never disobey him unless it was an emergency. Therefore, he felt no need to lock up his study.

Tommy quickly located his medicine in the small room, but all that remained was a half-full vial sitting on a low shelf. It would have to do, Tommy supposed. He could only hope that it would be enough to cure whatever bug he’d caught. When Dream came home, he could get him more.

He downed it. He was halfway through rinsing out the bottle when a familiar rush of weakness came over him. It was all he could do to drag himself to bed before he passed out.

His medicine was working like it always did.

Sleep clung to Tommy like a tree’s thick sap, sticking to itself and trapping him in its all-encompassing hold. It took too long to pry his eyes open. When he finally did, the morning sun shone on him through his bedroom window.

Had it already been a day? Two, maybe? His mouth was unbearably dry. His head pounded. He groaned, reaching up a trembling hand to press it to his temple. The medicine hadn’t been enough. If anything, he felt worse.

“Dream?” His throat burned as it protested. He was met with silence. So Dream hadn’t come home yet, and the house was empty of medicine. Tommy needed help. He forced his sluggish mind to focus. Where did Dream get his medicine? He never talked about it, but surely it was from the witches’ shop on the other side of the village. The three witches that resided there were trusted by the village, Tommy knew, and they could brew up most anything.

Still, apprehension stirred in his stomach. He knew the rules well, and he knew Dream likely wouldn’t be happy to learn that Tommy was leaving the house. But just like going into Dream’s study yesterday, it was for an emergency. Dream wouldn’t want him to feel so sick if there was something he could do about it. Besides, Tommy reasoned, Dream only said not to talk to anyone in the village. The witches lived just beyond the village, in the shadow of the forest, so technically, he wasn’t breaking any rules. Besides, his head and throat felt worse than any guilt ever could.

So, with his head pulsing and his throat on fire, he stuffed on his shoes and grabbed one of Dream’s jackets. As a measure of caution, he wrapped a bandana around his nose and mouth. With his weak immune system, it was dangerous for him to be around others’ germs, so covering his mouth and nose seemed like the best precaution. Beyond that, he would just have to do his best to avoid touching people.

Their village was small, so it was easy to skirt around the edges of it to get to the other side. Tommy found himself in front of the witches’ shop in less than fifteen minutes. Like most places in the village, the building functioned both as a business and a home. He climbed the steps to the porch, noting the ‘Open’ sign hanging on the door. He twisted the door handle and pushed it open. A bell rang as he did so, startling him. He peered into the shop. “Hello?”

“Hello?”

Tommy bit back a shriek, jerking back hard enough to slam his elbow into the thick wooden door. That was going to bruise, he recognized distantly.

A crow perched on the counter, its head tilted. “Hello?” it echoed again, its voice shrill.

Tommy blinked at it. “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck?”

Tommy was too distracted by the talking bird to notice the curtain behind the counter opening.

“Hi there!”

Tommy startled again, pressing a hand to his chest as he took in the man now standing behind the counter. “Jesus.”

The man winced. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s—” Tommy blinked and tried to refocus. “It’s fine. I’m Tommy.”

“Philza,” the blonde said warmly. The crow flapped its wings, soaring briefly in the shop’s small space before settling on Philza’s shoulder. Philza scratched under its chin affectionately. “This is Chat.”

“Chat,” Tommy repeated weakly. “Your bird talks.”

Philza laughed, the sound bright. “We’re witches, mate. She’s hardly the strangest thing in this house.”

Tommy felt slightly ridiculous at that reminder.

“So,” Philza said, leaning on the counter. “What can I do for you, Tommy?”

Right. Tommy took a deep breath and refocused. “I need a potion.”

“You’re going to want Technoblade then,” Philza said. “He’s our potion master.” He turned, drawing back the curtain that led from the shop to the house, and called, “Techno! Got a customer for you!”

He turned back to Tommy, winking. “He’ll be right down.”

Tommy fidgeted as he waited. Fortunately, Philza was right: It didn’t take long before the curtain was opening again. However, to Tommy’s surprise, rather than one person, two people emerged from behind it. The first was broad with pink hair falling over his shoulders. The second was infuriatingly tall, with a self-assured expression set on his face. Tommy decided he despised him.

“Techno,” Philza said, addressing the pink-haired man. “Tommy here needs your services.”

Technoblade’s eyes shifted to Tommy. Tommy squirmed under his unblinking gaze.

“I’m Tommy,” Tommy repeated. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the vague direction of home. “I live—”

“We know who you are,” Technoblade interrupted flatly. “You’re Dream’s kid.”

Tommy brightened marginally. “Yeah,” he said, wincing as his throat burned with the strain of speech. “He’s away, but I need potions. Whatever he usually gets me is fine.”

Philza’s brow wrinkled. “Dream doesn’t come to us for potions.”

Confusion crawled sluggishly through Tommy’s aching brain. “He doesn’t?”

Technoblade shook his head. “Some people mix home remedies themselves,” he explained. “It’s not as precise a science as potion-making and it rarely achieves equal effects, but it’s not dangerous if you know what you’re doing.”

“Dream knows what he’s doing,” Tommy said confidently. “If he’s not been buying my medicine from you, then he’s been making it since I was little.”

Technoblade hummed, the sound neutral. “Well, I don’t know what he’s been giving you exactly, but I should still be able to give you something that’ll help. So, you’re sick?”

Tommy nodded. “Sore throat, headache.” He gestured vaguely. “And I just feel really weak. Nothing unusual for me, but with Dream gone, I’m afraid I’ll end up too sick to take care of myself.”

“All right,” Technoblade said, his expression pensive. “I can help you out. Anyway, it would reflect badly on my business if I sent you home still sick. Does a regeneration potion sound okay?”

Tommy nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was Dream usually gave him, but something with regenerative properties couldn’t hurt.

“Come on back,” Technoblade said, waving him towards the curtain. “You can sit while I whip one up.”

With Philza and the other witch taking up the rear, Tommy followed Technoblade behind the curtain.

“Whoa.” Tommy couldn’t help his noise of amazement as he stared in wonder at the eclectic sight. The front of the shop had been interesting, with its dozens of carefully labeled products for sale. Each glowed with a tinge of magic, of course, but it was nothing overwhelmingly tangible.

But this… This room simply teemed with magic.

Plants were everywhere, some stretching freely across the ceiling and walls, while others were kept dried in glass cases. In the corner, a large brewing stand stood, heat emanating from it. Every flat surface was stacked with books, or littered with papers, or covered with glass jars of ingredients.

Even behind the bandana that covered his mouth, Tommy could taste the magic.

“Sorry for the mess,” Technoblade said, waving haphazardly.

Tommy was too stunned to respond. Philza cleared a place for him on the couch and he sat with a thud. He hadn’t realized how weak his knees felt until he sat down; the walk here had really taken it out of him.

Technoblade had already started mixing ingredients, while Philza worked on straightening the room up. The third witch perched on the arm of a chair in the corner, a guitar resting loosely in his grip, and studied Tommy with a tilted head.

“I’m Wilbur,” he offered. His accent was lofty.

Tommy eyed him shrewdly. “Why are you so tall? It makes you look like a clown.”

Philza burst into infectious laughter, and Tommy felt pride burn in his chest.

Wilbur scowled. “What’s with the mask? Trying to match Dream?”

Tommy flushed beneath the fabric, his shoulders hunching up near his ears. “I get sick easily,” he said, defensive. “So I have to be careful.”

“Smart,” Philza said, cutting Wilbur off before he could open his mouth again. “We’ll be careful then.” He pointed warning fingers at the other two. “Wash your hands extra thoroughly before you handle anything you’re going to give to him.”

Tommy was grateful for the man’s consideration. He didn’t want to catch a bug on top of the one he already had. He glared at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye before shifting his focus to Technoblade and the various magical items around him.

“I’ve seen that before,” he said, pointing at one of the dried vines hanging in a glass case. “What is it?”

Technoblade glanced over from where he was crushing ingredients in a mortar. “That? It’s a type of solanum. Poisonous. It’s only used in potions of weakness, harming, or slowness.”

Wilbur studied Tommy from the corner, where he perched with his guitar. “You’ve seen it before? I thought it didn’t grow around here. Techno, you always have to travel for a few days to collect it.”

Technoblade shrugged. “Maybe the kid’s traveled.”

Tommy hadn’t traveled. He knew that vine from the dried leaves of it Dream kept sealed in jars in his study. It was an ingredient, Dream said, the time Tommy had spotted him carrying some in.

Tommy was pulled away from his thoughts by the soft plucking of Wilbur’s guitar. The sound was penetrating, flooding the room with a sense of calm. But Tommy had already decided he didn’t like Wilbur, so he fought against it.

He eyed Wilbur with a thinly-veiled layer of disgust. “What do you do if Technoblade makes potions?”

Wilbur smirked. “I’m a musician.”

“No,” Tommy said, rolling his eyes. “What do you do? Like, magic-wise.”

Wilbur lifted his guitar slightly. “I make music. It’s how I channel magic.”

Tommy didn’t know what to say, so he scoffed instead. “That sounds dumb.”

Wilbur only laughed. “It doesn’t sound like much, I know, but I’ll show you if you want.”

Tommy decided that his dislike of Wilbur wasn’t quite as strong as his curiosity was, so he nodded.

“All right, watch that jar.” Wilbur pointed to a small jar sitting on the desk across the room. Tommy focused his gaze on it while Wilbur began to pluck a concentrated rhythm. The air thickened with magic and Tommy’s ears popped. Slowly, the jar began to rise, wobbling slightly in the air as Wilbur’s song prompted it upwards.

“Whoa,” Tommy breathed. He was transfixed, his gaze unmoving until Wilbur slowly brought it back down to rest on the desk again. He blinked, looking back at Wilbur who was watching him with an arched brow. “That’s pretty cool,” he admitted. He saved his pride just in time though by adding, “Still not as cool as Technoblade.”

Technoblade snorted, turning back towards him. “Thanks, kid. Your potion’s done, by the way.” He handed Tommy the bottle, pink liquid bubbling at the surface. “It tastes nasty, but it’ll do the trick.”

Tommy pulled down his mask, plugged his nose, and downed the potion. It didn’t go down easy, that was for sure. It was vile— nothing like the herbal teas and sweet syrups Dream made him. He made a face, already reaching for water as he swallowed. He was met with it, gentle hands pressing a glass of water into his hand. It was Philza, Tommy realized, catching a glimpse of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye as he downed the water.

“Easy,” Technoblade cautioned, pulling the glass down before Tommy could finish it in one gulp. “You gonna puke?”

“I…” Tommy blinked, startled at the unfamiliar lightness of his limbs. “I feel better.”

Technoblade arched his brow, amused. “I should think so. I know what I’m doing.”

Tommy was too stunned to craft a retort. He’d never felt repaired so instantly. Though the bitter aftertaste remained, he could feel its regenerative power thrumming in his veins. His bandana hung around his neck. He felt no need to pull it up to re-cover his mouth and nose.

He looked up, suddenly aware of the three sets of eyes on him. He swallowed, embarrassed, and stiffened his shoulders. “What do I owe you?” he asked, as if his pockets weren’t empty of coins.

Technoblade waved his hand, unconcerned. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Dream when he gets back and we can settle up then.”

Cold fear shot up Tommy’s spine, overpowering the warmth of the potion. “No,” he said, too quickly. At Technoblade’s arched brow and the sudden attention from Wilbur and Philza, he backtracked, blushing fiercely. “I mean, Dream doesn’t know I’m here.” He twisted his hands in his lap, picking at the edge of a nail until the bed filled pink with blood.

Wilbur had stopped picking at the strings of his guitar. Curious, he tilted his head, his brown eyes unnervingly piercing as he examined Tommy. Tommy shrank under his gaze. “Why is that?”

Despite his sudden anxiety, Tommy bristled at Wilbur’s honeyed voice. “None of your business, dickhead.”

Technoblade barked out a sharp laugh, and Tommy startled at the sound.

“Fair enough,” Technoblade said, seemingly unconcerned. “Then don’t worry about it, all right? It’s on the house.”

“No,” Tommy argued, his internal sense of justice rising within him. “That’s not right. I owe you.”

Technoblade considered that. “All right,” he said finally. “How about this? When you’re feeling better, you come back and help me clean up a little around here?”

Tommy jumped at the chance. “I’m good at cleaning.”

Technoblade nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then if you’re feeling well enough, come back tomorrow.”

“I will,” Tommy promised. Dream wouldn’t be home for at least another few days, so he was free to venture out until then.

“Do you want someone to walk you home?” Philza asked.

Tommy shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Get home safely then, mate.”

Tommy waved as he left the shop. As he made his way home, he couldn’t keep from flexing his fingers in and out of fists. He’d never felt so strong. The magic of the potion thrummed through him, still repairing what faults it could find. Even the fingernail he’d picked at was scabbing over where he’d broken skin, and the bruise on his elbow from hitting the door was surely disappearing. He wondered at the fact that Dream had never given him one of these potions.

But Dream knew best, he reminded himself. Instantly, he was ashamed of his doubt. Dream wouldn’t do anything less than what was best for Tommy. Tommy put the doubt firmly out of his mind.

As he approached the front door of his house, a flippant shadow darted across the ground next to him. On instinct, Tommy glanced up. Chat greeted him with a caw, tipping her wings to swing lower before settling on the roof’s edge.

“Hey, Chat,” Tommy said. “I told them I didn’t need an escort home.”

“Home,” Chat echoed. “Home, home, home.”

Tommy huffed out a breath of laughter through his nose. “Yep.” He stared at the front door, thick and heavy where it stood as a barrier between the world and his loneliness. “Home.”

The rest of the day passed slowly, but Tommy kept busy, picking up around the house and even chopping some firewood in the back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt well enough to do that.

And the next morning, he made good on his promise to return to the witches’ shop. It was the best day he’d had in his life. They fed him lunch halfway through the day, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard as he ate with them. He was almost disappointed when the day came to an end.

“All right,” Technoblade said, surveying the room. “Your debt is cleared.”

His study looked marginally better. Tommy had spent the day labeling and sorting various ingredients, categorizing books by magic type, and generally cleaning up, but it hadn’t felt like work for a single minute because Technoblade had allowed him to pester him with questions the entire time. His answers were unaffected but thorough, satisfying Tommy’s curiosity at least for the moment.

Tommy must have let his disappointment show at the dismissal though because Technoblade continued:

“But if you wanted to come back sometime, I guess I wouldn’t stop you.” His tone was uncaring, but Tommy held each of the words close to his chest, letting them warm his heart.

With Dream still gone, Tommy returned the next day. Through his talks with the witches, he learned the names of plants and their uses, the various types of magic, and the responsibilities of a witch. He learned that while Technoblade’s expertise lay in brewing and Wilbur’s magic was channeled through music, Philza’s magic came from pure study.

And despite his initial grudge against Wilbur, Tommy found that the man wasn’t actually as infuriating as he’d initially appeared. While he could certainly be irritating, Tommy found himself laughing with him as much as bickering. They weren’t far apart in age either. At twenty years old, Wilbur was only five years older than Tommy. Though he would never admit it to the man, Wilbur was the closest thing Tommy had ever had to a friend in his life.

Philza was kind, but funny too. Tommy liked how he laughed when he and Wilbur made fun of each other, but even more than that, he liked the way he made sure none of them went hungry, loading up their plates at lunch before his own. He was gentle, the way Dream was when Tommy was sick, but softer somehow. Tommy liked just sitting quietly with him, dozing as Philza copied notes from a large text.

But of the three witches, it was Technoblade’s steady presence and grounding voice that Tommy found himself gravitating most strongly towards. He learned about the different ingredients, asking questions about the ones he’d caught a glimpse of during his foray into Dream’s study. Every so often, Technoblade’s gaze would linger on him after a question, but he always answered to Tommy’s satisfaction, so Tommy saw no need to stop asking.

“That regeneration potion you gave me,” Tommy began one afternoon. It had been four days since he’d taken the potion and it was still on his mind, so he ventured to ask: “It was really strong, wasn’t it? Like, stronger than normal?”

Technoblade didn’t pause from where he was categorizing and labeling jars. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just…” Tommy hesitated. “I’ve never felt anything like that before. You know… just instantly better.”

Technoblade gave him a curious look out of the corner of his eye. “Dream’s never given you anything like that?”

Tommy shook his head.

“Even something similar, just weaker?”

“No. My medicine always makes me fall asleep, like really deep. It heals me while I rest.”

Technoblade’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Huh.”

Tommy shrugged. “It doesn’t feel great and I hate being so out of it for so long, but it’s worth it, I guess, if it makes me better in the long run.”

“Uh-huh,” Technoblade said slowly. “And… how long does it knock you out for?”

Tommy thought about it. “I’m not sure. I usually take multiple doses.”

Technoblade hummed neutrally. “Do you know what’s in it?”

Tommy shook his head. “I’m not allowed in Dream’s study.”

“Well,” Technoblade said, sounding more uncertain than Tommy had ever heard him. “If you ever need another regen potion, you can always come to us.”

Tommy’s chest was warm the whole way home, just thinking of Technoblade’s words. Tommy was happy. For the first time in his life, he had friends outside of Dream.

But eventually, Dream had to return. Tommy was ashamed of his own disappointment when he woke up the next morning to the front door opening. He was happy Dream was home, he was, but he couldn’t help but selfishly want the trips to the witches’ shop to remain a constant in his life. But Dream would never approve. Unless, Tommy considered: Unless he was no longer sick.

Tommy threw up dinner that night.

He couldn’t help but feel guilty, knowing that he’d ruined Dream’s homecoming dinner. Dream had even made it himself, despite Tommy’s protests. But of course, Tommy couldn’t stay well long enough to last the night. Fortunately, his guardian was ever-patient, only crooning softly as Tommy fell into bed, pushing his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead and pressing a bottle of fresh medicine to his lips. Tommy tried to turn away, discomfort making him anxious, but Dream insisted.

Before he could drain even half the vial, Tommy dropped off into sleep.

It had been three days. Technoblade wasn’t worried, per say— that would be absurd, considering he’d known the kid less than a week— but Tommy’s absence didn’t exactly put him at ease.

Philza was the first to note his absence aloud:

“Tommy’s not been by in a while, huh?”

Technoblade grunted.

“Yeah,” Wilbur said, passing through the room on his way out to forage. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I miss the little gremlin.”

Technoblade grunted again. It was none of his business. Maybe Tommy was sick again. Maybe he just didn’t want to come back. Frankly, Technoblade didn’t care.

Two hours later, he found himself outside of Dream’s house, a fresh regeneration potion tucked into his bag.

Just in case, he reasoned. Maybe Dream wasn’t home yet and Tommy had fallen ill again. Maybe he was stuck in bed, sweating out a dangerous fever. Or maybe he’d collapsed and hit his head and was now unconscious on the floor—

The front door swung open and Technoblade couldn’t help the curl of distaste on his lips as he was met with the eerie smile of Dream’s mask.

“Technoblade. Can I help you?”

“Dream. I was just…” Technoblade grimaced internally. Tommy didn’t want Dream to know he’d been out to see them. “I wanted to see if your kid was here. We’ve been looking for someone to help around the shop,” he lied.

Dream tilted his head. “Tommy’s a little under the weather right now.” Even with the mask, Technoblade could hear the tight smile in Dream’s voice. “He’s not up for visitors.”

Technoblade reached into his bag and withdrew a regeneration potion. “I thought that might be the case. This’ll help. It’s free of charge,” he added, hoping to avoid any possible refusal Dream could come up with.

But Dream wasn’t having it. “I appreciate it,” he said, his tone suggesting the opposite. “But Tommy’s immune system is very sensitive. I’d rather not introduce him to something new, with his risk of an allergic reaction so high.”

It was a lie. Technoblade didn’t need to be a witch to know that. But even with his gut screaming at him that something was wrong, he didn’t push.

“I hope he feels better,” he said, tucking the vial back into his bag. “Let me know if he’d be interested in working at the shop.”

Dream tilted his chin in affirmation. “We’ll see. Goodbye, Technoblade.”

Technoblade left without another word.

“You’re not to leave the house anymore.”

Tommy startled from where he sat at the table, leaning over a book Dream had brought back for him. “What?”

Dream didn’t turn to look at him as he said, “We had a visitor today. You’ve met him, right? Technoblade?”

Fear gripped Tommy’s spine in a cold fist. “Dream, that wasn’t—”

“I don’t care what it was or wasn’t,” Dream interrupted sharply, turning to face him from the counter. “I’m telling you now— I don’t want you leaving the house anymore. Look how sick you were when I came home from traveling.”

But I wasn’t sick, Tommy wanted to argue. I only got sick after eating with you.

Instead, he said, quietly, “Okay.”

“Good,” Dream said, satisfied. “Now you’re looking a little pale.” He tilted his head as he examined him. “I’ll make you some medicinal tea.”

Dread crawled slowly through Tommy’s veins. He was stiff as Dream heated the water before leaving for his study and returning with a jar full of familiar dried leaves. Solanum, Technoblade had said. Only used in potions of weakness, harming, or slowness. Tommy watched, numb, as Dream mixed the crushed solanum leaf into the tea before setting the mug in front of him.

“You want me to drink this.” It wasn’t a question, but Dream seemed to read it as one.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. He’d turned to clean up, his back to Tommy again, but he paused long enough to send him a sharp look over his shoulder. “It’ll help you feel better.”

“But I feel fine,” Tommy argued. The mug felt heavy with the weight of what he knew it contained.

“Tommy,” Dream said sharply. “What have I said about arguing with me?”

Tommy’s shoulders hunched up near his ears. “Sorry.”

With his heart in his throat, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a small sip.

“All of it,” Dream said. “Or else it won’t take.”

“It’s hot,” Tommy protested weakly, but despite his hesitance, he obediently drank the tea.

It burned going down and the heat spread like sludge through his veins. With wobbling arms, he lowered the mug to the table where it clattered lightly. Every inch of his body was weighted down, like he was moving underwater. His head felt thick, his brain sludge. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. Even to lift a finger took monumental effort. His body was not his own.

“Tired?” Dream’s voice was a gentle croon. Tommy wanted to shy away from it, but he couldn’t move, save to blink. “Let’s get you lying down.”

Distantly, he registered hands sliding under him, catching him as he slumped in his chair.

“Wait,” he tried to say, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth.

“Just sleep.”

Consciousness slipped from him like water through his fingers.

Chapter Text

Tommy woke up slowly. Every inch of his body fought the change, even down to his eyelids. It could have been another hour before he managed to pry his eyes open, but he had no way of knowing.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to get up.

Though his body protested even the thought, he managed to sit up, his arms trembling violently beneath him. His breath was loud in his ears, panting from exertion. The shift upright made him abnormally dizzy and he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment in order to combat the nausea that rose in his throat.

Slowly— every movement a struggle— he slid his legs over the side of the bed and touched his feet to the floor. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pushed himself off the bed and took a wobbling step forward.

He promptly collapsed to the floor.

A pained noise forced its way from his throat as his knees hit the hardwood. With his hands braced beneath him, he squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled a deep breath.

“Dream?” It came out weak. A whimper. He coughed and tried again. “Dream?”

He received no answer. Maybe he was in the village, Tommy reasoned, or out back, chopping wood. Either way, he needed to find him.

Slowly, with his muscles trembling beneath him, he crawled to his bedroom door, reached up, and tugged at the handle.

The door didn’t budge.

“Dream?” His voice was wobbly where it pitched upwards, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. “Dream!”

His own pounding heartbeat was his only answer.

Fuck. Fuck. He was hyperventilating.

The door was a non-starter, so he crawled back to his bed, where the window sat half-way up the wall next to it. It was dark outside. He fumbled with the window with weak hands, but just like the door, it remained stubbornly shut. It was then that he noticed the lock looped around its latch.

Lightheaded, Tommy sank back to the floor. His back pressed to the side of the bed as he clutched his chest in an effort to keep his lungs from collapsing entirely. He could hear himself distantly, his pained whines as he tried and failed to properly inhale. His vision was spotting out at the edges. The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain in his chest and the hardwood beneath him as he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

He woke to shaking and a frantic voice calling his name.

“Tommy? Tommy, wake up.”

Tommy groaned, unwilling to pry his eyes open as spikes pressed into his temple. But Dream was insistent, pulling him into a sitting position and patting his cheek. Finally, Tommy opened his eyes. He was still on the floor, he registered.

“What happened?” Dream demanded, flustered. “Did you faint?” He pressed the back of his hand to Tommy’s forehead, the other feeling at his neck for his pulse. Clumsily, Tommy pushed his hands away.

“Why’d you lock me in?” Tommy’s voice was hoarse, his throat abused from crying. It was the only question that mattered. Dream’s hands faltered where they were still trying to check him.

“The door?” He sounded incredulous. “That’s what this is about?”

Tommy didn’t know why Dream thought it was so absurd. “You locked me in,” he repeated, harder this time. His eyes— though already red from crying, he was sure— began to prick with tears all over again. “You trapped me.”

Dream let out a sigh, his hands falling to his side. He looked exasperated now, as if Tommy had just thrown some kind of tantrum. “I was afraid you would try to leave,” he explained, like Tommy was an idiot. “You weren’t well. I needed to step out for a bit to get some supplies from town and I didn’t want you to wander off. That’s all.”

“I was scared,” Tommy said, humiliatingly honest. “I thought you left me.”

“I’m sorry you were scared,” Dream said, his tone just on the edge of condescending. “But it really wasn’t that big of a deal. You just need to trust me, Tommy.”

Tommy swallowed.

“This—” Dream motioned between them. “Is all about trust. Right? I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

Tommy’s body was numb, despite his emotions warring inside of him.

Dream loved him. But he loved him the way a puppet-master loved his tools.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said weakly.

“You look a little pale.” Dream’s concern was nearly mocking now that Tommy truly understood. “I’d better get you some medicine.”

“No,” Tommy tried to say, lifting his hand to deter Dream from feeling his forehead. “I’m just hungry. Really.”

Dream seemed doubtful, but he acquiesced. “You haven’t eaten in a while,” he conceded. “Why don’t we try some soup?”

“Can I sit at the table?” Tommy didn’t know where this courage came from, but he needed to get out of this room. Nothing could be done if he remained trapped here.

“I suppose,” Dream said. “Come on.”

With gentle, lying hands, Dream helped him to his feet. His knees wobbled beneath him, but Dream wrapped a burning arm around his shoulders and led him to the kitchen. Tommy sat with a thump at the table.

“Your stew’s already made,” Dream said, gesturing towards the bowl sitting beside the stove. “I put some extra herbs in it to promote your health. I just need to heat up mine.” The pot with his stew sat on top of the stove, cold. He bent to open the stove door where a pitiful fire was dying in charred wood. “Ugh.” He ran a hand over his mask, irritation clear in the stiffness of his shoulders. “We need more firewood. I’ll be right back.”

Tommy said nothing as he watched Dream step into his shoes and duck out the back door.

An opportunity sat in front of him now, ripe for the taking. He yearned to run, to just flee, but with his body as weak as it was, he knew he wouldn’t get far before Dream caught up to him. So it was time for Dream to get a taste of his own medicine, so to speak.

With his legs trembling beneath him, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled out of the kitchen. The door to Dream’s study was an open mouth. Tommy didn’t hesitate before plunging in, teeth be damned.

Solanum. Solanum, solanum, solanum. Tommy really should have listened better when Technoblade explained the different plants and their effects because now, in the haze of fear, every dried leaf looked the same.

Finally, though, he spotted the familiar thin leaves, hanging to dry near the ceiling. It took several tries before he could reach far enough up to tear off a leaf. He hurried back to the kitchen where the stew simmered low over the dying fire.

Tommy crushed the leaf between his sweating fingers, turning it to dust before sprinkling it over the pot of stew. His own bowl had already been separated by Dream, no doubt laced with his own concoction of “medicine” that would keep Tommy sedated for as long as Dream deemed necessary. But Tommy was used to being poisoned. He just had to hold out longer than Dream.

He only barely made it back to his chair before Dream returned, a bundle of firewood under his arms. Dream fed a log into the fire, letting it slowly grow before he shut the oven door. When the stew was hot, he ladeled some into a bowl, removed his mask, and sat across from Tommy at the table.

Tommy ate his own stew slowly, his eyes fixed on Dream and his steaming bowl. It was a waiting game. It was a matter of who could resist the poison the longest, only Dream didn’t know he was in a competition. Tommy could hardly swallow past his terror. Fear owned him.

Dream was still eating, but the time between each spoonful was growing longer. Eventually, he set the spoon down and rubbed at his eyes. “Jesus, I’m tired,” he muttered.

“Are you sick?” Tommy ventured to ask. Dream gave him an irritated look and Tommy shrank back.

“I’m not sick,” he said shortly. “I’ve just not been sleeping much, with you so ill.”

Tommy was quiet. He swished his broth around in his mouth, drawing out each bite for as long as he could justify. He could feel the effects of his own meal setting in, the familiar, bone-deep exhaustion that permeated every inch of his body.

But in the end, it was Dream who lost the battle. His face was twisted in an expression of confusion. His chair screeched against the hardwood as he stood wobbly from the table.

“I’m… tired,” he said, his gaze distant. He waved his hand haphazardly at the dishes on the table. “Clean up here. I’m going to go lay down.”

He only made it to the couch before he collapsed, his eyelids fluttering in time with Tommy’s heart.

For a moment, Tommy was frozen, his ears ringing as he stared at Dream’s limp body.

Had Tommy just killed him?

No. No, Tommy could see now the rise and fall of Dream’s chest. He was alive, for better or for worse. Tommy couldn’t decide if the sick feeling in his stomach was disappointment or relief.

His knees were weak beneath him as he struggled to his feet. He needed to get out. He didn’t bother with shoes or a coat. He left the front door wide open as he stumbled out of his cage.

It was dark. Through his wavering vision, Tommy could see the stars shining brightly above. The dewy grass was wet on his bare feet and his teeth chattered as he stumbled through the darkness. It was only the stars and the distant lanterns of the village that guided him.

Dream’s poison coursed through him. It weighed him down like an anchor, like a chain around his ribs that threatened to sink him.

He kept his eyes open, dead set on his destination. He needed help and there were three people who he knew would offer it freely.

The distance might as well have been a ravine between them, but he managed to cross it. His heart was pounding in his ears and throat and the tips of his fingers by the time he made it to the witches’ shop.

He tripped on the porch steps, landing hard on his knees. He slammed the side of his fist into the door, battering it with everything he had. The sound came back muted and weak. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, or the chill of his wet feet.

He needed to get the poison out. He needed everything Dream had ever given him out.

The porch digging into his knees, he shoved two fingers into his mouth and gagged around them.

On the outskirts of his vision, he registered the door opening.

“Tommy!”

A hand closed around his wrist, tugging his fingers out of his mouth. Tommy fought it, but with the potion still coursing through his veins, he was no match for Philza’s gentle strength.

“You don’t understand,” Tommy tried to say, still choking as Philza and Wilbur pulled his hands away from his throat. He was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It’s poison.” Maybe it was unintelligible, but it was the most important thing in the world now. Dream was poisoning him. He wanted to scream it to the world.

“Move.” Technoblade was made of stone as he shouldered Philza and Wilbur out of the way. He scooped Tommy into his arms unceremoniously, carrying him inside and setting him on the couch next to his work station. Tommy was still panting, gagging on the sour taste of his own bile. Technoblade shoved a bowl into his lap and Tommy took it, hunching over it as he suffered his forced rebellion.

“What did he give you?” Technoblade demanded.

“I don’t know.” Tommy’s throat was hoarse from vomiting. “Solanum at first. But he kept giving me stuff. I don’t know how long I was out. And then I ate— I ate something. Something bad.”

“Here.” Technoblade thrust a familiar pink vial into Tommy’s trembling hands. “We’ll start with this.”

Tommy trusted Technoblade. He did. But he couldn’t get past the thick liquid sloshing in the vial, how he couldn’t know for certain what was in it because he couldn’t see all of its components.

It seemed Technoblade could read the look on his face like a sentence. “It’s just a standard regeneration potion,” he said, a little softer than before.

“No,” Tommy said, despite knowing full well that Technoblade was trustworthy. He tried to shove the bottle back into Technoblade’s hands. “Please, I can’t.”

“Tommy, please—”

“I can’t.”

For a moment, Technoblade just held his gaze. They were both begging in a way, but it was Technoblade who gave in. He took the bottle from Tommy’s hands and set it aside. “I’ll make a new one,” he promised. “You can watch me.”

Phil’s eyes flashed with alarm. His cool hand was pressed to Tommy’s forehead, smoothing back his sweat-soaked hair. “Tech, there isn’t time—”

“Glistering melon.” Technoblade’s voice— though steady— carried an urgency that was unnerving to hear from the usually-unphased witch. “Phil, I need fresh melon now.”

It seemed there wasn’t time for arguing either because in an instant, Phil’s touch disappeared from Tommy’s forehead. “On it.”

Tommy must have been hallucinating by then because he blinked and suddenly, Philza’s slight form was shadowed by enormous wings, sprouting from his back and casting him into darkness.

Tommy’s mouth was dry. “What…”

“Stay awake.” The order came out terse. Tommy had never heard Technoblade sound so frightened. Sluggishly, Tommy nodded. His head lolled.

“Wilbur, keep him awake.”

The couch dipped beside him and a spindly arm wrapped around his shoulders. “Come on, Tommy.” For once, Wilbur’s tone wasn’t mocking.

Tommy smelled smoke. The stove was burning, heating a large pot as Technoblade sprinkled in blaze powder.

“Watch me, Tommy.” Technoblade glanced at him, his expression set. “Watch me make this. You know how.”

Tommy nodded and tried to swallow past the dryness of his throat. “Blaze powder in the pot,” he said hoarsely. “Then bring the water to a boil.”

Technoblade nodded tersely. “Then?”

“Glistering melon.” Technoblade had shown it to him once, how it glittered gold. When he touched it, his skin came back tingling. He could feel it now. He was slipping.

Somewhere far away, a door slammed open. Philza appeared from behind the curtain then, a bowl of glistering melon cupped in his hand. He was out of breath. “I got it.”

Technoblade snatched it from him, grabbing his mortar and twisting it into the gleaming melon.

“Tommy, watch.”

With every ounce of strength he still had, Tommy focused. He watched as Technoblade poured the crushed melon into the bubbling pot. “Thirty stirs in each direction,” he managed to say. His voice was hardly more than an exhale.

“That’s right,” Technoblade said and if not for the fear permeating his tone, Tommy might have said he sounded proud. “Count them.”

“I can’t—”

“Count them.”

Tommy did. Each turn of the ladle made him infinitely more dizzy, but he kept counting, on and on, until he couldn’t hear his own voice. Wilbur counted with him, his arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, keeping him both upright and grounded.

The potion glowed pink with heat. Deft despite his haste, Technoblade ladled the potion into a bottle. A drop spilled down the side and he let it fall, carrying the potion to Tommy and lifting it to his lips.

“Drink.”

Tommy drank. It burned going down, but Tommy couldn’t get enough. He gulped it down, and with every sip, that awful, helpless feeling began to recede. But the exhaustion remained. Tommy tilted the bottle back, desperate to capture every last drop. He needed to feel better. He needed to be strong, to be ready to run when Dream finally came for him.

But exhaustion clung to him like sand on wet skin. He didn’t understand.

“I should be healed. I should feel better.” Fear itched at Tommy’s insides. He wanted to escape his own body, to run from the exhaustion that dragged him down. “Techno, it didn’t work.” He reached, scrambling for more, for the vial he’d initially rebuffed that sat on the table. “I’m still tired.”

Technoblade caught his reaching hands in one of his own and held them gently still. “Settle down. Your body’s taken a toll. No matter how many regeneration potions I give you, it needs rest.”

“No.” Tommy couldn’t fight the panic crawling up his throat, but he curled his hands into fists anyway. “Please, I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

“I know. But you’re safe here.”

Tommy only noticed he was crying when he felt Technoblade thumb the tears away from his cheeks. A blanket settled over him, weighing down his already-sluggish limbs. Wilbur was rubbing his back. Philza was speaking softly.

“I’m scared.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. He was a frightened child. “Please.”

“Your body belongs to you.” Philza was firm. His hand, sharp with unfamiliar talons, rested on Tommy’s head. “And now it’s asking for rest.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Technoblade said. “We’re here to protect you.”

It was the last thing Tommy heard before his world fell sideways.

When Tommy woke, he wasn’t alone.

A quiet strumming accompanied his ascent to consciousness. Through squinted eyes, he watched Wilbur’s fingers dance delicately across the strings. The song was familiar and foreign all at once, idle yet purposeful. Wilbur was humming, a deep, throaty sound. Tommy clung to it like a life preserver and pulled himself from the heavy waves of sleep.

Blue eyes met brown and Wilbur’s strumming fell out of tune and off a cliff.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. It grew distant as he turned his head away to call, “Techno! Phil! I think he’s waking up!”

There was a clatter of sound from somewhere far away. Tommy lifted his head just enough to examine his surroundings. He was in a bed, he realized, in a room he’d never seen before. The door was wide open. It was soon filled by Technoblade and Philza.

“Tommy.” The word was an exhale of relief. Technoblade crossed the room in two steps, the mattress dipping as he sat at Tommy’s side and rested his broad hand across Tommy’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Tommy croaked. He didn’t have the strength to lie.

Technoblade let out a huff of laughter and to Tommy’s utter surprise, it held no irritation. “I expected that much. Do you think you can drink anything?”

Panic squeezed Tommy’s lungs in its cruel fist. “I don’t wanna go back to sleep.”

“You don’t have to,” Technoblade reassured him. “Your body’s rested enough.” He held out a fresh regeneration potion, before looking suddenly hesitant. It was a strange expression to see on his face. “Or I can make one while you watch if you want.”

Tommy blinked slowly and shook his head. “It’s okay.”

With a steady hand under his back, Technoblade helped him sit up. He let Tommy take the potion, though he kept his palm under the vial. Tommy couldn’t help the way his face twisted as he downed the thick, sour liquid, but the rush of clarity that followed was too good to deny. He let Technoblade pull the vial away from his mouth, his own hand dropping back down into his lap with a long exhale.

For a moment, he only felt the cool breeze from the parted window. Then he squinted at Philza.

“You… had wings? Where'd they go?” It seemed a ridiculous question to ask, but the first thing that sprung to mind as he stared at the older man was the absence of the dark-feathered wings of his dreams.

Philza laughed, a pure, clear sound. Tommy might have been offended if it were anyone else, but as it were, he could only laugh too, though he didn’t quite understand why.

“You saw those, huh?” Despite his mirth, Philza seemed impressed.

“I didn’t dream them?”

Philza shook his head, a small smile still decorating his lips. “I studied Elytra, Tommy. I’m imbued with their magic. One day, I’ll teach you all about it.”

One day. Tommy liked the sound of that.

“What do you remember?” Technoblade’s low voice brought him back to the present.

He shifted back down to lay under the covers, not fighting it as Technoblade reached to smooth down the blankets.

“I was scared.” Tommy’s honesty startled even himself. Tommy felt very small as he thought back to the vulnerability Dream had demanded of him.

Dream.

“Dream.” Instinct had Tommy seizing with panic. He was upright again before he could register it, fighting the wave of nausea that rose at the sudden movement. He wavered, but found stability with Technoblade’s hand under his arm. “Where…” He couldn’t finish the question. He was too afraid of the answer.

“He’s gone, Tommy.” Technoblade’s voice was dark but steady. “You’re free.”

“Gone?” Tommy was vaguely reminded of Chat as he echoed Technoblade’s words. “What…” He was groggy, blinking too slowly to fully take in their meaning. Then the truth settled in like a knife between his ribs.

Gone.

Tommy had killed him.

“The solanum.” Horror was a rising tide in Tommy’s throat. “I gave him too much. I killed him.”

Technoblade’s hand was wide enough to stretch across one full side of his ribcage, squeezing him soothingly. “Whoa,” he said, smooth and low. “Take a breath.”

“I killed him—”

Technoblade squeezed again, Tommy’s abdomen caught in his hand, and forced a breath from his crumpled lungs. “You didn’t kill anyone, kid.”

“But—”

“Dream drank his own poison.” Technoblade sounded so certain, Tommy didn’t know how to argue with him. “Phil found him. Looked like he got up, went looking for food, and accidentally drank what was left of the poison he’d given you.”

At that, Wilbur and Philza exchanged a look Tommy didn’t understand. Someday, he would ask them about it, but today was not that day. His head was spinning.

“I didn’t kill him?”

“You didn’t.” It was a promise.

Tommy looked up and met Technoblade’s unwavering gaze. “Can I tell you something?”

Technoblade nodded.

“Even if I did kill him, I don’t think I would feel bad.” It was the oddest of confessions to hear from himself, but Tommy knew it in his heart to be true.

A firm smile curled on Technoblade’s lips. “Good.”

“He hurt me.” It still ached to say it aloud. “He lied to me.”

Technoblade nodded. “And he will never do it again.”

Over his shoulder, Wilbur lifted his chin in determination. “Even if he was alive, we wouldn’t let him.”

A new warmth sparked in Tommy’s chest. It wasn’t fire, or fear, or rage. It was something entirely new.

Tommy felt good. It was a strange sensation, he had to admit, to not feel as though his body was actively collapsing in on itself.

It had been four months.

He prepared his meals himself. He questioned everything. He learned the names of every ingredient, every plant, every spice. But most importantly, he learned trust. Not the awful, tilted trust that he’d once held with Dream, but something real and true.

Philza taught him of learned magic. How a spark of magic existed in everyone, if one only knew how to find it. Tommy found it in storm clouds, in wind, in the burning sun. He found it in nature, in the outside world he’d once been denied.

Wilbur carefully placed his fingers over the frets of his guitar. To be at his throat in the morning and by his side by the afternoon became a familiar routine. There was safety even in Wilbur’s irritation, the way there had never been in Dream’s.

Technoblade was a home in himself. He wasn’t soft by any means, but that was almost better. Tommy had had enough of Dream’s sickly sweet falsities. He would trade it for Technoblade’s gruff love any day.

Tommy belonged to nothing and no one, but there was always a hand to hold if he so desired. And one day, Tommy stood in a storm, felt the lightning under his tongue, and watched as the house that had once been his cage was consumed by fire.