Work Text:
Swing. The blade hits the counter in a way that makes Tommy wince. Swing. Tubbo actually hit a couple carrots that time. Swing.
”You ever heard of a knife, Tubbs?”
“Oh, it’s basically the same thing,” Tubbo cheerfully replies as he swings an iron sword carelessly against the row of carrots in an attempt to slice them. Tommy will be describing them as decimated, personally. He was asked to bring over whatever he could spare of his garden because apparently all Ranboo left behind was steak and bread, and Michael was not fucking about it. Good lad he is, Tommy thinks, preferring carrot to steak. If only his father had depth perception.
“I disagree, simply.” It’s a bit strange watching Tubbo try to cook. A year ago, Tommy would hardly trust him near a furnace if he wasn’t packing redstone and rambling on about making it automatic. Having a kid changes shit. Losing your husband does too.
“Effective, though!” Tommy makes a noise that could be construed as agreement if you ignored the wary scrunch of his face. Tubbo happily does as he asks, “Are you staying for dinner?” The answer should probably be yes. The carrots were most of what Tommy had to snack on, along with a healthy and respectable amount of rotten flesh, thank you very much. Even if they seem like they’re gonna be mush by the end of Tubbo’s… slicing. Usually he would stay, any other night he would, but the thing is… well it's just that… the very simple fact of the matter is-
“I’ve got shit to do tonight,” Tommy answers vaguely. Tubbo makes a bit of a hmph sound as he sets down his sword. Tubbo grabs a bucket of melted gold and pours it over the perfectly good carrot mush. Michael’s taste in vegetable is based, but his choice of condiment is fucked.
“Wanna elaborate, king?” Tubbo asks to the silence. Tommy does not, actually, because if he elaborates then Tubbo pretends to be completely fine and normal about it and Tommy feels like absolute dogshit because he knows Tubbo is absolutely not fine and normal about it. But it’s also none of Tubbo’s business and Tommy should be allowed to elaborate all he fucking wants without judgement, actually.
“Already made plans,” plans were made for him. “You know how it is, Tubbo, everyone wants a piece of Big Man Innit. Don’t even get to sleep, I’m just so widely revered, y’know?”
“So you’re going to Wilbur’s, then.” Tubbo does not ask, he simply says. He presumes, in fact. Tommy thinks that’s a bit fucking rude.
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Nothing of it,” Tubbo says with what a lesser, dumber man would think is an innocent lilt to his voice rather than dripping in condescension. Tommy would say Tubbo's tone borders on bitchless, even. “Just weird you won’t say it.”
Except it’s not weird that Tommy won’t say it because it’s probably a little weird that Tommy is still talking to Wilbur considering the giant fucking absence in the house they’re standing in that isn’t his, isn’t Tubbo’s, certainly isn’t fucking Technoblade’s. But Tommy also knows that Wilbur doesn’t avert his gaze when Ranboo’s name is mentioned because he’s exactly proud of what happened. There’s only so much that means to Tubbo. Very fucking reasonably. Tommy’s just got a struggle with reason when it comes to Wil.
“It’s not a big fucking deal. I see Wilbur all the time.” Not as much as he wants, but more than is probably good. Most of that time lately is spent asking Tommy to help him with weird shit like apologizing to Techno, to Tubbo, to Ghostbur, apologizing to everyone in the fucking world except- “I’m not even gonna see ‘im for long, I’m just checking in.” Rather, Wilbur messaged him in need of cobble, and as a man with the cobble (as a man who spent an annoying amount of time wearing out two iron picks for the cobble), Tommy decided to very humbly oblige the poor, ugly man with what is surely not going to be another fucking waste of Tommy’s time.
“Go ahead, king,” Tubbo says without a care in the world. “I don’t mind.” But Tommy knows he does. Tubbo cares about Wilbur, he might even forgive him, but there will always be something haunted between them. Anger and betrayal runs between Tubbo and Wilbur like a river flowing too fast to walk through, and Tommy stands directly in the middle letting himself get soaked as he fights against the current just to stay standing. Neither will offer him a towel. At the very least a fucking boat. So he’s fucking dripping in that anger and betrayal and finding himself a little closer to Wilbur’s side every time.
But Tommy and Tubbo are far past anger and betrayal at this point. If Dream didn’t break them apart completely, Prime knows Wilbur can’t. They’re different, though, than before exile, before the presidency. They’re decidedly different.
“Alright,” Tommy decides. “Alright. I’ll see you later. I guess. Tell Michael I supplied the carrots, eh?” He tries for silly. Erase the past minute as best he can.
“I will.”
“And if the ghost prick shows up, tell him I don’t care what plane he’s on, he owes me ten emeralds.”
Tubbo plates the chopped carrots. Like a joke, but with a bitterness that’s becoming familiar, Tubbo says, “If he shows up.” Tommy wishes he had a solution to whatever Ghostboo’s on. Ghosts are weird is all. Easily influenced, easily distracted. A bit strange, a bit sad. The people they love matter, but it’s hard to keep it tangible when you’re hardly even tangible.
Tommy didn’t have a ghost, best he knows. He thought he wasn’t dead long enough until Ghostboo showed ten minutes after Ranboo's death. But he remembers being dead. He remembers how easy it was to push away horror and fear in the wake of everlasting darkness. Part of that was because the things making him afraid were mostly Wilbur. Part of that was because what the Hell else was there but another voice in the dark, telling him a really shitty story, meant to hurt him, upset him in the worst way possible? What was there but a man and his fucking solitaire, inviting Tommy to play his single-player game? But it was easy to push away love too. What's it matter if there's no tomorrow but only tomorrow forever? Set down a card, listen to Wilbur's rage, blink in the suffocating darkness, cry and can't even-
All that to say. Ghost or not, death makes you fucking weird.
Tubbo turns toward the steps, about to make his way to Michael. A dismissal. Tommy thinks about giving Tubbo a comforting clap on the shoulder, but he fights against the urge. He already feels his hand burning. Instead, he gives Tubbo a steady smile he can’t see and starts out the door.
“Is he getting better?” Tubbo asks before Tommy can make his escape. A part of Tommy wants to pretend he didn’t hear. He wants to cut and run and make a whole new life in the woods of the furthest jungle, never to be seen again. He’s stood frozen just a bit too long for that.
“What do you mean? He’s- what’d’you mean by that?”
Clearly, concisely, Tubbo asks, “Is Wilbur getting better?”
“I mean he’s, like, alive and shit. Not blowing anything up, far as I know.” Tommy hadn’t exactly known about L’manburg or the burger van either. Well, he didn't know about the burger van. He knew enough about L’manburg to try and stop Wilbur. Thought he knew enough to believe he succeeded. Too much faith in a man running on fumes with just enough spark for one final fuse.
“Okay but like, is he actually getting better? Or is he still just… fucked up? When he apologized to me it was like- it was a goodbye. Was he really apologizing to try and move on or was he doing it so he could-”
“I don’t fucking know,” Tommy interrupts quickly, because he knows exactly how the sentence is going to end and he’s been trying to ignore it for fucking months. “I don’t- I’m not in his head. He won’t let me.”
“So he’s not getting better.”
“I’m sorry, when did you- when did you become the fucking authority on getting better, yeah? You stay in your house all day and you build walls people can’t climb over and you- you-” Tommy takes a second to breathe. He doesn’t know why he wants to defend Wilbur. He doesn’t even fucking disagree. But Tubbo’s acting like he knows better, like he knows what it’s like in the button room, like he knows what it’s like at the top of a fucking tower, like he… like he was ready to let Dream kill him so Tommy could keep his fucking discs. Alright, so they’re all a bit fucked. Tommy blames Wilbur, he fucking started it. Well, no. Tommy blames Dream. For all he can, really.
Less aggressive, a little quiet, Tommy says, “It’s just complicated, Wil is.”
“Alright. Sensitive topic,” Tubbo says like he’s telling a joke. “Have fun at Wilbur’s.” Tommy nods, ready to leave for real this time, when Tubbo turns to face him. He hesitates for a moment. “Tell him I say hi.” Then Tubbo books it for the basement and Tommy is left alone in the foyer of Ranboo’s house.
Tommy could just stay. He could go downstairs, tell Tubbo he does want to stay for dinner actually, and the three of them could have a potentially awkward but nice enough night. But Wilbur’s expecting him. Tommy’s got cobble he doesn’t think Wilbur even really needs because Wilbur’s asked for it, asked for him, and Tommy’s never been good at denying Wilbur much of anything even if he thinks it’s a bit fucking stupid. Wil’s a bit fucking stupid. Doesn’t matter. Whether he actually needs the cobble or not, Tommy’ll get it. Tommy’s a bit fucking stupid too.