Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world shakes with an explosion just beyond Tommy's range of vision. This would bother him more except he was already kind of expecting it. He huddles deeper into the crevice he's hidden himself in, pressing his hands over his mechanical mask like that's going to muffle his breathing at all. 

He shouldn't be hiding. He should be fighting back against the villains, protecting civilians, doing his job. Dream— Weaver didn't take him in for him to be cowering on the ground like an untrained child. It's his first real mission. But it's his first real mission , and he's up against Somnus. Like the Somnus, the villain group parents tell their kids about to scare them, Somnus .  

People are counting on him. People are counting on him and he's huddled in the corner with his hands over his face like a kid playing hide and seek. 

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" 

He wasn't fucking joking. Magpie's voice echoes eerily off of the crumbling concrete walls, a sick type of joy dripping from it. Tommy shivers, wide eyes scanning the dark room for exits. There's only one, and it's directly opposite him. He's in some kind of office building and there are a million cubicles between him and his goal. 

He can do it. He can escape. He won't die today. Somnus tend not to target civilians but he's not a civilian. He's a hero. They can and will use lethal force against him. 

"It's been fun watching you run, but I'm getting kind of bored," Magpie says, closer this time, louder. A cold sweat breaks out on Tommy's neck under his suit. He just has to wait for Magpie to arrive and fucking book it. His sound blockers are broken, all of the wiring shorted out by a blast earlier. If he's fast enough, Magpie won't have the chance to use his powers, control Tommy with just his voice. 

"Comet!" Shit, fuck. He's so scared right now. No, no, he's not. He's a big man. He's trained for this. Dream has trained him for this. "Comet, come on out, I just want to talk." 

The second he sees the shadow of a trench coat in the doorway, he bolts. 

His powers lend him agility, speed as he barrels towards the door. Magpie yelps, startled by the flash of red light that trails behind Tommy when he uses his power. It's child's play to weave through the cubicles and slip past him. He's out in barely a second. 

It's a second too late. 

" There you are!" Magpie croons. Fuck, Tommy can still hear him, fuck, fuck. Even as he darts down the hallway at what must be record speeds, Magpie doesn't sound bothered. " Stop . "

Tommy's legs freeze under him and the rest of his body topples forward, slow to get the memo. The last of the soft red light catches up to him and fizzles away, a breadcrumb trail. He can't move. He can barely breathe. He thinks he bit through his lip on the way down. 

Magpie takes his sweet time meandering down the fucking hallway. He’s whistling. This is an asshole move that makes him look like a cunt and is also, unfortunately, terrifying. Tommy is stuck on the ground because Magpie had told him to stop so he had to stop. The floors are dirty and grit smudges against his mask unpleasantly with every breath.

The footsteps come to a halt beside him, as does the whistling. Every bone in Tommy’s body is tense. Did you know your bones could be tense? Tommy sure didn’t. Not before today. The toe of a boot nudges his side once, then sharply kicks him over. Tommy groans, glaring up at Magpie through the red visor covering his eyes. 

“Found you,” Magpie says, smug. 

“Yeah, real impressive,” says Tommy, who has apparently given up on the idea of self-preservation. Magpie arches an eyebrow, barely visible through the full venetian mask he wears. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Comet,” he says. His tone is drippingly sweet, saccharine, mocking. “You lasted longer than I thought you would. You almost caught me off guard when you ran past me earlier.”

“Fuck you. You’re a bitch and a wrongun.” When Tommy is cornered, he resorts to insults. 

“You only debuted, what, a few weeks ago?” Magpie holds a finger up to his chin like he’s thinking real hard. “Maybe a month? Not bad for a rookie.” 

Why the hell did Magpie know his debut date? The name could be excused, his hero title shouted across the battlefield by allies and foes alike, but he was a minor hero. A sidekick at best. Magpie— None of Somnus should have been paying him any attention. 

His unease must have shown, somehow, because Magpie laughed. Like, full on, menacing, evil villain laugh. Did this guy practice it or was he actually that fucking sinister? 

“What, you thought we wouldn’t care?” We . Shit. Shiiiiit. “Weaver unveils his little pet project and we’re just supposed to look the other way?”

And that— fucking smarts. For a number of reasons, actually. Partially because it's true. He'd be nothing without Weaver. But also:

"I'm not little. Bitch. I'm a big man." 

This actually makes Magpie pause. His brow furrows and he glances at Tommy from the side. "Okay?"

"The biggest." Tommy is close to shitting himself with fear—he still can't move—so he does what he does best. Rambles. And antagonizes people. 

"I don't know," Magpie says, trying at thoughtfulness but coming off condescending. "You seem pretty scrawny to me." 

"Oh, you're a fucking asshole, you, you bitch, you dickhead, you—" 

Magpie reaches into his trench coat and Tommy falls quiet, shrinks into himself. All he does, though, is retrieve a small communicator and click a button on the side. Static fizzles through, followed by the distinct sounds of combat. 

"Peregrine." Shit. "I caught one!" Magpie's grin is audible. 

It takes a moment, but a gruff, monotone voice filters in from the other end. "Okay. Which one?" 

"Comet," chimes Magpie, glancing back down at Tommy with a sadistic glee. Tommy scowls. 

"Bruh." There's a clash of metal, a scream, a grunt. "I'm out here, risking my life to fight these guys, and you're wasting time on that noob?" 

"Hey, asshole!" Tommy yells, scrunching up his nose. "I'm not a fucking noob!" 

A pause. "Was that him?" 

Magpie nods. "Yeah, man. He's all bark, no bite."

"Why can he still talk?" 

"I haven't told him to shut up yet." 

"I'm right here, you dicks!" 

"Wow. He's obnoxious." 

"I know, right? Isn't it fun?" 

A sigh from the other end of the comm. "Could you just wrap up whatever you're doing over there and get back over here to help me?" 

"Aw, killjoy." 

Tommy stares up at Magpie in bafflement, anger, and a healthy dose of fear. "You are literally insane. They should put you away." 

"Well that's—" Magpie stores the communicator away and leans down, hands in his coat pockets. "— your job, isn't it, Comet? You're not very good at your job." 

Tommy falls quiet. It is his job. He's new, he's young, but it's his job. He has to stop Magpie before more people get hurt, before more of the city gets destroyed, before he goes back to Dream with his tail between his legs and failure grasped in both hands. If he goes back at all. 

"Aw, did I hit a sore spot?" Magpie places his foot on the same side he kicked earlier. Tommy hides a wince with a glare. "It's alright, Comet. Better to lose now than to get your hopes up and really lose later." 

Tommy blanches. "What do you mean?" 

Magpie grins. "A little surprise at one of your fancy warehouses. You know, the—" He makes an explosion with his hands, accompanied by an understated pchoo noise. "—was just a distraction. Our real target today wasn't that stupid fucking apartment building, why would it be? All you hero types up at Coda—well.” He laughs. “It doesn’t matter." 

"You—" 

"Ah, ah, ah!" Magpie tsks. "It's our little secret , Comet. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, would we? I mean, not that you'll have the chance." 

"What—" 

"So annoying ," Magpie continues like Tommy hasn’t even said anything. "You heroes are always asking questions. Does no one have an appreciation for the dramatic anymore?" 

Tommy blinks. His mind is racing, but: "Are you a fucking theater kid?" 

Magpie freezes in place. "What?" 

"I said are you a fucking theater kid?" 

"What the hell kind of question is that?" 

"Exactly what it sounds like, dickhead, do you have a problem? Mentally? You know, besides the whole terrorism thing." 

Magpie lets out a laugh. Then he doesn't stop laughing, so the situation oscillates violently between awkward and intimidating. "Oh, you are fun." 

Tommy is not sure if this is a good thing or not. Unfortunately, before he has the chance to ask questions (or spew insults), there's a rustling sound and a low thud. It's dark in this building, very dark, but Tommy would recognize the silhouette that just dropped down from the ceiling anywhere. 

Carrion. 

His large, black wings frame his person as they shuffle back into place. He turns his head towards Magpie and the veil hanging from his hat swishes around the beak of his plague doctor mask. “Hey, mate. We're almost ready. Stop wasting time over here.”

“I’m not wasting time,” says Magpie, sounding a bit too much like a whiny child. “Look, I’ve caught Weaver’s little protege.”

Carrion turns to look down at Tommy, still prone on the floor, and Tommy freezes like prey before predator. 

Here’s the thing: Magpie and Peregrine are scary. They’re insanely powerful, insanely bloodthirsty, and maybe just straight up insane. But if they’re scary, Carrion is fucking horrifying. Dream had taught him about Somnus, drilled him on them. He could tell you everything Coda knew about them—their powers, their origins, everything. Dream's obsessed with his little rivalry with Peregrine, but Tommy latched onto Carrion. The man's a fucking legend. Tommy had hoped they would never actually meet. 

"You alright, mate?" Carrion asks, tilting his head not unlike the crows that he named himself after. 

Tommy's tongue is heavy in his mouth. "You're Carrion." 

"Yep," says Carrion. He sounds almost confused. No, intrigued. 

"Shit," says Tommy. 

"Where was this reaction for me?" complains Magpie. "All you did was call me a theater kid." 

"Well, he's not wrong, Magpie." 

Magpie glares. Tommy does not laugh, doesn't play up the banter like he normally would. He's staring at Carrion like keeping his eyes on him will change anything. 

People are scared of Peregrine because he's a heavy hitter. People are scared of Magpie because he's got mind control. Not enough people are scared of Carrion, in Tommy's opinion. He's friendly, when he does talk, and he's quiet the rest of the time, using his wings to slip in and out of situations with unparalleled ease. He doesn't use his real powers often, able to rot things with just a touch. People forget: he's the one in charge. He makes the plans, he executes them. The other two listen to him. Tommy knows how much power you have to hold to make other people listen to you. Dream has that power. That's why he's the top ranked hero. 

Tommy does not want to go up against someone who can rival Weaver. 

Carrion stares at Tommy for a little while longer, gaze pinning him in place more effectively than Magpie's commands ever could. Then, a miniscule shift in body language. 

"Oh," he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You're smart ." 

Magpie glances sidelong at Carrion, but Carrion just laughs. It's a soft laugh, a kind one, and hearing it come out of a mask that sinister is disorienting. 

"Well, we can't have that," he says, and Tommy's heart drops through his spine to the center of the earth. He tries to move and fails. Magpie's still keeping him rooted in place. But—his finger twitches. "If we give you enough of a chance to get your footing, you might actually be a threat to us someday. Magpie. Take care of this one, will you? What's his name? What's your name, mate?" 

Magpie flicks his eyes between Carrion and Tommy. That split second of hesitation, of waiting for Tommy to die with dignity, is enough for him to get a hold of his faculties. With enough spite and fear to kill a small animal, Tommy breaks through the power holding him in place and lunges. 

He skids between them, throwing one leg out to trip Magpie. It works. He's on the ground, wheezing, winded. Tommy's running faster than he's ever fucking run. He hears yelling behind him, shouting. 

"What the fuck just happened?! Where are you going? Get back here! Return!" For a moment his steps stumble, wanting him to stagger back to the villains, but another wave of stubborn desperation sends him lurching out a window instead. The glass breaks easily under his full weight. He hears screaming, someone shouting his name, and then the wind is too loud to make out anything else. 

He tucks into a roll when he lands. He's never been more grateful for an agility-based power—even with it, his whole body feels bruised and jolted. 

He has to get to the hero tower, to Coda HQ. He—

He has to find Dream.

Chapter Text

By the time Tommy half-limps, half-sprints to Coda, the fighting is over. He can tell because HQ is swarming with heroes and employees alike. 

He elbows his way through the crowd with singular focus, ignoring the offended grunts when he pushes someone too hard. His feet take him to the elevators without him even telling them to. Then it's simple: fifth floor, take a left, second right, third door on the left. 

Tommy presses his palm to the biolock mechanism. The door unlatches with a small click. He pushes it open slowly. 

"Weaver?" 

There's no response. His heart is pounding a little. He failed his mission. Badly. There's a thud from further inside. Tommy steps into the entrance and only flinches a little when the door swings shut behind him, locking automatically. 

"Weaver? It's Comet." 

There's another thud, then a curse, and then a familiar figure emerges from the short hallway. He's only half-suited up, by which Tommy means his porcelain mask is clutched in his hand rather than on his face, but the rest of his black and neon green outfit is in perfect condition. This gives Tommy full access to the tense expression he sports. 

"Tommy." Oh, real names. Okay. "I'm kind of in a rush." 

"I know, Dream, it's just—" 

"I already know you failed." Ouch. "And now, because of that, I have to go clean up your mess." 

"Then you know about the— the warehouse?" 

"Yes, Tommy, I know about the warehouse." He sighs and slips his mask on, but Tommy can still read the weary disappointment in the set of his shoulders. "You should be grateful I'm going to go do damage control instead of sending you there. Or, better yet, that I’m not asking you how the fuck you know about it when you were supposed to be stationed by the apartment building." 

"I got cornered, I—" Tommy falls silent when Dream turns to look at him. 

"We'll talk when I get back." Dream waits for Tommy to nod before he leaves, not sparing him a second glance. 

The door shuts behind him, leaving him in darkness. The apartment is always dark. Tommy doesn't like it very much, but Dream had run out of patience for Tommy's lighting preferences by the time he was twelve. It’s been two years since then, so he's had plenty of time to get used to it. 

Tommy… Tommy should clean up before Dream gets back. And think about what he's going to say. His hands are shaking a little bit with the promise of talking when Dream gets back fresh on his mind, but he forces them to still. He makes his way to the restroom on light feet, instinctively avoiding the floorboard that always creaks. 

Their apartment is sparse, Dream made sure of that. The less they own, the less they have to lose. It’s a standard two-person dorm, given to all hero-sidekick duos at Coda. The walls are pale and empty, the floor is laminate meant to imitate hardwood. The bathroom is just as colorless, a single white hand towel hung up over the sink next to the mirror. His mask, neon red eye shield and black metal face covering, stares back at him. There are a few toiletries strewn across the sink. Two toothbrushes, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, a comb. His eyes skip over them in favor of opening the cabinet under the sink.

Most heroes go to the first floor infirmary for major injuries. Tommy is lucky—so, so lucky, shit—that he escaped Somnus without any major injuries. Dream taught him everything he knows about first aid, and by now Tommy is well-used to patching himself up rather than bothering his mentor. Or anyone else in the building, for that matter. So he drags the most familiar of their many first aid kits out from under the sink and relaxes against the cabinet with a sigh.

It’s a blessing and a curse that Dream is out, Tommy thinks. Dream always—hovers, when Tommy’s patching himself up. It’s nice that he cares, but it stresses Tommy out, makes every one of his muscles tense like preparing for a fight. He doesn’t like being looked at, judged, every one of his failures on visible display like his body is the canvas. When he’s on his own, it’s easier to focus on peeling the protective layers of his suit away to apply bruise cream to the worst of his injuries. Since Dream isn’t here, he also sneaks some scar gel onto older wounds. 

Once that’s over with, he packs everything away. His showers are quick and efficient. His suit and mask get deposited in a secure chute for cleaning and he changes into civilian clothes soon afterwards. He decides, childishly, to wear his favorite T-shirt. It’s getting threadbare, and too tight around the shoulders, but he’ll want the comfort for when Dream gets back. Just in case Dream picks up on this, he slips a nondescript hoodie on over top of it, some free merch he got from a mandatory event. 

Then it’s just waiting. 

He makes dinner. There’s a cafeteria downstairs but if Dream comes back while he’s down there—

The food probably isn’t good anyway. Not as good as Big Man Tommy could make, anyway. Grilled cheese and canned tomato soup is his specialty. He makes enough for two people, just in case, but Dream doesn’t come back even when Tommy is all done and the soup pot is no longer steaming. He packs everything away into leftovers and stores it in the near-empty fridge. He clears the dishes away and washes the pot. 

He sits on the couch and turns on the news. He doesn’t really take anything in—it’s an unimportant story, just a time filler until Coda delivers their press release about tonight’s events. There’s a small video playing in the top left hand corner, live footage from the apartment building. They’ve got firefighters on the scene now to soothe the smoking rubble. Tommy’s leg jogs restlessly. Text scrolls beneath the newscaster— No casualties. Residents were forewarned and evacuated six hours prior. Somnus has yet to make a statement. Coda has yet to make a statement. No casualties. Residents were forewarned and evacuated —

The door unlocks and Tommy turns the TV off. 

“Hey, big man, it’s been hours,” Tommy greets. It’s a poor attempt at cheerfulness and it dies quickly. Dream turns to look at Tommy, one hand braced against the door to hold it open. Backlit by the bright hallway lights, Tommy can’t help but feel that Dream looks more menacing than heroic. 

He stands there in silence long enough that Tommy gets uncomfortable. Then he sighs, finally closing the door. 

Dream sets his mask down gently on the kitchen table, face turned down so Tommy can’t read it. His hand remains splayed over the smiley face. Tommy swallows thickly. 

“Tommy.” His whole body jolts into attention at being addressed. “You failed your very first solo mission. Explain yourself. Now . ”

Tommy allows himself time for one deep breath. 

“I got cornered,” he says. Dream tilts his head a little, pulls back his shoulders. Tommy barrels on. “I was trying to find the location of the explosives in the complex and ran into Magpie.”

“That shouldn’t have been a problem for you,” Dream interjects. Tommy flinches minutely. “We practiced fighting deaf for months. ”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Tommy snaps. Dream’s hand moves just slightly on his mask. “Sorry. Sorry, I just— It wasn’t a problem. I was doing fine, but he got a lucky hit. I think he must have figured out where the sound blocking mechanisms are, because he knocked my wiring out.” 

“So.” Dream finally lifts his hand off of the table, runs it through his hair instead in a frustrated motion. Tommy bites his tongue. “You were bested in combat by the least combat-capable Somnus member.”

He’s still a Somnus member, Tommy thinks but doesn’t say. He repeats his weak protest: “It was a lucky hit.”

“It’s a wonder you’re still here to tell the tale,” Dream says sharply. “Lucky or not, Magpie had you in hearing range.”

“I ran.” The admission is shameful. “I— I prioritized—”

“Yourself. You prioritized yourself.” There it is. Tommy’s ears burn. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. Once he catches himself, he folds his hands in his lap instead. “That still doesn’t explain how you knew about the warehouse.”

“He caught up with me eventually.” His mouth goes dry, remembering how it felt—being cornered, being caught like a mouse in cat-claws. “Um, after he—trapped me, he did this whole, fuckin’, stupid evil monologue. The apartment was a distraction, something about a warehouse being more important.” 

“He trapped you?” Dream’s eyes, green as ever, flash with anger. At who, Tommy isn’t sure.

“He— You know, did the freaky voice thing, told me to stop running and shit, so…”

Even when Tommy trails off, Dream doesn’t reply, so he gathers himself and does what he does best: keeps talking.

“They— Somnus, I mean, they knew my debut date. They’re keeping an eye on me—” He represses the shiver that threatens to run down his spine— “because I’m your protege. Carrion was there, he tried to get Magpie to kill me.”

“Let me get this straight.” Dream finally looks at Tommy and it’s somehow worse than before. “I’m supposed to believe Somnus took a special interest in you . Targeted you. Had you completely at their mercy, trapped, with valuable information that you could have brought to us back at HQ. Magpie was there. Carrion was there. And somehow, you escaped?”

“Yeah, I— I broke out of Magpie’s powers.”

“Well.” Dream tilts his head, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s something calculating in his expression. “You always were stubborn.”

Though it’s a compliment to his abilities, Dream manages to make it sound like an insult. Tommy dips his head in a move he hopes will look like graceful acceptance, even though he’s only trying to avoid Dream’s gaze. 

“I’m glad you made it out of there,” Dream says. It’s a rare admission of how much Dream cares for him, and one Tommy clings to with both hands. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, gratefully. 

“But.” Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “You royally fucked it up out there, Tommy. I mean, your first solo mission and it goes this badly? That doesn’t look good. For either of us. I’m not even sure if I should let you back out there, man.”

Ice-cold panic lances through Tommy’s chest. “No, Dream, no, I’m— I’ll be good, I’ll do better. I’ve waited years for this, you can’t just—”

“I can ,” Dream says, chilly impatience slipping into his tone, “do whatever I want with you, Comet. I took you in, I trained you, I made you, I’m the one who your actions reflect on.”

Tommy bites his tongue so hard he starts to taste blood. “I know, Dream. Just, please, I’ll do better. Give me a chance to do better.”

Dream regards him coldly for a moment and dread fills Tommy’s veins in the place of blood. After a few too-quick heartbeats, though, he sighs. “You're lucky. You’ve only got so many shots at this, Tommy. Think about where you’d be if it weren’t for me—I'm harsh like this because you need to be better. I just want the best for you, you know that.”

“I know,” he echoes. His exhale tastes like relief. It’s not over. Dream’s not throwing him out yet. 

“I’ll accompany you on missions for a little longer,” Dream says. Tommy winces. He hates taking up Dream’s time like that. He should be able to do this on his own by now. “And we’re doubling your training."

What? 

"Aw, Dream , but—" Tommy whines. 

"Non-negotiable. If Magpie could beat you at hand to hand, you're still not good enough. Come on, suit up. We're heading to the training room." 

Tommy hates the training room. Still, there's no chance of winning this argument. He trudges back to his bedroom—the bigger of the two, since Dream had kindly given it to him after learning of his claustrophobia—and puts on one of his spare suits. 

One of the funniest things about becoming a hero was learning about the mundane ways their lives went. When he was a kid, he sort of assumed all the supers just had one suit that they wore all the time. When he told Dream that, he'd laughed a tea-kettle, whistling laugh that made Tommy feel equal parts shame and pride. No, heroes have multiple suits. Otherwise, what would they do when the fabric inevitably tears? 

Tommy even managed to pester Dream into letting him have suit variants . The one he dons now, for training, has a dark underlayer with bright red flame patterns creeping up all the hems. It's cool as shit. He doesn't have a fire power but that doesn't matter, because it's cool as shit. He slips on his protective outer layers with practiced ease. His helmet goes on last. Afterwards, he folds up his ratty old T-shirt reverently and slips it under the rest of the shirts in his wardrobe. Then, and only then, does he leave his room. 

Dream is waiting for him outside, impatient. Of course, he had already been in his hero suit—the reminder stings, more evidence of Tommy’s failure—so all he has to do is slip his mask back onto his face and he’s leading the way. Tommy falls into step behind him automatically. 

The path to the training room is second nature. It's a secluded little studio on the fourth floor, directly below their apartment. The elevator is silent and tense on the ride down. Inside the training room, all of the walls are mats. There are weapons and obstacles programmed in somewhere, if you know where to look, but the most important thing—the most dreadful thing—is that there are powerlocks in here. They're programmed to each hero's power set and can be turned on and off individually. 

It's good to know how to fight without your powers, Tommy recites to himself for the nth time. Training is supposed to prepare you for any scenario, he soothes, as Dream flips the switch that cuts Tommy off from the light nestled comfortably under his skin. He does not, Tommy notices, cut his own powers off. 

"Alright," says Dream. No, says Weaver, unreadable behind the mask. "Come at me." 

What follows is a brutal reminder of Tommy's incompetence. Dream was right; he couldn't even beat Magpie, how could he hope to stand his ground against Coda's best? 

"Again," says Dream, when Tommy's back is flat against the floor. 

"Again," says Dream, when Tommy gets tripped up by one of his attacks, nearly spraining his ankle in the fall. 

"Again," says Dream, when Tommy is so bone-weary he thinks he might collapse before he takes another step. 

"I'm tired," snaps Tommy eventually, and one of Weaver's neon-green wires strikes him across the face for his insolence. It leaves a stinging, bleeding mark in the small area of skin his helmet doesn't cover, right at his hairline. 

"Tired," Dream repeats quietly. Tommy knows he's fucked up. The answering surge of adrenaline serves to get him on his feet. " Tired. Oh, poor, poor Comet, let's let him leave alone because he's tired. " 

His laughter is an angry thing. It worms under his skin like the worst parasite. Tommy dodges another strike from the wires but pinwheels directly into a second attack. 

"Do you think," Dream says, voice increasing in volume with every new strike, "that villains will care if you're tired? Should I show you mercy because you're tired, Comet?!" 

Tommy can't dodge quick enough. He can't keep up. One of Weaver's wires loops around his bad ankle, another around his neck. The ground jolts below him as he's slammed into it. Twice. He groans. The fibers tighten around him like they're going to do more than just grapple him, like they're going to choke, slice—then they retreat. 

"Again," says Dream. Tommy heaves himself up on trembling arms and goes again.