Archive of Our Own

Despite the lack of dreams present in limbo, Limbo itself was a never ending one. Never ceasing to stop its destruction of Wilbur, right down to the once stubborn seed of his soul. 

And when he finally woke from it, he realised that this newfound world was a stranger to him. And now he is grieving. After all, he cannot go back. He has been granted this respite to live another day and he shan't curse it. 

But when he wakes up on his third day of life and looks out of the windows of Las Nevadas, he feels the sudden realisation that everything has changed without him. The sands of time slip through the spaces between his fingers, calling back memories in their departure. 

The sun rises and he watches it ascend into the sky. It is god awfully bright, but he cannot look away. He slept in his own bed last night and has only just woken up. A watercolour haze stains the edges of his brain, leaving him incoherent in the face of the brightness streaming in through the glass window. 

It must not be any later than 10 in the morning and yet he feels he was asleep for a decade. 

He turns around and looks at the room (not his, never his), covers strewn about on the unruly bed. He doesn’t have much to take with him other than the things left in the pockets of his trenchcoat, things he did not take out and throw away like anyone else would. Fuck it, he’s sentimental. Somehow he finds it in himself to be so. Nostalgic for his own mistakes and tragedies 13 years past. 

He looks away, stomach churning. Wilbur must collect his things. 

He shoves trinkets in his pockets, including a pocket knife he’s had for who knows how long. Well, he does. 13 years, or more accurately, 5 months. The universe just fancies itself a good practical illusion, really. He takes a potion Q had given him at his insistence. If he were to get hurt, he’d be as good as dead. He happens to be very incompetent at handling negative physical sensations. Yesterday night, he bumped his leg on the pointy edge of the bed and nearly had a panic attack. 

It is beyond his capabilities to tidy a room, so he slips out, wearing clothes newly washed by some worker of Quackity’s, only his trenchcoat exempt from this. (The smell of smoke for once is calming to him. It reminds him that the past is not in his imagination. That it was real once.) He can tell he is more coherent than yesterday because maybe the man he was yesterday would attempt to clean up after himself, whatever you say Quackity, whatever you say . He is still broken, but today might be better. He can hope. 

Then again though, what is hope to a dead man?

The door creaks as he opens and closes it behind him, venturing out into the empty halls of the casino’s hotel. 

Yesterday he could hardly walk and today isn’t much better, so he grips the handrails. He cannot hear anything but the creak of the stairs until he reaches the last step and hears the sound of utensils on a plate. It is much too early for sound. He shivers.

Wilbur finds Quackity at the table they sat at yesterday morning, holding a cup of what must be coffee in his hand. 

“Wil,” Q greets when he sees him. “You’re awake.”

“You are too,” Wil says, looking down. 

“Have to be. Nations don’t run themselves,” Quackity says, but not in a harsh way.

“Yes, of course,” Wilbur agrees. “Um. Q- uh, Quackity. I-” He sucks in a breath and speaks with downturned words. “I must leave now.”

“Oh.” He looks down at his empty plate and gestures to it. “Well, before you leave I can make you some-”

Wilbur blinks and forgets words for a moment. “No, no, it’s alright. I can’t eat now. I’ve got a bit of a nervous stomach, and I’ve done enough kneeling over the toilet bowl in the last couple days to last a lifetime.” He’s referring to his first meal after revival, the one that quickly became his first thrown up meal of revival. 

“Right. What about just coffee?” Q asks, and keeps going. “I won’t put sugar. If I remember, you take it black, right? I forgot to ask you yesterday, sorry.”

“Um-” He thinks about it. Who is he to deny? His anxiety has affected the rest of him to a startling degree, and he wasn’t lying about possibly retching it all up afterwards. But.. he can handle coffee. And Quackity is asking him to, so he can’t deny. 

Q eyes him with a studying gaze. 

“..Alright. And yes, black. First I suppose it was out of necessity , but now I can’t really drink it any other way, if that makes any sense.”

Quackity nods and stands up from his chair, walking to the coffee machine and pressing a few buttons. He watches the dark liquid flow into the cup. The way he peers at it is pathetic, all too unbecoming of a once dead man. 

Before he knows it, the cup is being pressed into his hands. He takes a sip and it scalds his tongue, however he cannot determine whether the feeling is horrible or amazing. 

“Should’ve warned you, it’s really hot,” says Quackity, a minute late. 

“Forgot. Mm, thank you,” He says as he takes another searing sip. 

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Quackity looks at where he was sitting. “Do you want to sit down?”

It’s not much of something he can deny, since Q has already sat down and it would probably be rude to challenge it. 

He sits down in the chair across from him. 

“You’re leaving for Tommy’s,” Q says.

Wilbur nods, pressing both of his hands to the warm cup, observing the heavenly feeling of warmth against cold hands. “I figure I must. And after… I suppose it would be right to visit my father...”

“You don’t want to?”

“W-Well, it’s not a matter that I don’t want to,” His gaze flickers to the floor. “I don’t feel ready at all. But when will I ever be ready? I just,” He hesitates, “I don’t want to face him like this.”

“Like?”

“Like this. In the broken way that I am. You could argue I was broken back then too, but… it’s out of character for me to act so… downstruck. I would worry him.”

“He has a right to worry,” Q says. “I doubt seeing you like this would cause him to scold you.”

His adam's apple bobs as he takes a sizable drink of coffee. His eyes downturn. “It’s humiliating, Quackity,” He mutters under his breath. “I can hardly walk right or look someone in the eyes.”

Quackity’s face twists into one of pity. “I’m sorry, Wil. I really am.” He says this because it is the only thing he can say. Wilbur is the villain, the big bad. He’s destined to a reckoning like this, despite what Quackity thinks or not. 

“You shouldn’t apologise.”

“I’m not saying sorry because I think it’s my fault. I’m saying sorry because this is the least I can do. This server doesn’t give compensation, Wil.”

“That’s.. Very kind of you, Quackity.” Surprisingly kind.

Q shrugs and finishes off his coffee. He puts it in the big sink at the back and returns to retrieve Wilbur’s. 

“Oh, you still have a lot left. Just put it in the sink when you’re done then, if you can,” Q says, sitting back down. He watches Wilbur and he’s suddenly very self conscious about his appearance. He is scruffy and ill-maintained, but at least he is cleaner than before thanks to the bath yesterday. 

Wilbur takes a breath and puts the coffee down. 

“God.” He lets out a hoarse whisper of a laugh. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to him.”

Quackity mulls over his words. “Explain yourself the best you can. You can’t rush to make amends, you know. I don’t know all of it, but.. Tommy’s really been through it since you uh. Passed.”

He looks up quickly. “Been through it?” He questions. 

“Not for me to tell. There was exile, with ghostbur. And everything else. Dream’s really done a number on him.”

“That bastard,” He says. He remembers through the thick haze of his memories of Limbo the little while Tommy was in Limbo, the time he saw him. He was practically overjoyed, but he remembers hardly anything he said to him. Tommy came and went relatively quickly, and refused to explain why he had ended up there. One day he dropped into town, and the next he disappeared without warning, leaving Wilbur to fight for himself through the silence.

 Wilbur blinks and remembers that he doesn’t know the dynamics of the server anymore. He is new , he has things to learn. Who is affiliated with who? “I- I mean-”

“Nah, don’t- don’t correct yourself. He is a monster. A sick, sadistic, bastard. He’s rotting in prison now,” He sees a distant anger and horror in Quackity’s eyes but doesn’t say anything. “Deservedly,” He adds. 

“Prison.”

“Yeah,” Q says and then stops suddenly, a realisation on his face. He wonders if the man he used to be could figure it out with ease, take a peek at Quackity’s cards. “Wil… do you remember anything about how you were revived?”

He furrows his brows. Prime, he doesn’t want to remember that. He doesn’t even want to talk about that. And yet when he pulls the strings around in his brain there is something there. Distant, that he cannot quite make out. He was in Limbo. And then he was there. And something in the middle…

A green, he remembers with a wince. Something distinct and unusual to see in such a barren place. He squinted. The sounds of a train approaching, and for once, stopping. He rushed in. 

“ Welcome back, Wilbur! Welcome back to the land of the living!” Dream yelled with a vicious laugh.

He snaps out of his mind. 

“Him- it was him .”

“Who?” Quackity asks.

“D-Dream,” He chokes out. “I remember it. He was the conductor. He must’ve been, I heard his voice.”

“ Fuck. ” Quackity says, making Wilbur flinch back. “Sorry,” He says and purses his lips together. “Guess that means I have some business to attend to.”

“Business. As in-”

“Unchecked power, Wilbur. And I’ll tell you who’s somehow got power. Dream. He’s rotting in that prison and he’s still powering the server. From the fucking inside! Can you believe it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the context of what you’re saying, Q. I’ve definitely missed a beat,” He says, saying it like a joke but not laughing. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” He grumbles. “It’s my problem to deal with. I made it my problem since that bastard had the bright idea to play god.” He sighs. “Just… add it to the list, I guess,” He says. Q gets up from his seat and walks over to the dishes again. 

Wilbur drinks the rest of his coffee and stands up to go put it in the sink. This time, despite his anxiety, he doesn’t drop the cup. He leans and puts it in the sink far too gingerly and carefully. 

Quackity turns to look at him once he has pulled back from the sink. 

Wilbur speaks first. “Thank you for your hospitality, Quackity. I beg to differ that I don’t deserve such a thing from you, but… thank you. I’m indebted.”

“Cut that out, man. You already know what I’m going to say.”

Wilbur chuckles. “That I do.”

He traces his eyes over Quackity’s scar. He doesn’t dare ask about how it got there but still winces mentally at the thought. 

He knows that the server has changed when even the faces of his confidantes have changed and he does not know why and may never know. 

Quackity shuffles his feet and looks at Wilbur. “Good luck, okay?” These words strike him as softer than normal, tender. It is also slightly humorous that Wilbur would believe in luck, but ever since his revival, it has become less and less farfetched.

He knows that the server has changed without him from the scars in Quackity’s soul. 

There is a world he once inhabited waiting for him like a gift and a curse from the gods, one he cannot see from behind the veil of uncertainty. Opaque and grey, like his own sullen eyes. 

He realises he has been thinking for too long when he feels a hand on his cheek. He cannot help but wince slightly, but he relaxes when his brain reminds him who it can only be. He leans into the touch instinctually. 

“Comm me if you need me, alright?” Quackity says, and Wilbur nods. 

“Thank you, Quackity- I- I don’t have words to tell you how grateful I am. You saved my second chance. You saved my redemption, Q.” His expression is sober and weathered. “I’m not so sure being here isn’t just as much of a waste, but I do appreciate all of this. It’s selfish for me to treasure this, as if I deserve it, but I-”

Another hand cups his face and he cannot look away from Quackity, his softened features that to someone else would seem sharp. 

“Wil.” He says, trying to convey something unspoken to him. 

“Thank you,” Wilbur says. “Goodbye, Q,” He says. He pulls away for a moment and turns his back to Quackity. Despite every act of so-called gallantry in his life before, he was never brave enough to do the ultimate act of courage. 

“Wait,” Quackity says. 

He turns around and Q is taking a step towards him, putting his hands around Wilbur’s face. He leans in and Wilbur reciprocates. The feeling of Quackity’s lips on his is so terribly familiar, but so, so sweet. It is warm and comforting and he only realises now how much he has missed it. 

It is a short kiss and yet when they release from each other Wilbur does not know what to do with himself. He does not attempt to speak. 

Q squeezes his hand and let's go, Wilbur falters. 

“Be safe,” He tells Wilbur. He is so stunned he can only nod. 

He turns around once again and walks with only the clothes on his back to his next destination, out of Las Nevadas and into another time, destiny spreading out in waves across the horizon.

The Prime path is overgrown. 

Wilbur did not think that would be the first thing he would notice as he walked into the great wide world, but it is. 

Plants and vines, some red (he didn’t know those existed on the SMP), sticking plainly to the wooden blocks. 

Tommy wouldn’t have let this stand back in the old days, not even Wilbur. So far, he’s only seen one person in the distance whom he could not name. He kept on going, no one else around. 

He walks slowly, wondering when time will unpause and the curtain will lift and the actors will rush about on the stage, swarming Wilbur, accusing him of all the right things. 

Tommy’s house is different from before. It has been stripped of its silver-roots, now made of dirt with a much more humble appeal. 

He walks up and dares to knock. His hand stutters but he ends up rapping his fist on the wooden doors a few times. This is assuming Tommy is home, anyways, and not that he’ll have to go track him down or wait until he comes back. Neither would be a good look for him.

Wilbur’s eyes shift around, anxiety booming in his chest in place of his heart. His heart is still beating, right? It must be, it just doesn’t feel like it. It must be beating because he wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t. Or is he alive? Is it all just an illusion to-

The door opens. It takes all of Wilbur not to fall on the ground at the sight.

Tommy, with his bright blond hair, his vivid sky blue eyes, his red tipped t-shirt (always red, it’s his favourite colour), his lively expression-

Wilbur blinks. 

His white streak of hair, the eyebags under his eyes, his blue sweater (not his Tommy, not his Tommy-), his panicked expression. 

“Tommy,” someone says, and it must be him but he can’t feel himself saying it. 

Tommy’s eyes flicker back and forth, looking Wilbur up and down as if to figure out if he is a phantom.

“You- you-” Tommy stutters. “No. This isn’t fucking happening. It’s not. You- you’re- you aren’t here. This is just my brain! Being weird again!” He says as if he has finally figured it out. “And I’m going to comm Puffy straight after this and she’s going to say, ‘God Tommy, this is the second time this week, are you alright!’ and-” He’s rambling now, talking about someone Wilbur does not know. 

“Tommy, what- what are you saying? I’m here, I promise. I promise,” He moves to touch Tommy but Tommy flinches back. 

“Don’t touch me. You’re my brain, that’s it. Just breathe,” He tells himself. He begins to coach himself through breaths, and Wilbur is still standing there, eyes wide open, hands trembling. 

Once Tommy has caught his breath, he looks up at Wilbur yet again with a confused expression.

“Why are you still fucking here?” He says.

“Tommy, I don’t know how to convince you, but I promise I’m here.”

“No you aren’t. Believe me,” He scoffs. “This is not the first time we’ve met like this.”

“Okay, well- how can I prove it to you?”

“How could you possibly be here? I just saw Ghostbur a few days ago, he was doing just fine! He’s around here somewhere, I’ll find him.”

“Tommy-”

“God, shut up. I may have issues but it takes quite a bit to let my own brain bully me-”

“ Tommy.” He says, and Tommy looks at him worriedly. He takes a breath. “I think… Dream revived me. I don’t know exactly, but… I know what I saw.”

This seems to take Tommy aback, as he backs up and looks Wilbur up and down once again. 

“Wil…” He says. “Why do you have a white streak?”

“I- I’m real, Toms.”

Tommy reaches out and takes his wrist. No doubt Wilbur is cold to the touch, but Tommy seems so surprised that he can feel anything at all. 

“Oh fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“Y-you and I… we match now,” He says. 

“We-” He starts and then stops. “Do you… believe me?”

Tommy shakes his head but it doesn’t seem like an answer more than astonishment. 

He doesn’t speak as Tommy pulls out his comm from his back pocket, typing fervently. Stopping. Typing again. Stopping. 

“Ghostbur isn’t here. It’s just you.” His voice is disappointed. 

Wilbur pulls out his own comm and looks down and sees a message from Tommy. 

Tommy whispers to you: hey ghsotbur are you aorund 

Tommy’s eyes furrow and a flash of anger ripples across his features. He pokes a finger at Wilbur’s chest. “What the fuck have you done with Ghostbur.”

“Nothing- Tommy, I promise-” He had a ghost ?

“Well how the hell are you here? Why the hell are you back?” He demands.

“As I said, I think Dream… he did it.”

“Why would he fucking revive you? I mean- when I got revived he said- he said he might- I just didn’t think the bastard would actually do it-”

“Tommy-”

“You’re going to help him escape, aren’t you, you prick!” He yells, pushing Wilbur back with his two hands. 

He stumbles and tries to catch his breath. “No, no, I-”

“You’re a liar! He was going to revive you to help him, you’re the smartest man on the server now, aren’t you? All the power, you’re just going to go along with whatever he says, you’ll be unstoppable,” Tommy says, holding his arms to his chest, digging his nails into the fabric of his sweater. 

“Please, listen to me.”

“I’m done listening! You think you can just up and leave and come back all the sudden and everyone will just applaud? And they would, wouldn’t they? Oh the great Wilbur Soot is back! You’ve only ruined everyone's lives, that’s a small price to pay, innit? Fuck you, fuck you .”

“I promise that if you let me talk-”

“No!” He yells, and Wilbur quiets. His body is tensing involuntarily and feels that one more shout will shut him down completely. “You are going to listen to me for once, Wilbur.”

“I-”

Tommy grabs his wrist and Wilbur doesn’t realise how violently he flinches until he sees Tommy’s expression flicker with concern.

“Look, I don’t know what you thought by coming here, but if dream put you up to this, if this is your fucking plan to get me, to revive me over and over-” Tommy says, his voice quaking. His breath is getting more shallow as he struggles for words. He stops trying to talk and takes his hand away from Wilbur’s wrist to put his hands on his head, shaking it and muttering something incomprehensible. 

“Toms, please. Please try to calm down. I have no business with Dream,” He breathes. He makes his way to Tommy with a gentle caution, it being almost ironic that the same exact thing had been used on him yesterday. 

He takes Tommy’s arms in a futile attempt to stop him from panicking, but sees then that it couldn’t be a worse decision when Tommy whips his head up. 

He yanks himself away from Wilbur, his eyes glossed over with tears. 

“Don’t fucking touch me! You never should’ve come back, why did you have to come back?” He screams. “Just, get away from me!” 

Wilbur can only watch in slow motion as Tommy pushes him backwards, a hard enough shove that it sends him falling backwards onto his back. It was unexpected, he hadn’t anticipated such a heavy blow, leaving him defenceless to protect himself. 

For a still moment while his heart hammers in his ears, he sees Phil standing over him. He freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. He can't breathe. This position is far too familiar, too easy to remember, like it was yesterday. He tries to sit up but feels a wave of nausea crash over him. 

A questioning voice slides faintly into the background. Wilbur grasps at his shirt, feeling for some wound where the sword should be. Blood seeping through his fingers, his fathers pitiful gaze at his once pure son. 

This shouldn’t be happening now, it already happened once before. It shouldn’t be. 

His breath stutters in an imperfect rhythm. He folds over and clutches his head, lets out a weak sob. He wants Quackity, he wants a hushed tone to comfort him. He wants hands through his hair and a greedy embrace. 

Cowering when a hand touches his own, he feels his age. How can he be so old and feel so young, so uncertain?

“Wil-” He hears. 

“Quackity?” Wilbur asks back. 

“No, no, not Quackity. It’s Tommy. Are you with me?”

He shakes his head and burrows his head into his arms.

“Wilbur, it’s Tommy. Relax. Look, I’m- I didn’t mean to make you freak out like this. I-I was just-” He can hear the panic in Tommy’s own voice. “I was freaked out too. Okay? It’s gonna be alright, just breathe,” He says. He wishes that he could. 

Tommy pushed him. Tommy pushed him because he’s a terrible person and deserves to suffer in Limbo until he’s so far gone he’s forgotten his own name. He deserves it. Wilbur deserves it.

“Deserve what, mate? C’mon, Wil. Please.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t of come back,” He cries. 

“You- we can talk about this in a little while. Just-”

“I’ve only upset you. I shouldn’t be alive, I shouldn’t. I don’t know why I let myself think-” He sniffles. “It was just so dark, Tommy. I don’t want to be back there, I don’t want to-”

He must sound as pathetic as he is, because Tommy shushes him. “Wilbur, I’m not going to send you back. I… remember. How it was. Just please, listen to me and come sit in the house or something. We’ll figure it out.”

Wilbur tries to lift himself up and stumbles, almost falling again. Tommy helps him up by the arms, letting him lean on him. Wilbur still isn’t quite in his mind, more like a hazy, sob-y space.

Les ténèbres. His arms shake. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” 

Tommy tries to find something to say but decides on nothing. 

Wilbur is set down on something that must be some sort of a chair, and he opens his eyes to see Tommy looking at him with a stunned stare. 

“You’re really alive,” Tommy mutters to himself. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Wilbur. Look, I will say this . I’m a big man. I don’t say sorry. But I’m… apologetic that I pushed you. Alright? But I didn’t know what the hell was happening and I still don’t. So I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself.”

Wilbur looks at him. 

“Go on, then. You're back with me, right?”

Wilbur nods. “I think so. I- It was something about the position, I just remembered things.” He takes a breath. 

“Happens to me too. It doesn’t matter, we can move on from that. What I want to know is how the hell you’re here.”

He initially assumed there would be a better reunion than this , but he can’t pick and choose. He’s living with his consequences. 

“Tommy, I want to say first that I’m not working with Dream.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can’t, I mean. Not really. But I do know he was the one that revived me. I don’t know why, or how-”

“The revive book.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s what he used to revive me too,” He says, pointing to the white streak in his hair. 

“He can just… do that now?”

“Long story, but he’s got the ability to do whatever he wants with death, really. He threatened to revive you. I didn’t think he’d do it though. He’s on some sick fucking power trip.”

“So Quackity said.”

“What are you on about Big Q?”

“I don’t know why.. But I spawned in his new nation.”

“Las Nevadas?” Tommy asks, and Wilbur shrugs. “Big Q would probably tell me the truth…” Tommy ponders. “Wouldn’t he?”

He doesn’t wait for Wilbur’s answer, taking out his comm and pressing a few buttons. It will never be strange to see someone use a comm, for the 13 years he was in Limbo it never sent any messages no matter how many times he tried. 

“Big Q?” Tommy asks. He waits a moment. “Yeah, it’s all right. But, uh, I’ve got Wilbur sitting here. You know all about this?”

Tommy blinks at Q’s apparent response. “Yeah, he said. No, no, it’s all right. A bit of a skirmish, but I think it’s all right now. No- he hasn’t- well. I guess he did. But he’s alright.” Q says something and Tommy laughs. “Never thought you were a softie, Q.”

Tommy nods and laughs again and then says goodbye. 

“He’s been watching you for the last three days.”

“It’s burdensome, but yes.”

“Wilbur… you aren’t working with Dream. And you were with Quackity. Why did you come to see me?”

It sounds like such a painfully obvious question, but Wilbur struggles to answer. “I wish there was an easy explanation. I just.. Missed you. 13 years is a lot of time, exempt from those couple of months. I’m selfish for it, I know. I need to apologise.”

“Apologise?” Tommy gawks. 

“Better late than never, huh?” He says. 

“Why would you ever apologise?”

“Wh- I-” For his own gratification? For feeling like a better person? A confession of sins? “I think it’s time I do the minimum. I did… ruin everyone’s lives, as you said.”

“Now I’m not going to coddle you, Wil. You’ve fucked things up. Majorly. But I know Limbo. I know the two months I spent there were the worst in my entire life.”

“You can’t forgive me, Toms. I won’t accept it.”

“I’m not forgiving you. I’m having some fucking empathy.”

“Empathy.”

“I’m not going to say ‘well, seems you’ve been through it, guess we’ll just hug and make up and everything’s alright now’.”

“I wouldn’t ever want you to. I deserved it.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “You didn’t deserve it. No one deserves that. Well… maybe Dream. But that’s besides it. I know you want to say sorry though, so I’ll let you.” He is so grateful for this he could cry. 

“I’m sorry, for everything I did. I’m sorry for how selfish I was, and how selfish I am. For blowing it all up. I… love you Tommy. I love you like a brother. And I treated you all, especially you, horribly. I’ve had forever to think about it. So I apologise from the depths of me for everything I did to you.”

“That was better than I was expecting.”

Wilbur almost laughs, but more so cries at the sudden realisation that Tommy is standing before him. 

“Tommy. Can I-” He stops himself. All he ever wants is more, he only wishes for the things he wants. He can shut up his own feelings for once. 

“What?”

“No, it doesn’t matter.”

“C’mon, say it.”

“Do you… mind if I hug you, Tommy?”

His eyes widen. “Uh, sure, man.” It’s as awkward as ever, but Tommy helps Wilbur up on wobbling legs. 

He lets Tommy initiate, and although he watches it happen, it’s still surprising when arms finally wrap around him. He is warm. He is happy in a way that feels like handling dirty money. He knows he shouldn’t enjoy it, but he still does.

He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” He says into Tommy’s sweater. “I’m sorry.”

“I did miss you, Wil,” He says back. “I was wrong to suggest I never wanted you back. I did. I just didn’t want you like you were before. I missed my brother, Wilbur. I really missed him.”

“I wish I could give him to you, Toms. I wish I was who I used to be.”

“You wish you were the man you were before everything.”

“Yes. It would be better for everyone.”

“I’m not gonna deny that, but why wish for something you can’t have?”

“When did you become so wise?” He asks when Tommy releases the hug much earlier than he wants. 

“Been going to therapy, mate. You should think about going.”

“Not sure something like that would work for me, Toms.”

“Okay, maybe I was wrong to give you an option. You are going to therapy.”

Wilbur chuckles. He doesn’t care about the commands, he’s still stuck on the euphoria that Tommy is saying something and not screaming at him. 

“Do you like… want something to eat? Bit early, innit?”

“Oh, I-”

“I’ll make some eggs for us,” Tommy says with no room to object. 

“My digestive system’s still a bit topsy-turvy.”

“Well, eggs are easy, right? Just eat something.” It's almost startling, this way that Tommy is speaking to him, as if their dynamic has shifted right back to Pogtopia. When Tommy had to worry about caring for Wilbur and not the other way around.

Tommy turns around and begins preparing. Wilbur looks down at the dirt floor, trying to remember the last time he was here. 

Tommy works silently, something so different from the way he used to be. It maddens him, almost, to see the impact of their time apart just as present on him as on Wilbur. 

“I apologise if it’s a sore subject,” Wilbur starts. “But… What happened with you and Dream? When I wasn’t here?”

Tommy freezes for a moment and then shifts on his feet. “Too much, Big man. Exile, which Q might’ve told you about.”

“Hardly anything.”

“Well, uh, in short, it sucked ass. Dream’s a wrong ‘un, you know. He would.. Explode my stuff every day, throw away my party invitations so no one showed up. That wasn’t the worst of it. At first, it was just little things.” He shutters. “Then he got more physical. It was supposed to be him ‘teaching’ me. In the end, I almost thought I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Toms,” He says in a wheeze of a breath. “I’m so sorry. If I was there- if I could help it, I’d crush him with my bare hands, I’d make him regret what he did-”

“Well, you weren’t. There, that is. Nothing we can do about it now.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy puts the eggs on a plate and takes it back to Wilbur. He sits down next to him and doesn’t speak. 

“The Tommy I knew would burn eggs in a second,” Wilbur comments lightly. 

“I owe Niki. All her.”

Niki . She was not exempt from his reign of terror. He should make a list of all the people he needs to apologise to, it’s gotten too lengthy to remember. 

He takes a bite and the flavour is not wonderful , but isn’t terrible either. 

“Can you still sew?” Wil asks.

“Ah. Not much anymore. I’ve gotten a bit shaky in me ol’ hands.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t pity me for it. I’m not broken.”

“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… sorry. You loved sewing.”

Tommy shrugs. “Trying to pick up new hobbies. We’re not in a ravine anymore. Might as well find new things to do.”

“How is Tubbo?”

“As well as he can be. He’s got this uh… ender boy. Ranboob, I call him. They’re like in love or something.”

“I’ll have to meet him.”

“You wouldn’t like him. He’s a bit spineless for your taste.”

“In all respect, death has taken my spine.”

“Well, in that case-”

“We’d be good friends, I suppose?” He laughs. 

Tommy cackles. 

“13 years changed you, didn’t it,” Tommy says after a moment. It’s a sudden sober sentence he hadn’t expected from Tommy. 

“For better and for worse.”

He takes another bite of the eggs. 

“I missed you,” Wilbur says.

“I missed you too.”

“I’ve waited years for this.”

“Was it worth the wait?” Tommy asks, half jokingly and half subdued. 

“More than you can imagine,” He says, and Tommy takes his hand, squeezing it tightly like Quackity had. He wonders what they think it will do for him, but whatever it is, they're right. 

It feels like prophecy fulfilled.