Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soot was a very fortunate name to have for anyone who dreamed of a life of riches and power. The measly four letters were a testament to a monopoly and fortune no one on earth could understand the magnitude of. Those who fantasized about a big house, a job that wasn’t forty hours of hard labor a week, and food better than the restaurant across the street would wish that changing their last name would give them access to all the world’s wonders.

So, Wilbur, who had been born with it, would look insane to any outsider as he easily gave up the mansion life for a small, bordering on condemned apartment and a sixty-hour, minimum wage job.

But those outsiders didn’t know the half of it. To them, the idea of “the mafia” was a good movie plot and a way to describe the sketchy, wealthy people of the city. They had no idea what a name could cost you if someone got word of it, and it wasn’t worth the trade-off in Wilbur’s opinion. You couldn’t live in luxury if you had the combination to a saferoom and a pistol strapped to your hip every second of the day.

Wilbur, being the only child who legally went by the last name Soot, moved out of his childhood home as soon as he was able to. The mafia was how the city ran, and there was nothing he could do about who he was born to, but he'd distanced himself from all of that as soon as he could. He wanted nothing at all to do with the money or the crime. So he ran and got himself an apartment and a job at a factory a city over.

His life was his own, not operating around a central sun called his overworked and overdressed father. Just him and the actual soot of the city, the ashes piling up on the moving cogs of an assembly line. The room was hot, bodies crowded too close to be comfortable, with sweat pouring down the faces of old and young men alike. It was awful, it was beautiful, and it was not his childhood home. The only danger here was the danger he could control.

Well… until he met Sally.

A fiery redhead, a hot temper— she was a glorious daredevil of a woman. She got herself into trouble only Wilbur could get her out of. Her smile sparked a fire in Wilbur’s soul, a hunger in his chest. They fit, snapping together like parts of a gear, and Wilbur could not even think to regret his choice to leave now. She was here and so was he, and there was no name, and there was no status, and there was no money… but hey, that was alright. It just meant that Wilbur went to his father about buying a ring instead of searching for one himself.

Like anything, it wasn’t perfect… far from it. It wasn’t meant to last. That was what he kept telling himself, all these years later. His work gave him time to think, the motions seamless now, and more often than not he wondered why there was no warning. One day they had been talking about moving in together, and the next Sally had proclaimed that she had never loved him like he did. The moment she was pregnant with another man’s child was the moment he dropped everything that had to do with her.

That was six years ago. Wilbur had ceased all contact and hadn’t tried to find her again, but it seemed his father had some free time on his hands. He found her, hiding out just a mile or two away from Wilbur’s flat. The moment he got wind of her whereabouts, Sally was dead in a heartbeat.

Wilbur was furious, but now he had more problems.

No one had thought to consider her five-year-old, now orphaned son.

His father would kill him if he knew he was alive. They had all thought she had given away the baby, but it seemed that, even with all of the shit that Sally got into, she had taken up motherhood.

And here he was, easing the door open to a child’s nursery, a measly few paces from where the kid’s mother was being dragged out of the house and thrown into a dumpster. He closed the door behind him before the kid could catch a glimpse of what was happening out there.

Wilbur’s eyes scanned the walls, a pale blue, with scribbles taped in random places no more than four feet high. Block letters hung slightly unevenly over a twin bed, spelling out the boy’s name. All the furniture was mismatched, probably taken from thrift shops and the side of the road, but it was put together so much better than he thought Sally could ever accomplish.

And sitting crisscrossed in the middle of the room with legos scattered at his feet was a little blond-haired boy that didn’t seem to mind the stranger in his room.

“Hey… Thomas…” Wilbur began, crouching down to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something more, but the angry stare he was shot with had him do a double take.

“It’s Tommy,” the kid spit out, knocking over the tower he’d just built before crossing his arms. “Who the fuck are you?”

And Wilbur fell in love all over again.

Chapter Text

Techno let the shot ring out.

He was two stories above where he was aiming, straddling the limb of a tree. The recoil didn’t do anything but shake the leaves, but the bullet flew. The window shattered, the bullet landed, and screams rang out as the body dropped to the floor.

Techno slung the gun back around his back, climbed back down from the tree, and began to walk home.

He didn’t have much need to worry; the cops wouldn’t be called, and the man didn’t have any people who would chase him down now that he was already dead. Techno did pull out his phone, though, because even if he preferred walking home after things like this, Phil always wanted to know he was safe when he did so.

“Hey Phil,” he greeted the other side. There hadn’t even been an audible ring before he picked up. “That one was easy.”

Techno felt the relief course through the phone line. “No one has been able to kill that man for forty years,” Phil laughed, and Techno’s shoulders dropped to a relaxed position. “God, am I glad I met you.”

The last of the family heads was down. Techno would be surprised if his death wasn’t instant, but he’d certainly be dead by now. The city, which revolved around mafia members like a solar system with multiple warring suns, was slowly being overtaken. Notch by notch, day by day, bullet by bullet from Techno’s gun.

Techno asked the obvious first question. “Who’s next?”

Phil scoffed slightly, the rustle of papers becoming adamant over the phone. Techno could easily picture Phil on that ugly seventies couch, holding his phone between his shoulder and cheek. “Well, he’s been estranged for twelve or so years.” Techno’s interest immediately peaked. “But Soot’s son inherits the fortune.” 

Techno turned a corner and stepped through the unlocked doorway of their house. Phil, sitting exactly the way Techno had pictured, slipped the phone out of his hold and ended the call just as Techno locked the door behind him.

“I wasn’t aware he had a son.” Techno plopped down next to Phil on the couch, much to Phil’s annoyance. He just scooped up his overflowing papers, condensing them into one nice unorganized pile.

“Again, he’s been estranged since he became an adult,” Phil hummed in reply, shoving Techno’s rifle away when he set it down. Techno eyed him, but there was no mirth in his gaze. “I never met him, after Soot married he cut ties because of his shady business.” Techno scoffed, so Phil once again rolled his eyes.

“Lotta good that did him,” Techno commented. Phil didn’t allow him to change the subject.

“We should aim for him next.” Phil smoothed out a paper, setting it in front of his seat at the coffee table. “Just so nothing… gets in the way.”

Techno eyed the paper, noting the lease details of a less-than-stellar apartment. It was only a city over.

“You know, I’ve needed a vacation.”

---

“Don’t make me go to school, Wilbah.”

Wilbur tossed an unamused gaze in his direction, stuffing Tommy’s lunch into a plastic bag. “You have to go to school, Tommy.”

“But why,” Tommy whined in that accent that he still hadn’t dropped, as heavy as his mother’s. “I don’t wanna go today.”

“Why not?” Wilbur held out the kid’s backpack, and Tommy, though glaring the whole time, put it around his shoulders. “It’s just like any other day.”

Tommy shook his head, messing up the curls Wilbur tried so very hard to comb every morning. He didn’t usually get far. “It’s Fundy’s birthday,” the seven-year-old explained like that was the only information Wilbur needed. Wilbur waited until Tommy got the hint. “He’s gonna leave me out of it again! Like last year.” Ah, yes. Childish reasons, why would he expect anything different? “Ima be made fun of. Don’t wanna.”

“Annunciate,” Wilbur prompted before he had actually come up with a solution. Tommy pouted more, crossed his arms, and twisted his hips. Wilbur could only think of how his father would have handled Tommy, and it certainly wasn’t like what Wilbur had.

Wilbur could remember being picked on. It was so bad that he’d even brought the issue to his father over dinner, and Wilbur wasn’t usually allowed to talk at the family dinners. He wasn’t reprimanded, but he remembered vividly hearing the old man say that if those kids ever pestered him again, to tell them his father had a gun.

Wilbur wasn’t like that. He never wanted to be like that.

“If I pack you cookies will that be enough to rub in his face?”

Tommy grinned, and Wilbur pushed him out the door with a bag of cookies in his hand. He stopped the kid at the bus stop, kneeling in front of him like they did every morning.

“Repeat the rules to me, Toms.”

Tommy rolled his eyes like he was getting too old for this stuff, but he’d complained enough times to know that it was one of the few things Wilbur took seriously.

“Stranger danger, guns are bad, Momma deserved it, and you have no friends.”

Wilbur almost nodded, but he paused at the last one. “I don’t think that’s how the rules go.”

Tommy sighed, irritated. “The last one is 'don't talk to anyone claiming to be your friend,' but that's too many words. You have no friends is easier and true.”

Wilbur couldn’t find an argument in his logic. “Fair enough.” He pushed himself back up to his feet, using Tommy’s shoulder as a support. Tommy pushed his hand off roughly. “Be good today, yeah?”

“I’m good every day!” Tommy smiled as he walked toward the approaching bus. Wilbur could doubt that one. “Bye, Wilbah!”

“Bye, Tommy,” Wilbur laughed. He waved as the bus drove away, shaking his head at the antics, but he didn’t have much time to dwell. His shift started in thirty, and he knew what happened when he was late.

---

Techno watched the man walk back into his apartment building, his brunette curls bouncing as he skimmed the top of the doorway. Techno had almost paid more attention to the kid Soot had just ushered onto the bus, certain Phil hadn’t said anything about him having a child. He looked like Soot’s son… to an extent. He didn’t have any of the main features, but they shared a grin and a few mannerisms. 

But there were no others with the last name Soot, and certainly none registered to be his ward.

“Must be illegitimate,” Techno muttered to himself before walking away. This would be a little more work than they had intended.

Chapter Text

Wilbur blinked out of his daydreams at the familiar ring of his phone. The screen berated him with its bright blue, a change from the dusty, dim interior to the factory. Even though the device didn’t display any contact Wilbur had saved, he picked up the call anyway. He didn’t have anything to lose.

“That you, Soot?”

Wilbur did a double take, blinking at the strangely familiar sound of someone he’d left behind a long time ago.

“I didn’t know you had my number, Schlatt.” The words were familiar, and he found himself relaxing into the stiff wooden chair of the break room, his half-eaten lunch sitting in his lap.

“Got it from your father,” Schlatt returned, settling into a chair himself from the creaks that reached the speakers. “It’s good to hear from you.” Wilbur chuckled when Schlatt did, feeling hope in his chest again, a little bit of a break in routine. “Speaking of your father, he’s dead.”

Wilbur blanched. “What?”

“There’s been a sniper going around like a disease.” Schlatt barely sounded fazed, Wilbur had a hard time keeping his brain listening to the man on the other side. “Got him right through the dining room window. Dead where he stood.”

Wilbur tried his best to shake off the shock, but the fact that he was now an orphan sat uncomfortably heavy on his shoulders.

“When… was this?”

“Last night,” Schlatt hummed. Wilbur heard the pop of a cork on the other end. “I had to hold down the fort on your front porch so the city didn't raid it.” He took a long sip of something and sighed heavily. “His accountant is trying to get a hold of you, pretty sure you're the only person in his will.”

Wilbur leaned forward until his forehead was resting in his hands. He wasn’t about to mourn his father, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t a shock. He had been able to avoid all of those previous attempts, ones that sounded far more intricate than a bullet through a dining room window. As close as he wasn't to his father, they talked occasionally. They didn't hate each other. Wilbur certainly didn’t want him to die.

He looked up at the time, noting how he was beyond his lunch break. His supervisor would be mad, and it made an idea stir in his gut.

“Any idea how much he left me?”

Schlatt took another long sip, a vulgar sound projected right into the receiver. “Spoke to him last week,” he commented. “Said he had a couple hundred million from his last sold business. Could be more.”

His breath left him. All of that money? Wilbur would never have to work another day in his life. 

He could make a better life for Tommy.

“Soot,” someone barked. Wilbur jumped, looking up at his dick of a supervisor who had a horrible frown that made his hideous mustache even worse on his face. “Lunch ended five minutes ago. Back to work.”

“You’re still working, kid?” Shit, Schlatt must have heard that. “If you’ve got any brain left in there you’d give that up. The door’s open for you.”

A house. A stable life. Money. They could go on vacations.

Wilbur scowled at his superior, standing up from his chair and ignoring his things as they tumbled onto the floor. “I quit.”

Wilbur walked right out of the building, promising Schlatt that he’d be in the area by that night.

---

Tommy was beaming, his hands on the straps of his backpack as he strolled out of the school building. He happily ran up to Wilbur and took his hand, sticking his tongue out at his classroom window, where they were all taking a spelling test.

Tommy was, to say, quite pleased with being picked up early.

“Where are we going?” Tommy looked up at him, eyes sparkling with all the ideas that could be the result of being picked up early.

Wilbur shuffled him to the car, rolling his eyes at Tommy’s antics. “We’re going on a little trip.”

Tommy gasped with excitement. “A vacation?” Wilbur prompted Tommy to get his seatbelt on, which he clicked over his car seat. The car rumbled beneath them. “Are we going to that ba-ha-mas like Fundy’s family? Or Switz-er-land like Jack?”

“No,” Wilbur chuckled. “Nothing like that.” Tommy huffed, and Wilbur glanced at his pout through the rearview mirror. “Just a little trip to the next city.”

“Is there a muse-ment park there?”

Wilbur scrunched his face up, turning into their parking space in front of the apartment. “Amusement park,” he corrected.

“That’s what I said!” Tommy unclicked his seat belt. “Muse-ment park.”

“There’s an ‘a’ in front of it,” Wilbur closed the door behind him. “It’s an amusement park.”

“An-a-muse-ment park?”

Wilbur sighed, rubbing his temple as he guided Tommy through the front door and up the stairs. “Anyway,” he continued. “We’re going to visit my home when I was your age.”

Tommy frowned up at him. “Just another house?”

Wilbur nodded. “A super big house. With more than three rooms.”

Tommy’s eyes brightened a little more. “Why? Are we moving there?”

That was a question Wilbur couldn’t answer yet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep his old house, it would be keeping all of the memories that came with it. What he did know was that they would no longer live in a one-bedroom apartment after this, as long as all of the money exchanged hands without too much hassle.

“I don’t know yet, Toms,” Wilbur told him. Tommy ran into the apartment when the door unlocked, dumping his backpack on the couch. “Can I tell you something?”

“I’m a big man,” Tommy assured. “You can tell me anything.”

Wilbur sat down on one of the cushions. Tommy sat down next to him. “My father died yesterday.” Wilbur could see that the words didn’t really click in Tommy’s head, but he could tell that it was important to Wilbur. “I have to go and do some grown-up stuff over at his house. Do you know what a funeral is?”

Tommy crinkled his nose. “Isn’t that where dead people are?”

Wilbur couldn’t really translate his words, but it made the air a little lighter. “Yes. My father is the dead person.”

Tommy huffed. “Dying is for wrong’uns.”

That made Wilbur laugh a little bit. Tommy took that as the seriousness being over, standing up from the couch. “Hold on, Toms,” Wilbur stopped him, a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got to pack so we can leave tonight. Can you get that suit out of your closet?”

Tommy pouted. “I have to wear that?”  

“That’s what you wear to funerals.”

Tommy whined dramatically. The knot in Wilbur’s chest loosened despite it. “Just one day with the suit. And then afterward…” Tommy looked up at the break. “We can go somewhere else.”

Again, Tommy’s eyes lit up in that classic seven-year-old look. “Disney World?”

Wilbur sighed. “Sure, Tommy. Disney World.”

Chapter Text

When Tommy saw the mansion that used to be Wilbur’s home, he almost squealed.

“You lived here?” Tommy yelled, running up from the circular drive and to the marble front steps that led to the set of double oak doors. He rattled the doorknob, still shining despite its exposure to rain and weather, and peered through the frosted front windows.

Wilbur, on the other hand, felt nauseous.

The palace loomed in front of him, every twitch of grass in the wind made goosebumps crawl up his spine. The smooth marble was slimy and slick under his feet like he was treading on the thin ice over a lake, waiting for it to break and plunge him into its icy depths.

“Wilbah! Wilbah, open the door! I wanna see inside!”

He swallowed down his hesitation, shuffling through his pockets to find the key. His father had tried to get him to visit more often, thinking that giving Wilbur the key to the front door would be the way to do that.

It intimidated him instead. He hadn’t visited since.

He threaded it through the lock, twisting it twice to get the latch to flip open. Tommy didn’t wait for him to twist the nob, pushing Wilbur out of the way and busting through on his own.

“Woo!” Tommy’s voice bounced off the walls, jaw hanging open as he looked up to the ceiling. “There’s so much gold shit! I’m gonna steal!”

“No stealing!” Wilbur called after him. Tommy took off down the halls, climbing random staircases and opening doors just to see what was behind them. His pitter-patter footsteps were fast against the flooring, but Wilbur didn’t care too much about him flying into something. If anything broke, Wilbur didn’t exactly care.

A door slammed from outside. Wilbur spun around, every part of him was on edge, but it was just the person that he had specifically told to come.

Schlatt, dolled up in his three-piece suit and matching eyebags, walked in through the doorway.

“Soot,” he greeted with a half smile and stretched hand. Wilbur met it, straining his own smile back. “Haven’t seen you since you were going through puberty.”

Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Wilbah!” Wilbur’s head turned to where Tommy was skidding to his side. He’d lost his shoes somewhere, as well as his nice jacket. “Wil! There’s a pool! A whole fucking pool! Can we swim? You didn’t tell me to bring my trunks!”

Schlatt made a face before Wilbur had time to answer. “And you are?” His tone had somewhat of an edge to it, and Wilbur felt his protectiveness bubble up within him.

Tommy just grinned. “I’m his dead ex-girlfriend’s son.”

The shock harbored on Schlatt’s face was enough to make Wilbur laugh. He didn’t remember what promise he made to Tommy, something about the pool, but Tommy went off to get his bag from the car while Wilbur ushered Schlatt further inside.

“His name is Tommy,” Wilbur explained, waiting for Tommy to come back inside before he closed the front door. “And he is, in fact, my dead ex-girlfriend’s son.”

“You’ve got problems, Soot,” Schlatt just muttered. “Now, would you mind paying me in your father’s bourbon?”

Despite the rest of the kitchen being dusty, the liquor cabinet was not. Wilbur had to suppress a shiver when he touched the air-chilled bottle. Popping the top off the decanter, he slid it across the kitchen table to Schlatt, swearing not to touch it beyond that.

He would have preferred to have this conversation in the dining room, but the door to that room was bolted shut due to the shattered window and general crime scene, not that the police had been invited in.

“Tommy!” Wilbur called down the hall. More pitter-patters of footsteps answered him, the seven-year-old sliding into view with a wicked grin and using a gold curtain tieback as a crown. Wilbur ushered him forward, adjusting the makeshift crown on his head. “I know you’re having fun exploring, but me and Schlatt are going to talk about grown-up things for a little while. Would you mind staying on this floor until we’re done?”

He pouted. “Why?”

“I just want to be able to hear you, so if you get hurt I’m nearby.” Tommy rolled his eyes, and Wilbur flicked him on the forehead for it. “Keep away from breakable stuff, please? And don’t try to pick any locked doors. They’re locked for a reason.”

Tommy sighed but mocked a salute. “Can I mess with the telly? There’s a really big one in the room with all the red couches.”

“Yes—” Tommy cheered. “But no shows with violence.”

Tommy smiled evilly. “Who do you think I am? I’m gonna be good. Watch all of the Disney shows and things.”

“If I come in there and find you watching The Walking Dead-”

Tommy took off down the hallway before Wilbur could finish, but he just sighed, a fond smile on his lips, and went to sit down with a member of the mafia.

Schlatt was already a quarter through the bottle.

“That kid’s a little devil,” he commented, loosening the tie around his neck. “Why’d you pick him up?”

Wilbur stilled his jittery fingers by clasping them together. “Um, that’s… complicated.”

Schlatt snorted. “You don’t need to state the obvious, Soot.” He took a long swig, the glass clinked when he put it down. “What happened to your ex-girlfriend?”

Wilbur really didn’t care to explain that. “Shouldn’t we be talking about more important things? Like my father’s death?”

Schlatt waved it off. “You saw it coming for years, don’t deny it. There’s been a sniper targeting all of the mafia heads in the city, probably hired by someone trying to take it over themselves. He had several close calls the past few months. You probably haven’t seen anything ‘cause you’ve been estranged ten years.” Another swig. Wilbur broke the eye contact, a little disgusted. “When you show up at the funeral, you’ll get on their radar, probably see some of your own stuff.”

Wilbur had thought about that on the drive over. The accountant would show up in half an hour and then he’d really learn how much his head was worth.

It wouldn’t be a problem. He’d handle the funeral, handle the will, take Tommy to Disney World while he hired someone to buy him a bigger house on the other side of the country, and then everything would be great. No mafia, no snipers, just him and Tommy with a lot more financial stability.

“Have you seen anything?” Wilbur asked, hoping he’d know what he was dealing with.

Instead, Schlatt laughed, a bright cackle. “I’m not nearly important enough, Soot.” He let out a grin. “The only reason I’m here instead of one of your father’s business partners is because I found your number first.”

That wasn’t relieving at all.

He tapped the table twice. “Either way, you’re getting the same information. I’m just not asking for a cut of the winnings.” 

Schlatt reached for the bottle to refill his glass again, and Wilbur eyed it. “Are you driving after this?”

Schlatt shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of experience under the influence.” Wilbur snatched the bottle without another word. “Hey! I’ve got plenty of money for a bribe too. I don’t have any DUIs.”

“Just because you don’t have a DUI doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have gotten one.” Wilbur placed it back in the cabinet and let out a breath he was holding. “I’m not letting someone drink and drive in front of my son.”

An eyebrow raised in his direction. “So he is your son?”

Wilbur’s eye twitched. “Not biologically.”

“That doesn’t mean shit,” Schlatt shrugged. “You don’t have to be afraid to say it in front of me. What would I gain from taking the brat? One kid in my house is plenty.”

Wilbur’s head shot up. “You have a kid?”

Schlatt smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Now, now, just because I wouldn’t gain anything from knowing about yours doesn’t mean you wouldn’t gain anything from knowing about mine.”

“Schlatt, you know I don’t work that way. I want nothing to do with your business.”

“But you’d do anything to get out of it.” Schlatt crossed his arms at Wilbur’s returning silence, a knowing look crossing in the air. Schlatt answered anyway. “His name’s Tubbo. He’s eight. We should arrange a playdate or something.”

Wilbur sighed. “As much as that would be nice, we’re leaving as soon as we’re able.”

“Best of luck running from this place,” Schlatt smirked. “Can’t do it twice.”

Wilbur hoped he was wrong.

---

“Wha— sorry…” Wilbur held a hand to his forehead. “Say that again?”

The accountant sighed, rubbing at her temple as she flipped the screen around, displaying the large, bright, glowing numbers in the center of the screen.

“864 million,” she repeated, tapping the screen. “In pure monetary form, at least. He had more in assets, business, stocks. If you withdrew it all it would probably be around three billion.”

Wilbur would truly never have to work again.

How much of that was blood money?

Who cared? He had no idea if his father really did a lot of that, he was out of the loop and had been for ages. There probably wasn’t anything from recent years, and even if there was, Wilbur didn’t know a thing about it. If the FBI broke down his door, he wouldn’t be able to testify to anything. The money was just money in his eyes.

He needed to call one of those testator people and get a will written.

It was a few hours of sitting at that kitchen table, getting every one of his father’s accounts transferred into Wilbur’s name. He had a fuck-ton of them, and so they spent even longer trying to condense them into just a few accounts that he’d be able to keep track of. Finally, everything in Wilbur’s account (the accountant cringed at the simple four digits) was placed in with his father’s money.

When the accountant left, his bank app was screaming. Wilbur was lightheaded.

“Soot was one hell of a businessman.” Schlatt popped another cork. Wilbur ignored where he got the bottle from. “You can see why he chose the gun, now.”

Wilbur totally understood why his father made his ties with the mafia. People would already be out for him, why not join ‘em?

“Wilbah.”

Wilbur turned, watching Tommy come out of the room he was in, hugging a giant plush pillow to his chest. He was still bright-eyed, just a little more tired, probably overwhelmed by the onslaught of new information.

“Need something, kiddo?” Wilbur offered an arm out from his chair, and Tommy stepped into his side with a happy hum. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was just a bit past dinner time. 

“I want pizza.”

He could buy about 800 million pizzas.

Wilbur squeezed his shoulder. “Coming right up, Toms.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur expected his childhood bedroom to look different.

He hadn’t stepped foot in it since he moved out. Even during his sparse visits, he stayed in one of the guest rooms. He wanted no reminder of anything that his childhood was associated with.

He thought that, at the very least, they would have cleaned it out.

They had not.

“I’m sleeping here?” Tommy scowled at the room, dragging a finger across the bedframe. “It’s dusty.”

Although he would have loved to avoid the room at all costs, it was the safest room in the house. There was bulletproof glass that made up the windows, and a nicely hidden door to the safe room just to the side of the white-painted nightstand. The walls were an easy light blue, covered with stickers and posters that Wilbur had never cared to take down, so they just amassed in the places that he was able to reach as a kid. Books and trinkets were stuffed onto the shelves, with stuffed animals placed meticulously in certain spots.

Tommy picked one up, a well-loved blue sheep about as big as his head. He looked back at Wilbur to question the odd choice, and Wilbur could do nothing but shrug. For some reason, he’d gotten attached to that sheep.

“I’ll clean it tomorrow,” Wilbur promised, ushering Tommy into the bed. “Alright? This is the safest room in the house, I’d like you to stay here.”

Tommy crossed his arms. “I don’t need protecting. I’m a big man.”

When Wilbur crouched down to be at eye level, Tommy immediately sobered. Wilbur didn’t usually lower himself to Tommy’s height, Tommy didn’t like it. It reminded him that he was still super little. But whenever Wil had to share something super serious, their code was simple.

“Do you remember when I told you that I used to be part of a very dangerous group of men?” Tommy’s arms loosened up a little, nodding. “My father was part of them too. That’s why he died, those people killed him.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped into a little o shape. He sat back on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortably away from Wilbur’s eye contact.

“Since he left his things to me,” Wilbur continued, prying off Tommy’s shoes just because it was convenient. “Those men don’t like me either. You are important to me, Tommy, and important things to important people get stolen.” Wilbur poked Tommy until he rolled his eyes and maneuvered himself to the headboard, nestling under the blankets. “I hope that I don’t have to bother with them, and we can move somewhere far away where no one will find us, but for right now, I’m going to protect you as much as I can.”

Tommy considered that for a moment before looking up with a determined expression. “Are the rules the same?”
That… was a good question. Wilbur had to think about it for a moment.

“Stranger danger applies until I tell you otherwise,” Wilbur nodded. “And Momma always deserved it, that never changes.” Tommy huffed a little bit with a smile. “Guns… guns with people you don’t know are bad. I may find my father’s gun… and I’ll keep it just in case.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to do, but it might just help them in the long run.

“Can I get one?”

Wilbur balked. “A gun?”

Tommy nodded a little too eagerly.

“No,” he stated, but then couldn’t hold in a laugh at the image of it. “No, nothing but toys for you. But… I’ll work on getting you a phone so you can use that in emergencies.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up eagerly. Wilbur was going to make a very big mistake giving the gremlin full access to the internet, but he was a big advocator for physical safety over internet safety. Once they got settled down somewhere new, Tommy wouldn’t need it anymore.

“Do you have friends now?”

Out of context, that would have been a great question to overhear, but as part of the rules, Wilbur knew that one didn’t change.

“My only friend is you,” Wilbur assured. Tommy rolled his eyes. “Schlatt, the man that was downstairs? He’s tricky. When something is in it for him, he’ll be my friend. His loyalty is bought, not earned, got that?”

Tommy nodded confidently, even if Wilbur was certain the kid had no idea what he just said.

“Anything else?”

Wilbur nodded quickly, standing up to go search for a pen and paper. He brought out a notebook he hadn’t touched since he was a child, tore out a page, and got a pen working. 

If anything happens to me, everything I own goes to Tommy Innes. Keep him safe.

- Wilbur Soot

He folded the paper over itself four times before putting it in Tommy’s hands. “Keep this with you at all times. If I die, you run to the person you trust the most, and you give this to them. Alright?”

Tommy took the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “Alright.”

“Get to bed, buddy,” Wilbur smiled, going back toward the door. “I’ll be in the room right next door if you need anything.”

“Goodnight, Wilbah!”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

---

If stepping into his childhood bedroom was hard, stepping into his parents’ bedroom was like trying to push through a brick wall.

Still, the grim beige walls that were the same color as Wilbur’s ratty apartment made it a little more inviting. The main differences, of course, were the obvious shows of wealth against each wall and the lack of scuffed paint from Tommy knocking his school bag and shoes against the corners.

Wilbur twisted the duvet between his fingers, tauntingly plush.

As much as he would hate to claim his quarters so soon after his death, it was the closest bedroom to Tommy’s, the best protected, and it had the man’s private things. All of his passwords, the deeds, the documents, nestled snugly in the safe on the wall.

The combination still worked, surprisingly. Wilbur managed to open the metal door, peering inside at the mostly paper contents. There was still a jewelry box that belonged to his long-dead mother, a file cabinet, a markbook for keeping track of loaned and debited money, and as much cash as a man could ever want.

He stuffed maybe a thousand dollars worth into his wallet—just for the hell of it—and rifled through some documents. Records, transactions–- the sort. He was almost relieved that there was no written proof of shady business. No mercenaries, no hits, no incriminating evidence, and no confessions.

What he really needed was the debt records. Now that the man was dead, the money he’d borrowed would be sought after immediately. If Wilbur didn’t have it on hand, he was as good as dead. The mafia was a shady business without the business, and money went around every day. Wilbur was lucky his father was organized, with everything he ever owed to anyone written down in ink.

Most of it was paid off. Many people still owed his father money, and Wilbur doubted he’d get any of that back now.

The only people who still hadn’t received their money from his father were a few dead souls with long decomposing corpses and one Phil Craft.

Wilbur thought he’d heard the name before, but couldn’t remember from where.

Either way, the couple thousand had clearly been forgotten about, because it was measly money to the man now. Regardless, Wilbur still counted out the couple thousand and set it aside, planning to track down the man eventually. Maybe he’d be at the funeral, and Wilbur wouldn’t even have to do any real work to get the debts paid.

He closed the safe soon after, collapsing back onto the bed with a long sigh. He ran his hands up his face as he considered just what he was doing. His father had died yesterday , just a mere twenty-four hours ago, and here Wilbur was, already organizing all of his debts and stealing his money.

He didn’t have anything in him to mourn. They didn’t hate each other, Wilbur had to keep reminding himself, but he didn’t like his father either. There was a goddamn reason he left, and it wasn’t because of a petty dream and teenage angst. Wilbur was sure his getaway bag was still sitting in the back of his childhood bedroom’s closet.

Plenty of horrible memories were posted up on the walls of this mansion instead of pictures from his youth, and though the bloodstains were painted over, they still burned a deep hole into his mind.

After the funeral, he’d be leaving. Far away from the mafia and the ties he had to it. He didn’t have to keep the name Soot, he could match last names with Tommy, and he was sure the kid would love that. 

It just seemed too easy to return. Too easy to accept. He should be mourning, right? Like any other child would do if their father was just shot through his dining room window?

He didn’t know. Maybe it would hit him later, at the funeral, but he was certain he’d accepted his father’s death long before it actually occurred.

Either way, he didn’t feel too guilty about this. He’d take the man’s bed for a few nights, spend some of the money to get into a good neighborhood farther south, and the world would spin.

He flicked the lights off, spreading out under the duvet just to see how much space he could take up, but still curled in on himself after a while.

Tommy snuck in not too long after. They shared the giant bed, taking up as little space as they could. It was what they were used to.

Chapter Text

“It’s too tight. I’m dying.” 

Wilbur promptly ignored the whining coming from his backseat, knowing that addressing the issue would just get Tommy to whine louder when things got dull and boring.

His father’s funeral was today. Wilbur was, to put it lightly, not looking forward to it. He knew he had to be there as his father’s only blood-related living relative, but he’d rather be anywhere else. Disney World kept getting more enticing with the passing days, though he supposed Tommy had been pretty well-behaved as Wilbur slaved away at his paperwork and planning. That could have been due to the large number of rooms the kid had infiltrated with his grubby hands and sharp eyes.

Wilbur was highly persuaded by Schlatt to not speak at the funeral, not that Wilbur had offered out of anything but courtesy anyway. He simply didn’t know the man well enough, and he probably would have ended up pissing someone off with information he did or did not include. 

Yes. It was a very good thing he wasn’t speaking.

The funeral had been organized by Schlatt and a few other ‘partners’. Wilbur was not given their names, he had no idea who to thank. He only trusted Schlatt with it because he knew the man was straightforward. Schlatt wouldn’t want favors or help with his position, he would just want to be paid in money and alcohol, which Wilbur’s father had a fuck-ton of.

Wilbur did end up paying for the funeral, despite everything.

“Wilbah,” Tommy whined again. Wilbur glanced at him in the rearview mirror, watching him pulling at his tie. “I’m suffocating. This is going to be my funeral.”

Tommy was seven, surely no one would think twice about letting Tommy go without a tie?

Wilbur pushed down unpleasant memories of social events he was forced to go to when he was young, dolled up and paraded around because his father knew he was important, his father knew he was not to be touched. That was before his parents had gotten too old to be neck and neck with the operation.

Maybe if he wore it for just the beginning… at least Tommy would come off as normal for a seven-year-old.

“I want to you to wear it at least until the end of the ceremony,” Wilbur decided. Tommy pouted and crossed his arms. “Then you can let me know if I need to take it off when the adults start mingling.”

“Ming-el-ling, ” Tommy mumbled back. He tended to do that with words he didn’t know when he was upset, it never failed to make Wilbur smile a little bit.

The car pulled into the lot. Wilbur had to take a breath before putting the vehicle in park.

“Come on, Toms,” Wilbur gestured. Tommy viciously attacked the buckles on his car seat. He hopped out and stared at the entrance to the funeral home, watching lots of men in suits like theirs mulling about inside.

“They look important,” Tommy commented. Wilbur didn’t hesitate to nod.

“There are some very important people in there, people we have to pay a lot of respect to and be very careful around.” Tommy’s eyes shone up at him, soaking up every word. “And if anyone asks, you’re just my son for today, ok? No need to go through the lineage.”

“Even if Momma deserved it?”

Wilbur huffed out a laugh. “She still did, but not all of these people need to know, yeah?” When Tommy confirmed, Wilbur stuck a hand out for him to take. “Come on, the party can’t start without us.”

It had, in fact, started without them. They had come in just as the first person began to speak, so they got a great seat in the very last row where Tommy could be fidgety and whisper things to him without being distracting.

It was a measly service, a closed casket, and included way too many people with hands on their guns. Wilbur saw more threats than tears, but none of that surprised him. He was just glad no one had made a move on another. Too many cameras.

It did mean that every time someone came up to him Wilbur had to suppress a flinch.

Wilbur’s godsend ended up being Schlatt once again. Despite not appearing as much of a family man, Schlatt had brought his son, who he believed was nicknamed Tubbo, along to the party. It was the one person Wilbur allowed Tommy to run off with, and from the look of it, they got along decently well.

It was good he was away from Wilbur too, because he got approached by plenty of old and new faces trying to be consolatory for his loss, and it just left Wilbur with a twisting stomach after every encounter.

But there was one…

“Soot,” he’d led with, just like every other unrecognizable face. Wilbur shook his hand quickly and stuffed it back into his pocket right after. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Wilbur concealed another sigh. “It’s the business,” he replied, like he had to everyone else. He took the moment to eye the burly man behind the one who approached him, obviously a bodyguard of some kind. He wasn’t sure how important this man was, but he was at least decently important enough to need backup.

The head of pink hair did nothing to dull the intimidation factor. The guard stared him down with a somehow threatening, neutral expression.

Wilbur picked up the next cue after a few seconds. “I can’t say I’m involved much anymore,” he started, dropping his voice a bit. “You are…?”

The blonde man managed a smile. “Phil Craft,” he introduced, and Wilbur only had a split second to recognize the name before a chipper little voice interrupted.

“Like the video game?” Tommy popped up from out of the aether, rolling on the balls of his feet as he looked up at the man. Wilbur put a hand on his back subconsciously, noting that his tie was still on, if it was decently askew.

Craft raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Ya know,” Tommy shrugged. “Minecraft. Phil Minecraft.”

Wilbur felt his embarrassment rise, but the other man chuckled just a little. “It’s just Craft, mate.” He smiled back down at Tommy, probably waiting to get his name, but Tommy didn’t get the idea.

“Nah, Phil Minecraft is cooler.” Tommy leaned his head against Wilbur’s hip in thought. “It needs another sill-a-bill, though. Like… Phils… Philza! Philza Minecraft!”

“Syllable,” Wilbur corrected. “What happened to playing with Tubbo?”

Tommy pouted. “His dad made him talk to someone,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “You’re stuck with me until Tubbo’s free.”

Wilbur glanced up to find the other kid, who was being pretty much forced to stay at Schlatt’s side as he talked to someone. Tubbo didn’t even look like he was listening to the conversation, just eyeing the other man’s gun far too curiously to be safe.

Craft chuckled softly, tilting his head a bit. “I wasn’t aware you had a son, Soot.”

Wilbur opened his mouth to confirm with as little suspicion as possible when Tommy ruined that for him.

“Yep! I’m totally his son.” Tommy flashed a smile. “And not the kid he had to take in after his dad killed my mom.” Tommy made a smug look, taking in the surprised one on Craft’s face. Wilbur always chuckled, even if he was slightly embarrassed this time.

“What he’s trying to say is that we aren’t related,” Wilbur interjected, hoping to resolve the situation in a way that could be shoved under the couch and left for another time, but preferably never. Tubbo had finally broken free from his father’s side, and Wilbur nudged Tommy in his direction. “Look, Tubbo’s free.”

Tommy gasped, and without just a shout of “Bye, Wilbah!” he took off to start rattling off information to the other boy. Wilbur breathed a mental sigh of relief.

“He’s cute,” Craft commented. Wilbur clenched his jaw, knowing it was just being said out of courtesy, and definitely nothing genuine. “Raised him well.”

“He’s a chaotic shit,” Wilbur said lightheartedly, letting Craft chuckle. He quickly swooped in and changed the topic, not wanting Tommy to remain in the limelight any longer. “I recognize your name, were you close to my father?”

Craft waved off his comment. “Oh, ages ago,” he dismissed, and Wilbur clenched his jaw a little harder. People were so hard to read. “We knew each other when we grew up. I introduced him to your mother, my sister. Got him started on his business.”

His… uncle?

“Is that what that first loan was in his books?” Wilbur shifted. This was his uncle all of a sudden, and that was not a detail he could forget. Familial ties, however separate, however forgotten, were valuable. Wilbur was just one example. “The 4,000?”

“I’m surprised he hadn’t completely scratched that out.” Craft looked at him curiously. “Yes, that was what got him started. He never repaid it, but I didn’t pester him.”

Why would he scratch it out if it was never repaid?

“I have the money.” Wilbur swallowed down an unsettling feeling. He needed to get this done as quickly as possible. “If 4,000 is worth anything to you anymore.”

“The thought is what counts,” Craft nodded. “I’d love to come over and get it, one day soon.”

Shit. He couldn’t go back from that. It was a formality, he supposed, not to trade money on a whim, but it sounded far too much like a self-invite.

“Of course,” Wilbur forced out anyway. He’d have to take some decent precautions. Get Tommy out of the house if possible.

Craft practically beamed.“I’ll find your number somewhere and call,” he assured Wilbur before walking away.

The interaction physically hurt him with how suspicious it was. The personal glare he kept getting from the bodyguard didn’t help so much either. Wilbur’s nerves were firing on all cylinders, and as soon as Craft and his shadow were out of earshot, he called Tommy back to his side.

“You see that Phil Craft?” Wilbur gestured, watching Tommy take in his looks and manner with wide eyes and a serious expression. “Be careful around him. Please.”

Tommy took the lesson, as always, and stuffed it into the cabinets of his mind. They walked out of the funeral not too long after; a heavy weight pressed over Wilbur’s chest as he thought about it for the rest of the day.

---

“The young one’s cute,” Phil commented absentmindedly, watching the two of them leave. “Tommy.”

“Phil,” Techno deadpanned, knowing already exactly what Phil was thinking. “We’re getting rid of them, remember?”

“Mm.” Techno didn’t like that sound. “We have to kill Soot, no question.” He swirled the red around in his glass, disinterested in drinking it. “But the little one’s not even related to him.”

Techno took his drink from him before he could get too pissed off by the motion. It made Phil smile a bit.

“I am not having an ankle biter in my house.”

Phil shooed his worry out of the air. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’d be separation.” Phil looked up at Techno with a grin. “But.” Techno grumbled a complaint. “He’d make a decent vessel to inherit it all when we’re dead.”

Techno scoffed. “I don’t die.”

“I know you don’t,” Phil rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “Just thinking aloud.”

“Keep your outrageous ones inside.” Techno gestured in the direction of their car. With scouting complete, Techno didn’t want to stay one minute more in a social gathering. Strange, for an impersonating bodyguard. Phil humored him, starting to walk out, but it seemed Techno had more thoughts to share. “Either I kill him or we give him to an orphanage somewhere. I’m not harboring any kids.”

“He’s a spitfire,” Phil protested. “It would be a shame to lose him to the system.”

“Final answer.” Techno shook his head as he powered on the car. Phil closed the door behind him. “No kids.”

Phil hummed a noncommittal response. He got one of Techno’s glares in return, but Phil knew his partner wouldn’t do anything. Techno had the brawn, Phil had the name, and they were nothing without the other.

“What do you think of Soot?” Phil asked after some time, trying to gauge Techno’s impression.

“What about him?” Techno replied without interest. Nothing stellar than, average seeming.

“Different from his father,” Phil explained. Techno raised a brow. “He had nothing to hide.”

“And how would you know?”

“Because he brought his most valuable item to the funeral with all of his father’s mortal enemies.” Techno gave him an unimpressed look, so Phil continued. “It’s like he wants to be killed.”

“Good.”

“Techno.”

Techno huffed as he turned the wheel. “Not our problem whether or not he’s good at all of this. He’s sitting on 3 billion dollars worth of inheritance and has no will. We kill him and we’re as good as gold.” Techno turned down their street, and Phil watched the beginnings of a smile form on his face. “I can buy the crown straight off the king’s head.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “You have four crowns.”

“Five’s a nice number.”

Phil snorted and left the rest of his thoughts for later.

Chapter Text

“Wilbah! It’s your turn.” Tommy pushed the dice towards him as Wilbur snapped his mind out of the aether, blinking back to the present. He looked down at the board, wondering when he had gotten so far around it.

“Sorry, Toms,” he apologized. “I was just thinking.” He scooped up the dice and rolled, moving his piece across the trail.

“You do that a lot,” Tommy mumbled. Wilbur bit his cheek and tried not to feel too guilty. Tommy took the dice next, rolling a significantly higher number and started to count the dots. “Nine?”

“Nine,” Wilbur confirmed. Tommy counted aloud as he rolled his car over the board, stopping shortly, and then pushing it one more space. “I think you did one too many there,” he pointed out.

Tommy grumbled. “But I want the railroad.” Tommy sighed dramatically as he backed his car piece up to the last spot, making little beeping noises as he did so, and stopping with a huff. “You hadn’t noticed before.”

Wilbur bit his cheek harder. “Well, I guess I’ll have to pay more attention then,” Wilbur said more to himself than Tommy. Pay attention to him, Wil, you owe him that. “Are you going to buy that one?”

Tommy looked down at the red property. “Nah, it has too many ‘I’s in it.”

Wilbur huffed out a little laugh. “It only has three!”

“That’s a lot!” Tommy said back to him, crossing his arms. “And what kinda name is Ill-e-noise anyway?”

“Illinois,” Wilbur corrected, scooping up the dice for his turn. “The ‘s’ is silent.”

“It’s silent?” Tommy glared at the property now like it had personally offended him. “Why’s there an ‘s’ if it doesn’t even do anything?”

“Take it up with the French,” Wilbur hummed. He moved his piece forward and landed on the railroad Tommy was trying to buy earlier, quickly counting up the money as Tommy groaned.

“The French ruin everything.” Tommy smacked his head down on the table, shaking the whole board.

It was just then that Wilbur’s phone rang.

He glanced at it quickly, not recognizing the number. He was going to ignore it when it crossed his mind that a lot of people might want to call him for important reasons now, even if he didn’t know them.

He had to pick that up, didn’t he?

“One minute, Toms,” Wilbur excused himself, picking up his phone and placing it to his ear. He sighed quickly before he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, mate,” Phil Craft greeted him back. Wilbur took in a sharp breath but didn’t let him hear it.

“Hey, Craft,” Wilbur forced out from between his teeth, closing a door to separate himself from the room Tommy was in. He pretended not to see the kid reach for his newly acquired railroad. “Is there something you need?”

Phil didn’t humor him in answering right away, taking his time before telling Wilbur his reason for calling. “I’m free tonight if we want to do that exchange.”

Just as Wilbur predicted, Phil was inviting himself over. He at least had the courtesy of calling before he just showed up, because Wilbur was certain everyone had his address. Another reason to leave this hellhole fast. His realtor was taking her sweet time.

Phil cleared his throat, it seemed Wilbur had been quiet for too long. “If that’s alright with you,” he clarified, but Wilbur knew that no wasn’t going to be a suitable answer.

He’d have to find a really buff babysitter for Tommy and get him out of the house. It was already 2 pm, he didn’t have a lot of time.

He took a moment. Phil could spare him a moment.

“Does six work for dinner?”

He felt Phil’s smile travel through the phone. It gave him chills.

“I’ll be there.”

The phone cut off without a single chance for another word to be said. Wilbur slipped it into his pocket and rubbed at his temple. He took in a breath, and coughed as he breathed in the dust he still hadn’t gotten around to cleaning. His father hadn’t used many of the rooms in this house.

Wilbur pushed the door back open to find Tommy trying very hard not to seem suspicious at Wilbur’s sudden lack of properties. Wilbur ignored it for the sake of the sudden predicament, sitting himself back down on the chair.

“So.” He managed to snag Tommy’s attention with the phrase. “Do you remember Craft from the funeral?”

“Philza Minecraft?”

Wilbur forgot Tommy had made a nickname for him. “Yeah,” Wilbur smiled a little bit at it. It made it seem less like a meeting with an esteemed member of the mafia and more like Wilbur was meeting with an NPC for a sidequest. “He’s coming over for dinner.”

Tommy tilted his head. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur nodded, sighing as he rubbed harder at the knot in his temple. “Do you think you could stay with Tubbo tonight?”

Tommy’s eyes comically widened, his posture automatically improving. “Like a sleepover?” He almost whispered, like it was something he’d only heard about in movies.

“No,” Wilbur pressed. Tommy deflated. “It will just be until dinner’s over and I can come to pick you up.”

Tommy played with his fingers, like he was considering his options. “Ok,” he said eventually, nodding to himself with all of a seven-year-olds formality.

“Great.” Wilbur nodded to him back, and he could tell it made Tommy feel incredibly important. “Let me call Schlatt to make sure he can do that.” He stood up and walked to the corner of the room again, once again ignoring the grubby fingers reaching for his brightly colored stacks of play money.

He knew how Schlatt worked at this point. Asking him to watch Tommy for a few hours was not going to be an act of goodwill, but he trusted Schlatt just enough to not do anything with the right amount.

“Soot,” Schlatt picked up the phone after a grunt of some kind. “I hope you’re not calling for advice because I will not give you any.”

Wilbur waved off the comment. “How much to watch Tommy tonight?”

Schlatt scoffed on the other side. “How long?”

“Four hours.”

“14k.”

Wilbur could probably get a certified babysitter for 40 bucks, but he knew they would have no chance against anyone that might want to get their hands on Tommy. Schlatt might just have enough loyalty and bullets to keep him from harm.

So Wilbur concealed another sigh. “He’ll be over by five.”

---

“You’re leaving a lot to chance, Phil,” Techno grunted after Phil hung up the phone. Phil set it down with a click and an eyeroll. “It’s not normally how you operate.”

“Soot is skittish,” Phil leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. “If he gets even a little idea in his mind that we’re not coming over for shits and giggles this whole thing could go down the drain.” Techno didn’t avert his gaze, making it very clear what he thought of Phil’s plan. “Tech, everyone with so much as a toe in the door knows we’re after the Soot fortune. Anyone will want to get on our side for a share of the coin.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t just go up there and kill him.”

“That’s a lie,” Phil laughed. “Inheritance court will not be pretty if both Soots were murdered within a week of each other.”

“We could do it.”

“I’d rather spare the extra headache.” Phil stood up from the couch with a grunt, swiping up the phone. “Go change, I don’t want you doing dirty work in pajama pants.”

“It’s not like anyone will see them.”

“Techno.”

Techno let out an exasperated sigh and went up to change. Phil took in a calming breath and glanced out the window, watching people walk by, oblivious to the coming storm.

Chapter Text

Clouds were brewing on the horizon line as Wilbur drove toward the address Schlatt had given him. Wilbur hoped he wouldn’t be driving back in the rain, that was the last thing he needed to end this night. Between the house struggles, the surprise call, and fourteen thousand worth of bills he had to request out of his account, the last thing Wilbur wanted to be doing tonight was fighting rush hour traffic in the rain.

“I brought my switch in case Tubbo doesn’t have Animal Crossing, because we have to play Animal Crossing. It was all I talked about with him at the funeral.” Tommy was kicking Wilbur’s seat a little bit, trying to get him to pay attention to the words tumbling out of his mouth. “He didn’t know who Sproket was! And he’s the coolest ‘cause he likes all the sports stuff. All the other villagers aren’t as cool as he is, with pink houses and stuff. Though I do like Tommy; he’s a big man like me.”

Wilbur wasn’t going to point out how the character ‘Tommy’ was canonically very short within the game. It was one of the kid’s tough subjects.

“Just be open to playing other things with him, ok?” Wilbur prompted. “Tubbo doesn’t know you super well yet, you have to try not to overwhelm him.”

Tommy did something between a huff and a scoff, but it was hard to tell what the kid’s emotions were without looking at him. Wilbur resolved to bring his focus back to the road, turning this way and that to get down the expansive back streets of Schlatt’s locked-down community. It seemed that, even with his reputation mainly as a goon doing insider work, he still tried to keep himself from being found.

Wilbur didn’t blame him. Being in the fray was utterly nervewraking.

Wilbur parked the car along the curb in front of Schlatt’s house right as the clock ticked over to five. Tommy scrambled to undo his fastenings, pushing open the car door and running up the front walkway. Wilbur lingered behind him a bit, glancing over his shoulder just in case.

Tommy obnoxiously rang the doorbell more than a few times, which led to a disgruntled Schlatt opening the door with a signature piercing stare on his face. Tommy’s mood didn’t dim at all, and Wilbur could tell that Schlatt was not excited to be the adult in charge.

“Tell me the rules,” Wilbur called to Tommy before he could run off, which just made the kid roll his eyes and open his fingers to count them off.

“Stranger danger, guns are bad unless you have it, Momma deserved it, you have no friends, and if you die I run to the person I trust the most.”

Wilbur breathed a short, silent sigh. “Have fun, Tommy.”

The kid raced off without another word, calling for his friend who appeared at the top of the stairwell.

“I should start doing that,” Schlatt grumbled, opening the door a little wider to talk to Wilbur. Of course, it wasn’t any small talk. “If you’re a second late getting here by nine you owe me another thousand.”

Wilbur reluctantly nodded, still staring at the spot where Tommy had disappeared at the top of the stairs. “Just make sure he’s alright,” he spoke in a short stream of air, followed reverently by, “If anything happens to him I don’t know what I’d do.”

Schlatt didn’t seem phased, clearing his throat and adjusting his stance against the doorway. “Relax, I don’t exactly let people break into my house.” He patted his pocket sharply. Wilbur would bet his inheritance that there was a gun there. “Who’re you having over?”
Wilbur swallowed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “Craft,” he muttered, like there was someone listening. Schlatt’s eyebrow raised. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Yeah, he’s new.” Schlatt glanced behind him at a particularly loud screech coming from the boys, followed by a hasty “ shut the fuck up!” and a decent amount of muffled laughter. Neither of them was phased. “Got in the door just a year or so ago. His bodyguard scares Toby so much he won’t go near him.”

Wilbur had that image melded into his brain, of the bodyguard with bright pink hair and a stare that could melt the rings of Saturn.

“He’s my uncle, you know,” Wilbur commented, clenching his jaw a bit at the prospect of playing catch up with a man that gave him a perpetual paranoid feeling. “I’d never heard a thing about him, and he just showed up at my father’s funeral.”

Schlatt scoffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, you don’t need an invitation if you have a decent reputation.” Wilbur wasn’t sure what kind of reputation Schlatt was speaking of, but he doubted it was anything good. “But let me lay this down for you, Soot, since you’re still new to all this.” He heavily cleared his throat again, making a revolting squelching sound in his throat. “In this town, nothing’s a coincidence.” Schlatt smiled just briefly, humourlessly. “I’ll see you at nine.”

The door closed, the wind dispersing and ruffling up Wilbur’s fringe. He took in an unsteady breath, shaking out his fingers as he turned away from the door. The walk from the doorstep to the car seemed longer without an energetic sunbeam at his side.

Wilbur couldn’t help but be paranoid. Something would happen with Phil Craft tonight, something that was beyond drinking too much of the good wine and overstaying his welcome. He was sure there would be some threat exchanged, a piece of incriminating evidence, or a demand that Wilbur would have no choice but to agree to. Blackmail seemed a little too mild, however. Wilbur hoped there wouldn’t be too much action. The last thing he needed was for the house to get wrecked in a search for valuables; he very much wanted it sold and out of his life.

The steering wheel was hot under his palms the whole drive back, and Wilbur kept himself busy until the six o’clock hour arrived with preparations and distracting music. If he let his thoughts keep to themselves, they would force him in the direction of the British countryside to go off the grid and live a happy life as a single father with a nice barn cat to roam the fields.

There Wilbur waited, instead, like the sitting duck that he was. That was not his first mistake.

---

“Craft, give me 50k and I’ll tell you where Soot’s brat is.”

Chapter Text

Schlatt’s doorbell rang at exactly six, and it wasn’t a moment later that the door cracked open and a hand stuck through the gap, palm up.

“Money,” Schlatt demanded without even showing his face. Techno refrained from an eye-roll and placed the wad of cash in his outstretched fingers. The hand quickly retreated, and Techno heard the tell-tale sound of someone running their hands along the sides, counting the notes.

Schlatt opened the door completely, letting Techno glare upon his scowling face.

“You’re short.”

Techno pushed through the doorway anyway. “Count again,” he gruffed, scanning the foyer. “Where’s the kid?”

Schlatt gave him another pointed look but pocketed the cash. “Upstairs. Let me get Toby and he’s all yours.”

“No need,” Techno started his way toward the stairs. “I’ll be getting him.”

“Not a chance.” Schlatt grabbed onto Techno’s arm and kept him from advancing. Techno’s fingers twitched for the gun at his side, but he remained patient. “I’m not having Tubbo in on this, the boy’s traumatized enough.”

Techno looked at the man, a father, protective but less attentive. He saw the bags under his eyes, a mixture of exhaustion and substance, and the shake to his hands. Guilt did not look good on the man, and it seemed that his mentality of money is money wasn’t holding up.

Schlatt, despite having the money in his hands, wasn’t sure of his decision. Maybe there was just a bit of conscience in that man after all.

Luckily, Techno was free from such burdens.

Techno’s ears were used to the sound of a gunshot by now. He didn’t bother with the body, just taking a moment to recollect the bills from the man’s pocket before tracking up the stairs. The children’s previous rowdiness which had been heard through muffled thumps in the floorboards, stilled after the noise.

“I’ll check it out,” Schlatt’s son, Tubbo, whispered from a room just to the right of the stairwell. Techno recapped his pistol, sliding it back into its slot, he wouldn’t need it.

When Tubbo eased the door open, he only needed a second to recognize Techno before he let out a shocked squeaking sound and shut the door again. The lock clicked.

Techno didn’t need much more than his strength to pry it open from the other side.

Tubbo was cowering to the point of shaking in the corner, covering himself in bean-bag chairs as if that would stop a bullet. The other boy, Tommy, Wilbur’s son by proximity, was standing over Tubbo with his arms stretched out. He had a pouting glare on his face and was making it clear that Techno was not going to take Tubbo without a fight.

Techno wasn’t there for Tubbo.

“Don’t touch him!” Tommy shouted as Techno started closer. Techno didn’t waver, crossing his arms in front of him.

“Fine,” he stated, “I’ll take you instead.”

“You— you can try!” Tommy shouted, a break in his voice where the nerves were pouring through. “Bitch!” He added for good measure, backing up a little into Tubbo’s pile as Techno took a few other steps. “You can’t— I’m— big! I’m—”

Techno picked Tommy up straight off the ground, even as he screamed and thrashed in his hold. Techno kept his grip around the kid's throat, watching as his face began to turn shades of red. Tommy’s screams tapered off as he struggled for air, but Tubbo’s continued, sobbing into his hands.

Techno left the room without another word, releasing the kid’s neck when heaving breathing turned into gaps. Tommy pretty much collapsed as he was set down, all jittery limbs and heaving coughs.

Techno dragged him the rest of the way out of the house, past the pooling blood on the floor, and threw him into the backseat of the car. The loud-mouthed boy was gasping and sobbing as quietly as he could, curling up in the furthest position he could get from the man. Techno didn’t bother with seatbelts, settling into the backseat with the kid and not letting him from his sight.

“Drive,” he ordered the chauffeur, and the car sped off with the sun setting behind them.

---

Fashionably late. Of course he would be fashionably late. Phil Craft was almost definitely trying to press on his every nerve, so he wouldn’t bother getting in the car a few minutes before the appointment that he had called for. No, of course, he would waste Wilbur’s energy and nerve to be fucking fashionably late.

It was fifteen past six and there hadn’t been a car on the street in the past half hour. Wilbur was pacing in his empty manner, each heel timed perfectly with the click of the grandfather clock. His hands were raw and red from rubbing them together nervously, and he’d moved on to biting his knuckles instead. He wasn’t sure when the next stage might come, but he was certain it would be pulling out his own hair.

It was six thirty by the time Wilbur was relieved from his state of woe. He listened as a car pulled up to the porte cochère, the slam of a door being closed, and the click of shoes on the marble steps. Wilbur waited for the doorbell to ring before going up to it, not sure he could trust his ears after an hour of muttering to himself.

He smoothed down the fabric of his suit jacket, something he was regretting putting on, and unlocked the door. He took a moment to compose himself before he had the chance to rip it off its hinges. He pulled the door open swiftly, dreading to see that knowing smirk on Craft’s face.

It was a woman in a midnight black outfit, a gold crow pin on her sleeve, and pink hair woven into intricate braids. Her eyes were wide and doe-like, without all of the wonder and innocence behind them. Wilbur didn’t recognize her from anywhere, there was just the slight detail of the pink hair that matched the bodyguard he’d seen at the funeral. Maybe it was a trademark of working under the Craft name? If so, that seemed a little excessive.

She held out an envelope, having not spoken a word. Wilbur really wanted to wonder why Craft wouldn’t have sent a text if he was canceling and instead had someone drive all this way to deliver a note; unfortunately, it seemed like something Craft would do.

Wilbur slid a finger under the envelope’s seal and pried out the note inside. There was nothing extensive written there, just a few words.

Wilbur believed he may have lost his will to live somewhere in those neatly inked letters.

Schlatt is dead. Tommy is with me. I expect that you want him alive.

Get in the car. Don’t make this difficult.

• Phil Craft

The woman held a pair of keys in her hand, a car flashed its headlights on Wilbur’s driveway.

Wilbur swallowed the bile in his throat, grabbed his coat, his wallet, and got into the car without protest.

Chapter Text

To say that Wilbur was scared was well beyond an understatement. He was shaken to his core. His bones had been petrified, leaving him a crumbling, quivering mess of squishy limbs and hyperventilation. He was terrified for Tommy, for himself, for what the Craft household might want out of them.

Wilbur would let himself die for Tommy, but he never thought that distancing himself at a crucial moment would lead to Tommy in more danger than he was previously. Wilbur should have trusted his gut, hoarded the kid, and kept him close. They should have run after the money was transferred. No funeral, no house. They could sleep in Wilbur’s old, beat-up car for a few nights as they searched for a suitable home far enough away from the backstory of blood and dusty rooms.

Wilbur was also fucking pissed.

He stood at the door of the Craft household, something between a manor and a suburban home, shaking with fury and fear. The woman who had driven him still hadn’t spoken a word, but her presence was similar to that of a falling tree: inevitable, uprooting. She simply moved toward the front door, opening it and guiding Wilbur through the doorway. He stumbled over the threshold, unable to keep any put-togetherness for a single moment.

The woman led him by the arm, prodded him into a room, and closed the door behind him. The lock was audible.

The sitting room was Victorian, of old wood and musty velvet. Curtains hung lavishly over bordered windows, and the dark red wallpaper left him with the vaguest impression of a human’s insides.

And sitting in the center of it all was the tumor that had nestled itself snugly between the armrests of a recliner.

“Good evening, Soot,” Phil Craft greeted with a gentle smile. Wilbur almost wished he flashed predatory canines, he would do anything to see this man as something animalistic. “I am sorry that I had to cancel last minute, an… opportunity arose.”

The man beckoned him forward with two fingers. Wilbur remained rooted where he stood.

“Where the fuck is he?” Wilbur demanded with all of the force of a desperate father. Craft rested his chin on the tips of his fingers, smiling smoothly as he watched Wilbur struggle to move out from under Phil’s gaze.

“Sit,” he bade, gesturing to the other armchair. “I’ll give you the overview.”

Wilbur pushed himself to move, taking steps over the Herati-patterned rug and lowering himself into the seat. His nails dug into the upholstery.

Phil, rather than take his time with the topic as he did over the phone, stated immediately what Wilbur knew he would hear.

“You inherited quite a lot from your father,” Phil spoke evenly, like this was a business deal rather than a threat. “Enough to feed, clothe, and house a poor man for the rest of his life.”

“If you want the money just ask for the money.” Wilbur set his head into his hands, resisting the urge to pull his hair out from the roots. “I’ll give it to you. I don’t want it. For Tommy.”

“Just like that?” Craft tilted his head. His smile flashed again in Wilbur’s periphery as he looked away. “I saw your apartment; it was no place to raise a son. That inheritance could have let you both thrive, rather than have you work yourself to the bone in a factory that would lead to your ineluctable death.” Wilbur sighed, loudly. “You’d go back to that? After one week of tasting the life of the higher class?”

“It’s blood money.”

Craft scoffed. “Money is money, mate.”

Wilbur leaned his head back against the back of the chair, staring up at the modest chandelier. One of the mock candles was flickering.

“I never wanted into all of this,” Wilbur admitted. He knew the mafia man already knew it. “I left of my own will, moved a city away to escape my father’s enemies' constant kidnapping attempts. I was happy working myself to the bone. Tommy made it worth it.” The fireplace crackled as a log split, and Wilbur’s eyes were drawn to it. “I’ll give you the money.”

Craft hummed at his explanation, his eyes also drawn to the fire. The flames jumped under his gaze, licking at the walls, trying to escape.

“You see, Wilbur,” Craft started, and Wilbur just caught on to the use of his first name. Belittlment. “You were raised incorrectly. You never had the fire that is needed to be part of this game. You have all the gasoline, but no spark.” Wilbur sure didn’t feel like he was without it, with the anger raging in his chest. “But Tommy?”

Wilbur’s back straightened immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

Craft grinned. “He’s a spitfire.”

“He’s mine.” Wilbur was almost out of his chair with the force of the allusion. He had made a tear in the stitching of the armrests. “Tommy was never up for negotiation. He’s the hostage.”

“Simply collateral, mate,” Phil assured. “But with enough fuel to that flame…”

“I thought we were talking about money.” Wilbur was standing now, his shoes on the ground. He was firm now that he knew what he could lose. Tommy was everything he had. “What happened to talking about money? Tommy was never part of this, we’re moving on.”

Craft shook his head, but the smile remained. “I am a Soot by law, Wilbur, not only would it be easy for me to gain the inheritance, but perhaps even easier to get guardianship of Tommy.” When Wilbur opened his mouth to dispute the claim of inheritance, Craft fished out a piece of paper from his pocket, Wilbur’s handwriting sprawled over the parchment, and he tossed it into the fire. Tommy’s claim to Wilbur’s money burned in an instant.

“I don’t need you,” he said with his voice light and his undertone sinister. “I’ve been taking down the heads of this city for a while now. You’re the very last one in my way.”

There it was. The admission.

Phil Craft had killed his father.

Wilbur swallowed the lump in his throat. He sat back down in his chair before he could kilt over, landing with an audible thump.

“That’s it, then.” That was how the game went. That was how the business ran. “I die. The end. The world spins.”

“You’re not even hopeful?” The man raised an eyebrow, curious. It seemed that Wilbur had finally veered off script. “You’re not even going to beg?”

“Why bother?” Wilbur spat. “I just need Tommy to live.” He smirked to himself. His eyes burned. “It seems I’m everything my father never wanted me to be, with an emphasis on attached.”

“You didn’t think your father was attached to you?”

Wilbur scoffed, imagining how different his life could have been. “He thought I was valuable. I was good for inheriting his things when he died. He gave me day-long lessons about how to take over for him when he was eventually killed, and as soon as I could I ran far enough away that I could do my own shit.” He sighed into his hands and covered his eyes with his palms so he didn’t have to watch the end near. “I fell in love, you know? Even that didn’t work out. Everything in my life had to be ruined in some way. My father eventually killed my ex and just left me with her five-year-old son.” He clawed at his hair. “At least that was good for a while.”

“The world spins,” Phil agreed, his voice sounded much more genuine now. “We all try to hoard the good things close, but eventually they get swept away.”

Wilbur nodded; it was all he could do.

“What’s something you wanted to do, Wilbur?” Phil asked him. Wilbur peeked his eyes open to find a curious look tossed his way. “When you ran from home and began a new life, what did you want to do?”

Wilbur rolled his shoulders back, staring back at the fire. “Die,” he admitted. Phil gave him a skeptical look. “I was so fucking suicidal. Spent money on cigarettes and shitty alcohol until I had burnt through everything I’d stolen from Dad. Then I tried to jump off a building.” He laughed at the memory. “And the only reason I didn’t was because Sally was already up there about to do the same thing.”

Phil had a softer look on his face now. “You have a knack for attracting chaos, don’t you?”

“When everything goes wrong, I laugh at it,” Wilbur confessed. “It’s the only way to live.”

The fire crackled in the background, leaving logs to crumble and ash to disperse. The mock candle had burnt out with a wizz of electrical wire. The sun had set below the horizon line, leaving a deserted street and dimmed streetlamps to filter in through the window, casting a negative shadow onto the oak flooring.

“I run an operation, Soot,” Phil shared, putting his back to the chair and relaxing into the velvet. “A syndicate. Everything I could ever need is within that group of people.” Phil paused and made sure that their eyes met. “Except for one thing: motivation.”

Wilbur’s heart thumped in his chest to remind him that he was still alive.

“Work for me,” Phil offered, serious in all the way he could be. “And you and Tommy can have your lives and your freedom.” Something sparked. “I’ll provide you with everything you might ever need.”

“Done.”

A new chapter began with the word hope .