Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now, Tommy’s no expert in bug bites, but he’s, like, ninety-nine percent sure that a spider bite shouldn’t look like this. To be fair, he’s also never been bitten by a spider before, but that’s besides the point. And he’s not about to kill the thing either, even if it had attacked him completely unprovoked, which is absolutely outrageous.

Well. Maybe not completely unprovoked.

So what if Tommy had been snooping around in an area of the tube line he’s absolutely not supposed to be in? And so what if he’d found a funky-looking lab in one of the abandoned areas of the track? Granted, yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have jumped at the sound of skittering—which had turned out to be a mouse poking around the room—and unintentionally knocked over a glass case. But it hadn’t been his fault that a spider the size of his fucking hand had instantly latched onto his arm. And yeah, okay, trying to pet the spider may not have been the best course of action, but before he could even move his hand close enough to brush against it, the fucker had chomped down on his arm!

Tommy had then proceeded to swear his head off and gently set the spider down on the ground and pace and panic over the bite for a couple of minutes. It moves barely two feet away, where it now promptly falls over in place and dies. So much for trying to be careful with it. But here he is, with a lump in his arm that’s been swelling for the past eight and a half minutes, and Tommy’s left wondering how the fuck he’s going to sneak back into his room and hide a big red lump the size of a hummingbird on his arm. Because, once again, he’s definitely not supposed to be down here, and he’s also definitely not supposed to be—albeit unsuccessfully—befriending spiders either, not after The Incident in Phil’s office building a few weeks ago.

But he’s snuck back home under worse conditions, so he supposes it can’t really hurt to just leave the weird lab-looking place alone and get the hell out of dodge before this ends worse than one of Techno’s myth books with the weirdos that cheat on each other all the time. Christ, his arm feels awful, though. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass to climb through his window with this fucking lump, but as long as he doesn’t get caught again, it should be fine. Plus, Tommy’s totally a professional at this by now. Truly the best in the business, as they say.

In any case, it’s definitely getting late now, so Tommy ducks out of the abandoned area and heads back to the platform, slipping out of the station with little notice from bystanders. After all, who’s gonna take the time out of their day to dash after some kid clutching his arm and making a mad dash for the exit? Everyone else has much better things to do than that, and Tommy definitely goes completely and totally unnoticed because he’s an absolute master of stealth. One of the platform guards definitely doesn’t start to ask after him as Tommy hurries past, hand still clasped around the bright red lump causing an ever-stabbing pain in his bicep.

The house isn’t too far, thankfully, and Tommy’s starting to feel a little woozy—maybe he should tell Phil he’s been bitten by a giant spider, but he doesn’t really want to go through all the fussing. It’s unnecessary, really, it is, he’s a big man after all, he can handle a little scrape or two on his own. He doesn’t need seven bandages and twelve days of bed rest, Phil. In any case, while the window seems higher than usual, Tommy scales his way back up the side of the house, the backyard spinning in his peripheral vision, and slips in through his still-open window.

It’s quite funny actually, now that he thinks about it; the room’s spinning as well, and Tommy sits down on his bed and takes his hand off of the spider bite, taking a good look at it for the first time since the station. And oh boy, it’s not looking good. He should definitely be telling someone about it. His veins are visible under the raised bump, kind of mesmerizing as they glow red and pulse almost rhythmically beneath his skin. Tommy reaches out to touch it again, with his fingertips just barely brushing against it, but he flinches back at the sensation—he can only really think to compare it to a static shock when it happens.

The room actually swirls now, and Tommy thinks it wise that he lay down on his bed, weird spider bite bump notwithstanding, thank you very much. It’s not the spider bite making him tired, it’s simply the fact that it’s nearing eleven in the evening, and this is typically when Phil comes up to check on him, and Tommy can hide the spider bite underneath his bed covers. A purely strategic move, nothing more. This is absolutely not spurred on by the raging headache he’s suddenly got coming on.

Said headache worsens with the sound of the door creaking slowly open. Tommy should probably ask Techno if he’s got any oil for the hinges—mans oils his collection of swords enough to make ’em America’s next target, he’s bound to have some extra lying around. Regardless, the edge of Tommy’s bed dips with someone’s weight, and his hair is getting brushed out of his face. “Hey, mate, you headin’ to bed?” Phil asks, and Tommy hums. He’s definitely not too tired and woozy to respond. Not at all. “Toms? Are you feeling okay? You’re being quiet, that’s not like you.”

Tommy huffs and forces his eyes open as wide as they can go. He's squinting. “Fuck off, old man,” he tries to say, but it sounds more like an incoherent jumble of syllables. Hm. Maybe he really should have shown Phil the spider bite before his arms had started to feel like lead. Now, he’s just hoping he goes back to normal before tomorrow morning. He’s got classes to get to, things to learn, Tubbos to bother.

Phil frowns down at him and settles a hand on Tommy’s forehead, drawing it back almost as soon as it had touched him. “Shit, Tommy, you’re burning up,” he says, brow furrowed. Tommy grumbles something equally incoherent, and Phil shakes his head. “You definitely can’t go to school like this, you’re absolutely staying home tomorrow. And I don’t wanna hear a word out of you about it either, there’s no way your fever’s gonna fix itself overnight.”

Just about ready to pass out, Tommy pouts, but shuts his eyes anyway. Phil ruffles his hair, and Tommy’s head screams as the door creaks closed. His entire body feels like it’s imploding, like his muscles are being twisted around and turned inside out. His veins feel like they’re pumping molasses through his body, and his eyes are stinging. Everything sounds and smells like too much, even opening his eyes just a sliver is overwhelming; Tommy’s not sure whether he’s hallucinating or if he really can hear Phil’s typing or Techno’s huffs of laughter or Wilbur’s humming, all from downstairs.

It’s definitely his imagination, but he swears he can smell the bug-repellant candle that Wil always forgets is burning on the back porch. And while his brain insists that the smell of Techno’s dye-sensitive shampoo is right in his face, that’s just objectively untrue. Tommy feels like absolute garbage, and every sense of his being completely overwhelmed by so much is definitely not helping. The spider bite is still pulsing, and Tommy hopes that whatever venom he’s been injected with doesn’t, say, end his very short life where he stands. Or, well, lays.

Eventually, though, the exhaustion wins over, and Tommy’s stomach churns with anxiety. He really hopes Phil’s not going to come in with acetaminophen in the morning to find him dead. That would be a rather shitty experience for the both of them.

*****

Thankfully, Tommy does not, in fact, die.

Instead, he wakes up to the smell of pancakes and syrup, and a lazy grin stretches across his still half-asleep face as he shifts to open his eyes, expecting Phil to be standing in his doorway with a plate of breakfast like he always does when one of them happens to be sick. To Tommy’s utter confusion, though, his door is closed and the barest hint of daylight peeking from the curtains illuminates the otherwise empty bedroom. The smell of his breakfast is absolutely overwhelming, though—it’s as if he’s sticking his nose barely a millimeter above it and taking as deep of a breath as he can.

The next thing that becomes apparent to Tommy is that he feels absolutely fine. Invigorated, in fact. And as he goes to check the spider bite from last night, all that remains of it is a smooth pink scar, no larger than a pinprick. Odd, considering that the bite had been around the same size as a goddamned snow globe the last time he’d checked on it. Alright, well, maybe not that big, but big enough to be absolutely mortifying. Tommy feels relief flood through him in spite of his curiosity about the bite, and he lets go of the covers to let them fall back over him.

Or, he tries to, at least.

The damn thing is stuck to his hand.

Tommy hasn’t spilled anything on it recently—he’s been banned from bringing Coke up to his room at all after so many incidents, as a matter of fact—and he knows for sure that his hands aren’t the culprit here, given that they’d picked things up and put them down just fine last night. He shakes his hand a bit in the air, hoping the cover will fall from his hand with little intervention, but it seems pretty stubbornly stuck to his fingers. It falls from Tommy’s palm, only attached to the very tips of his fingers, which, Tommy recognizes, is definitely not a normal thing for his bed covers to do. He shakes his hand a little more vigorously, swearing under his breath when that does absolutely nothing but jostle the few odds and ends perched precariously on the edge of his bed.

The door starts to open, and the creak of it claws at his eardrums. Tommy throws his hands—or hand, the other one is still stuck firmly to his covers, which actually does a pretty decent job of muffling the noise—over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can. The light flooding in from the hallway is also incredibly grating. “Toms? Have you got a headache, mate?” Phil says, sounding as though he’s right next to Tommy, though when Tommy manages to open his eyes and adjust them to the light after a few moments, Phil’s standing worriedly in the doorway with a tray full of breakfast that absolutely stinks.

A shame, really. Tommy had really been looking forward to those pancakes and now all he can smell is the sickening scent of nothing but syrupy sugar. Now he’s nauseous as well. Fuck. He’d really thought he might’ve been able to talk his way into going to school today. Alas, fate has decided he must be fussed over for eight straight hours instead. Tommy nearly gags as Phil steps closer, the smell of the syrup absolutely annihilating his nose. Seriously, it should be a criminal offense or something to put that much sugar in maple fucking syrup.

When Tommy realizes Phil is still looking for a response—and that his fucking bedsheet is still attached to his hand—he abruptly drops both hands back into his lap and blinks his eyes open, though he winces at the light still flooding in from the hall. “My fuckin’ eyes, Phil, Jesus, close the fucking—oh my God, the door, the fucking door!” he groans, his own voice sounding like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. Phil sets the horror show of a tray down on Tommy’s bedside table and hurries over to the door, gently letting it close and wincing just as Tommy does when the hinges scream again.

“Sorry about that,” Phil says, his tone the same as when he’s talking softly, though the volume of it is just a little louder than normal. He smiles down at Tommy and pulls his desk chair over so he can sit at Tommy’s bedside. So fucking fussy. Tommy lets him, though, because while he’s definitely not afraid of whatever the fuck is going on with his senses, Phil looks like he’ll implode with worry if Tommy tells him to fuck off. Brows furrowed and smile clearly half-forced, Phil gestures to the tray beside them. “Have something to eat, it’ll help.”

“Absolutely fucking not, Phil, that reeks,” Tommy informs him, and Phil makes a face like he doesn’t know what the fuck Tommy’s talking about. A bit pissed off now, Tommy points at the offending syrup and scowls. “I’m not fucking eating that shit, it’s gotta be fuckin’ expired or something—it stinks, man, you can’t not smell it, I—stop looking at me like that, I’m not crazy! Smell it, go on, you fucking—you’ll see, Phil, just smell it!”

Looking as though he’d rather be doing literally anything else right now, Phil raises a brow and sticks his nose directly above the pancakes, and he makes a right show of taking a whiff. He doesn’t react whatsoever, and now Tommy understands why Phil’s looking at him like he’s gone mad. “It just smells like good cooking to me, mate, but if you’d rather I make you something else, then that’s no problem,” Phil says in that same infuriating gentle tone, but he’s still being too loud.

“You’re being too fuckin’ loud, I can’t hear myself think,” Tommy whines, rubbing at his face with his free hand and very pointedly keeping his other hand in a totally natural and not at all awkward-looking position on the bedsheets. “Seriously, mans got a massive goddamn headache, I don’t need you yelling at me on top of it, Phil, fucking Christ…”

“Toms, I’m not yelling,” Phil murmurs, and that’s the level of volume Tommy had expected to come with the gentle tone of voice. Matter of fact, Phil almost seems like he’s whispering, but that’s preposterous. He’s been too damn loud for all of the ten minutes Tommy’s been awake for. “You really must be feeling like shit, hm? I called ahead and told the school you’d be out today, glad I took care of that now rather than later.”

Tommy hesitantly nods and chances a whiff of the orange juice beside the pancakes. It smells much more citrus-y than normal, but it definitely doesn’t smell nearly as bad as the rest of Phil’s horrific breakfast. He chances a sip of it and finds that it tastes absolutely incredible. Tommy’s tempted to ask whether this is the good kind of juice or the shitty store brand they usually buy, but he’s worried that Phil will look at him like he’s clinically insane again. In any case, maybe the pancakes will taste better than they smell.

He debates over it for a moment, and Phil raises a brow at him again, and Tommy shoves his shoulder, eyes widening when his free hand sticks to Phil’s green robe just like his other hand had attached itself to the bedspread. A nervous smile on his face, Tommy attempts to make it look like a totally normal gesture of him putting a hand on Phil’s shoulder. Because that’s definitely a thing he’s known for doing. “Uh, thanks, old man,” he says, voice wavering a little and much quieter than it normally is, judging by Phil’s very obviously surprised expression. Tommy’s hand, the damn traitor, does not let go despite his best efforts to force it to. “Also, give me your robe, please.”

“Wha—? Why do you want my robe?” Phil asks him, completely bewildered. Tommy wracks his brain for an excuse and stares at Henry, who’s teetering on the edge of his bed. The tiny eyes of the cow plush stare back at him, and Tommy can almost feel the bedsheets finally, finally drop from his grip. “Uh, earth to Tommy? Are you going to explain why you want my robe or am I going to have to get Techno in here to interrogate you?”

“I’m cold,” Tommy blurts, a blatant lie, but evidently, Phil still believes he’s sick enough to be giving delayed responses. He now has a free hand again, but his other hand is still sticking firmly to Phil’s robe. “I am the coldest I have ever been, Phil, I’m quite sick, you see, and I have to have your robe. Right now. For my sickness. And also healing purposes. I will never recover in this terrible arctic weather, Phil, you must understand. My sinuses, Phil.”

Phil eyes him skeptically for a moment, but he shrugs off the robe—Tommy still clutching it in a way that definitely does not cause any further suspicion to arise—and lets Tommy take it. “You’ve a sinus headache? Might have to schedule a doctor’s appointment then,” he says, and Tommy stifles a snort at Phil’s…eclectic choice of pyjamas. Number One Crow Dad is written across his chest in what’s clearly a five-year-old’s attempt at letters. Whether it’s Wilbur’s or Techno’s from years ago is anybody’s guess. “Right, well, you go ahead and eat, mate, I’ll grab some medicine to help with your head, yeah?”

Tommy nods, and Phil ruffles his hair before slipping through the door—he opens it as little as possible, which Tommy appreciates. The light isn’t too bad when there’s only a bit of it. The pancakes beside him still reek, but if Tommy breathes through his mouth, the smell isn’t nearly as bad. He takes a hesitant and very tentative bite, careful to avoid the syrup, and it tastes absolutely incredible. Which, if the orange juice hadn’t been enough to make him suspicious, this definitely does. Phil might be a decent cook, but his stuff’s never this good.

When he goes to take another, far less gentle bite, however, the plate fucking shatters under his fork. The fork snaps in his hand like he’d just taken one of Techno’s weird laser metal cutter thingies to it. There’s a dent in his bedside table. “Uh, Phil?” he calls, raising his voice just a bit and ignoring the way it makes his head feel absolutely pummeled. Phil slips back into his bedroom, medicine in hand, opening his mouth with the clear intention of saying something before immediately falling silent at the sight of Tommy’s massacred breakfast. A nervous grin breaks across Tommy’s face and he gestures to the plate. “Sorry…?”

Blinking, Phil sets the medicine down and clasps his hands together in front of the thin line his mouth has become, and Tommy hopes to god that the remaining half of his fork isn’t going to stick to his fingers like Phil’s robe is. “Tommy,” Phil starts in what’s definitely a disgruntled mumble, yet sounds like his normal volume, then stops himself, rubbing at his temples. Tommy glances over at Henry’s adorable, itty-bitty face and feels the robe come a bit loose in his—apparently iron—grip. “How the fuck did you do that?”

“Phil, I’m going to be completely and one hundred percent honest with you,” Tommy says, and to his dismay, the half-fork will not unstick from his index finger. The syrup still on the plate is oozing onto his bedside table now, and Tommy frowns. He hopes the smell of it doesn’t linger; he’ll go fucking crazy if he’s forced to deal with that all damn day. Nevertheless, he looks back up at Phil and helplessly gestures—half-fork still in between two fingers—to the debris that remains of the former plate. “I’ve zero fuckin’ idea, big man.”

As he hands Tommy a few painkillers, Phil shakes his head and starts to carefully stack the plate pieces on top of one another. “You can take that with your juice, might taste a bit odd, though,” he says, and Tommy hums, looking back over at Henry. It’s worked the past two times, and it seems to work again, given that the fork slips out of his grasp. He grabs the glass very gently, careful to avoid touching his fingertips to it, and brings it closer to him. For a brief moment, he gets the fleeting feeling that something’s about to go wrong, but he ignores it. He’s in bed and having breakfast, and what could be worse than his shattered plate of pancakes? But as soon as he tightens his grip on the glass ever-so-slightly, it fucking explodes. Phil just stares. “Tommy. What—how did you—what the fuck, mate?”

Completely and utterly panicking, face and hair now drenched in orange juice—at least the smell of the citrus is stronger than the maple syrup now—Tommy gestures vaguely and sputters out a few incoherent syllables. Phil pinches the bridge of his nose, and Tommy smiles apologetically. “Sorry, Big P. Won’t happen again,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure he can make that promise, given that he’s broken an entire fucking place setting’s worth of glassware just this morning.

Phil ruffles his hair and shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, Toms, I’m just wondering how you’ve managed to trash your entire breakfast. My cooking isn't that bad,” he huffs, and Tommy starts to say that no, he actually quite enjoyed the food, he’s just been accidentally incredibly strong this morning and has no idea why, but Phil waves him off. “I’m just messing with you. You need a shower, though, you’ve got juice everywhere. I’ll change your sheets and clean up your table while you’re in there, it’s no problem.”

“Thanks,” Tommy manages, still utterly perplexed. He carefully shifts as much of the glass off of his lap as he can, then realizes that Phil’s robe is still stuck to his other hand. Henry’s really coming in clutch this morning, as it seems. Tommy shifts off the bed, Careful not to step on any stray glass, and heads over to the door, hesitating. “Uh, could you—are the lights off? In the hallway, I mean.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Phil shrugs. “I don’t think so, but you can text Techno and he’ll probably turn them off for you,” Phil tells him, turning back to the mess that Tommy’s breakfast has become. “At least, I think he’s home. I know he said he’d be going out later to grab a new welder’s mask, but the shop doesn’t open for a couple of hours.”

Tommy digs into his pocket for his phone and is incredibly relieved to still find it alive and kicking, given that he’d passed out last night before he’d been able to plug it in. It’s ridiculously low battery, but he’s going to be home all damn day anyway. He opens up his messages with Techno and starts typing.

hey big man

mans gots a headache

can you turn the lights off in the hall

bitch

ur reading my fuckin gmessgaes

fuckign turn the lights off

fuck u bitch

tommy stop texting me, i’m literally turning them off right now.

oh my bad big man thx

He steps into the hall that’s now dark enough that the light doesn’t hurt his eyes, thankfully, and he nods at Techno, who looks him up and down and raises an eyebrow. Tommy raises his own right back—he’s never been able to do the thing with just one, fucking Techno and his stupid niche skills—and crosses his arms. He is well aware that he’s covered in orange juice, thank you very much. Techno, on the other hand, is a bitch and refuses to let him go without further questioning.

“How’d you manage that one?” Techno asks, monotone voice ringing in Tommy’s ears, and Tommy winces, shoulders hunching up. Techno’s face softens a minuscule amount and he lowers his volume, which Tommy will pointedly refuse to admit he appreciates greatly. “That bad, huh?”

Tommy nods. “Fuckin’ keeping me home sick n’ shit, man, this sucks,” he grumbles, and Techno hums. It’s his version of a sympathetic gesture. “Anyways, tell Phil he needs to get rid of the fucking maple syrup, man, that shit’s stinking up the goddamned house, gotta be expired or something. And Wil’s left the candle in the backyard on again—what a dumbass, honestly, how does he always forget—tell him he’s a bitch and I can smell it from my room.”

Blinking vacantly, Techno lifts a hand slowly towards the light switch. Tommy glances back and forth between Techno and the switch, brows furrowed, and Techno flicks it on, eyes widening as if he’s genuinely surprised when Tommy curls into himself and starts swearing up a storm, covering his face with his hands and stumbling back.

“Ah,” Techno says wisely, turning the lights back off and nodding, “you’re a vampire.”

Tommy bursts out laughing, ignoring the way it makes his headache pulse with a wave of pain. “Fucking what?!” he cackles, and Phil comes out into the hallway, broken breakfast in hand. “Phil, you’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this shit, it’s so fuckin’ stupid, Techno tell him what you just—go on, Tech, say it again with a straight face.”

Techno blinks again and turns to Phil, no visible expression of emotion on his face. “Tommy’s a vampire now, Phil, he’s got enhanced senses,” he says easily, and Phil stifles a snort. This just spurs Techno on, and he gestures to the shattered pile of the ceramic, metal, and glass in Phil’s hands. “Clearly a case of vampire strength. We should put him outside and watch him turn to dust in the sun. It’d be funny.”

“We’re not putting Tommy outside, Tech, he’s not a dog,” Phil says, shifting to balance the pile in one hand as he reaches up to pat Tommy’s head fondly. “No matter how feral he acts, he’s unfortunately still a person, vampire or not.”

Sputtering, Tommy whacks Phil’s hand off his head with the back of his own—still hyper-aware of the fact he’s apparently got a case of sticky fingers—and scowls at both of them. “Fuck d’you mean ‘unfortunately,’ Phil, you want me to be a fuckin’ dog?!” he demands, and Techno chuckles quietly. Phil wheezes out a laugh, and Tommy’s head throbs so bad he can’t ignore it this time. “Fuck, shit, s’too loud again.”

Techno tilts his head curiously, but Phil smacks his shoulder and turns to Tommy with a grossly soft look on his face. “That’s alright, mate, we’ll keep it down, go take your shower,” he reassures him, giving Techno a pointed look. Techno just throws his hands up placatingly and turns on his heel to go back to his room. Phil fixes Tommy with a worried look. “Maybe we should get you to a doctor sooner rather than later.”

“No, no, I’m—! Ugh, Christ, Phil, it’s fine, let it go,” he mumbles, shouldering his way into the bathroom and pointedly refusing to turn the lights on. Tommy’s not a fan of showering in the dark—he’s pretty sure nobody is, and if they are, they must actually be a vampire. But anything’s better than the constant piercing pain in his head that the lights have been causing.

Tommy glances at the mirror, surprised to see that there’s no actual indication that he’s sick. He’s not pale, there’s no sheen of cold sweat across his forehead, the bags under his eyes no worse than usual. His eyes, on the other hand, are bright, even in the dim room. Like, brighter than usual. It’s odd. Nevertheless, there’s orange juice all over his face and it’s making his hair all fructose-y, so Tommy hops in the shower and scrubs the citrus and maple syrup smell off of him, trying his hardest to ignore the way all the different products in the shower are just as overpowering.

When he gets back to his room, Phil’s finishing up changing the last bit of the sheets. “Hey, bud, it’s all clean. Wiped your table down and everything,” Phil says, straightening up and dusting off his patterned pyjama pants. It’s the pair with a bunch of lions all over it. Tommy nods his thanks and Phil claps a hand on his shoulder. The lemony scent of the cleaning products hangs in the air. “Get your ass back in bed, Toms, you’re still sick.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright old man. I’m already feeling better,” Tommy huffs, but Phil just crosses his arms and fixes him with an expectant glare. Tommy gets his ass back in bed. There’s a knock on the door, and Phil firmly makes Tommy settle back down while he goes to open it. Techno’s standing in the doorway with a wooden stake. Tommy groans and rolls his eyes. “Fucks sakes, man, I’m not a fuckin’ vampire!”

Techno waves the wooden stake in his direction threateningly. “I’ll believe it when you expose yourself to sunlight, demon,” he says, still monotone,  and Phil shakes his head fondly. Tommy glares at him, then reaches over to move the curtains aside and open up the window. He sticks his hand outside and Techno nods, pocketing the stake. “I’ll allow it.”

Phil tuts and walks back over, smacking Tommy’s hand back towards him and shutting the window again. “The two of you are gonna make me go grey,” he grumbles, and Tommy opens his mouth to say that Phil’s well on his way, but Phil playfully glares at him and waves a finger in his face. “Shut.”

Pouting, Tommy crosses his arms. “Fine, but the both of you have to get out, I’ve got big man shit to do,” he says, and Techno snorts. Tommy flips him off. Phil gives him an understanding smile and shoos Techno out, closing the door as quietly as he can behind the two of them. Tommy looks down at his hands and narrows his eyes. “Now what exactly the fuck is going on with you fuckers…?”

His fingertips don’t stick together when he presses them against each other, but he does end up with his hands sticking to the wall and finds himself basking in Henry’s ever-calming presence once again to unstick them. It has got to be the strangest experience of Tommy’s life. He wonders if he can make his hands stick to anything. Tommy’s not going to try the wall again, though, not until he’s got better control of whatever’s going on with his hands. After the plate and the glass, he’s a bit afraid that if he tugs too hard to get them off, he’ll rip chunks out of the house.

A closer inspection of his hands reveals that Tommy’s fingerprints are different—the grooves are a bit deeper and shaped in a more uniform pattern. There are also tiny black marks on his wrists. Maybe not marks, but Tommy thinks he’s going to vomit if he assumes that there are actual holes in his body that had definitely not been there last night, so he’s just going to call them marks. He folds his fingers against his palms, trying to see if they’ll stick, and is immediately and incredibly alarmed when something almost too fast to see shoots out from the…mark…on his wrist.

Tommy looks up at the ceiling slowly, abject horror written blatantly across his face. On the off-white paint is a bright white spider web, about the size of Tommy’s entire fucking torso. Shaking slightly, Tommy looks back down at the mark on his wrist and swallows a bit of bile as he realizes the skin around it is slightly red and raised. That fucking web just came out of his body.

Which means…

A grin spreads across his face.

Tommy’s got fucking superpowers now.

*****

Chapter Text

He’s got to be careful about this. Knowing Phil, he’s not going to let Tommy do anything cool with his new powers—namely being a literal superhero—so Tommy definitely has to keep this on the down low. Plus, it’s basically comic book superhero one-oh-one that telling any of your friends or family that you have a secret identity endangers them, and Tommy quite likes his friends and family, thanks, and would rather not have them die.

Well, he needs a secret identity in the first place in order to potentially endanger anyone, but Tommy’s working on that. The first step, though, is research. He assumes that the spider bite from last night is the catalyst of his newfound powers, obviously, so Tommy starts trying to find as many spider facts as he can. As it turns out, other than webs, Tommy’s also likely gained an increased field of vision—some spiders can apparently see completely around them, which would have been cool, but Tommy’s peripheral field of view is still noticeably increased. Shame, it would have been really funny if he could legitimately say he has eyes in the back of his head.

And, of course, there’s the issue of his brand new super strength. Given that apparently the average spider can lift about a hundred and seventy times their body weight, it’s no wonder that Tommy had accidentally destroyed his breakfast this morning. He’s definitely going to have to learn how to reign it in eventually, but for now, he’s still so hyped up about the fact that he has actual fucking superpowers that he’s not exactly focused on holding himself back.

It also makes sense that his senses are all heightened now; at least he’s got an explanation for why he can smell and hear things from far away and why the fluorescent lights in the house have been giving him such a headache. Plus, there’s that weird sense he’s been getting, like right now—for some reason, in the back of his mind he just knows someone’s about to open the door, and sure enough, Wilbur comes barreling in like he owns the place.

He settles himself down easily on Tommy’s desk chair and spins around, seemingly ignoring the multitude of middle fingers pointed in his direction. “Just got back from work, Tubbo told me to give you these,” Wilbur says, plopping down a pile of papers onto Tommy’s poor, clean desk. He puts his chin in his hand, and Tommy’s half-tempted to smack the beanie off of his head. “So…you’re sick? Big man Tommy’s sick? You know, Techno thinks—”

“That I’m a vampire? Yeah, I know, he’s a right bitch, Wil,” Tommy finishes for him, rolling his eyes. Wilbur shrugs and spins around in the chair again, and Tommy actually reaches over to snatch his beanie. A squawk of offense claws its way out of Wilbur’s throat, and Tommy sticks his tongue out. “That’s what you fuckin’ get, prick, quit it. And stop talking so loud, mans got a headache.”

Humming noncommittally, Wilbur leans back in the chair, his arms folded lazily behind his head. “I just hope you know that Techno’s got, like, an actual vendetta against vampires. As in a, ‘he may or may not come into your room and stab you’ vendetta. He really hated the Twilight movies,” Wilbur says—he’s actually making an effort to keep his voice down, thankfully—and Tommy throws his beanie in his face, Wilbur cackling as he pulls it back on. “Anyways, Tubbo also told me to yell at you to check your phone, but—oh, hey, what’re you looking at?”

“Nothing!” Tommy says, far too quickly and suspiciously, and Wilbur tugs the laptop towards him, squinting as he reads from the Top Ten Most Powerful Spider Species article that Tommy had forgotten to tab out of. Wilbur turns to Tommy with a questioning look, probably silently asking why he’s being so weird about an article on spiders. Thankfully, Tommy’s panicked brain comes up with an explanation that does not involve his new superpowers. “It’s for a biology project I’m working on—spiders n’ shit, yeah? Like how the spiders—how they, like, fuck with the ecosystem if they’re, uh, in the wrong one.”

Wilbur looks relatively unconvinced, but he just shrugs. He perks up, as if he’s remembered something, and Tommy blinks. “Oh! Right, Phil wanted me to ask if you were gonna eat anything if he orders a pizza,” he says, snapping his fingers. A grin spreads across Wilbur’s face, the mischievous kind, and Tommy immediately opens his mouth to protest whatever’s about to come out of Wilbur’s, only for a hand to be slapped unceremoniously on top of it. Wilbur raises his voice to a shout. “Dadza! Tommy says he doesn’t want any pizza! He says we should just give it all to me and—oh, fuck, Tommy, are you alright?!”

Hands clasped over his ears, nails scratching at his scalp, Tommy can barely hear Wilbur over the incessant ringing noise bouncing around his skull. He shakes his head gingerly. At least Wilbur’s let go of him now—the touch had made his skin feel like it had been burned. “Told you, mans got a headache,” he mumbled, and Wilbur scans his face, eyes apologetic. “S’fine, Wil, you just can’t shout, is all.”

The door flies open, and Tommy winces at the light from the hallway, and Phil quickly closes it behind him, clearly getting the hint. “Is he alright?” Phil asks, the question directed towards Wilbur, who shrugs helplessly and scoots out of the way. Tommy lets his hands fall into his lap; they’re shaking a little. “Hey, mate, we’ll get you some water and some painkillers, yeah? He’s sick, Wil, I told you that the minute that you got home.”

He sounds irritated, even through the ringing. Wilbur makes a vague gesture at Tommy. “How was I supposed to know he has a migraine or some shit?” he hisses, clearly meant to be quiet, but Tommy’s enhanced hearing makes it sound normal. Wilbur turns to him and glances at the door. “Toms, were the hall lights bothering you?”

“A little,” Tommy admits begrudgingly. He’s kind of sick of being stuck in his room unless he texts Techno to turn the lights off for him. Phil cards his fingers through Tommy’s curls and turns the brightness down on his laptop. That’s…actually pretty helpful. “I mean, I’m not a fuckin’ pussy, I’ll survive if the lights are on, Wil, I mean seriously—”

“I think we should invest in daylight bulbs,” Wilbur says to Phil, completely ignoring him, and Tommy kicks at his ankles. Bastard. “If Tommy’s getting a migraine from the lights, it’s probably the fluorescent bulbs bugging him.”

Tommy laughs weakly. Bugging him. A shame he can’t share the unintentional pun with them. Phil smiles gently at him, and Tommy can’t find the energy to be mad about it. “Why don’t I go out and grab those and pick pizza up on my way back instead of having it delivered?” he suggests, and Tommy flips Wilbur off again. Wilbur’s clearly about to make an obscene gesture right back, but Phil affixes him with The Look, and Wilbur deflates. “Keep him company and get him what he needs while I’m gone, yeah?”

He ruffles Wilbur’s hair on his way out, and the two of them are left alone in Tommy’s room. Neither of them are happy with this predicament. Wilbur’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, only to roll his eyes at whatever he’s just gotten a notification for. “Are you going to text Tubbo or am I going to have to confiscate your pocket change to pay for my phone bill?” he asks flatly, unplugging Tommy’s phone and practically throwing it at him. Tommy glares, but he looks at his messages anyway.

tommy are you suck

sick*

shit

the teacher just said ur out sick

is that what ur telling phil so he doesnt know u were messing around in the train staion again

TOMMY

rNboo is asking for u

you have his notes????

tommyyyyyyyy

pick up ur phoneeeee

unless you lost it on the tracks

hello stranger with tommys phone

can u give it back to him i need to yell at him

fuckign prick pick up

ranboo brought fanta agin

im telling him that coke is better on ur behalf ur welcome

tommy

tommy!!

ur phone

i will march over to ur house and shove ur phone up ur nose

i wanted to type something meaner but rnaboo told me to change it bc it was “too rude tubbo”

no u know what

im gonna text wilbur

wait

technoblade just sent me a message??? hello??

why is he saying ur a vampire

tommy i think technoblade unironiclay thinks ur a vampire

anyways im gonna yell at wilbur more now

Tommy rolls his eyes and starts typing.

jesus fuck tubbo chill out

you’re so clingy

i am going to climb in from ur window now i hate u

just use the front door u freak

Tommy is promptly left on read. Understandable. He doesn’t doubt that Tubbo’s gonna follow up on it, either; it’s a matter of when, not if. Wilbur raises a brow at him, and Tommy waves his phone. “You are now Tubbo-free,” he declares, and Wilbur mock-bows to him. Tommy grins, all smug. “Yes, yes, I am the biggest and coolest man in the universe, and you are bowing before me because you are a pussy and I am the best.”

Wilbur tackles him.

*****

As Tommy is enjoying his perfectly lovely slice of pizza, he gets that sense again at the back of his mind, and he throws the window open, peering down to see Tubbo climbing toward his windowsill, knuckles halfway to a knock. “Oh, hello, Tommy,” Tubbo says cheerfully, as if he is not currently about to fall into the bushes cradling the bottom trim of the house. “Could you help me up? I’d rather not fall and break my neck, thanks.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Tommy huffs, leaning out the window to reach for Tubbo’s hand and—as gently as possible, because he doesn’t want to accidentally rip Tubbo’s arm out of its socket—haul him up into the room. Tubbo settles on the bed and dusts himself off, waving at Wilbur after a moment. Tommy shoves at Wilbur's shoulders, jerking his head toward the door. “Alright, get out, Wil, Big T and I have important big man shit to discuss, go on.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes but leaves them alone anyway, and Tommy grins as the door closes, absolutely ready to spill both last night and this morning’s events to Tubbo, but he hesitates. Tubbo would definitely be in danger if Tommy’s going to use his superpowers to help out the community. Honestly, no kidnapper would stand a chance against Techno or Phil, and Wilbur would probably be able to talk his way out of any potential kidnappings, cocky bastard that he is, but Tubbo…well, he wouldn’t be easy to take hostage, he’d probably put up a hell of a fight, but it’s so much easier to catch him alone and off-guard.

And Tommy can’t tell his family, either, because Techno would simply tell him he’s not allowed—and Tommy would listen, because Techno frightens him a little bit, not that he’d ever admit it—Phil would practically trap him in the house to keep him safe, and Wilbur would definitely snitch on him to Phil. So basically, Tommy’s got no one he can tell about his superpowers if he’s going to be using them, lest he put the lives of the people he's begrudgingly forced to care about in mortal peril. And he’d rather not put them in mortal peril, despite what one might think of him.

“I was in the tube line yesterday, saw a massive rat in one of the abandoned parts, had to book it home, turns out I’ve got a massive migraine. Probably too much rat piss in the air or something,” Tommy settles on, and Tubbo nods easily. Tommy’s shoulders sag a little with relief, and he’s glad at least one person would back up his cover story should he need it. “Anyways, what’s happening at sch—hey! Put him down, you bitch!”

Tubbo freezes up, Henry in hand, and sets him back down in front of Tommy, arms raised in front of his chest in mock-surrender. “Christ, Tommy, alright. Didn’t know you don’t want me touching Henry,” he says, making sure to keep his voice quieter than normal, and Tommy almost feels bad about it, but Henry is currently his only way of being calm enough to unstick. His lone solace in this sticky-fingered world. He can’t risk Henry getting lost.

“Sorry, man, I’m just…he brings me comfort—very manly comfort, fuck you, stop laughing!—and I don’t want anything to happen to him, s’all,” Tommy grumbles, and Tubbo hums, grabbing the little stress ball off of Tommy’s desk and tossing that around instead. Tommy glances over at his laptop and picks his pizza back up, taking a massive bite. “Tubbo, f’you had a superpower, like a really cool one, w’d’you use it to fight crimes n’ shit?”

Frowning thoughtfully, Tubbo lays flat on his back and tosses the stress ball up again. It lands square on his nose. Tommy snickers. “Dunno. It’d be cool, sure, but I don’t think I could dodge, like, guns without super speed or something,” Tubbo says, still quiet enough that Tommy can actually handle having a conversation without his migraine coming back, and Tommy makes a mental note to check to see if he’s got super speed whenever Phil stops fussing over him long enough to let him out of the house. If nothing else, he’s always got The Sense to fall back on. “Why d’you ask?”

Tubbo’s question snaps Tommy out of his stupor, and Tommy just shrugs, trying his hardest not to look like someone who definitely has superpowers deciding what to use them for. “Biology project,” he says, regurgitating the same excuse he’d used with Wilbur and thanking every religion’s god he can remember that biology is the only class he doesn’t share with Tubbo. “I’m supposed to look up fuckin’ insects or something, found out they’ve got fucking crazy strength. Tiny little pricks can carry like a hundred times their own body weight, it’s batshit.”

Eyes widening, Tubbo shoves him. “No way. No way, Tommy, that’s so weird, it’s almost like nobody asked,” he says, delivering the last bit in a completely flat voice, and Tommy shoves him off the bed. He wolfs down the rest of his pizza. “Listen, I like the hypothetical, right, I just don’t give a fuck about any bugs other than bees. Bees aren’t hairy or have a bajillion legs, and they’re the only kind of insect that matters anyway. They're important for the environment, y'know.”

“Um, excuse you, bitch, spiders are incredibly cool and important,” Tommy scoffs. Perhaps now this is a deep-seated need to defend his brethren. He is one of them now. No. That’s weird. He is decidedly not a spider. He is a man. Truly the biggest of men. Well, he’s not entirely a man either now, he supposes. He’s becoming more and more of a tentative half-and-half situation, to be exact.

“Spiders aren’t insects, you moron,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy whacks him with a pillow. Tubbo snatches a stray piece of pepperoni from Tommy’s plate. Tommy can still smell the cheese it had been touching before he’d finished the slice. And holy fuck, that pizza had tasted way better than normal. Tommy’s thanking his lucky goddamned stars for his enhanced sense of taste right about now. “You’re staring at me like I’ve just eaten your last meal, and all I took was, like, half a fucking, uh...meat circle, dude.”

Tommy bursts out in a wild cackle, hands clutching at his sides and head pulsing a little bit with the volume of it. “Meat circle—! Tubbo fuck’s sakes, I—! Hah!” he wheezes, and Tubbo gets all huffy, whining about forgetting the word for it. “It’s a fucking pepperoni, Tubbo, how the fuck did you forget the word for pepperoni?!”

“You’re acting like you didn’t forget the word for muffler last fucking Friday! ‘Gun silencer but car’—I think meat circle is better than that,” Tubbo argues, and Tommy starts to sputter something about how no, the two are not remotely compatible, but the volume of their conversation is catching up to him, and he winces a little bit. Tubbo’s speaking much quieter now. “Oh, fuck, are you—? Is it your rat piss migraine?”

Tommy stifles a laugh and nods. Tubbo’s clearly suppressing his own laughter, so Tommy stares pointedly at Henry. What a calming aura that little cow has. “My bad, should’ve warned you the rat piss migraine comes with volume control issues,” Tommy says, grinning, and Tubbo shrugs.

“I mean, you come with volume control issues, I don’t know why you’re surprised it’d carry over into your migraines,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy has half a mind to smack him with a pillow again, but mercifully decides to let Tubbo live. For now. “Honestly, Tommy, sucks that you got sick. You missed out on Purpled absolutely destroying Ranboo in tic-tac-toe.”

“Tic-tac-toe?”

“It was in maths. We were really bored.”

“Fair enough.”

*****

Tommy finds himself getting used to his enhanced senses with time. Phil had kept him home for the following day, since Tommy’s migraine hadn’t completely gone away, and now Tommy can survive with all the lights on! He doesn’t even get a headache from chatting at normal volume now, and his normal volume definitely requires a higher tolerance. He still jumps when Wilbur drops something in the living room or if Techno sharpens a knife in his workshop just a little too loudly, no matter where Tommy is in the house, but it’s still progress.

He also finds himself having to pretend as though he’s surprised by things now. The Sense often lets Tommy have either a general sense that something’s about to happen, or if he’s particularly tuned in to his surroundings, The Sense lets him have a vague understanding of just what is about to happen. It’s quite useful, especially when Wilbur tries to pop out from behind his closet door to scare him, only to be met with a very impassive expression on Tommy’s face.

The smell of things has also dampened down a tad, but Tommy still cannot be in the vicinity of anything with a sweet smell. Catching a whiff of something just a little too sugary feels like acid filling his nose, and it’s quite ruining his favorite desserts. He can’t even eat most things with too much sugar in them anymore, because that’ll be all he can taste. Phil’s been eyeing Tommy suspiciously every time he turns down ice cream or cookies after a meal. He has, however, found himself legitimately drooling at the smell of any kind of meat, which he absolutely blames on his spider instincts and will definitely not help him convince Techno that he is not, in fact, a vampire. Not to mention his ridiculously increased metabolism—he’s been eating almost non-stop.

He’d also tested out the super speed thing when Wilbur and Techno had both been out and Phil had been at his office, but alas, Tommy is fairly certain he doesn’t possess sonic speed. A shame, really, but his new reflexes more than make up for it. He can literally catch anything before it hits the ground now. Or if something’s flying in his direction, he can snatch it out of the air without even looking. Tommy thanks that poor house fly for its sacrifice, but this is important data that’s being collected here. That fly had been crushed for the greater good. Definitely not because it had been annoying the shit out of Tommy while he’d been doing make-up work.

Speaking of his make-up work, he’d snapped about six pencils in half while doing it, completely unintentionally. He’s really gotta work on getting his super strength in check before he goes back to school, lest he fucking decimate a desk. Plus, he’ll have to be constantly holding himself back anyways if he’s going to use his powers; it won’t exactly make him look good if he accidentally murders every wrong’un he comes across. Nor would it adhere to Tommy’s very strict and definitely inflexible moral code. He has standards, you see. It wouldn’t do Tommy any good to go around destroying everything in the house, either, so controlling his super strength—reigning it back—is his current number one priority.

The next thing on his list is that if he is, in fact, going to be the biggest man of all time and fight crime and help out the community, Tommy’s going to need a very epic and convincing disguise to keep his very real secret identity just that—a secret. So Tommy is going to make himself a supersuit. And no, it’s not going to be a lame costume from the party store a few blocks away, Tommy had ripped through the fabric the minute he’d managed to pull on his Halloween costume from last year and throw a singular punch. That thing  had practically evaporated. He’ll have to find a fabric that can handle all of his awesome and cool superpowers, which might be hard, but if he dampens down the strength a little, it shouldn’t be too hard.

Tommy’s going to have to figure out how to most efficiently use his webs as well. They work just fine for sticking things to the wall—he’d had to take so many things down from the ceiling, including poor Henry, once he’d figured out that he could direct his webs at things and trap them—but given Tommy’s research on spider silk, the webs should be able to hold his body weight no problem, and he’s fairly certain that with a little more air pressure and a little more work on making the web fluid flow for longer periods of time, he could feasibly use them for transportation around the city. Hopefully whatever infrastructure departments run the city won’t mind a few webs here and there.

This leaves things here, with Tommy testing out his heightened agility. He’s been having an absolute fucking blast testing out all of his new powers, don’t get him wrong, but he’s particularly excited about these ones. He can jump higher than he used to be able to, and he figures that if he pairs that with his sticky fingers—and feet, as he’d learned after a very perplexing encounter with the bath mat—then Tommy could very likely climb walls. Like an actual fucking spider. Which would be another thing to add to Tommy’s incredible list of Big Man’s Spider Attributes.

He’s willing his fingers to work properly as he readies himself to jump, arms pumping by his sides. He’s got this. He’s got this. Tommy is definitely not afraid of falling on his head and potentially paralyzing himself, not at all. Taking a deep breath, he jumps, twisting himself in mid-air so that his fingertips attach to the ceiling. His feet follow, and he’s literally crouching on the ceiling. Tommy is upside-down. He lets out a celebratory whoop, then abruptly falls quiet. He can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and The Sense is screaming at him to get down, that whoever’s coming up the stairs—Phil, it would seem from the sound of quiet cursing as he stubs his toe—is going to come into his room.

But Tommy can’t get down. He’s stuck, and his hands won’t come off. It’s probably because he’s panicking, he knows that, but Phil’s about to come into his room and see Tommy on the ceiling, like some feral raccoon demon, and then he definitely won’t let Tommy become an epic crime fighting super-spider. This fucking sucks! He’s figured out he can climb walls and hang upside down, but at what cost? The knob turns, and The Sense churns the pit of dread that’s settled in his gut. Tommy crawls, still upside-down, to the corner of the room and presses himself flat against it, hardly daring to breathe as the door opens.

“Toms, I brought you lun—Tommy?” Phil asks, confused, glancing around the room, but never up, which instantly fills Tommy with relief. Why would Phil be looking up to search for him anyway? No other human being would be found on their ceiling, so Tommy really has nothing to worry about. Phil frowns and starts setting down the plate as Tommy silently crawls his way to the doorframe. Henry, Henry, Henry, think of Henry. “Wil? Have you seen Tommy? Is he downstairs?”

“No!” Wilbur’s voice calls from the living room, and Tommy crouches upside down in the doorframe, thankfully unsticking his hands and now standing upright—or, still upside down, but upright upside down—in the doorway. Wilbur’s footsteps start to get closer, and Tommy panics, stretching his hands out to be flat on the ground and praying that he’s tall enough to make this shit somewhat believable. Wilbur’s footsteps behind him halt, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “Wh—Tommy, what the fuck are you doing?!”

Phil turns around just then, and Tommy grins shakily at him. Phil blinks. “I’m also very interested in your answer to that question,” he says, a weak sense of laughter underlying his words. Tommy makes a face at him and tries to crane his neck to see Henry and hopefully unstick, but Phil’s in the way. “Y’know, mate, if this is your way of asking me for gymnastics lessons, there are much less weird ways to ask.”

“I don’t want fuckin’ gymnastics lessons,” Tommy huffs, cheeks puffed out. He hasn’t gotten a headrush yet, which is a little miracle in and of itself. Wilbur pokes at his sides, and Tommy squirms, but doesn’t let himself waver too badly. “Fuck off, man, you’re such a prick. Go away, Wil. Phil, Philza, crow father, come collect Wilbur. He’s a bitch and I hate him, Phil.”

“You don’t hate him,” Phil says, rolling his eyes, “but if you need help getting down, just say so, Tommy.”

Miraculously, Tommy catches a proper glimpse of Henry and focuses on his little button eyes, and feels himself relax enough to let his legs down. He purposefully angles himself so that both of his legs smack Wilbur square in the chest, and Wilbur catches him with an oof, glaring down at Tommy. “Hello, bitch,” Tommy says with a grin, and The Sense gives him about two seconds of warning before Wilbur abruptly drops his legs. Tommy lets him, only because it’d look weird if he had been prepared for that. He definitely doesn’t want to entertain Wilbur’s antics and make him laugh, no sir.

Sighing as he looks down at Tommy, Wilbur shakes his head. Phil stifles a laugh. “I can’t wait for you to have other people to bother tomorrow,” Wilbur says wistfully, and Phil practically cackles, the absolute traitor. Tommy smacks his ankle. Wilbur pokes at him with his foot. “Demon child. Gremlin boy. Absolutely feral little lad.”

“He needs his rabies shot,” Phil agrees, and Tommy erupts into an onslaught of swears.

This house is a fucking nightmare.

*****

Chapter Text

Tommy had severely underestimated just how loud a school hallway can be. Granted, his walk to school with Tubbo and Ranboo had been loud as well, the volume paired with daylight just bearable enough that he could get through it without a headache, but this is another level of loud. Tommy can hear every fucking conversation that’s happening, and he can faintly hear Wilbur’s voice somewhere by his English classroom one hallway over. Tommy scowls; he shouldn’t have to hear Wilbur droning on until a bit before lunch, and yet his stupid senses have decided that he needs to hear everything right now. It fucking sucks.

His hands are shaking and his head is pounding, and Tommy fucking despises the overhead lights as well—it’s all going wrong so soon, these fucking superpowers are a curse. How’s he supposed to function like a normal fucking person at school if he can’t even get through the damn hallway?! There’s a hand on his arm, probably Tubbo getting ready to drag him to their first class of the day, and Tommy flinches violently, the touch on top of everything else quickly overwhelming him.

Ranboo’s by Tubbo’s side, brows knit together, and Tommy makes a face, shrugging away from Tubbo’s hand and wincing as the first bell goes off. Fuck. It’s much worse than he’d thought it’d be, all shrill and screechy, and Tubbo’s looking at Tommy like he’s crazy—or maybe he’s just concerned, but Tommy’s not exactly in the mood to entertain either option right now. He stumbles a bit, jostled by passing peers and the sensations are all too much and now he’s going to fucking hyperventilate.

Then, Ranboo’s standing in front of him, adjusting his mask, and Tommy is begrudgingly quite thankful that his freakishly tall friend can block the light somewhat efficiently. “Can I touch you?” Ranboo asks, keeping his voice quiet but clear, which only adds to the pounding of Tommy’s headache, but he nods anyway. Ranboo carefully guides Tommy over towards the bathrooms, one hand on his bicep and one between his shoulders, gesturing for Tubbo to follow them. “Let’s get you somewhere not so crowded, is—that’s okay, right?”

“Y-Yeah, whatever,” Tommy mumbles, the ringing in his ears spiking as some guy’s shriek of a laugh sounds out from nearby. Ranboo holds the door open for him, and Tommy starts to say thanks, but his throat and head feel like they’re filled with cotton and he’s not quite certain he can breathe again. “Fuck, I’m—shit, sorry, I-I don’t know what’s…fuck, what is wrong with me, man, I’m—!”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Ranboo says slowly, still keeping his voice down, and Tubbo glances between them nervously, clearly unsure of what to do here. A hand leaves Tommy’s arm and hovers over his chest, and he vaguely registers that it belongs to Ranboo. His vision is spotty now, so this is truly a feat. “Is it alright if I—Tommy, can you breathe with me? In and out, deep breaths, you’re gonna pass out, man.”

The hand hovering over him settles on his chest, but it’s not stinging like it had out in the hall, and Tubbo’s moved to block the door and shut off the lights, and Tommy can fucking breathe again, finally. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Tommy stutters out, eyes darting over what he can see of Ranboo’s face as he attempts and fails to follow his lead and take deep breaths. “The hallway—I don’t know, I-I just fuckin’—it was so much, Ranboo, I couldn’t—my brain felt like it was gonna explode—!”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Ranboo says gently, and Tommy’s fingers flex at his sides, The Sense telling him someone’s about to knock on the door, and sure enough, there’s a quiet knock not a moment later. Idly, Tommy notes that Ranboo’s face looks funny when he’s annoyed. “Tubbo, tell whoever it is that we’re busy.”

“We’re busy!” Tubbo says, too loud, and Tommy lets out a definitely very manly whimper, thank you very much. Wincing, Tubbo sends him an apologetic look as whoever’s outside knocks, a little louder this time. This fucking sucks. Tommy can’t even follow Ranboo’s breathing counts properly, he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on in his brain, and it feels like his chest is going to cave in and he’ll die and— “Oh, uh…come on in, Mr. Soot!”

Tommy whips his head up and his eyes go wide as Wilbur comically squeezes himself into the bathroom from the tiny gap Tubbo has allowed the door to open up. “Niki told me she saw you guys rush into the bathroom, you’ve got about two minutes until class starts, so what’s—oh, fuck, Tommy, are you alright?” he asks, eyes just as wide as Tommy’s, and Ranboo shrinks back a bit as Wilbur looks to him for an answer.

“Sorry, Mr. Soot, we were headed to class, we swear, but I think Tommy started having a panic attack, so I figured it’d be best to get him out of the hallway, ’cuz that’s kinda—it seemed like it was the reason he was having one, and I’m trying to get him to take deep breaths, I just—we’ll get to class on time, don’t worry,” Ranboo prattles on, and Tommy almost smacks him for being so loud, but he doesn’t. And definitely not because he feels like his arms are lead, it's because he’s being merciful today.

Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose, and Tommy hysterically thinks he looks just like Phil when he does it. “Christ, Ranboo, that’s not what I…listen, making sure you lot are getting to class on time is the least of my concerns right now,” Wilbur says, and he looks really worried. “Okay, Tommy, you’re here, you’re safe, just breathe, buddy.”

“Fuck,” Tommy says, and he sounds gutted, even to himself. Tubbo hovers around his shoulder, still looking ridiculously worried. Tommy tries to steady his breathing, really, he does, but Ranboo’s starting to seem a little panicked now, and his breathing continues to hitch. “Wil, Wilbur, I’m—Ranboo, Tubbo, go to class, I’ll be fine, i-it’s fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine, big man,” Tubbo says, and Tommy scowls at him. He’s still struggling to breathe properly, though, so maybe Tubbo has a point. “And, really, we’ll stay with you ’til you’re okay, Tommy, it’s not like we’re going to different classes.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “No, the two of you should really get to class, I’ll take care of this,” he says, and Ranboo and Tubbo exchange a look before hesitantly nodding and slipping out of the bathroom. Wilbur turns back to him, now much less composed. “Toms, what’s wrong? Was it—did your migraine come back?”

Relieved at the easy out, Tommy nods and slumps back against the nearest wall, the relative quiet of the bathroom and the lack of sensation finally letting his breathing calm. “Fuck, Wil, I’m cutting into your class time,” Tommy says, voice a little hoarse, and Wilbur waves dismissively.

“Don’t worry about that, you moron,” he tells Tommy fondly, brows still furrowed. Tommy’s heart stops hammering in his chest—still drums on a little faster than it should, but it’s not overwhelming anymore—and he can breathe. “Was it the lights? The students? Do you want me to call Phil to take you home?”

“No!” Tommy nearly shouts. Wilbur stares at him, and Tommy feels his face flush in embarrassment. Wilbur’s hands hover over Tommy’s arms; it’s clear he doesn’t really know how to go about fixing this. “I—no, Wilbur, I’m fine, it was just…I had a moment, I’m fine, please just let me get to class.”

If he can’t handle a school hallway, how the fuck is he meant to use his superpowers to fight crime? Wilbur gives him a wary look, but his hands return to his sides. He straightens out his dorky-ass cardigan—really, even Tommy has a better sense of fashion than that—and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Right, well, come back with me to my classroom, I’ll write you a note and you’ll be able to get to class without a late penalty,” Wilbur says, opening the door back up. The hallway is mostly emptied now, thankfully, but Tommy’s shoulders still hunch up by his ears as he follows Wilbur down the way. It’s embarrassing enough that he’s gone and had a panic attack, apparently, but now he’s got to follow his fucking brother so he gets an excuse? “Tommy, I can hear the gears in your brain overthinking. Chill out.”

Grumbling a few curses under his breath, Tommy steps on the back of Wilbur’s shoe and snickers as he stumbles a little bit. “Oops,” he says, eyes wide in feigned innocence as Wilbur turns around to glare at him. Shaking his head, Wilbur turns back around, and they walk for a bit longer until room 802 is in front of them. “I’ll stay out here, Wil, go ahead and—”

“It’s ‘Mr. Soot’ when we’re in my classroom, and no, you get your ass in here, I’m not making Niki keep an eye out for my class from across the hall for longer than necessary,” Wilbur huffs, and Tommy wants to smack him because he’s being incredibly annoying. This is what’s really unnecessary, honestly, it is. Wilbur ushers Tommy inside, and he awkwardly stands by the door as Wilbur digs around for a slip of paper and addresses his class. “Sorry, just another moment! I know you’re all totally dying to listen to me talk for an hour and a half, trust me.”

The class chuckles, and most of them look at Tommy, who scowls at the sudden attention. “Thanks, bitch,” he says as Wilbur hands him the excuse slip, and Wilbur crosses his arms. Tommy rolls his eyes, but Wilbur doesn’t falter. “Thank you, Mr. Soot. Christ, can I go now? You’re so annoying.”

“Please, for the love of God and all things holy, do not make me explain to Phil why I’ve been forced to give you detention, and get out of here before I am required to do so, Thomas,” Wilbur says, and Tommy stifles a laugh. Wilbur nudges him to the door and then stands in front of the white board, clapping his hands together and grinning. “Right! So, capitalism, as we have picked up on throughout the text, is not good.”

Tommy doesn’t hear the rest of whatever Wilbur’s point is, because he’s already down the hall and out of range—even with his enhanced senses—by the time Wilbur starts discussing whether or not ethical consumption is at all possible. He’s already dreading getting to his first class, but it’s not like he’s got a choice. Phil would definitely need some kind of explanation if Tommy attempts to skip, and he’s not about to risk missing Wilbur’s class after all this.

As soon as he steps into his class, all eyes are on him, and Tommy sheepishly hands over the late slip to his teacher, a really nice guy who lets his students call him Sam. “Nice of you to join us, Tommy,” Sam says, a playful glint in his eyes, and a few students laugh quietly as Tommy makes his way to the back, sitting in his usual seat between Tubbo and Ranboo. “As I was saying, since we don’t have the computer lab today, I’ll be splitting you up into pairs to start your research for your next project.”

As Sam starts to do just that, pairing people with whoever they’re sitting next to, Tubbo leans towards Tommy, both of them still facing front. “So,” Tubbo starts, voice barely above a whisper, “you still having a bit of a time or are you good now? ’Cuz I’m gonna be honest here, bossman, your head’s gotta be in the game for this project. This shit sounds super complicated, we’ve got to build a thing using the programming language we’ve been learning. Or something like that, I was only kind of paying attention.”

“I’m fine, Tubbo,” Tommy huffs, and Tubbo tilts his head a little, like he doesn’t really believe him. “I am! I am, Big T. Had a moment, got over it, Wil’s a bitch as always, but it’s fine now. Also, why the fuck are we bullding something, we’re in a fucking computer class, this is bullshit. Maybe Sam should build himself a wife, might take up enough of his time that he’ll give us less shit to sort through.”

Tubbo snickers, but the two of them quickly straighten up as Sam gets to their row. He might be one of the nicer teachers here, but he’s still nicknamed The Warden for a reason. “Right, Ranboo, you’re with Tommy, and Tubbo, you’re with Purpled. Any questions?” Sam asks, glancing around, but no one seems to have any. He smiles and turns to Purpled, who quirks a brow. “Purpled, do you mind helping me pass around the rubric and project specifications?”

Purpled shrugs and hands the first couple of papers to Tubbo, who passes it to Tommy, who pointedly refuses to pass the last one to Ranboo, because Ranboo is a bitch, and Tommy should be the one in charge of the project anyway. “I am literally begging you to let this be a normal project and cooperate with me here,” Ranboo says in a long-suffering tone, which is quite rude, actually, because Tommy’s only been making him suffer since this morning.

Ranboo stares at him flatly and holds his hand out for the paper. Tommy hands it over without protest—aside from a scowl, but he’s definitely allowed that because the lights in the room are really bright, and he’s losing the will to banter. Ranboo seems to notice and gets this weirdly concerned look on his face, so Tommy flips him off. He doesn’t need Ranboo’s pity, and he certainly doesn’t need anyone sussing out his superpowers this early in the game, so Tommy glues his eyes to the paper and clears his throat pointedly.

“Right, big man, what’re we doing, then?”

*****

Wilbur’s class is more of a nightmare for Tommy than it usually is, and that’s saying something. Firstly, he did do the assigned reading, thank you very much, he’s just had quite a bit on his mind since the whole spider superpowers situation had started. Which is quite understandable, but alas, given that Tommy cannot tell anyone about it, he can’t use his one good excuse. And while Wilbur has hardly ever accepted any of Tommy’s excuses, he thinks it’s fair to assume that this one’s a bit of an exception to the rule.

Superpowers notwithstanding, The Sense is getting very well-acquainted with Wilbur’s antics, given that it’s predicted every time Wilbur’s called on him to give an answer that Tommy does not have. It’s a bit funny, given that The Sense is sort of forcing his brain to interpret the threat of being called on as danger, but Tommy’s not exactly in a joking mood right now. He hasn’t been since the walk to school this morning, as a matter of fact.

“Now, this doesn’t have just one concrete answer, but I’d appreciate it if you supported your answer with something that’s actually in the book, guys. Why do you think Javer’s so hellbent on catching Jean Valjean?” Wilbur asks, pointing up at his stupid flowchart of all the relationships the characters in the book have to one another. Tommy hates that stupid chart. He hates the stupid book, too, but he hates the chart even more. Wilbur looks over the hands that are actually up and zeroes in. “Thomas! You haven’t spoken in a while, highly unusual for you.”

Tommy glares at him before turning his glare down at the open book in front of him. None of the words are registering. On his left, someone stifles a laugh. It’s quiet enough that he wouldn’t have heard it with normal hearing, sadly—he’d have loved to start yelling at someone, if not just to get his frustration out. He’s got to answer eventually, and all of these eyes are on him, and The Sense is definitely not happy with this situation, and neither is Tommy, but they’re in it together now.

Affixing Wilbur with a flat stare, Tommy leans back in his seat. “Mans got a crush?” he guesses, and Wilbur furrows his brows, but he hasn’t outright said Tommy’s wrong yet, so Tommy’s motor mouth starts to run a mile a minute. “I mean, seriously, the guy’s, like, obsessed with him. In a deranged weirdo kind of way, but still.”

He’s only going off of what little he remembers from the movie, which Wilbur had made him watch because Tommy, quote: ‘probably won’t pay attention in my damn class.’ But evidently, Wilbur’s shoulders sag in a defeated kind of way. “That is one way to interpret the text,” he concedes, and Tommy blinks. He hadn’t thought that would actually work. Wilbur holds up a single finger. “But! You’d need much more evidence from the text to support that thesis in an essay, so can anyone else provide an example that would help prove this theory to be true?”

A surprising number of hands goes up, and Tommy grins. Take that, Wilbur. Now he doesn’t have to worry about being picked to answer again, at least not for a while. Tubbo leans towards Tommy and slips him a folded up piece of paper. He shoots Tubbo a wary look and gets a flat glare in return, so Tommy holds his hands up slightly above the desk in surrender. Opening up the note, a single sentence is scrawled out in Tubbo’s messy handwriting, which definitely constitutes an absolute waste of paper.

Ranboo wants to know if he can go to yours after school!!!

Scowling, Tommy glances over at Ranboo, who waves minutely, looking rather nervous. He taps his pencil against his hand and scans his eyes over Tubbo’s writing again. It’s not like Ranboo hasn’t been over before, but Tommy had been planning to try out some fabrics for his potential supersuit tonight, and this kind of puts a damper on his plans. Alas, he does possess a conscience and doesn’t want to leave Ranboo high and dry in a pair project.

Tell Ranboo he’s a bitch and yes he can.

He passes the note back to Tubbo, but unfortunately, Wilbur’s looking in their exact direction at that moment, and Tommy winces as he sighs. “You lot are going to get separated again if you don’t stop passing notes,” he warns, arms crossed. Wilbur turns back towards the board, and Tommy tunes him out again as he starts explaining something—it’s probably something Tommy should be paying attention to, but honestly, he couldn’t care less. The bell sounds off for lunch, and as Tommy starts collecting his things, Wilbur waves. “Thomas, stay back for a minute, I need to talk to you.”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy shrugs at Ranboo and Tubbo and heads to the front of the room, completely unamused. “Listen, man, I’ve got to get to lunch, Ranboo’s got good shit today and if I’m not there to steal it, he’ll eat it before I can,” he huffs, and Wilbur raises a brow. Tommy’s starting to get sick of this; first Wilbur had been singling him out during class, and now pulling him aside and taking time out of his precious lunch? “Wil, I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m having a shit day, and you’re not exactly helping.”

“And if I’m being honest,” Wilbur starts, clearly pissed off, and Tommy winces—this is not gonna be good, “I’m getting a little tired of you thinking you can get an easy ride through my class just because you’re my brother. I care about you and I want you to do well, but you’re clearly not reading the material, you spend all of your time in my class talking to Tubbo and Ranboo, and you’re dangerously close to falling behind. You’re a smart kid, Toms. I know that better than almost anyone. I know you’re still recovering from your headaches, but you’ve got to do better.”

Face flushing in embarrassment, Tommy’s shoulders hunch up, and his stance becomes more defensive. “Fuck you, man! I’m so sorry that I read the boring-ass book you picked out and can’t really remember any of it, Wilbur. Clearly, I haven’t had anything else going on for the past few days to worry about, right?! It’s not like reading the tiny fuckin’ text makes my eyes hurt and makes my migraines worse, right?! Even with all that, I read the damn thing anyway!” Tommy snaps, fists balled at his sides, and Wilbur just looks bored, which makes Tommy furious, because fuck Wilbur for being calm! Fuck Wilbur for looking at him like that, like he’s just so much better than Tommy for not getting emotional. “You don’t have any idea what’s going on with me, Wilbur. God forbid I don’t pay attention for one fucking day, man, I’m still almost top of the class!”

“Are you quite done? You’re getting defensive over nothing here, man, I’m on your side,” Wilbur says, tone flat, almost amused, and Tommy sees red. “You know, I’m required by the school to call a parent if disruptive behavior doesn’t stop with a few warnings, but I’ve been really lenient with you, even though I should’ve called Phil a while ago. So I don’t want any more excuses, Tommy. I’ve got to be professional at some point and do my job. I know you’ve got lots going on, and I know you’re having a bad day, which is why I’m worried. You can talk to me, Toms, help me understand what’s going on so I can help you.”

Positively fuming and running a hand through his hair, Tommy feels The Sense flare up at the back of his mind, and he grabs Wilbur’s wrist in midair. He doesn’t want sympathy, and he definitely doesn’t want whatever brotherly gesture Wilbur’s about to offer. This whole thing is bullshit. Wilbur’s acting all high and mighty, like he’s the savior of the fucking universe for embarrassing Tommy constantly. Tommy’s half-convinced he’s actually just looking for an excuse to call Phil and get him in trouble.

Tommy drops Wilbur’s wrist. “Don’t fucking touch me, Wil,” Tommy says, “I’m going to lunch. Call Phil if you want, see if I give a shit.”

With that, he leaves the classroom, ignoring Wilbur’s calls for him to come back, and Tommy stalks down the hall and takes his packed lunch to the table where he can see Tubbo and Ranboo are sitting. “Aye,” he greets, and they nod, Ranboo silently sliding over his pack of twizzlers, and Tommy grins. They can’t get this shit anywhere else—Ranboo gets it shipped in every once in a while, and he only gets so much of it. “Need some good news, fellas. Wilbur was a bitch, as usual, so gimme something positive.”

“I figured out what we’d need for our pressurized condiment dispenser, but it might be a little expensive,” Ranboo says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. Ah, that’s right. Tommy had suggested it—a dispenser that detects how far and how big something is and sprays on just the right amount of whatever you want. It had been Tommy’s idea, mostly; he wants to see if he can transform this project into a more efficient way to shoot his webs. Ranboo takes a twizzler, and Tommy scowls at him. “Would it be cool if we picked some of the stuff up? We can definitely write some of the code tonight, even if we don’t build anything.”

Tommy shrugs. “Was planning on grabbing stuff on my way home anyways, works for me,” he says, and Ranboo’s eyes crinkle up, a telltale sign he’s grinning. Tommy opens up his lunch and stifles a smile at the Give ’em hell, Toms! Phil’s written on the bag of crisps. Tommy clears his throat and chomps loudly on a crisp. “Whu’d’we need?”

“Close your mouth when you chew,” Tubbo says, making a face, and Ranboo hands over a list scribbled on a napkin. As Tommy scans over what’s written on it—the writing’s so damn tiny, Tommy has half a mind to tell Ranboo to rewrite it—his enhanced peripheral vision catches Tubbo exchanging a wary glance with Ranboo. “Also, I don’t think you should keep pissing off Mr. Soot anymore, Tommy, you could get into serious trouble.”

“For fuck’s sakes, Tubbo, not you as well,” Tommy groans, tilting his head up at the ceiling and wincing immediately because of the lights. Tubbo starts to say something, but Tommy’s phone buzzes loudly on the table, and he starts chomping on crisps as noisily as possible to further drown him out. Tubbo gives up, and Tommy picks up his phone. “Jesus Christ, what does Techno want now?”

why is wilbur saying you’re being a dick.

because wilbur’s a fucking bitch that’s why

okay, true, but he’s also threatening to tell phil about something that happened, so you should be careful.

don’t piss him off again.

seriously.

i am also busy and do not want him to continue bothering me.

fine

both of you are dicks

i hate you

die

i feel brotherly affection for you as well.

behave.

i will set the school on fire actually

maybe i will commit crimes

do hard drugs

how about that techno

what if i want to commit crimes

tell phil so that he can get his fancy corporate lawyers to defend you.

very good point maybe sometimes you are smart but only a little

bitchno

goodbye, tommy.

bitch

Tommy tucks his phone back in his pocket, and Ranboo tilts his head curiously. “Everything good, man?” he asks, and Tommy nods, pointedly ignoring Tubbo’s glare. Yeah, maybe Tubbo has a point, but Tommy’s got a lot on his mind right now, alright? Give him a break. Ranboo shifts in his seat, as if he can sense the tension. “Uh, we could get ice cream later too…? Like, before we go pick up the stuff we need for the project. All three of us, I mean.”

“Sounds good to me, bossman,” Tubbo says easily, and he looks at Tommy like a challenge, eyes narrowed and brows raised. Well, it’s clearly an attempt at that, but Tubbo ends up sort of looking like he’s high. Tommy just shrugs. He hasn’t been able to handle anything sweet, so he’ll probably end up just getting a normal flavor. Like vanilla. Tubbo snaps his fingers and his eyes go wide, and he turns to Ranboo, who stares back at him with eyes just as wide. “Right! Tommy asked me this the other day, and it made me start thinking—Ranboo, if you had a superpower, would you fight crime with it or not?”

Looking thoughtfully down at his half-eaten sandwich, Ranboo cups his chin with his hand. “I’d say it depends on the power, actually. Well, no—scratch that, I don’t think I’d be able to go out and fight crime even with a superpower,” he says, and Tubbo gestures for him to go on. Ranboo just shrugs. “Listen, I’m just not a crime-fighting sorta guy. Not that crime isn’t bad, because I think it’s safe to say that most crimes are bad, but I don’t know if I’d be, like, confident enough to just go out and start throwin’ hands with criminals.”

Nodding wisely, Tubbo hums. “Ah, so you’re not stupid enough to go getting yourself killed,” he says, and Tommy takes offense to that. He’s not going to get killed, he’s got superpowers. Tubbo turns to Tommy again and puts his chin in his hand. “On the subject of superpowers, what would you lot pick if you could have a power? I think I’d pick electricity or something. Super handy for charging your phone.”

“I think I’d go with, like, something to do with time. Pausing time or slowing it down,” Ranboo elaborates, and Tommy pouts. He can’t do either of those. “I always get super stressed when I think I don’t have enough time to do something, and that’d be really helpful. I don’t know for sure, though, it’s hard to pick just one. What about you, Tommy?”

And they’re both looking at him expectantly now, which, admittedly, makes Tommy a little bit nervous. It’s not as though he can say his actual superpowers, because when he actually does start to fight crime, they might figure out that it’s him. “Uh, probably the power to fly or some shit,” he says instead of his ultra-cool spider powers, and his friends nod, as if to say fair enough, Tommy, you’re so cool and smart, Tommy. Maybe they’re not thinking that last bit, but it is objectively true. “Then I wouldn’t have to walk with you assholes to school. I could jet around to all the women in London and make it to all of my many weddings with very real women on time.”

Snorting as the bell rings, Tubbo stands and pokes Tommy in the forehead. “Yeah, right, as if you’ve ever even spoken to a woman,” he says, and Tommy squawks in offense. Tubbo puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look of mock-sympathy. “Don’t worry, Toms, you’ll get there someday. Maybe a girl will look in your direction in, say, thirty years.”

Ranboo chuckles, and Tommy kicks Tubbo in the shin. “Please don’t get in trouble for fighting in here again,” Ranboo says tiredly, and Tommy puts his chin high in the air, walking out first because he is clearly the bigger and much better person. Ah, fuck. The noise returns, as it would seem. He can’t even properly pay attention to where he’s going until Ranboo catches his wrist, a slightly concerned look in his eyes. “Tommy, you’re going down the wrong hallway! Your biology class is over here, dude, what’s up with you today?”

“Sorry, migraine,” Tommy explains away with a sheepish grin, and Ranboo just shakes his head.

Tommy knows he’s going to have to find a way to navigate the halls without annihilating his senses eventually, but for now, he settles for Tubbo shoving headphones over his ears and playing terrible music.

*****

Chapter Text

“Welcome to the Frozen Cow, where our ice cream is so good, it’ll have you over the moon. How can I help you today?” the cashier asks in a monotone so flat it actually rivals Techno’s. She looks positively over it, blonde hair tied up in a ponytail behind her visor and her expression not nearly as cheery as all the cow-themed decor. Tommy tries to look at her nametag, but it’s smudged so badly all he can make out is the tail end of what might be an ‘a’ or a ‘q’.

Tubbo leans forward first and grins. “I’ll take a cotton candy shake in the biggest size you’ve got, please!” he says, and she nods, punching it into the register, expression still unchanging. It’s a little unsettling. He jerks his thumb over at Tommy, whose eyes go wide. “We’re all gonna be on the same tab, by the way, he’s paying.”

“Wha—! I never said that, Tubbo, you fuckin’ prick, for fuck’s—fine, whatever, yeah. I’ll just take a scoop of vanilla,” Tommy says, only remembering his manners when Ranboo elbows him in the side. He gives the ice cream girl an apologetic grin, but she doesn’t really seem to care, punching in his order as well and looking up at Ranboo expectantly.

Tommy does the same, glancing between the two of them. It’s quite funny, actually. Ranboo, practically a ball of nerves, clearly very anxious about holding up the nonexistent line and inconveniencing a food service worker, and the ice cream girl, who would be incredibly intimidating if it weren’t for the cute cartoon cow on her visor and the cow print apron she’s probably required to be wearing.

After a moment of deliberation, Ranboo looks at the register and starts to finally give his order to the ice cream girl. “Right, uh, just some cookies n’ creme in a waffle cone, if that’s alright,” he says, and she just punches it right in. “Thank you, by the way, sorry about the wait, there’s just a lot of options, y’know?”

She blinks at him and nods once before turning to Tommy and holding her hand out. “It’s gonna be seventeen quid even,” the ice cream girl says, her accent weird around the word ‘quid,’ and Tommy hands over a bill, grumbling curses under his breath in Tubbo’s direction. Stupid bastard, making him pay when all he’s able to eat is a little bitch scoop of vanilla. The ice cream girl hands back his change and affixes Tommy with a flat look. “It’ll be ready in a minute. You can sit anywhere you want. Have an udder-ly fantastic day.”

As they get settled at a table, The Sense tells Tommy that someone’s about to walk through the door, someone dangerous, and he looks up, immediately alarmed. A businessman enters the room, flanked by two other businessmen, all three of them in suits far too fancy for a hole-in-the-wall ice cream place on the quieter side of the city. There’s something, just...off about their aura—not that Tommy buys into any of that aura shit, but The Sense has the hairs on his neck and arms on end, so something is clearly wrong.

Tubbo and Ranboo’s conversation continues, and Tommy only kind of registers it, given that all of his attention is still on the businessmen. They’re surprisingly rowdy, the one in the middle and the one on the right laughing uproariously and shoving at each other, the third looking on with a sort of bemused fondness, but none of them are even paying any attention to the ice cream girl, who is simultaneously pouring Tubbo’s milkshake and trying to ask the businessmen for their order. She sighs and glares at the milkshake like it’s personally offended her, then goes to start scooping for Ranboo’s waffle cone.

The businessmen are loud, and Tommy doesn’t need enhanced hearing to recognize it, given that a few people, including Ranboo and Tubbo, turn heads in their direction, most of them annoyed. The Sense seems to dislike the middle one in particular, given that if Tommy focuses on him for too long, he feels a small rush of adrenaline. His hand clutches a little too hard to the table, and he dents it. Shit. Tubbo and Ranboo don’t seem to notice, so Tommy just tries to ignore the businessmen. After all, he’s probably just overreacting. Maybe one of them is, like, an undercover government agent and happens to have a weapon on him. That’d make more sense than some guy being dangerous enough on his own that The Sense has Tommy about ready to jump out of his seat and cling to the ceiling.

The ice cream girl comes over with their ice cream after another moment, throwing a glare over her shoulder at the businessmen still causing a racket before giving the trio at the table a strained, close-lipped smile and heading back behind the counter. Tommy stares just a little too hard at the group of businessmen, evidently, because Tubbo pokes him in the arm and gives him a questioning look, brows furrowed.

“What’s got you all on edge?” he asks, and maybe Tommy hadn’t been quite as low-key as he’d thought. He just shrugs, nodding over at the businessmen, and Tubbo hums. “Yeah, they’re being pretty obnoxious, aren’t they? Wish somebody would tell them to shut up, they’re not even giving their order. Anyways, where are you two headed after this?”

He takes a massive sip of his milkshake and immediately winces, Ranboo stifling a snort beside him. Tommy outright laughs, making the businessmen glance in their direction, and the overwhelming feeling of dangerdangerdanger from The Sense shuts him up very quickly. “The fuck are you lot looking at?! Get your shit and go,” he barks out before he can stop himself, and Ranboo smacks his leg, looking incredibly bewildered.

“Woah, that primary schooler looks kind of pissed off,” the left one says, pushing his obnoxious sunglasses up his stupid nose. Tommy bristles, and Tubbo kicks him under the table, which is stupid, because Tommy’s not about to start a fight or anything, but these guys are being seriously disruptive to everybody in the shop. The left one looks to the one in the middle and grins. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”

“Nah, I think you should shut him up,” the right one chimes in, hair slicked back like something straight out of an American mobster movie. It doesn’t suit him at all; Tommy thinks he looks like a right prick. Uptight, even. The right one also defers to the middle guy, who just tilts his head at Tommy, like he’s trying to read into Tommy’s soul. “I could do it for you, if you want.”

Ranboo’s waffle cone almost falls out of his hand as he goes to try and play peacekeeper, which is stupid, in Tommy’s opinion. “We don’t want any trouble, he just gets these headaches, he’s sensitive to loud noises, that’s all,” he hurries to explain, and while most of it is kind of bullshit—not that Ranboo knows that—it should be enough to tide these guys over. Why are they so eager to pick a fight with some randos anyway?

The left one speaks up again, and The Sense hates that the middle one hasn’t said anything at all yet. “If he’s got a headache, he can fuck off to a library,” he says, and The Sense declares that this guy’s a fucking dick. Well, that’s more Tommy than The Sense, but The Sense doesn’t like him much either. “Isn’t that right?”

Middle Man considers this for a moment, eyes narrowed at Tommy still, and The Sense wants him to hightail it out of here, but Tommy stands his ground and glares right back. Middle Man just shrugs and looks at the left one. “Chill out. Just some stupid kid,” he says easily, and the right one scoffs, still giving Tommy the stink eye. Tommy decides that the right one is the biggest bitch of the three, followed closely by the left one. Jury’s still out on Middle Man.

The ice cream girl clears her throat and stares flatly at Middle Man. “Dude. You’ve got to buy something or get out,” she says, still monotone, and Tommy snickers as the trio of businessmen look taken aback. “I don’t have the energy, nor do I get paid enough to waste my time giving a police statement if a fight breaks out here. Order or leave, man, let’s go.”

The businessmen hesitantly give her their order, and Ranboo tugs on Tommy’s sleeve, nodding at the door. It’s probably a good idea to get going, even if it’s technically conceding defeat. Tommy never admits he’s lost, because he’s never lost. He’s only ever postponed his victory, thank you very much. The three of them slip out of the ice cream shop, and Tubbo waves farewell as he takes his cotton candy milkshake down the opposite side of the street. Ranboo turns to Tommy expectantly, and Tommy takes a tentative bite of his ice cream; it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either. Not as bad as maple syrup, not as good as pizza.

“We’re going to the craft store first, Ranboob,” he declares, and Ranboo sighs at the nickname, but he follows Tommy down the road nonetheless. Things are still a little overwhelming—being outside, what with all of the sensations—but Tommy’s banking on immersion therapy. So far, it’s working. “Big man Tommy’s got to pick up important big man fabric items.”

“Big man Tommy should stop referring to himself in the third person,” Ranboo mumbles, biting into his waffle cone. They walk down the street in sync, even though Ranboo’s freakish height gives him a longer stride. Tommy considers this to be extremely unfair. He should be entitled to financial compensation for it, honestly. Ranboo glances at him and finishes up the last of his cone. “Why do you need fabric anyway? It wasn’t on the list.”

“I told you, it’s big man business,” Tommy says, feeling the tips of his ears get hot with embarrassment. It’s fair, he supposes, for Ranboo to be curious, but Tommy doesn’t exactly want to give him the actual reasoning behind it. But Ranboo just keeps looking at him, so Tommy fumbles to come up with something to keep Ranboo off his back. “It’s for that biology project. The one with the, uh, bugs. Diagrams n’ shit.”

Ranboo doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he drops the subject nonetheless as they approach the craft shop. It’s run by Tubbo’s aunt, Tommy knows, though he’s never seen her in her store, only when he’s over at Tubbo’s house. Sure enough, as soon as they walk through the door, a flurry of white, poofy hair comes barreling at them, and Tommy is quickly wrapped up in a too-tight hug. “Tommy! Ranboo! So good to see you two! What are you doing here?” Puffy asks, pulling away from Tommy and proceeding to bury Ranboo in an equally tight hug.

“Tommy has to pick up stuff for a biology project,” Ranboo answers, voice strained with the force of Puffy’s hug, and Tommy snickers as she releases him, all bright smiles and sparkling eyes. Ranboo smooths down his shirt and adjusts the strap of his bag, and Tommy starts glancing around to see how the store’s layout works. “How’ve you been, Ms. Puffy?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Ranboo, just Puffy is fine,” she scolds, a playful tone to her voice. She turns to Tommy and tilts her head, and he can see a few smears of paint on her face and arms. “You lookin’ for something in particular, big guy? I can help you find it if you give me the specifics.”

Shifting in place, Tommy glances between the other two. He’s not entirely sure how to explain this. “Uh, d’you have something that could withstand, like, a lot of force n’ shit? Like if I punched something really hard while wearing it, it wouldn’t—fuckin’ I dunno—explode or whatever?” he asks, and Puffy’s brows furrow, her eyes wide. “Don’t worry, it’s not—! It’s for a biology project, Puffy, don’t read into it too much.”

A wary expression on his face, Ranboo glances at him. “What kind of projects are you doing in that class, man?” he asks, sounding slightly incredulous, and Tommy waves him off. He doesn’t need to get specific, Ranboo definitely doesn’t need to know about his actual plans for the fabric he’s buying. Taking a look at his phone, Ranboo hums, uncertain. “We should hurry here if we want to make it to the hardware store before it closes, by the way.”

Puffy nods and straightens up. “Right, so, I’m guessing you want a fabric similar to what people use for athleticwear then,” she says easily, leading Tommy down an aisle filled with bright fabrics, and Tommy immediately zeroes in on a red roll. Puffy smiles slyly and takes it off the shelf for him, and Tommy starts to protest; she puts a hand on her hip. “C’mon, Tommy, don’t kid yourself. This fabric is pretty much what you’re looking for anyway—most of the boxers that come in here for custom-made stuff have this one marked down as their go-to.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Tommy says, and Puffy swats at him. Rolling his eyes, Tommy holds his hands up in mock-surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll curb the swearing. Just for you, Captain Pussy.”

She fixes him with a flat stare. Tommy grins.

*****

When they get back to Tommy’s house, it’s with arms full of heavy-ass bags. Well, heavy for Ranboo, Tommy’s epic and cool superpowers make it a piece of cake. Ranboo stumbles through the front door and Tommy holds it open for him, rolling his eyes. Really, Ranboo’s only got, like, four bags, and Tommy’s got six, so Tommy honestly thinks he’s being dramatic. Just a tad.

In any case, The Sense says that someone’s about to round the corner, and sure enough, there’s Phil, arms crossed and he’s very obviously not happy. He looks slightly surprised to see Ranboo, who waves awkwardly. “Oh, hello, Ranboo, always nice to see you, mate,” Phil says, and Ranboo’s probably doing that weird unsure smile he does sometimes, but The Sense is telling him to keep his eyes on Phil, so Tommy does. Sure enough, Phil turns back towards him. “Tommy, can I speak with you about what’s happened today after Ranboo goes home?”

It’s more of a statement than an actual question. Phil wants to talk, which means Wilbur was a bitch and snitched on him, and Tommy would like nothing more than to not talk about it, so he whirls around and stares Ranboo down. “Ranboo, would you like to stay over tonight?” he asks flatly, and Ranboo makes a choked noise in the very back of his throat. Phil starts to say something, but Tommy cuts him off. “Ranboo, would you like to stay over?”

“I—if that’s...cool with Mr. Watson…?” Ranboo suggests, and Tommy wants to throttle him, spineless bastard that he is. Tommy is being more than a little insistent about this here, he could really use some fucking help, Ranboo, could he be any more obvious, Ranboo?! Apparently, his pointed glare works, and Ranboo nods fervently. “Yeah, actually, I’d love to, is that fine? It’s fine if not, I, uh—I definitely want to. This is something that I think would be in my best interest, as a matter of fact.”

Phil sighs, but he nods nonetheless. “We’re talking about this tomorrow morning,” he warns, and Tommy waves his hand in an ‘eh’ motion, but Phil actually looks kind of serious as he shakes his head. “No. We are. Tommy, Wil called me at my office today. I gave you space, but we’re going to have to talk about it, and I’m not kidding around.”

“Okay, fine, can Ranboo and I go now? We’ve a project to work on, and it’s for The Warden’s class, so…?” Tommy trails off, and while Phil sighs again, he does gesture for them to go ahead, and Tommy practically yanks Ranboo up the stairs. Right. He’s gotta be careful about his super strength. Can’t go around yanking people’s arms off, no sir. Tommy shuts the door and sets the bags on his desk, and Ranboo practically collapses backwards onto his bed. “Um, excuse you, get your ass up. We’ve got work to do.”

Groaning dramatically, Ranboo sinks further into the covers; Tommy’s not entirely sure how that’s possible. “I’m going to become one with your mattress,” Ranboo says warningly, and Tommy whacks him over the head with a pillow. He sputters, and Tommy cackles, straightening up as The Sense warns him of the pillow about to smack him. He deftly ducks out of the way like a super cool action movie hero, and Ranboo gawks at him. “How did you do that?!”

“I am simply better than you, boob boy,” Tommy says, stance triumphant as he jumps back from another potential pillow attack. Ranboo huffs and sets the pillow down, leaving them in an uneasy truce. Tommy plops down into his desk chair and spins. “Get your laptop up and running, Ranboo, we’ve got code to write. C’mon, chop chop, big man Tommy doesn’t have all day for your laziness.”

Ranboo pulls his laptop out of his bag as he shakes his head. “I am once again asking you to stop talking in third person,” he grumbles, and Tommy kicks at his ankles. Ranboo stretches out his hands and readies them over the keyboard. “Right, so we’ll have to teach it how to measure distances, which shouldn’t be too hard. In theory, at least. It’s like those temperature guns, right? Like, the kinds where you go pew and the laser hits something and—”

“Yes, I get it, type away,” Tommy interrupts, and though Ranboo glares at him, he starts typing anyway. Tommy vaguely remembers this stuff—this class is one of his worst, and Tubbo’s better at coding than he is—but Ranboo very clearly knows what he’s doing, so Tommy leaves him to it, opening up a notebook to start making blueprint sketches. “Right, we should make it so that someone can hold it, but do we want it on the palm or over the fingers?”

He actually wants his modified version to slip over his wrist, concentrating on the web fluid release points, but he can work that out in his free time. Ranboo hums thoughtfully, examining his own hand and moving it around, like he’s testing the two options out. “I mean, we could fit more stuff in if it goes over the knuckles, but fitting it in the palm of your hand feels like a more, like, snappy tagline, y’know?” he says eagerly, and Tommy grins. Ranboo tilts his head down and holds his mouse like a microphone, putting on a stupid commercial guy voice. “Introducing the new condiment dispenser from Tanboo Tech! A gadget so neat, it fits in the palm of your hand! Our condiment dispenser is so convenient, you can spend all the time you’d previously spent making sandwiches by hand like a chump on other, more important things! Like filling out your divorce papers! Committing crimes! Quitting your job because Dave in HR gave you a bad employee review and being fired would look bad on your resumé!”

Tommy bursts out laughing and smacks the desk, but he fucking breaks a chunk off of it, and Ranboo stares with wide eyes, faux infomercial forgotten. “Okay, don’t freak out,” Tommy says, and Ranboo’s eyes flit back and forth between the broken piece of desk on the floor and Tommy’s face. An excuse bubbles in his throat like bile, and Tommy just regurgitates it, words leaving faster than he can keep them in. “It’s an old-ass desk, I’ve been meaning to ask Phil for a new one, but, like, it’s—with everything else going on, I don’t want to—I don’t want to fucking burden him right now, man, just...just don’t say anything, okay?”

Brows furrowing with worry, Ranboo hesitantly reaches out. Guilt burns in Tommy’s gut; he doesn’t want to fucking lie about it, but what choice does he have? He’s already got yards of fabric sitting in a bag on his desk, he’s got no doubts he’s going to do this, he can’t endanger anyone. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m not gonna...it’s no big deal, man,” Ranboo reassures him, and Tommy gives him a strained smile. Ranboo’s eyes search his face for...something, Tommy doesn’t know what.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s get back to it, Ranboob,” Tommy says, uncomfortable with the attention. It’s not as if Ranboo’s being overt about it, but he can tell he’s concerned, which just won’t do. The last thing he needs is for Ranboo to go poking around and find out Tommy’s got super epic and cool superpowers. “Anyway, what do you want to—”

The door bursts open so fast that The Sense barely has time to warn him, and Techno’s pointing a sword at him. Ranboo looks rather perturbed, but Tommy just blinks up at him. This is a normal occurrence in their household, but Tommy can understand why Ranboo’s been startled by it. “Vampire,” Techno grunts out, and Tommy touches the tip of the sword. It’s probably silver, or at least silver-plated, given what Techno’s been trying to prove for the past three days.

“Oh, how it hurts,” Tommy delivers in the flattest voice he can manage. Techno nods easily and sheaths his sword at his hip. Freak. Tommy turns back towards his notebook, sketching more of the preliminary design. “Techno, go away, Ranboo and I have a project to work on and your bitch-ness is getting in the way.”

“I’ll prove you’re a vampire one of these days,” Techno says, and Ranboo laughs a little, both of them turning to look at him with furrowed brows. Techno clears his throat and tries to lean nonchalantly against the doorframe, but Tommy narrows his eyes. He can see through Techno’s bullshit from miles away. Sighing, Techno makes a face and runs a hand through his hair. “Phil wants me to ask if you’re willin’ to go talk to him now rather than tomorrow, but he wants me to ask in a way where it seems like he’s not makin’ me ask, and it’s just...it’s not workin’ out.”

Tommy folds his hands in his lap. “Tell Phil that I will be going to Tubbo’s house tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” he says, and Ranboo holds his head in his hands, shaking it in disbelief. It shouldn’t surprise him, honestly, Tommy really doesn’t want to have to hear a Dad Lecture from Phil. An idea occurs to him, and a mischievous grin spreads across his face. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you let dear old Dadza know that I’ll only be willing to talk about this with Kristin?”

It’s a brilliant idea, truly, Kristin’s been on a business trip in the States for ages now. There’s no way he’s going to have to talk about it anytime soon, given the fact that Phil will probably be his usual understanding self and respect Tommy’s wishes. And yeah, maybe Tommy feels a little guilty for taking advantage of it, but honestly, everyone’s been all over him lately, and Tommy doesn’t need Phil getting on his case too. Wilbur’s already been an ass, Techno’s certainly no help, and his friends can’t know.

Tommy’s alone in this, and right now, he likes it that way. No one else is in any danger, nor will they be in the future, and while his family might be peeved at him temporarily, it’s better than the alternative. Phil’d probably lock him up in his room to keep him safe. Well, maybe not lock him in, but he’d get so much clingier. Fucker that he is.

“If you say so,” Techno says uneasily—a tone that’s pretty unfamiliar coming from him—and he shuffles in place a little. Tommy looks at him expectantly as Ranboo goes back to typing away on his laptop, and Techno fiddles with the handle of his sword. Just as Tommy’s about to tell him to spit it out, Techno clears his throat. “Uh, you can...talk to me. If you want. If that’s—if you need to, or you’re comfortable with it. Just a door down. Or somethin’ like that.”

Before Tommy can even respond, Techno’s disappeared downstairs, and he’s left a little dumbfounded. Ranboo glances up at him and raises a brow. “Back to work, man, we’ve only got a week and a half for this project and I’m not risking my grade for you,” he says, pointing at Tommy, and in turn, Tommy sticks his tongue out at him.

*****

Later that night, when Ranboo’s passed out in a nest of blankets on the floor, Tommy creeps over to his closet and opens it as quietly as he can. There are a few options, but most of them are things he wears regularly, and while Tommy’s fairly confident in his sewing abilities, if he fucks them up, he’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to get them back in mint condition. His eyes fall on a plain white hoodie about four sizes too big on him towards the back of his closet; he only ever wears it when everything else is dirty and it’s not at all easily recognizable.

He takes it out of the closet and steps carefully around Ranboo, who’s started to snore a little, and lays the hoodie out on the bed next to the red fabric from Puffy’s store. The colors go together pretty well, but Tommy’s not about to wear long sleeves on top of a supersuit. He grabs a pair of scissors from his desk and carefully cuts the sleeves so that they’ll end up hanging by his elbows. That should be fine; he’ll be good in cold and rainy weather, and he can always roll up his sleeves in warmer weather.

Now, does he want shorts or joggers? Joggers seem tacky, honestly, but Tommy’s only got a few pairs of shorts, and he doesn’t exactly want to attempt to steal a pair from Wilbur or Techno at one in the morning. He looks between the fabric and the cut portion of the sleeves from the hoodie, and an idea forms in his mind.

Tommy spends the next ten minutes googling how to sew a pair of shorts.

The product is...clearly amateur, given he’s only working with Kristin’s mini sewing kit and a whole lotta hope, but they look pretty good nonetheless. Red on the top half, kinda like a belt, and white for the rest. Truly iconic. Tommy grins at his handiwork and sets both the hoodie and the shorts aside, and he glares at the remaining red fabric—which is a lot of it, he’s not about to complain—and starts googling again.

The bodysuit is far harder to sew together. He’s determined to do it without a machine, though, because he’s not about to go ask Puffy if he can use her industrial one. He struggles through it, and he does well, dammit, he’s the best, and is fairly satisfied with the result. It’s not the best in the world, and he’ll probably have to patch it up every once in a while, but it’ll definitely do for now. The white thread in the sewing kit, paired with the embroidery circles, gives Tommy a rather ambitious idea.

He’s not entirely sure why he’s decided to go with a red and white theme—in the back of his mind, he wonders if it’s because the spider from the tube line had a similar color scheme—but it works pretty well. And if Tommy’s following a YouTube tutorial on spiderweb embroidery until the sun rises, that’s his business.

Surprisingly, Tommy’s hardly tired by the time he’s stashing the half-finished suit away in the back corner of his closet. He’ll be able to finish it soon, whenever he ends up coming back home from Tubbo’s today, but he’s not discouraged by his having to postpone it. Tommy won’t really be able to get around to do any crime fighting until his web shooters—which he has now named because it’s an incredibly cool and badass name—are finished and perfected.

Ranboo grumbles, and Tommy glances over at him as he wakes up, hair sticking up in all different directions and eyes fluttering open. “Well, good morning to you too, big man,” Tommy says, slightly amused as Ranboo almost smacks himself in the face as he stretches. “Hope you slept well. On the floor. Where you belong.”

“If you don’t shut up, I might actually have to kill you,” Ranboo groans, rubbing his eyes as he sits up properly. Tommy pokes him in the head with his foot, and Ranboo karate-chops his ankle lightly. Grinning, Tommy opens up the curtains in one swift movement, and Ranboo yelps, hurrying to shield his eyes. “Tommy! Wh—dude, not cool!”

“Wakey, wakey, boob boy, big man Tommy wants his breakfast!” Tommy bellows, smacking Ranboo over the head with a pillow. Idly, The Sense gives him a tingly sensation in the back of his head, and Tommy looks over to the door a little too early before it opens; luckily for him, Ranboo’s too tired to notice. “Oh, hello, Phil, don’t mind me, just committing a little bit of murder before the most important meal of the day!”

Sighing, Phil shakes his head, a soft smile on his face. “You boys are unbelievable. Ranboo, there’s eggs, bacon, and toast downstairs if you’d like,” he says, and Ranboo practically springs out of bed, sprinting away from Tommy’s oncoming pillow warfare. Leaving him utterly alone with Phil, who fixes him with a painfully paternal look. Jesus. This won’t end well. “Toms, I’m glad you’re willing to talk to someone about this, even if it’s not me or your brothers. I won’t hold you up long, don’t worry, I just wanted to say...I’m here for you, kid.”

And there’s the kicker. Stupid Phil and his stupid sincerity. “Thanks,” Tommy says, smiling in an unreasonably awkward manner. Phil pats his shoulder, which is equally as awkward, and nods for Tommy to follow him downstairs for breakfast. Even if Tommy’s dreading seeing Wilbur, if he’s home at all right now, his spider-metabolism is going nuts at the prospect of food. Dashing down the stairs—probably dangerous, considering he’s taking them two at a time—Tommy skids to a stop by the breakfast bar. “Ayup, Ranboob, toss me a pancake, yeah?”

“I will do no such thing,” Ranboo shoots back with an annoyed glare, and Tommy flips him off as he hops into a stool. He shoves half a pancake into his mouth and wrinkles his nose at the maple syrup. Ranboo looks surprised at that, and he starts to hand the bottle over, but Tommy almost gags, and he quickly sets it back down. “Did you develop an aversion to syrup overnight or something, dude? Jeez.”

“Something like that,” Tommy mutters, shoving his eggs around on his plate with his fork, and Ranboo snorts. The two of them eat in silence for a few minutes, and then The Sense is giving him that tingly sensation again, and Tommy resists the urge to groan out loud, because those are Wilbur’s footsteps, too light to be Techno’s and too in-rhythm to be Phil’s, and he really doesn’t want to deal with Wilbur right now. “Good morning, bitch.”

“Shut up, child,” Wilbur says back immediately, sounding like his voice has just been dragged to hell and back. He picks up the syrup bottle and fucking chugs, and Tommy actually gags this time. Wilbur then goes to pour himself an enormous mug of black coffee, but he pauses, raising a brow at Ranboo, who, when Tommy looks over, is staring wide-eyed at Wilbur. “Can I help you with something, Ranboo…?”

Ranboo sputters out some incoherent syllables, then shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, which Tommy chuckles at. The sound makes Ranboo whip his head over to look at him—must give him a twinge of pain, judging by his moment of hesitancy. “Wh—Tommy, you live with Mr. Soot?!” he whispers, almost a hiss, and Tommy blinks at him.

“Ranboo, he’s my brother,” he says, and Ranboo’s mouth hangs open. Tommy scoffs, but the shocked look on Ranboo’s face remains. Tommy puts his hand on Ranboo’s shoulder. “Ranboo, you’ve been to my house so many times.”

“How was I supposed to know?! I've never actually seen him here!” Ranboo whisper-yells, and Tommy smacks him upside the head. He should really stop whispering, it’s not like Wilbur can’t hear them.

Sipping from his mug, Wilbur’s amused grin peeks out from behind the ceramic. “Ranboo, why else do you think I call Tommy ‘Thomas’ in my class?”

Ranboo gestures vaguely with his hands. “I don’t know! Because you’re oblivious to how much he hates it?” he guesses, and Tommy shakes his head, hand sliding off of Ranboo’s shoulder.

“Oh, no, I’m well aware,” Wilbur says, “that’s exactly why I do it.”

Bastard.

*****

Chapter Text

It’s finally finished.

His one true masterpiece.

The suit is complete, at long last.

It’s been two whole weeks, and Tommy’s been ‘training’ in the backyard—as best as he can, at least—whenever he’s gotten the chance between working on the suit, homework, and his programming project with Ranboo. Which, admittedly, isn’t as often as he’d like, but Tommy’s really learned his limits now, especially with how high he can jump. He hadn’t exactly made it onto the roof, but he’d gotten close! Tommy had hoped he could make the suit somewhat aerodynamic, but he’s rather attached to the hoodie now, and he’d hate to lose it, even if it would mean being a teensy bit more agile than his already enhanced muscles make him. He’s also mastered the art of sticking and unsticking; all he has to think of is Henry’s calming little face, and he’s home-free. It had come in handy every time the needle and thread had gotten stuck to his fingers.

Tommy had almost gotten caught sewing by Techno a few times which, needless to say, had been a very odd experience. Techno’s never gone so far out of his way to interact with Tommy, especially not barging into his room as soon as he gets home and just sort of standing there until Tommy asks him what the fuck he wants. Tommy now owns a sword. He’s not gotten caught by Phil or Wilbur yet, not by a longshot, but he’s assuming that’s because they’re not as stealthy as Techno. The Sense always finds them way ahead of time.

Of course, Tommy can’t really test it out just yet, given that he definitely hasn’t perfected the web shooters. He’s been working on them alongside his project with Ranboo—they’d managed to make their project work really well, actually. Tommy’s kind of surprised that they’d only had to go to Tubbo for a little bit of help. Sam had been really impressed when Tommy had given the presentation, and Ranboo had successfully sprayed butter across a piece of toast from halfway across the room. Hell, even Tommy had been a little impressed that it had worked.

Tongue poking out from his teeth, Tommy fiddles with one of the wires in the paneling, web shooter fastened around his wrist so that he can get a feel for it. The web shooter sparks, and Tommy jumps, a web shooting instinctively out from his wrist and sticking to the ceiling. He sighs—that’s gonna be a bitch to get off later. Tommy goes back to work on the wiring, adjusting the positive end of the electrical source so that it’ll source its energy more efficiently.

The pressurization in the web shooter isn’t the problem, it’s the damn battery running out. He’d figured out how to properly reduce the air pressure so that his web fluid would be drawn out in larger and more concentrated lines. Tommy kind of wants to use Phil’s credit card to order one of those weird atomic batteries that last, like, forever, but he’d probably get in trouble for it. A groan escapes him as the battery sparks again. Leaning back in his chair, Tommy’s eyes wander around the room and settle on his reserve charger.

More specifically, his solar power reserve charger.

Fucking bingo, bitch!

Tommy grins and immediately gets to work, screwing and unscrewing and plier-ing and wiring, hustling like there’s no tomorrow. This shit is so fucking exciting! He feels so fucking cool, like there’s no one in the world who could do this as well as he can. Which, he supposes, is objectively true, given the whole spider superpowers thing. “I am so epic and amazing,” Tommy mumbles to himself as the panels in the web shooters light up. He grins as the teeny tiny engine starts to whir. “The world’s biggest fucking man, that’s me, I am so cool!”

He hurries to close up the panel, and he opens up his window, leaning backwards. “Tommy, what on earth are you doing?” Techno’s monotone drawl sounds from his doorway, and Tommy jumps—that’s two times in the span of twenty minutes, son of a bitch—and hits his head on the top of the window as he ducks back in. “Dude. C’mon. Get it together.”

“Fuck you, bitch, I’m—I’ve got it so together, I’ll fucking—I’ll stab you, I’ve a sword now,” Tommy threatens, and Techno just looks at him. He deflates, and Techno chuckles, walking over to ruffle Tommy’s hair. Which, of course, fucking ruins it. “I hate you so much, I hope you die. What are you doing in my room anyway, man?”

Techno crosses his arms, an eyebrow raised. “Are you doin’ drugs?” he asks, and Tommy can’t exactly help it when he bursts out laughing. Techno looks amused, too. “Alright, not drugs, then, but...seriously, Tommy, what’s goin’ on? I mean, first, you get your weird headaches, which, I know, you don’t wanna talk about ’em, I get that. Then, you get in trouble with Wilbur, who never calls home, at least not to professionally complain about you. And now, you’re either locked in your room or you’re at school, which isn’t like you. So. What’s happenin’ with you?”

Well, shit. Maybe Tommy hasn’t been as secretive as he’d hoped. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and blatant confidence has definitely never failed him. Alas, Techno seems rather unimpressed. “I’m serious, it’s just—I dunno, man, fuckin’ teenage bullshit. You were a teenager once, I’m assuming, when the dinosaurs were still around.”

“Save the old man jokes for Phil, I’m not even the oldest brother,” Techno says, nodding at the bed, and Tommy begrudgingly sits down, Techno sitting down beside him. “It is...very safe to say that I’m incredibly emotionally unavailable to everyone, all of the time. However, Wilbur seems to think that you’re doin’ this to spite him specifically, and Phil’s convinced you’re gonna talk to Kristin about it, which—before you say anything—I know it’s bullshit. I’ve pulled that card too many times to be blissfully ignorant. So...talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

Tommy swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “Techno, I...I didn’t mean to worry you,” he says, finally something honest, which feels like a fucking ocean of relief. Leg bouncing, Tommy pulls his sleeves further over the web shooters. “It’s, um—it’s what Wilbur’s thinking, I’m just trying to fuck with him. Okay, fuck, shit, I know you’re not buying it. I can’t tell you, Tech. I just...I can’t.”

Closing his eyes, Techno sighs. “Is it puberty stuff?” he asks, and Tommy chokes on his own spit.

“Uh. Sure…?”

“I’m gonna leave now. I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t talk to me,” Techno says, and he promptly makes his way out the door, slamming it shut.

That worked out.

Tommy hurries back over to the window, leaning backwards. Alright, take two. Rolling up his sleeves, Tommy aims at the very edge of the roof and shoots. A long strand of web flies out from his wrist and latches firmly to it. A surprised laugh bubbles from his throat involuntarily, and Tommy carefully worms his way out, positioning himself on the outside edge of the windowsill, and he takes a deep breath, crouching on the fucking wall. God, Tommy’s fucking cool. He jumps a little, just to test out the momentum, then a little more, then more until he’s fucking swinging on the roof of his house.

And the web is holding his weight! Tommy lands firmly on the side of the house again and gently lets himself hang in midair above the bushes. Just in case. He starts building up momentum again, swinging back and forth until he jumps as high as he fucking can and aims, hoping to God that this works. He shoots a web at the very top of the house and tugs as he reaches the peak of his jump, and—!

He slams into the side of the roof. Not a great start.

Silently thanking the fact he can stick to the roof with just his hands, Tommy takes a minute to recover. He clambers his way onto the roof and rests there, on his hands and knees as he gulps for air. Shit, that had hit him harder than he’d expected. Weirdly enough, though, the pain is going away kind of...rapidly. Hm. He’ll have to test out his regeneration skills soon, he supposes, but that’s a plan for another day.

Tommy looks around the backyard, and he spots a particularly tall tree. Perfect. He heads to the opposite edge of the roof and braces himself, making a running start and shooting a web off to the top of the tree. Tommy tugs as hard as he can and jumps, releasing the web in mid-air and landing on one of the higher branches. He fucking did it.

He did it!

Tommy whoops and spins around on one foot, counting on that superpowered grip to keep him steady, and it does. He’s a goddamned superhero! An actual fucking superhero! Tommy cheers again, a shaky grin on his face. He sniffs, and his eyes start to sting. Aw, shit, he’s getting emotional. But who cares! Superheroes can get emotional. Tommy’s decided, because he’s simply the best superhero to ever exist. Well, the only superhero—that he knows of—but he’s still the best.

The Sense makes the back of his head tingle so badly that he shivers, and he locks his eyes on the back door. Sure enough, Phil comes out of the house, mug in hand and clearly exhausted, and he stops in his tracks when he spots Tommy up in the treetops. “Okay, I’m too fucking tired to deal with this, but how the fuck did you get your ass up there, Tommy?” he asks, and Tommy just cackles. Phil sighs and shakes his head. “Please get down safely so that I can tell Kristin that you lot are still all in one piece when she calls me tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got this, old man, don’t you worry!” Tommy calls, and Phil, likely despite his better judgement, goes back into the house. Tommy jumps off of the branch and swings to another tree, then another, then lands in a goddamned superhero pose—because he is so fucking cool—in the grass. He strolls in like an absolute badass, snatching Techno’s mug from his hands and downing the very sweet coffee that Techno refuses to admit he drinks. “Hello, family full of bitches, I am the alpha male and you must all bow before me!”

“Good luck with that one, puberty boy,” Techno grumbles, snatching his coffee back and wiping the lip of the mug with a disgusted curl of his mouth. Tommy shoves his head to the side. Phil looks at the two of them quizzically, and Techno gives him a grim look. “Don’t ask, Phil, you don’t wanna know. Trust me.”

Phil shakes his head, but he returns to his old man meal of tea and crumpets anyway. Wilbur peeks his head in from the hall, eyes wide. “What are we not supposed to ask? Because I’m definitely going to ask now,” he says, and Tommy flips him off. “Ooh, are we making fun of Tommy? You guys know not to start without me!”

“Die,” Tommy tells him flatly. Wilbur just laughs, bitch that he is. “Phil, can we sell Wilbur?”

“Who would we be selling him to?” Phil asks, but he’s not against the idea. Tommy grins.

“I think we might have to pay for someone else to take him, nobody’s gonna shill out for him,” Techno pipes up, and Wilbur tackles him into the couch. “Watch the coffee, Wil. I’ll spill it on you if you’re not careful.”

“No you won’t,” Phil says.

A sigh sounds from the couch. “No I won’t,” Techno grumbles. Wilbur cackles.

*****

It’s going to be fine. He’s just going to go on a quick patrol around his neighborhood, see if anything’s happening. There’s no reason to be nervous, and Tommy’s a big man who never gets nervous, and his hands are definitely not shaking. He’d tried out the suit a couple of days ago and fitted the feet with soles from an old pair of trainers and fashioned the hands into gloves with removable fingertips—for easier access sticking to slippery surfaces. He’s not going through that again. The suit is great, his web shooters are great, and Tommy’s great.

So why the fuck is he so nervous?!

No, he’s not nervous. Tommy never gets nervous. He doesn’t even know what that word means, thank you very much. “You’re gonna be fine, big man,” Tommy says, and maybe talking to himself isn’t the world’s greatest sign that things are actually fine, but who cares? Tommy’s a superhero now, he doesn’t have to adhere to ‘normal’ anymore. “Just start swinging.”

He pulls his mask over his face and takes a running start off of the roof, latching a web onto their neighbor’s roof, and now he’s swinging from building to building, holy shit this is so fucking cool. Tommy laughs joyously, picking up momentum. This is so much easier than he thought it’d be! He whizzes past house after house, keeping an eye out for people on the ground through his excitement. Some people spot him and point—which is rude, but understandable—and others take a few pictures; Tommy can hear their camera shutters going off even as he speeds past. Who even keeps their ringer on nowadays?

As he gets closer to the edge of the city, Tommy regards the alleyways with scrutiny. Shady things happen in alleyways, or so he hears. Crouching on the edge of a building—a building!—he looks around, waving down at some passersby. They freeze, stare for a moment, and then proceed to whip out their phones. Tommy gives them a bit of a pose; what can he say? Wilbur’s knack for dramatics must be rubbing off on him.

He perks up after a moment, though, because his enhanced hearing catches a scream a good ways away. Tommy gives the people on the street—a small crowd, now—a two-fingered salute and jumps up, swinging away on a web. He gets closer to the source of the scuffle, and he lands atop a nearby roof, eyes narrowing as he stares down at the scene.

There are two guys cornering someone, one of them is clearly armed, and Tommy frowns at that. Aiming down, he shoots out a web and it latches to the gun. Tommy yanks it up and grabs it, flipping the safety on and waving the pistol tauntingly as the goons on the ground look up at him. Noticed at last. He hops down and lands in front of the person being cornered, and the idiots look at him like he’s crazy. Assholes.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of them asks, and Tommy grins, but they can’t see it behind the mask, sadly. He probably looks so badass right now. He tosses the useless gun down the alleyway and webs it to the ground.

Stretching and getting into a defensive stance, Tommy tilts his head. “I’m the guy that’s gonna kick your ass,” he quips, swinging a kick at the guy towards his right. Techno’s always taught him to fight with the side his dominant hand’s on. The guy absolutely does not see it coming, and Tommy quickly realizes he’s not holding his strength back as much as he’d like, given the guy’s knocked out cold already. He’s breathing, though. Tommy had checked. “Oh. Hey, hey, hey, buddy, you’re not going anywhere!”

The other guy had tried to run as soon as Tommy had knocked out his friend, but he fires a web off at his feet, making him trip and eat shit on the pavement. Tommy winces. He’s really gotta work on how he fights. He webs up the guy on the ground for good measure and turns to the person he’s been protecting. Surprisingly, they haven’t run away yet.

“Thanks for saving me,” they say, and their voice is startlingly deep—Tommy’s briefly reminded of Wilbur for a moment. The person sticks out a hand, and Tommy shakes it. “I’m Eret, any pronouns. I know the robber asked earlier, and given that you’ve got that...outfit on, you probably don’t want anyone knowing, but...who are you?”

Tommy wracks his brain. Spider superpowers. Big man Tommy. Spider. Big man. “Um, spider…man…?” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat and stands up straight, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. He lowers the pitch of his voice a little, for good measure. “The name’s Spider-Man. You should call the police force and let them take these criminals into custody.”

The person—Eret—looks rather amused. “Uh huh,” they say, an eyebrow raised. Their expression turns genuine after another moment. “Thank you, Spider-Man. Seriously.”

Shooting a two-fingered salute at Eret, Tommy latches onto a building and swings up and away, an immense sense of pride having settled in his chest. Being a superhero is so fucking cool, and Tommy is the world’s greatest and biggest man ever. Spider-Man. The name isn’t the most creative, but it’s still ridiculously awesome.

Tommy glances down at the street and spots a familiar head of pink hair, and he swings down lower, landing on a storefront’s awning. Sticking a web to the underside of the awning, he lowers himself until he’s hanging upside-down in front of her. Niki squeaks. “Oh my God,” she squeaks, struggling to hold the bags in her hands, “you’re upside-down.”

“And you’re clearly having trouble with those. Can I help you with them, Ni—miss?” he asks, tilting his head to try and convey a smile without access to his facial expressions. She nods, still completely dumbfounded, and Tommy flips himself rightside-up again, opening his arms up and happily taking her bags. It’s the least he can do—she curves every grade she’s allowed to and is easily the nicest teacher he’s ever met. “Where to, miss?”

Vaguely, Niki points in the opposite direction he’s facing, and Tommy falls back to be in step with her. She’s openly ogling him, not that he can blame her; it’s not every day that you find yourself face-to-face with the world’s greatest and newest superhero. “Why are you—you’re helping me with my groceries?” she asks, sounding a little empty, and Tommy nods. They’re not heavy at all, but then again, Niki doesn’t have super strength. “Why?!”

“Because you look like you needed help,” Tommy answers easily, and Niki just shakes her head ever-so-slightly, like she can’t believe it. “You look like you’ve got questions. D’you have questions for me, miss? I’ve got answers, but you can only have some of ’em. Can’t exactly go around telling you my actual name or anything.”

“Do you—you were upside-down. Have you got superpowers, or are you just, like, really good with technology?” she asks, and Tommy grins, jumping a good meter and a half off of the ground, still perfectly balancing her groceries. People are taking pictures—good, maybe the crime rate will start going down without him having to even do anything. Criminals will know that he’s out there now. That a superhero’s gonna stop the wrong’uns. “So you’ve got superpowers, then. Good to know. Are you going to rob me?”

Tommy snorts, shifting the grocery bags in his arms as they wait for the crosswalk signal to change. “Would kinda defeat the point of being a superhero, wouldn’t it?” he jokes, and Niki blinks, stopping in her tracks. “S’this your building?”

Niki nods, and he hands her the bags. As he goes to swing away, she grabs his arm, and he looks back at her. Her eyes search over his mask, and her brows furrow. “Who are you?” she asks, and Tommy leans back as she lets go of his arm.

“Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” he says, swinging up and over the skyline.

*****

School is so fucking fun when he gets there tomorrow.

The whole student body is buzzing with the news of the ‘new and mysterious superhero’ that’s emerged, and Tommy, for one, can’t wait to hear what his friends have to say about it. They’re bound to think his alter ego is the coolest guy in the whole of London, if not the entire fucking world. Tommy hasn’t gotten a chance to properly talk to them yet, but they’re about to sit down for lunch, which means he’ll get to hear about how awesome he is for an hour straight.

Sliding easily into his seat, Tommy grins at Tubbo and Ranboo. “So, fellas, heard about that spider dude from the news?” he asks, and Tubbo absolutely lights up, nodding with the biggest grin Tommy’s seen from him in ages. “Opinions? I think he seems like an alright guy, what about you lot?”

“He’s so cool!” Tubbo shouts before Ranboo can even open his mouth. “Dude, did you see him on Twitter?! He’s still number one on trending after an entire day, that’s got to be a world record or something, but that’s besides the point—! Spider-Man’s got fuckin’ superpowers, I never thought I’d see the day! Dude, could you imagine how strong that guy’s gotta be? Mans jumped, like, two meters without any outside influence. I’m not—physics isn’t my strong suit, but that’s gotta be a crazy amount of force. And those webs? I’m assuming that’s all chemistry—or maybe his body naturally  produces that stuff—but the shooters it comes out of? That’s insane tech!”

Ranboo looks uneasy as Tubbo turns to him, and Tubbo’s excitement visibly dims. So does Tommy’s, but he tries not to let it show. They both look at Ranboo expectantly, and he squirms under the attention. “I mean...I just think it’s a little too good to be true,” he says. When Tubbo goes to argue, Ranboo puts his hands up placatingly. “I’m saying, a superhero popping up out of nowhere? There’s either a reason he’s here, which could be shady or not shady, or someone’s gonna take the opportunity to be the supervillain to his superhero.”

“You’re objectively wrong,” Tubbo says matter-of-factly, and Tommy snickers. Ranboo shakes his head, and Tubbo shoves him. “The guy said it himself, he’s just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man! He helped Niki with her groceries, man! Anybody that Niki Nihachu trusts is trustworthy in my book.”

“She has impeccable taste in people,” Tommy agrees, and Ranboo makes an uneasy noise, popping open the tab on his Fanta. He can’t believe Ranboo doesn’t like him. Well, his alter ego, but it might as well be the same as Ranboo dancing on his grave. Alright, maybe not that severe, but Tommy’s pride is not to be wounded, dammit. “What’ve you got against this guy anyway, boob boy? I mean, I’m pretty neutral on the whole thing, but even I have to admit, he seems kinda cool so far.”

Ranboo just shakes his head, making a face as he takes the lettuce out of his sandwich and hands it to Tubbo, who eats it like a crisp. “This whole thing just makes me very uneasy. I mean, yeah, he did a couple good deeds yesterday, but who’s to say he’s not going to earn the city’s trust and then, like, destroy it?” Ranboo says, making vague gestures with his hands that somewhat resemble crimes.

Tommy hadn’t even considered that. He supposes he could, but that would ruin the whole idea of being a hero, just like he’d said to Niki. Tubbo is shaking his head. “No. No, Ranboo, you’re so wrong it’s almost funny. I say almost, because fuck you, Spider-Man is cool as hell. Matter of fact,” Tubbo says, unlocking his phone and opening up Twitter, which can’t be good, “I’m going to single-handedly start a Spider-Man subtwitter, just to spite you.”

Positively cackling, Tommy leans over and slaps the table as Ranboo groans. Tubbo waves the phone in his face—probably a brand new Twitter profile—and grins, leaning back in his chair after a moment. “You’re a menace to society,” Ranboo says flatly, and Tubbo snickers. “For real, though, don’t make a stan account dedicated to the guy, it’s gonna get you targeted by criminals or something, man.”

“And Spider-Man would save me,” Tubbo says, completely confident, and yeah, Tommy absolutely would. Though he hopes it won’t happen. Tubbo starts tapping away at his phone, and Tommy chugs the rest of his Coke. “You know, Spider-Man would probably save you too, even though you hate him.”

“Wh—! I don’t hate him! I just think you’re putting too much stock in a guy who literally helped two people yesterday and disappeared,” Ranboo says, sounding a little more firm in his opinion this time. Tommy thinks that’s fair; after all, the public doesn’t know it’s him. If they did, Ranboo would probably be singing Tommy’s praises right about now, because Tommy is simply the coolest. Ranboo shakes his head. “At least Tommy’s got some sense. I’m glad you’re not hopping on the bandwagon, unlike some people.”

Shaking his head, Tommy takes a bite out of his sandwich. “Don’t look at me, I’m not shielding you from Tubbo’s wrath. Mans got a sense of self-preservation,” he says, and Ranboo sighs as Tubbo steals a sweet from him and continues to tap away. “I might be neutral on it, but I do think you’re being a bit overly-cautious, big man.”

Ranboo gestures widely and frantically, eyes the size of dinner plates. “The guy’s got freaking superpowers, how are you not being cautious?!” he asks, and Tommy thinks that this is one of the few times he’s ever been able to describe someone as flabbergasted. Tubbo just waves dismissively, and Ranboo’s practically having a conniption now. “Are you serious?! You’re telling me you guys are just, what—you’re fine with some vigilante roaming the streets?”

“I’m not just fine with it, I’m ecstatic about it. I wonder if he’d commission me for tech if I offered,” Tubbo ponders, and Tommy actually considers it for a minute. But no, that’d just put Tubbo in danger, and that’s kind of the opposite of what Tommy’s going for. Tubbo turns to Ranboo, the teasing grin now gone from his face. “Are you actually not excited about it? He’s something straight out of a comic book, Ranboo, you’ve got to be a little intrigued.”

Sighing, Ranboo downs the last few drops of his soda and sets the empty can down. “Can we just drop this? I don’t want to argue with you,” he says, and Tubbo frowns, conceding nonetheless and returning his phone to his pocket. Shoulders slumping in relief, Ranboo turns back to Tommy and tilts his head. “Hey, how’d that one biology project end up going? The one you needed the fabric for, the stuff from Puffy’s.”

Ah, shit. “Uh, it went really great! It was a piece of cake, actually, super easy, I nailed it. Got perfect marks and everything,” Tommy lies, hating the way it comes so easily to him. He should probably change the subject, or at least shift it so that the others don’t start asking too many questions. “How did your Spanish test go, Tubbo?”

“Bueno,” Tubbo says, and the only reason Tommy knows that it’d been what he’d said is because Tubbo shoots him a thumbs-up. The word itself has been horrifically butchered. “Big Q’s tutoring is really paying off, don’t you think?”

Ranboo pats his shoulder. “Sure it is, buddy,” he says, “sure it is.”

Tommy snickers, and he goes to check his phone, surprised when he sees a good few notifications from Twitter. He glares up at Tubbo when he realizes it’s all message requests from Tubbo’s new account, and Tubbo beams are him. Tommy blocks the account. He goes to check his messages, then, surprised to see a couple from Wilbur. They’d gotten over the whole Les Mis debacle—that’s what Tommy had taken to calling it, at least—but Wilbur’s been home a lot more often lately, so they haven’t really had a need to text each other.

Tommy!!!!!!

The Spider-Man saved Eret!!!!

who?? lmao

Of course, he knows exactly who Eret is, but how the hell does Wilbur know them?

Dude. You’ve met Eret. They live down the street from us!!

well excuuuuuse me for not being nosy about the neighbors

I hate you.

But we might get to meet the Spider-Man if he sticks around our neighborhood!!!!

why the fuck are u calling him THE spider-man he’s just spider-man

Eat glass.

fuck off and die

Do you still need a ride home?

don’t die then ig fuck u

That’s what I thought.

Tommy grins, shoving his phone into the pocket of his hoodie and turning his attention back to Ranboo and Tubbo. He’s immediately caught off-guard by them both furiously tapping on their phones and glaring at each other every so often. Thankfully, Tommy can tell it’s all in good fun, but he’s still slightly concerned. Even their joking fights can get a little intense.

“If you can make a stan account, I can make an anti account! It’s only fair!” Ranboo says, clearly in protest to whatever Tommy’s tuned out. He’s been getting much better at ignoring people’s conversations lately; it works wonders in the hallways.

“I’m telling all of my very cool new followers to block and report you immediately,” Tubbo grumbles, and Tommy’s eyes flit back and forth between the two of them.

“What in the fuck did I miss?” he asks. Both of them snap their heads up eerily simultaneously.

“Unblock me!”

“No, don’t unblock him, follow my ‘citizens against Spider-Man’ account!”

Oh no.

*****

Chapter Text

Things are not going well.

They had been going pretty decently—Tommy’s never stopped a store robbery before, but it had been turning out to be a total breeze—until, of course, some fucker with a knife had decided that he’s suddenly out for Tommy’s blood. Tommy much prefers his blood inside his body, thank you. The poor store clerk being held up, a bald guy that’s kind of been mouthing off to the robbers since Tommy had gotten here, pales immensely at the sight of the knife glinting under the fluorescent lights, and Tommy narrows his eyes at the guy holding it.

He’s a tall dude, a little shorter than Tommy, but more solidly built. This is going to be a pain, possibly literally. He shoots a web off and it latches to the guy’s wrist, the one holding the knife, and Tommy tugs, trying to disarm him. Unfortunately, the guy catches the knife with his other hand and charges, and Tommy throws his arms up in front of his face to block it; the blade slashes his forearms and he hisses in pain, aiming a kick at the robber’s stomach.

The robber stumbles back, and Tommy webs his hand—and the knife—to the counter, and the clerk jumps back, eyes wide. “C’mon, buddy, you’re not gonna win this,” Tommy warns him, and the robber scoffs, clearly panicked as he tries to pull his hand out of the webs. That shit’s gonna stick. For a while. Tommy looks towards the store clerk. “Mate, you wanna call the cops?”

“Fuck, yeah, you’re right, Mr. Spider-Guy-Man,” the clerk says, stumbling to the store phone, and Tommy turns back to the robber. He webs up the guy’s hand a little more and flips him off when he tries to lunge forward and grab Tommy. The clerk keeps looking between the two of them, still all nerves. “Uh, yes, I-I was being robbed, the guy’s still here, Spider-Dude webbed him up. Can you—? Okay, yeah, thank you, it’s just—yes, the deli on Main Street. Thanks.”

“They on their way?” Tommy asks, and the clerk nods, that same astonished look on his face. He starts to go, but the clerk stops him, eyeing his arms. Tommy ignores the pulsating pain and waves dismissively. “I’ll be alright, superpowers n’ all that. You gonna be okay with him ’til the cops get here?”

Wordlessly, the clerk nods, and Tommy heads back out of the store and swings up and away. He grimaces at the blood starting to stain his bodysuit—that’s gonna be a pain to get out. A few people on the ground take pictures, which he’s gotten used to, and Tommy grimaces as he hears someone crying out for help a few blocks over. There’s nothing better than swinging around the city, in Tommy’s opinion, but the excitement of it is dampened when there’s a civilian in danger.

As he lands, something solid and heavy hits his shoulder, and Tommy looks down the barrel of a pistol as he lifts his head. For a minute, the man with the gun just looks at him, eyes wide, and Tommy decides to take a look at his shoulder. There’s a hole there now. “Fuck,” the guy says, hand with the gun shaking. “You’re the—”

“You shot me,” Tommy says, blinking, and the woman he’d leapt in front of takes off running down the alleyway. The guy with the gun seems to snap out of whatever stupor he’d been in, and Tommy’s adrenaline starts pumping as The Sense warns him of an incoming bullet. Thankfully, he’s able to dodge this one, and he punches the guy in the jaw; maybe he should be more careful, but this guy definitely deserves a concussion. “Stupid bastard. Have fun in jail, you trigger-happy bitch!”

He webs the guy’s face, because seriously, fuck this guy, and sticks him to the wall of the alleyway, taking the obviously stolen purse from him and walking back out of the alley. He taps the woman on the shoulder, and she jumps, relaxing slightly when she sees it’s him. “Oh, thank you, Spider-Man,” she says as Tommy hands her the purse, and she gasps at the sluggish blood staining his arms and his shoulder. “My goodness, your shoulder! Are you—?!”

“I’m fine, miss, don’t worry,” Tommy says, though he very much is not. He’s gotten punched and kicked, nothing that leaves more than bruises or scrapes; he’s never been fucking shot. The adrenaline is still going strong, so Tommy barely feels more than a low thrum of pain. “Thanks for calling the authorities. That guy’s not going anywhere anytime soon, rest assured.”

The woman gnaws at her bottom lip, clearly worried. Tommy’s got to get going, though, he’s got maths homework and a chapter of Les Mis to read. He fires off a web, and the woman calls out after him. “Hydrogen peroxide can help you get bloodstains out of your suit, Spider-Man!” she shouts, and he turns in mid-air to give her a thumbs up before swinging out of the central part of the city and dipping into an alley closer to his house.

He can get changed and walk from here; he’s stored a duffle bag with a change of clothes in this alley, just in case something like this happens. Tommy’s not one to plan ahead, but he figures it definitely can’t hurt when it comes to his alter ego. Wincing, Tommy peels off the bodysuit, careful not to tear up too much skin around his wounds and gagging at the sight of the hole in his fucking arm, holy shit. He tosses on the sweatshirt and pulls on the joggers from the duffel bag, stuffing his supersuit into it instead and slinging it over his uninjured shoulder.

Tommy’s going to have to be careful about this. If he tips off Phil accidentally, he’s going to be in a shitload of trouble. So he slips in through the back door, jumping up to crawl silently on the ceiling past Phil’s home office and up the stairs, only dropping back down once he’s closed his bedroom door behind him. Tommy sets the duffel bag down on his bed and digs through his closet. Alas, his first aid kit is missing.

The only person in the house who would’ve taken it is Techno, unfortunately, which means Tommy’s going to have to convince him. He knocks on Techno’s door with his good arm, and he’s met face-to-face with a bush of pink hair. Techno has clearly only just woken up. “What the hell do you want?” Techno asks, voice gravelly, and Tommy grins.

“Ah, my favorite brother!” he says, and Techno raises an eyebrow at him. Alright, so flattery isn’t going to work. Tommy lifts his sleeve up just barely, only enough to show the edge of the dried blood peeking out from it. “See, Techno, I’ve injured myself—took quite the spill on my walk home, y’see—and so I’m gonna need my first aid kit back. Please.”

Blinking, Techno closes the door in his face. Tommy squawks, but he hears rustling coming from inside Techno’s bedroom, along with a few telltale clangs of swords being thrown out of the way, and then Techno’s shoving the first aid kit into his arms, shooing him from the doorway. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t wake me up until Phil makes something for dinner,” Techno says, and the door slams shut again.

That was easy.

Tommy locks himself in the bathroom and whips the sweatshirt over his head, wincing as the adrenaline peters out and the pain comes rushing in. He sets the first aid kit on the counter and grabs a black washcloth—thank God for Wilbur’s emo phase—to put under warm water. Tommy rubs the washcloth gently over the gashes left by the knife on his right arm, putting a little more pressure on it as he gets to the drier spots. The wound begins to ooze blood again, and Tommy wraps his forearm in a few layers of gauze, securing it with medical tape.

He does the same on his left side, being careful not to jostle his arm around too much, lest he further lodge the bullet into his shoulder. Tommy had tested out his regeneration abilities the other day when he’d gotten a paper cut; it had been like nothing had happened not even two minutes later. The sight of his wounds today still makes him uneasy, and they’ll probably take much longer to heal, even with the heightened regeneration.

Now all that’s left is the bullet. Fuck. Tommy grabs the pair of surgical tweezers from the first aid kit and sets them aside, rubbing the washcloth as gingerly as possible over the general area of the wound. Then, he sticks the washcloth between his teeth and braces himself. Shuddering as the tweezers clink against the metal of the bullet, The Sense warns him whenever he needs to keep the tweezers on the right track, so as to not damage his nerves.

Tommy bites down so hard on the still-damp washcloth that pink water drips down his chin and dampens his collarbones. The bullet feels like hell incarnate coming out, and Tommy lets out a pained grunt as he slowly brings it out of his arm. It’s about halfway out when Tommy loses his grip on it with the tweezers, and he curses, muffled around the washcloth. His breathing is labored, face twisted up in pain, and he nearly gags as he feels the fibers of his muscles start to stitch themselves back together. At least his body’s got the sense not to try and regenerate cells where the bullet’s still lodged in his arm.

Tommy wipes the tweezers on the washcloth, making a face when his trembling hand makes the bloodied tip brush against the corner of his mouth. He returns to his efforts with the bullet, clenching his left hand in a fist as he starts to pull the bullet out further. He’s not about to risk shattering the bathroom countertop by gripping it too hard; that’d probably be just as hard to explain away as the bullet would be.

A choked noise escapes from the very back of his throat as the bullet finally comes out with a squelching, stringy pop of a noise, and Tommy gags at the viscera dripping from the metal tip of it. Tossing both the bullet and the tweezers in the sink, Tommy takes the washcloth from his mouth and runs it under the water again, wiping away the sluggish blood that’s started to drip from the open wound. He’s not exactly an expert on medical stitches, and he’s not about to risk an infection, either, so Tommy grabs the peroxide from the medical cupboard, pours some on the washcloth, and hopes.

Fuck, it stings. It stings so bad that Tommy’s eyes well up with tears that spill over immediately, and he gasps, punching down on his thigh so hard it’ll probably bruise. Tommy wipes once more, and he feels himself go pale at the sight of the wound. Not only can he still feel his body regenerating cells, but he can see muscle fibers stitching themselves back together. Mumbling curses under his breath, Tommy grabs the gauze again and starts wrapping it around his shoulder, shaky breathing being the only sound other than the brief rip of tape.

And then there’s a knock on the door. “Tommy? Are you in there? Hurry the hell up, I’ve gotta take a piss, man,” Wilbur’s voice sounds from the other side of the door, and Tommy groans, rinsing off the bullet and the tweezers before shoving them, the gauze, and the medical tape back into the first aid kit. He scrubs at the vaguely stained parts of the sink with some more hydrogen peroxide—thank you, lady from earlier—and tosses the washcloth in the hamper. “The fuck are you even doing in there, Toms?”

Shoving his sweatshirt back over his head and only minorly wincing at the pain, Tommy throws the door open and glares at Wilbur, first aid kit under his arm. “None of your business, bitch,” he says easily, and he reaches up to flick Wilbur’s forehead. “Now move, I’m going to my room and I can’t if you’re in the way, sand boy.”

“I try to eat sand once when I’m eleven and I never get to live it down,” Wilbur grumbles, but he steps out of the way anyway, making a face as Tommy passes him. The expression turns to confusion, and then recognition; Tommy feels stricken, but Wilbur doesn’t seem concerned or worried for the moment, so it’s probably nothing to worry about. “You smell like fireworks. Why d’you smell like fireworks?”

Tommy wracks his brain for an excuse, and his brain promptly decides to plagiarize a story Tubbo had told him and Ranboo during lunch. “I was at the skatepark, some kids were doing this thing with sparklers that, like…pop? Like these little spark popper thingies, got gunpowder all over my fuckin’ shirt,” Tommy says, and Wilbur nods, though his brows are furrowed now.

“Stay away from that skatepark, there’s always a bunch of assholes over by there,” Wilbur tells him, and Tommy's probably not going to the skatepark anytime soon regardless, so he just nods. Wilbur flips him off. “Get outta here, let me piss in peace, gremlin child.”

Returning the gesture as he turns and heads back to his room, Tommy panics at the heavy clinking of the bullet in the first aid kit. But Wilbur doesn’t seem to notice anything’s wrong as he closes the bathroom door, and nobody comes running out to demand answers from him, so Tommy’s fairly certain he’s in the clear. He tucks the first aid kit back into his closet and settles down at his desk.

He’s still got homework to do, after all.

*****

When Tommy comes downstairs for dinner, Wilbur, Phil, and Techno are already seated in the dining room, Phil’s phone propped up against the chair at the head of the table. Absolutely lighting up, Tommy rushes over and waves into the camera, and a delighted laugh fills the room as he does. “There he is! How’s my favorite little crime boy?” Kristin coos, and Tommy grins, shooting her a thumbs-up. She grins, and Phil nudges Tommy’s shoulder to try and get him to sit down, but Tommy swats him away. Kristin gives him an apologetic smile on the screen, leaning her chin against her palm. “Sorry I’ve missed the last few weeks of dinners, I was just telling everyone that things have been really hectic here. I usually don't even get to call Phil until it's, like, three in the morning your time.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re here today! How’ve you been? How’s—which state are you in again? New York?” he asks, and Kristin nods. Tommy actually does sit down then, because he’s blocking Techno’s view of the phone, and he doesn’t exactly want to hear Techno recite The Art of War at him for an hour as revenge again.

“It’s been really nice! I’m bringing you boys souvenirs, by the way, they’ve got tons of this one candy that I really think you’ll like, Toms,” Kristin tells them, and Phil puts his head in his hands and groans. Her twinkly laugh fills the room again, and Wilbur pats Phil’s shoulder sympathetically as Techno takes a massive bite of his bread. “I’ve also got a bag filled specifically with only brown M&Ms for Wil from the M&M store, and yes, Techno, I got you an authentic antique cutlass from the store you sent me the address to.”

Techno nearly chokes on his bread, eyes wide. “Wait, seriously?” he asks, and Kristin nods with a bright smile. Techno leans forward, and Wilbur grabs the water pitcher. “Oh my God, thank you so much, I didn’t actually think you’d—well, no, you’ve always delivered on presents, dunno why I’m surprised.”

“Of course! And don’t worry, Phil, I’ve got some of that stuff you asked me to get for the garden, but it’s gonna be a pain in the ass to get it through customs,” she says, rolling her eyes, and Phil blows her a kiss. Everyone else, including Tommy, makes a face. Kristin points her butterknife at the camera and waggles it around menacingly. “Just you wait, kiddos, it’s gonna be so much worse when I’m finally back home. Oh! I almost forgot! Phil, have you signed Tommy up for driver’s ed?”

Phil crosses his arms and raises a brow. “And have him crash my car? No, that can wait until you get home, love,” he says, and Wilbur snickers. Tommy kicks him under the table. Kristin shakes her head, but she shrugs anyway. Damn. Well, it’s not as though Tommy even needs to be able to drive now, anyway; he can just swing to get wherever he needs to go. Phil goes to take a bite of his carrots—Tommy frowns at what’s on his own plate, there’s barely any protein—but he pauses, vaguely waving the carrot in the phone’s direction. “By the way, has news of it reached the States yet? We’ve got some guy in a mask running around—”

“There’s a superhero in London, Kristin!” Wilbur interrupts, suddenly far more excited and invested in the conversation than he’d just been. Techno rolls his eyes and tilts his head back, his silent way of saying here we go again, and Wilbur smacks his hand on the table. “No! Fuck you, Tech, this is the first time something interesting’s happened other than me occasionally getting two packs of crisps from the staff room vending machine! Kristin, Mum, Mumza, there’s an actual fucking superhero in London fighting crime, it’s insane!”

Kristin blinks, clearly surprised. “Is there really?” she asks, and Phil just shrugs. Kristin raises a brow and Tommy straightens up. He’s been quiet about this whole thing, he knows it, and he’s not surprised in the least bit when she calls him out on it. Kristin’s always observant. “You’re awfully quiet, Toms, I thought you’d be just as excited as Wil about a superhero.”

“No, I am! I am, I just—Ranboo made some really good points about the guy a while ago, I’m just being cautious, s’the responsible thing to do, not like Wilbur would know anything about that,” Tommy says, and Wilbur flips him off. Tommy flicks a carrot at him, and Wilbur throws a chunk of bread at him. The Sense warns him fast enough to dodge it, thankfully. “Mumza! Wil’s being a bitch!”

Phil buries his head in his hands and Techno takes a long sip of water as Kristin laughs. “Boys, behave, you’re gonna give my poor old husband a heart attack,” she says, and Phil looks up at the phone flatly. Kristin just laughs again, putting her hands up in a mock-placating kind of way, and Tommy kicks at Wilbur under the table again.

Techno sighs as Wilbur grabs his glass of water and goes to toss it at Tommy, but Phil gives him a glare so harsh that Tommy feels like he’s the one getting it just by proximity. Techno reaches under the table for something. “I’m not that old,” Phil says, “I’m still young enough to put up with your bullshit, boys. Techno! How many times do I have to tell you, no swords at the dinner table!”

Glaring at Phil, Techno sets the sword back down, and Tommy cackles in unison with Kristin, who’s laughing so hard she’s peaking the microphone. “Don’t laugh! He was going to stab me, this is favoritism at its finest!” Wilbur shrieks, and Phil shoves the back of his head lightly.

“I wasn't gonna stab you,” Techno says, clearly amused. He makes a quick gesture, like he’s just lightly slicing something, and Tommy doubled over laughing again as Wilbur sputters a bunch of incoherent syllables, looking from Phil, to the phone propped up against the chair, and to Techno again. “Wil, I was just gonna lightly terrorize you.”

Kristin’s still giggling, and Tommy finally settles down. He’s glad, in a way, that the most interesting topic of discussion at his family dinner table isn’t his alter ego. “Alright, enough talk about stabbing, how’s school going for the three of you?” Kristin asks, and Tommy stuffs his face with his dinner so he doesn’t have to answer. Alas, she catches this immediately. “Don’t think we won’t circle back to you, Tommy.”

He makes a face, and Wilbur rubs his hands together with a grin. Bastard. “Oh, Mumza, I can tell you all about how Tommy’s doing in my class,” he says, and Tommy’s half-tempted to give up the secret identity schtick to web Wilbur’s mouth shut. Unfortunately, he cares about saving people and making the city a better place and all that, so he keeps his wrists to himself. “See, we’re about to finish up Les Mis, and Tommy’s been slacking—yes, dipshit, I can tell you’ve only been going off of SparkNotes—so I’ve decided to make the test written-response only, but just for him.”

“That’s illegal! It’s gotta be illegal or some shit, Wilbur, fuck you,” Tommy says, slamming his hands on the table, and Techno chuckles. Tommy whirls on him, finger pointed right at his stupid face. “Oh, don’t you even start, Mr. ‘I stained the bathtub pink again,’ learn to fucking clean the stains out the tub before you—!”

“I want it on record that I haven’t dyed my hair since last month,” Techno speaks over him, and Wilbur’s sitting there laughing his head off. Tommy stabs another piece of carrot with his fork and waves it threateningly. “Tommy, put that down before you hurt yourself.”

“How would he hurt himself with a carrot, Tech?” Phil asks, head now back in his hands.

Wilbur snorts. “You’d be surprised, he smacked himself in the face with his locker the other day,” he says, and Tommy goes bright red with what definitely is not embarrassment, fuck you, Wilbur. Just because he’d been too tired to listen to The Sense that day doesn’t mean Wilbur can just go around telling everyone.

Kristin clicks her tongue sympathetically. “Aww, poor Toms,” she says, and Tommy flips Wilbur off out of the frame as he sends the camera a very pitiful look. Kristin’s definitely not falling for it, but he can tell she’s gonna lean into the bit anyway. “Wilbur, be kind to your brother, that must’ve been very traumatic for him.”

Techno hides a laugh behind his hand as Wilbur starts to protest, but Phil stabs his napkin onto his fork and starts waving it around like a flag before Wilbur can get anything out. “I’m literally begging all of you to let me have one normal family dinner,” he says.

“Alright, alright, let’s settle down for the sake of the old man’s health,” Techno says, and Phil slams the fork down, completely unamused. Techno pays no mind to this, and Tommy watches, grinning, as Techno turns back to the phone. “So you said New York’s been good?”

“Yeah, the city’s crowded, as usual, but I’ve been having a really good time whenever I’m not working,” Kristin says, and Tommy’s honestly glad to hear that. It sucks whenever she’s away, but he’s glad she’s doing well. “I’ve been doing whatever tourist stuff I didn’t get to do the last time I was here—Times Square, stuff like that. How are you guys doing? How’re your fencing tournaments going, Tech?”

Techno takes a long sip of water. “Won my last one, trophy’s up on my shelf,” he says, and Kristin claps, clearly proud. Tommy smiles gently and eats some more dinner. It’s not seasoned well—Phil’s cooking isn’t great, but he’ll take it over Wil’s any day—but it’s still pretty flavorful, thanks to his enhanced taste buds. “Hey, Kristin, you should ask Wilbur about Sally.”

Wilbur goes bright red, and Tommy is suddenly much more interested in the conversation, leaning forward as Wilbur very clearly kicks at and misses Techno’s shins. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses as Kristin gasps and Phil raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Who’s Sally?” Phil asks, using the same teasing tone as Techno when saying the name, and Wilbur groans, head in his hands. Tommy wracks his brain, trying to think of a teacher or faculty member, considering Wilbur’s got basically no social life outside of his co-workers.

The name comes to him suddenly, and Tommy’s jaw drops, Wilbur immediately threatening him under his breath. “You’ve got a thing for Ms. Saumon?!” Tommy demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Wilbur, and The Sense warns him about the next chunk of bread that’s thrown his way. Phil and Kristin give him a simultaneous questioning hum—gross, they’re so in sync—and Tommy pointedly ignores Wilbur’s glare. “She’s the new gym instructor, she’s got biceps the size of my head.”

Techno looks vaguely impressed. Phil’s stifling a laugh as Wilbur gets ever-closer to the shade of a tomato, and Kristin coos. “Wil, that’s so exciting! Have you asked her out yet?” she asks, and Wilbur sinks down in his seat. Tommy cackles.

“Shut up, Tommy,” Wilbur grumbles, pushing his chicken around on his plate. “I hate all of you, for the record.”

“Wilbur hasn’t talked to her once,” Tommy tells Kristin, and her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. Phil stops bothering to bury his own, and Techno’s got a smug grin on his face as Wilbur throws more bread at Tommy. “Quite sad, actually, Wil, you oughta learn a thing or two from me, women love me.”

“I’ve talked to her before!” Wilbur protests, high-pitched and clearly mortified, and Techno gives him a skeptical look. “No, no, fuck you, Techno, I told you about this! I talked to her, I said hi to her literally the other day!”

“That’s not talking to her, mate,” Phil points out. Wilbur groans, hands scrubbing over his face, and Tommy innocently returns to his meal. Techno starts to say something, but Phil shoots him a warning look. “Let’s leave it be for now, but I fully expect to know when your wedding’s gonna be, Wilbur.”

“I hate this fucking family,” Wilbur huffs, and Kristin bursts out laughing.

“No you don’t,” she says easily, smile ever-present on her face.

Wilbur sighs. “No, I don’t.”

*****

As Tommy’s finishing up the dishes, Phil comes into the kitchen, phone still in hand, Kristin’s voice still coming from the speakers. “Hello, parental figures,” he greets, only half-paying attention as he dries his hands. Phil nods at him and turns back to the phone, looking positively lovestruck. Disgusting. Tommy makes a face and flicks a bit of water at Phil. “Let me know when you’re done being gross.”

“Relax, I was just about to hand you the phone anyway,” Phil says, and Tommy sticks his tongue out at him. Phil just shakes his head and passes Tommy the phone. “Come give it back when you’re done, Wil and Techno have already had a chance to talk to her since they’re not the ones on dish duty.”

Tommy grumbles a few curses under his breath but takes the phone anyway, noting with some amount of dread that Phil’s left him alone in the kitchen. “Hey, Toms,” Kristin says, and Tommy gets the sinking feeling that both she and Phil are expecting him to ‘talk about it’ now. Oh, fuck, how’s he supposed to get out of this? “How’ve you been, bud?”

“I’ve been fine. Stressed over school, but that’s nothing new,” Tommy says, and Kristin hums sympathetically. He doesn’t really know what to say; clearly, she’s expecting him to spearhead the conversation, and yeah, Tommy misses her quite a bit and he’s very happy to talk to her, but he doesn’t really know how to do that seriously. Tommy just says the first thing that comes to mind—not that he wouldn’t have ordinarily. “So, uh, those American baseball teams. New York’s got one?”

Kristin bursts out laughing. “Yeah, man, they’ve got two. I’m not going to baseball games, though, I’d get bored so quick,” she says, and then she coughs. It’s awkward. “So, um…Phil told me you’ve been having some problems lately, and that you wouldn’t talk to anyone but me about them, and when I mentioned that to Techno, he said that you—”

“No! I’m not—! No, Christ, Kristin, that’s not—absolutely just…no. I just said some bullshit to Techno so he’d stop bothering me,” Tommy says quickly, and Kristin’s whole body—well, the bit that Tommy can see in the frame anyway—relaxes. It’s clearly a relief.

“Okay, thank God, that was going to be the worst,” she laughs, and Tommy laughs too. It’s much easier talking about pretty much anything with someone who hasn’t been around to witness the fuckups he’s been making. “So what’s got you down, then, kiddo? How can I be of service?”

Tommy wonders if he should tell her. After all, she wouldn’t go telling Phil if he asks her to hide it, and it’d probably put her in close to no danger, given she’s across an ocean pretty often. But no, he really shouldn’t take his chances. “Just…school stuff. It’s dumb. Honestly, it’s nothing to worry about,” he settles on, and Kristin frowns, but she doesn’t pry. “Uh, I guess I should give you back to Phil now so you guys can get back to being gross and married and all that. Miss you.”

“I miss you too, kid. We'll talk more about it when I'm home,” she says, a soft smile on her face, and Tommy pretends to be annoyed when she makes a little heart with her hands. “C’mon, Toms, you know you wanna.”

“I can’t, I’m holding the phone,” Tommy chuckles, heading down the hall towards Phil’s home office. He knocks on the door and Phil calls for him to come in, and Tommy promptly hands the phone back. “Kristin says she’s going to leave you and take us to New York with her. Goodbye, father. T’was nice knowing you.”

Kristin scoffs. “As if I can take you anywhere, Tommy. You haven’t known how to act in public ever,” she jokes, and Tommy flips off the camera from over Phil’s shoulder.

“Leave my office, please,” Phil says, nudging Tommy towards the door. He flips off the phone one last time and skitters out to the hall, hearing Phil call after him. “And quit cyber-bullying my wife, dammit!”

“Your wife is going to leave you!” Tommy shouts, already halfway up the stairs.

“Kristin’s leaving Phil?” Wilbur asks curiously, and Tommy nods. Wilbur hums. “Good. She’s too good for him.”

“I can fuckin’ hear you lot!” Phil shouts from downstairs, and Tommy gives Wilbur a fist bump.

“We know!” Tommy yells back. “Tell Kristin she can do better!”

“Tell her I know at least six other dads that make more money than you!” Wilbur joins in.

“Tell Kristin I said goodnight, and ask her if she can make the three of you shut up,” Techno grumbles from his doorway, and Tommy and Wilbur look over at him at the same time, both stifling a laugh at his pink pyjamas and matching bunny slippers. Techno eyes them warily. “This is my orphan murdering outfit, y’know.”

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s seven in the evening, Tech. You’re such a crotchety old man,” he says, and Techno throws a slipper at him. The Sense decides to stay quiet for that one, bitch that it is, and Tommy squawks, dashing into his room. He can hear Techno and Wilbur laughing at him from the hall. Bitches.

Tommy smiles.

*****

Chapter Text

Tubbo’s stan account is getting out of hand.

He waves his phone in Tommy’s face, clearly ecstatic, as Tommy gets the last of his things out of his locker. “Look! Thirty thousand followers already, and I’ve only had it for a few weeks! The people just love Spider-Man,” Tubbo says, aiming the last bit at Ranboo, who shakes his head and returns to his own locker. Tommy just raises a brow at Tubbo, and Tubbo continues, tapping away at his phone. “D’you think I could turn it into an update account? Like, I could try and follow any Spider-Man encounters and update the people.”

“The people?” Ranboo questions, slightly amused, though Tommy’s anything but. Tubbo can’t go running into every fight Tommy gets into; he’d get himself hurt, or killed. Tubbo nods eagerly and taps away, probably responding to some other account dedicated to Spider-Man. Tommy’s seen a lot of those cropping up lately. Ranboo sighs. “Y’know, I still don’t trust him. I trust him more than I did on day one, sure, but…I dunno, something about his vibe is off.”

“Are you saying London’s one and only superhero has bad vibes?” Tubbo asks, positively bewildered, and Tommy silently panics as his hand gets stuck to a textbook. Son of a bitch, he’d thought he’d gotten this under control. Tubbo scoffs at Ranboo and goes back to his typing. “Well, regardless, I’m still gonna try and keep up with what Spider-Man’s doing more accurately. I can only repost so many blurry photos of the guy.”

Tommy fills his thoughts with Henry’s little cow face and the book clatters inside his locker, both his friends turning to him with questioning looks. “Sorry, fellas, dropped my textbook,” he says with a sheepish grin, and they just shrug. “To be honest, though, Tubbo, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go following this guy into fights.”

Ranboo quickly nods in agreement. “Tommy’s right, it would be ridiculously irresponsible to dash into fights for what, a picture or two?” he says, tone gentle but firm, and Tubbo just groans, pretending to slam his head into Tommy’s locker. “C’mon, dude, you can’t actually think that you’re gonna be doing anything but putting yourself in danger.”

Still not convinced, Tubbo crosses his arms. “Spider-Man would save me,” he says, and Tommy resists the urge to actually slam his head into the locker, on purpose this time, because Tubbo’s absolutely right. It’s not even a question; there’s not a single situation where Tommy wouldn’t prioritize Tubbo’s safety if he were to get into the middle of a Spider-Man fight. Ranboo starts to protest, but Tubbo pokes a finger into his chest. “No, no, I’m right and you know it! Have you not been watching the news? He saves everyone! It’s what he does, Ranboo.”

Now that Tommy and Ranboo have both collected their things, the three of them start heading towards the exit. “I’m just saying you can’t trust him to put your safety in front of, like, a basket full of puppies about to get crushed by a building or something,” Ranboo says, and Tommy cackles, shouldering the doors open.

“Even I wouldn’t put my safety before the puppies, Ranboo, are you crazy?” Tubbo laughs, and Ranboo sighs from deep in his soul. Tommy laughs quietly, even though this line of conversation is making him anxious as hell. Tubbo kicks at Ranboo’s ankles, and Ranboo deftly dodges. “You do realize that I’d be staying back as much as I can, right? I’m not gonna jump in front of a knife or anything, you can stop being so bitchy about it. Plus, I’m setting up crime alert notifications so that I can know where Spider-Man might be, so I’m already basically doing this.”

Oh. That might have been a good thing to do. Tommy just patrols the city, but having crime alerts would probably be a lot more efficient, especially for crimes and civilians in need during the school day. “Add them to mine, too, so I can come get you if you do something stupid,” he says, and it’s not technically a lie. Tubbo takes his phone and starts tapping away.

Ranboo glares at him. “Are you seriously encouraging this, man? Both of you could get seriously hurt,” he huffs, and Tommy just shrugs. Not like he hasn’t been shot or stabbed before. Of course, Ranboo doesn’t know that, and he starts sputtering, but they’re quickly coming up on the intersection where the three of them split into different directions, so as Tubbo hands Tommy his phone back, Ranboo puts a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Just…promise me you’ll be careful, alright? Both of you.”

The two of them nod, and Tubbo heads off to the left while Ranboo heads off to the right, and Tommy continues straight on towards his house. Or, more precisely, towards the alleyway where his duffel bag’s been stashed and kept safe for the past few weeks. He should probably check out the skatepark Wilbur had mentioned a while ago, just in case the crime rate is still skyrocketing over there. As Tommy pulls the hoodie on over his bodysuit, he freezes.

That smells like smoke.

Distant smoke, but smoke nonetheless. Like, the Wilbur-is-attempting-to-make-waffles kind of smoke. Tommy can smell it, though, which means it’s probably somewhere within a couple of blocks. Shit. That’s really close. While Tommy can’t exactly put out a fire, he can get anyone trapped inside out, and as he swings closer to the source of the smell, he can spot it from where he swings above the skyline.

A massive apartment building is on fire. Shit. Shit. Tommy can safely bet that a bunch of people are going to be out, given that the workday isn’t over yet, but that doesn’t discount the possibility of students being stuck in there. He puts out what he can and makes a pathway into the first window he sees. Glancing around the room, he doesn’t see anyone, so he ducks back out and sticks to the side of the building, crawling towards windows, wincing at the heat against his hands, and peeking in to see if there’s anyone there.

There’s a good crowd at the bottom of the building—likely the folks that had gotten out already—and Tommy waves down at them. One woman down below shrieks. “Spider-Man! Oh, thank God, my wife, our son—! They’re stuck in there!” she shouts, and Tommy follows where she’s pointing to the window just a few down from where he is now, and he swoops in, putting out as much of the fire in this particular room with his webs as possible.

Tommy goes to open the door, only to hiss in pain as his gloved hand comes in contact with the hot metal. He sticks a web to the handle and pulls it open that way instead; he can feel the sweat starting to bead at the nape of his neck and at his hairline. It’s so fucking sweltering, he can only imagine what it’s like for someone stuck in here.

Paving a path by webbing the smaller fires down, Tommy catches a soft sob from the corner, and he looks over, only to find a barely-conscious woman crouching behind an overturned coffee table, the right half of her body burned from shielding the child in her lap from the flames licking at her skin. “Ma’am! Ma’am, can you hear me?!” Tommy shouts, and she looks up at him, eyelids drooping. The child in her lap screams, probably in terror. Tommy pats out a flame that’s begun to burn his sleeve. “Can you hand me your son?”

She reaches up, but she’s clearly too weakened by the smoke inhalation to lift her kid up properly. Tommy curses under his breath and gets closer, adrenaline preventing him from feeling the pain of the flames slowly crawling up his leg. Shit. He reaches out for the kid, who screams again and buries his face in his now unconscious-mother’s chest. “No!” the toddler cries, and Tommy starts to panic as the support beams in the kitchen start to fall. The kid pounds his fists against his mom, who’s too far out of it to do much of anything. “Mummy! Scary monster, stranger danger!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here to help you,” Tommy says gently, careful not to make his voice too loud, and he coughs into his elbow as smoke filters into his lungs. He should really invest in more heavily filtered fabric. Maybe Puffy’ll even give him a discount. The kid’s still screeching something about him being a monster, and there’s really no time for this, so Tommy whips his mask off and smiles. The toddler falls silent, looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m a kid, just like you, see? It’s just a mask. My name is Spider-Man, and I’m gonna get you and your mummy out of here, you just have to come here, okay? I don’t want you guys getting more hurt.”

The child reaches up for him with trembling arms, and Tommy easily scoops him up, pulling his mask back on. “No! Monster!” the kid screams, thrashing against him, and Tommy coughs into his elbow again in lieu of groaning in frustration. “G’offa me! Monster!”

“It’s just me!” Tommy tells the kid, pulling his mask back up, and the kid’s got that same wide-eyed look of awe on his face as they get closer to the window Tommy had gotten in through. Tommy goes to pull it down again and pauses as he does. “I’m still gonna be here, just under the mask, okay? It’s a secret, just between you and me. Pinky promise you’ll keep it?”

The kid’s mouth opens in an ‘o’ of realization, and Tommy smiles despite the circumstances as a tiny pinky wraps around his own. When he pulls the mask down this time, the toddler puts his index finger to his lips. Tommy moves over to the window and ducks out from it with the kid in hand, deftly dropping to the ground and handing the kid over to his other parent.

“My wife, is—is she…?” the woman asks, voice trembling as she trails off, and Tommy shakes his head frantically.

“No, no, I’m going back for her right now, just stay there!” he calls over his shoulder as he webs himself back into the building. A flaming support beam in the room crashes down as he enters, and Tommy cries out as it strikes his shoulder. There’s no time for whining, though, so he shoves it right off and weaves around the debris that’d fallen while he’d gotten the kid out. “Hey, ma’am, are you still in here? Stupid question, actually—are you awake at all?”

There’s no answer. Fuck. Tommy dashes over to where he can barely see the overturned coffee table, and shoves the nearby debris away, cringing at the way it burns at his fingertips. The woman’s still there, still unconscious, still breathing. Thank fucking God. He gets an arm underneath her, which is difficult, even with his super strength, and lifts her up enough he’s able to get her into a fireman’s carry. Ironic, considering the fire brigade hasn’t even shown their goddamn faces around here yet.

Tommy adjusts the woman a bit so that he’s not putting as much strain on the shoulder the support beam had crashed into, and he starts heading back toward the window. His lungs ache with every breath, every step he takes. The regeneration thing is somewhat helping, but there’s not much his superpowers can do when he’s constantly inhaling smoke. Thankfully, he can hear sirens as they approach the window, and something winds around his leg.

There’s a fucking cat in here.

Son of a bitch.

Ducking down just slightly, Tommy takes the trembling cat and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie; thankfully, it’s small enough to fit. Carefully climbing out of the window, taking great caution not to smack the poor lady’s head against the window frame, Tommy starts to steadily climb down. It’s a lot harder with a grown adult and a cat than with just a kid, but Tommy can still manage to get the three of them to the ground safely, handing the woman over to the paramedics and giving the cat over to the woman he’d talked to before.

“Spider-Man,” a police officer shouts, grabbing his arm, and Tommy winces noiselessly—it’s his injured arm. The cop actually looks mad at him, which is both totally surprising and slightly annoying. “What the hell are you thinking?! That’s a burning building, you have to let the professionals handle this, dammit!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did the professionals just save that kid?!” Tommy demands. Because, honestly, fuck this guy. He shoves the officer off of him—not like he can get arrested, Tommy could literally just swing the hell out of here—and crosses his arms. “Did the professionals rescue that poor lady?! Or did you all take your sweet fuckin’ time getting here?! How long ago did you get that call, how long could it have possibly taken to get out here?!”

The officer looks positively murderous, unsurprisingly, and Tommy stares right back at him, completely unimpressed. “That’s no way to talk to an officer of the law, son,” the officer scolds, as if Tommy’s some punk telling him to go fuck himself, which, come to think of it, Tommy should definitely do soon.

“I’m not your ‘son,’ officer. Go fuck yourself,” Tommy snaps, and the officer narrows his eyes, as if Tommy could give less of a fuck. “And while you’re at it, maybe don’t start going off on the guy who saved civilian lives, yeah? If you actually did your fuckin’ job, maybe I wouldn’t have to—!”

“Spider-Man!” an all-too-familiar voice shouts, and Tommy glances over his shoulder to see Tubbo jumping up and down from behind the barricade the fire brigade’s put up, waving his arm as high as he can manage. With a sigh, Tommy gives the officer a gesture that’s definitely not polite, and he starts to swing away, but Tubbo calls after him. “Mr. Spider-Man, sir! Can I get an interview with you?”

Tommy pauses, perched on the roof of a nearby building, and tilts his head silently down at Tubbo. He really shouldn’t be encouraging this; he knows Tubbo well enough to know the bastard would head immediately into danger if it meant getting what he’s aiming for. Alas, Tommy is cursed with a miniscule soft spot for his best friend, and he lets himself hang upside-down from the lip of the awning below.

Tubbo’s got the stupidest expression on his face—he looks positively starstruck. “You oughta close your mouth, kid, you’ll catch flies,” Tommy says in his best impression of an Adult Voice, hoping desperately that Tubbo won’t recognize him. “You sure you’re a reporter? You look like you’re twelve, mate.”

“Ah, well, I’m not a reporter, per se, I’m, uh—I actually run the update account for you on Twitter, see, and I was just wondering if I, um...could I interview you, man?” Tubbo asks, looking so hopeful it’s almost painful, and Tommy sighs as he nods. Tubbo visibly brightens and gets his phone out, and Tommy blinks in surprise as Tubbo’s camera is very clearly aimed at him. Normally when it is, Tommy’s doing something astronomically stupid. Not that this isn’t astronomically stupid, but still. “So, Spider-Man, what was the scene like? How did you know that building was burning down? Do you have access to police radio? What are—”

“Woah, woah, slow down! One question at a time, yeah?” Tommy chuckles nervously, ever-wary of the camera in his face. “Um, no, I’ve not got police radio access, I just sorta smelled the smoke and headed over. It was a little crazy, but I had it under control…?”

Tubbo nods eagerly and glances down at the phone, then back at him. “It seemed like you just got into a pretty heavy argument with that officer back there,” Tubbo says, and Tommy goes pale. Had Tubbo been filming that?! Jesus, Tommy’s gotta be more careful about letting his temper get the best of him. Tubbo grins eagerly. “Would you like to say what it had been about? There were lots of sirens, so I couldn’t catch exactly what you said.”

Oh, thank fuck. Tommy’s going to try and maintain some professionalism. “We had a small disagreement regarding the manner in which I handled the situation,” he says, and cringes at how fucking pretentious he sounds. Tubbo’s brows furrow in confusion, and Tommy gives up on sounding like he’s anything other than exasperated. “He told me I had no clue what I was doing, so I told him to go shove it.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Tubbo, and Tommy chuckles. Clearing his throat, Tubbo shifts back into what’s clearly his ‘reporter mode.’ “So, Spider-Man, a few of my followers have been wondering what your intentions are in terms of saving the city. Why do you do what you do?” he asks, and Tommy hums in thought.

“I just want to protect the city. This community’s been good to me, y’know? I’ve got people I want to keep safe, and if I make London safer for other people too, well, that’s just an added bonus,” he says with a sheepish laugh. Tubbo nods for him to go on, but Tommy doesn’t really have much more to say about it. “It’s also just...nice to be nice? I-I dunno, man, I’ve never been asked this kinda stuff before.”

Clearly pleased with Tommy’s answer, Tubbo visibly wracks his brain for another question, and he perks up, turning his phone off and putting it in his pocket. “Oh! Right! Mr. Spider-Man, sir, would you maybe need a guy to make you tech? I’ve got a pretty good resume, I could show you my programming portfolio if you’d like, and—!”

“Hey, calm down, dude,” Tommy tells him, hands up—or down, he supposes, given that he’s still upside-down—by his chest, and Tubbo nods, snapping his mouth shut. “Listen, I’m sure you’re a really talented kid, I just—anyone I associate with could be in potential danger. Really sorry, mate, it’s just safer this way.”

A little dejected, which Tommy feels extraordinarily guilty about, Tubbo smiles. “I understand, Spider-Man, no worries. Thanks for protecting the city,” he says, so very honestly that it’s absolutely gutting. Tubbo’s phone beeps, making him jump and pull it out to check it again, a wince on his face. “Ah, dammit, I-I gotta go, my friends are gonna give me a ton of shit for even being here, thank you so, so much for the interview, Mr. Spider-Man!”

Tommy can barely even wave before Tubbo is taking off down the street, presumably replying to Ranboo’s frantic texts.

Guess he knows what the next trending topic’s gonna be.

*****

“Tommy? I’ve gotta talk to you about something, open up,” Phil says as he knocks on the door, and Tommy panics. He’s midway through patching up his burns from the fire; there aren’t many, but the few that he’s sustained are pretty bad. Shit. Tommy hurries to finish wrapping up his calf and lets the leg of his joggers fall back over it. “Toms, I mean it. This is serious, and I’m not gonna let you say you’ll talk to Kristin and then dodge the question this time.”

“Right! Sorry, sorry, give me a minute!” Tommy calls back, snatching his sweatshirt from the bed. He gets stuck in it, of fucking course, and he groans, forced to think of Henry as his hands stick themselves to the inside of the sweatshirt. Tommy stumbles around, nearly tripping over the first aid kit and definitely causing a racket as he manages to shove the sweatshirt on properly. “You can come in now!”

“Okay, I’ll preface this by saying—holy fuck, Tommy, you look like shit, what the hell happened to you?!” Phil demands, taking Tommy’s face in his hands. His eyes are wide and his brows are furrowed, but Tommy honestly doesn’t know why he’s so concerned; he’d made sure to get the soot out of his hair and wipe the grime off of his skin. “Have you been sleeping? Are you skipping meals?”

Tommy snorts. “Phil, what’re you talking about? Of course I’m not skipping meals, you know that, we have family dinners every night, and I eat, like, six meals a day,” Tommy says, but Phil still looks ridiculously worried. Tommy squirms out of his grasp and rubs the sleeves of his sweatshirt up and down. This is really uncomfortable already. “What did you even want to talk about?”

Looking a little lost, Phil half-scoffs, but he backs off and runs a hand through his hair. “Right, I wanted to…it’s your grades, Tommy,” he says, and Tommy goes pale. Shit. He hadn’t thought that his grades had gotten that bad. Phil sighs and crosses his arms. “Listen, I know you’re brilliant, and you’re not in trouble, but you’ve dropped pretty bad in a couple of your classes. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit how your grades are as long as you’re doing your best, but it’s clear that you’re not.”

“No, no, Phil, I am, I swear I am, things have just been crazy recently,” Tommy says, and Phil shakes his head, clearly already exasperated. He goes to say something else, but Tommy steps forward, and a twinge of pain pierces his calf. He winces as the burn stings—stupid move, he should’ve just swallowed it down—and Phil somehow looks more worried. “It’s fine, really, I’m fine, I just hurt my leg on my walk home, Phil, it’s no big deal.”

Phil seems completely bewildered, which would be almost funny if the situation weren’t as serious. “First, you don’t tell any of us what’s going on with you, then your grades start to slip, and now you’re injured and you’re not telling me? Don’t think I don’t know it’s worse than you’re making it seem, either,” Phil warns, and Tommy has the decency to direct his attention to the floor in shame. “Tommy, we’re all here for you, but you have to talk to us. What is going on with you?”

There’s another knock on the door, and before either of them can say anything, Wilbur is peeking into the room, glancing between the two of them like he’s walked into an active warzone or something. “Is this a bad time?” he asks, and Phil just gestures helplessly. Tommy groans, slumping into his desk chair. “I’ve got to talk to Tommy about his essay. He failed, which means he’s dangerously close to failing the class.”

“Are you serious? Wilbur, I spent six hours writing that fucking thing, that’s not fair!” Tommy shouts, and he’s out of the chair already. Wilbur starts to talk again, probably to give him some bullshit reason why he’s failing Tommy, but Tommy doesn’t let him. “No, man, fuck you! I worked so hard on that, I read the shit you wanted me to read, even with all the other shit going on in my life right now! You’re doing this on purpose!”

“Toms, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are! You fucking know you are, Wilbur, I’ve never gotten lower than ten points off full marks on any essay,” Tommy fumes, and Phil starts to step forward, ready to get in the middle of the stupid argument. Tommy shoulders past him, jabbing a finger in Wilbur’s direction. “No, Phil, fuck off, this doesn’t even have anything to do with you—!”

“It does, actually,” Phil says calmly, and Tommy falters. That’s Phil’s no-nonsense tone—not even an ounce of shenanigans will be tolerated from this point, and Tommy knows it. “Now, I can’t speak for Wil, but I do know that this isn’t an isolated incident. If you don’t talk to us, we can’t help you, Tommy.”

God this is so fucking frustrating. Tommy’s in pain, he can’t tell them what’s wrong, and yeah, maybe he doesn’t have his shit together just yet, but he will! He just needs a little time to readjust his life, since he’s experienced, y’know, a pretty big change. “I can always tutor you if you need help with school stuff, man,” Wilbur says, giving him an infuriatingly soft smile. “The school can offer accommodations if you need them, too.”

Phil puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, which he promptly shrugs off. “Listen, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk to us, but I can’t have you internalizing whatever problems you’re facing right now. You need to talk to someone, Tommy,” Phil says, and Tommy rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to talk to anyone, he can’t. “I’m getting you a therapist.”

No! Absolutely not, he won’t have any time to fight crime if he’s stuck in a therapist’s appointment, and it’ll throw off the entire fragile balance he’s cultivating. “I don’t need a fuckin’ therapist, Phil, I’m fine! The only thing stressing me out right now is you!” Tommy shouts, which is partially true. Yeah, maybe he hadn’t realized his grades are slipping, but he’s got plenty of time to fix them!

“That’s enough, you’re going to talk to someone, and that’s final,” Phil says, and Tommy starts to pace, but another misstep has the burn on his leg flaring up again. In fact, it’s so bad that Tommy has to grab the desk to steady himself. “Christ, kid, we should take you to the doctor’s if you can’t walk—”

“I can walk just fine,” Tommy snaps, and he glares at Wilbur, who hovers nervously in the doorway. “I just want all of you to leave me the fuck alone.”

Wilbur’s face falls. “Toms—”

“Get out of my room!” he demands, and while Wilbur hightails it out, Phil doesn’t seem to get the hint. Tommy settles on the bed, chest heaving as he tries his hardest to ignore the way his eyes are watering. If he can’t handle a couple of burns, how’s he supposed to handle everything else? He’s survived bullets, he can take this on no problem. “What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand, old man?”

Phil rubs a hand over his face. The bastard looks tired, but he definitely can’t be as tired as Tommy feels right now. “I respect your need for privacy right now, but at some point, as a parent, I have to step in and tell you to cut the shit,” Phil says firmly. “As I understand it, you’re hurt, probably in need of medical assistance, which you’re refusing, and that makes me incredibly concerned. At least let one of us take a look so that we can make sure you’ve given yourself the right treatment.”

Shit. Well, if there’s anyone that he trusts to keep their mouth shut, it’s Techno. Mostly because Techno hardly ever talks, partly because he’s finally stopped that weird habit of randomly checking in on Tommy, meaning he’s the only one in this godforsaken family that minds his fucking business. Plus, Techno’s got the most practical medical knowledge.

“Tell Techno he can do it,” he says quietly, and Phil nods, eyes still scanning over Tommy’s face worriedly. It annoys the fuck out of Tommy. But he leaves nonetheless, and Techno’s soon alone with Tommy; he wouldn’t be surprised if Phil or Wilbur are outside and trying to listen through the door, though. Tommy frowns up at Techno. “Phil’s being a bitch and won’t leave me alone, so could you tell him I’m fine?”

Techno crosses his arms and crouches down, poking one finger at Tommy’s leg, which sends him into a spiral of curses. He flips Techno off, but he raises his pant leg anyway. “Uh, you wrapped this pretty poorly,” he says, and Tommy resists the urge to kick him. Techno grabs the first aid kit, but remembering the bullet from a while ago is still in there, Tommy snatches it, holding it to his chest. Techno raises an eyebrow. “If you want my help, you’re gonna have to let me use the first aid kit, Tommy.”

“I know that,” Tommy huffs, and Techno just stares at him blankly. Tommy’s hands are, in fact, stuck to the plastic box in his panic, and he glowers down at Techno. “Just—close your eyes for a minute, alright?!”

Techno regards him with the most unamused look Tommy’s ever seen, but he does it anyway, and Tommy hurries to shove the bullet casing under his pillow before nudging Techno’s shoulder to let him know it’s all clear. “Right, well,” Techno starts, taking the first aid kit from Tommy, “first things first, good job on not usin’ peroxide, it’ll dry out the skin of a burn pretty bad if you’re not careful. You don’t have nearly enough burn cream applied, though, so let me just…there. The way you’re gonna wanna wrap the bandages is way looser, like this.”

Techno rewraps the bandages, and Tommy actually feels much better now that Techno’s tended to the burn. “Thanks, Tech,” Tommy mumbles, toeing at Techno’s ankle as his brother stands, and Techno nods. He sits on the bed next to Tommy, hands folded in his lap. Tommy glares at him weakly, honestly too tired to get mad again. “I’m not gonna talk about it.”

“I’m not askin’ you to,” Techno says easily, and Tommy nods. They sit in silence for a while more, and then Techno turns the television on. It’s the news. They’re currently talking about the building where Tommy had saved that woman and her kid. Techno nods towards the screen. “Is that it? Were you nearby or something? You don’t have to tell me, but at least tell me why you haven’t told Phil you were over there.”

“I dunno,” Tommy says, voice dull, and Techno hums. The news story continues, and Tommy’s brow furrows. There’s a guy in the background; he hadn’t been by the building when Tommy had gotten there, but as they show a clip from earlier during the blaze, Tommy spots the guy from a window in a neighboring building. “Techno, d’you recognize that guy? He looks familiar.”

Techno leans closer to the screen, and Tommy glances at him nervously. One confused squint later—which makes Techno look ridiculous, quite frankly—he shrugs. “Nah, don’t recognize him,” he says, and Tommy grumbles a few curses under his breath. Techno glances over at him, clearly uncomfortable. “Do you, uh, want me to stay here, or…?”

“No, no, you can go,” Tommy says, waving him off without looking. The guy looks so familiar, he’s in a suit, he’s got a stupid haircut, stupid facial hair. Tommy just can’t seem to put his finger on who it is. He hears the door close again, but no one else comes in, thankfully. “Who the fuck are you, weird suit man…?”

Tommy’s got no idea.

But he really doesn’t like the way the guy is staring up at the burning building.

*****

Chapter Text

There have been eight fires in two weeks.

While Tommy’s been completely exhausted, he can’t complain about the tan he’s gotten from the ordeal. Not like that’s the most important part of it—he’s managed to save everyone thus far, but he’s cut it close a good few times. Phil and Wilbur have been a bit distant, only asking if he’s okay or if he’s ready to talk yet, but things have been normal with Techno, at the very least. Even if Ranboo shuts down whenever Tubbo mentions Spider-Man, and even if Tubbo talks about almost nothing but Spider-Man, at least Tommy’s still got some sense of normalcy.

Speak of the damn devil.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Tubbo,” Ranboo’s voice says from behind him, and Tommy shoves some crisps in his mouth. He’s not exactly itching to give his opinion in yet another squabble Tubbo and Ranboo are having before he can tell them both to cut it out. They start to set their things down on the other side of the table, but Tommy raises a finger. Ranboo sighs. “Ah, right.”

“You know the rule, fellas,” Tommy says, swallowing the bite of crisps. Tubbo rolls his eyes, and Tommy glares at him. “No bickering over Spider-Man at the lunch table.”

The two of them nod, and Tommy permits them to sit. Tubbo perks up, which can’t mean anything good. “Oh! Is it against the rule to brag about Spider-Man related news?” Tubbo asks, waving his hand in the air as though Tommy’s a teacher and he’s waiting to be called on. Tommy just shrugs; he honestly wouldn’t mind hearing about how awesome and cool he is. Ranboo starts to protest, but Tubbo steamrolls on. “I will not be interrupted by someone that can’t even swim. As I was saying—”

“Wh—! Hey! I can swim!” Ranboo insists, and Tommy snorts. Ranboo rounds on him, eyes narrowed. “What the heck are you laughing at? I don’t see you any more eager to join the swim team, Tommy.”

Tubbo shoves at Ranboo. “Shut up and let me finish! Anyways, I think I’ve almost gotten Spider-Man to give me a shot at making him tech!” Tubbo says, oh-so-excited, and Tommy bites back a wince. Tubbo’s definitely never going to make tech for him, mostly due to the fact that Tommy’s pretty sure the fires are being set by someone, and he doesn’t exactly want that someone to target Tubbo. “I’ve gotten three whole interviews after my first one, and he always sticks around after I stop recording!”

“I think that’s just because he’s a nice dude,” Ranboo points out, and Tommy hums in agreement as he takes a bite of his sandwich. He is a nice dude.

Tubbo’s eyes narrow. “I thought you hated Spider-Man,” he says, and Tommy chokes on his sandwich. His poor food is going through so much today. Tubbo seems to be more mad than amused, though. “So when I could possibly have the opportunity of a lifetime, you write it off as Spider-Man being nice, but you can’t stand him the rest of the time, is that it?”

Sighing, Ranboo runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I—Tubbo, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just saying—he’s not gonna let some civilian make his tech for him, no matter how talented they are, a-and you’re really talented,” he hurries to add as Tubbo glares. Some resolve appears in what little Tommy can see of Ranboo’s expression, which is pretty uncommon for Ranboo. “Seriously, with how frequent these fires are, it’s probably a good thing you’re not tied up in a superhero’s business.”

At that, Tommy feels relieved that someone’s validating his line of thought, even if Ranboo still holds a distaste for his alter ego. “Yeah, man, I think Spider-Man’s alright—not a wrong’un, at least—but I gotta agree with Ranboob here,” Tommy says, and Tubbo scowls. “Honestly, Big T, it’s for the best. The fires are pretty suspicious.”

“Sus,” Tubbo says automatically, and Ranboo pretends to slam his head into the table. Tommy’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and finally, Tubbo relents, changing topics to something that Tommy, admittedly, has an interest in. “Have you lot finished the short response for Wilbur’s class tomorrow? It was a fucking bitch to get through, I swear.”

Groaning as he sinks lower in his seat, Ranboo covers his face with his hands. “Ugh, no, Mr. Soot’s gonna be so pissed if I don’t turn it in,” he bemoans. “I’ve already missed, like, three assignments, I’m gonna lose my top five spot in the class.”

Tommy and Tubbo both shoot him a flat look. “I’m almost failing, apparently, but I’ve been doing all of my fucking work, so if Wil doesn’t grade my paper fairly, I’m going to stab him with one of Techno’s swords,” Tommy grumbles, and Tubbo gives him a sympathetic grimace. “Plus, Phil is, like, this close to grounding me. Can’t take any chances.”

“If you get grounded, Aunt Puffy’s going to look at my grades, so don’t get grounded,” Tubbo instructs him, and Tommy puts his hands up by his chest in surrender. At Ranboo’s questioning look, Tubbo shrugs. “Aunt Puffy and Phil talk a lot. Just can’t risk it. So long as I’m passing my classes, I’m fine, but I’ve been toeing the line in algebra as of recently, and I do not need that kind of heat right now.”

A snort escapes Tommy as he downs half his sandwich in pretty much one go. He’s noticed that Phil sneaks him what’s essentially another meal in his lunch now, which he’s not going to complain about, but it’s weird nonetheless. Tommy’s pretty sure Phil still thinks he’s not eating or sleeping enough. In Phil’s defense, the latter is definitely true, but Tommy never quite feels tired; he chalks it up to superpower stuff.

Just as Tubbo and Ranboo break out into an argument about which The Office cast member is the best, Tommy’s phone buzzes as Tubbo’s chimes. A crime alert. Tubbo takes off immediately, ignoring Ranboo’s protests. “Sorry, big man. I’ll go make sure he doesn’t die,” Tommy says, and Ranboo shakes his head.

As Tommy sneaks out through a bathroom window, already having changed into his suit, he looks down at his phone, expecting another fire. However, the alert is nothing of the sort; it’s a robbery—which, simple enough, Tommy’s glad to have somewhat of a break—but it’s been labeled as a code thirty, which means it’s an emergency, and the cops involved need help very urgently. Tommy hates code thirties; the cops are always ridiculous, claiming they would’ve been fine without his help and essentially telling him to fuck off in polite police jargon.

But The Sense—Tommy’s glad to have it back, it’s been a fucking while, Sense, Christ—is telling him that something’s seriously wrong with this one. As Tommy swings through the city, he keeps an eye out for Tubbo, but he can’t seem to find him. Slippery bastard’s always been good at hiding, unfortunately. Tommy lands atop a building nearby to the address in the crime alert, surveying the area. It doesn’t look as though there’s anyone outside, other than a few cop cars that have surrounded the building, a bank, to be precise, that don’t seem to be getting any closer.

So Tommy lands on the ground in a very epic superhero pose and heads towards the officer that looks like she’s in charge. “Oh, Spider-Man,” she says, distaste lacing her tone, and Tommy can’t believe he’s fed the fuck up already. “Go home, you’re not needed. This is a few notches above your paygrade, anyway.”

Scowling, even though she can’t see it, Tommy crosses his arms. “Listen, miss, we can do this the easy way, where you give me as much information on what’s been happening as possible, or the hard way, where I’ll go in blind and possibly endanger civilians that I could have saved with your cooperation,” he says flatly. He’s learned his lesson when it comes to cursing out cops; he doesn’t want to be tased again, thanks. It had been a very unpleasant experience.

To Tommy’s surprise, the officer falters, sighing after a moment. “It was supposed to be simple, just send in a few men to apprehend the guy and be done with it,” she says, and Tommy nods, gesturing for her to elaborate. “The perp’s got some kinda gas or something—knocked out everyone in the building except for himself. We’ve got snipers and assault rifles trained on him, so he’s not coming out anytime soon. Before you ask, the one guy we sent in with a gas mask didn’t come back out.”

Well, shit. He shares that sentiment with the officer, who barks out a laugh. “Let me see what I can do,” Tommy says, webbing himself up and away. He lands atop the doorway to the bank and makes a face at the green-ish gas leaking from underneath him. It kind of smells like dirt. He crawls up the side of the building and peeks down into the windows, immediately going pale at the sight below him.

Sure enough, there’s a robber, but he’s not dressed like robbers that Tommy’s beat the shit out of before. Mans is fully decked out. What looks to be a flamethrower—or at least, a weapon that looks like it—is firmly strapped to his back, and the guy’s face is covered by a pair of sunglasses and mask; he’s wearing a hoodie, too—bright blue and obnoxious, the white hood of it pulled up to cover his hair. The sunglasses he’s wearing look stupid as well, but it’s not as stupid as the fact the guy’s holding the strap of the gun with his left hand.

He’s a lefty.

Tommy narrows his eyes, scanning the scene while wondering what the fuck the fires have to do with a bank robbery, given that whoever’s behind both are definitely working together. Classic conspiracy theory stuff. Then again, this ‘robbery’ doesn’t seem like one, given that everyone in the immediate vicinity is conked out on the floor, and Lefty doesn’t have anything on him but the flamethrower thingy. He opens the window as quietly as possible, slipping in and keeping it open. Hopefully, it’ll get that gas out of here.

“Fuck’s sakes, he’s not even here. This was pointless,” Lefty says, clearly irritated as he whisper-yells into a phone. He paces back and forth, blissfully unaware of Tommy, who is being very stealthy and cool on the ceiling. Lefty pauses, then huffs, then laughs. It’s a bitter kind of sound—he’s super pissed. “No, just—! I’m not gonna ask for him, the fuck do I look like? ...Yeah, alright, that’s fair, I’ll give you that one. But seriously, don’t—”

“Yoohoo!” Tommy calls, sticking a web to the banister he’s standing on and letting himself hang upside-down in front of Lefty. He’s grown bored of the bad guy convo that Lefty’s been having, so it’s time to fuck this guy up. “A little birdie told me you were looking for someone. Is it me? Am I the guest of honor? Gosh, I’m so underdressed!”

Lefty hangs up and glares at him—probably, Tommy can’t see much of his face—and whips the flamethrower thingy off his back, aiming it right at Tommy’s face and poof! There goes the dynamite. Or, well, cloud of weirdly thick gas. Lefty’s jaw drops, if his mask moving is to be trusted, as the gun falls to his side, and he backs away. An understandable choice, really, but Tommy’s still going to kick Lefty’s ass for knocking out so many civilians.

The hand on the flamethrower—gasthrower?—is trembling. “How the hell are you still conscious?!” Lefty demands, sounding surprisingly steady for a guy that looks about to piss his pants. Tommy just coughs, waving the cloud of gas away. “My spores should’ve had you out on the floor, just like the rest of them!”

“Spores? The fuck are you, some kinda mushroom?” Tommy says, laughter lacing his voice as he gets into a fighting stance. He throws a punch towards Lefty, who blocks it with his...weapon, whatever the fuck it is. Lefty swings the ass end of the gun at his face, and Tommy blocks it, only just stopping it in time. C’mon, Sense, wake the hell up, Tommy’s fucking counting on you to catch these things! “Alright, so we’re playing dirty? Can’t say I’m a fan of that, but I also can’t say you aren’t the first person I’ve gotten to have a conversation with since I started being Spider-Man, so at least you’re keeping me on my toes!”

Lefty growls in frustration as he dodges a kick, and he swings his fist at Tommy’s face, only mildly surprised when Tommy catches it. “Do you ever shut up?!” Lefty huffs, and Tommy sweeps his feet out from under him, webbing his left arm to the floor, subsequently keeping the weapon out of play. Hah. Tommy’s so clever. Lefty looks panicked, and Tommy’s almost ready to write this off as an easy victory, before the very building starts shaking, and Lefty’s look of panic dissolves into one of relief. “You gonna stop me or save the rest of ’em? Bank’s gonna collapse in a few, so you oughta make your choice sooner rather than later.”

Tommy curses under his breath, but he goes for the civilians. He’ll catch Lefty eventually, but he’s only got one chance to get the civilians out. Women and children first, he supposes; boat rules are gonna have to apply, given he’s the only one able to handle the mushroom gunk in the air at the moment. The building shakes every time Tommy ducks in and out, handing civilians off to paramedics and webbing the ceiling together to make sure none of it falls on the unconscious bank-goers.

He goes as quickly as he can, and he manages to get the last few civilians out. Tommy dashes back inside anyway, hoping to catch Lefty before his webs wear off, but he’s already gone, clean-cut webbing in his wake. Tommy struggles to keep his balance as the building shakes again, and he dashes out; as cool and amazing as Tommy’s superpowers are, there’s no way they can stop a fucking bomb without at least ten minute’s notice.

Sure enough, the glass of the doors shatters as he starts to swing away, and Tommy feels more than hears the blast, squeezing his eyes shut as he’s propelled forward, landing harshly on the asphalt. Smart move on the cops’ part to stay back like a bunch of cowards. Tommy chuckles weakly to himself and struggles to stand, surprised and pained by a grip on his arm.

It’s the officer lady. “Where’s Dale?!” she demands, eyes wide and panicked, and Tommy feels so tired all of a sudden. Officer lady shakes him, and Tommy whimpers at the pain that shoots through him—his ears are ringing. “Where the fuck is Officer Davenport, Spider-Man?!”

“I-I don’t know,” Tommy manages, and she drops her hold on him like he’s a hot iron, letting him fall to the ground and hack a lung up. Metaphorically, of course. Tommy’s pretty sure that even with the whole regeneration thing, he’d be doomed if he literally coughed up a lung. “I’m sorry, I tried to get...to...t’get ev’rybody out.”

The officer reaches a shaking hand to her mouth and turns away. There’s a pit of guilt something awful in Tommy’s gut, but he’s feeling exhaustion seep into his bones. Fuck. Is this how the people in there had felt? It’s like every missed hour of sleep is catching up to him at once. It’s not as though Tommy’d assumed he’d been impervious to the spores, but Jesus, this is awful.

He stumbles away, only half-sure he’d mumbled another apology, and he ducks into an alleyway, swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat. Tommy missed someone. He missed someone, how could he have missed someone?! He’s never failed before, he’s always been able to save everyone. No casualties in the fires, none with robberies or muggings, none with busted drug deals either. But this? This fucking aches.

The guilt swirls around his ribs in sick tendrils and squeezes until Tommy can’t fucking breathe properly anymore. He gags, then proceeds to empty his stomach of his lunch beside him in the alleyway, barely getting his mask up over his mouth in time to do it. Even in his delirious, exhausted state, Tommy’s not stupid enough to take it off all the way. Feeling even more sick at the way his vomit’s been stained a dark green—probably the fucking spores—Tommy turns away and his shoulders start shaking.

Idly, Tommy realizes he’s crying. His vision is fucking swimming, maybe he’s tripping balls or something, maybe that’s what the fucking spores do to you, but Tommy’s exhausted, he’s been blown up, and he’s hysterical with grief. This fucking sucks. It’s probably worse for Officer Davenport, his mind traitorously hisses, since you got him killed and all.

Tommy wants to protest, to say he did his best, but he’d had room on his back in that last trip. If he hadn’t been so fucking unobservant, that guy might still be alive. And oh, fuck, if the initial realization hadn’t been enough to make him retch, this one definitely is. Tommy’s dry-heaving, which hurts his lungs, which hurts his back, which hurts his everything, because he’s just been fucking blown up, and he can’t even go to anyone to get help.

There’s no one to help him.

Not even when he passes out in the alleyway.

*****

Tommy wakes up in an oddly familiar bedroom, but he’s still got his mask on. There’s a hushed argument happening somewhere nearby, but his body aches too much for him to bother to try and eavesdrop. Groaning, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut tight. The argument falls silent, then after a moment, it returns. Tommy should roll onto his stomach; if he doesn’t, he’ll probably damage his back worse than it already is. It fucking hurts.

His ears have stopped ringing, at least, which is probably good. Unfortunately for him, this means he can hear the argument happening not even ten feet away from him. “—insane, man, this is crazy!” someone says, and it sounds so familiar Tommy’s going to lose it.  “You have to tell Ms. Puffy about this, at least!”

Oh, how lovely, is Puffy here? Tommy would love to thank her for the cookies she’d sent Tubbo over with the other day. Puffy’s quite nice, honestly, Tommy wouldn’t mind it if she’d been the one to find him and—oh, the other voice is talking now. “Are you serious?! Absolutely fucking not! Even if that wasn’t the world’s dumbest goddamn idea, how do you suggest I break the news to her?! ‘Oh, hey, Aunt P, I’ve got a superhero up in my room right now, just helping him rest after he’s been blown up!’ Is that how you’re suggesting I go about it?!”

Ah, so he’s at Tubbo’s house. That explains quite a lot, actually, he—

Fuck, he’s at Tubbo’s house.

Tommy sits up with a start, and Tubbo and Ranboo both whip their heads around to look at him. It’d be funny if Tommy weren’t so panicked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, please tell me you didn’t take my mask off,” Tommy says, chest heaving. This is so bad. This is so fucking bad. If Tubbo and Ranboo know who he is, that means they could be targeted by Lefty or whoever it is that’s been lighting those fires.

“Woah, woah, chill out, man, don’t strain yourself!” Ranboo says, hurrying over to him, and Tommy flinches back, instinctively aiming his web shooters. Ranboo puts his hands up, clearly just as nervous as Tommy. “We didn’t take your mask off, dude, we swear. We had to, uh, take your suit off, but that’s because it probably would’ve infected your burns. We put your web shooters back on, though!”

Tommy looks down, and sure enough, he’s in a pair of joggers way too long to be Tubbo’s, and a novelty t-shirt, one that Puffy probably sells at her shop. “Oh. Um. Thank you…?” he says, and he pretends to notice Tubbo for the first time, snapping his fingers. “Hey! I know you, you’re the interview kid! How are you, man? Didn’t get hurt in the bank blast, did you?”

“No, no, I’m—I should be asking you how you are,” Tubbo says, eyes wide. Good. That’s really good. Tommy’s not sure if he’d be able to handle the idea of Tubbo getting hurt because of Spider-Man. Tubbo takes his silence as a question—which it hadn’t been, Tommy just keeps getting lost in his thoughts. “Um, right, so...I was sort of following crime alerts to try and interview you, y’know? And, see, I saw the bank alert, but I didn’t get there until after the bomb had gone off, and at that point, I was looking for shortcuts on the way back to school and—”

“He found you unconscious in an alleyway and texted me for help,” Ranboo blurts, and Tubbo glares at him. Ranboo gestures between them and Tommy frantically. “Wh—! C’mon, Tubbo, I’m kinda losing it here! I still vote we tell Puffy.” Ranboo crosses his arms, and Tubbo whacks him upside the head. It’s a bit of a stretch for him.

Tommy, on the other hand, completely agrees with Tubbo. “No one is telling anyone that I’m here, is that clear?” he asks in the most commanding tone of voice he can manage, and it must work, given that Ranboo and Tubbo both nod. With a sigh, Tommy turns his attention to Tubbo, who beams. “While I appreciate the help—and trust me, I appreciate it a lot—I’m going to have to ask you to stay away from active crime scenes from now on. It’s dangerous, especially for civilians. Your friend here’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

Ranboo blinks in surprise at the sudden compliment. “Oh, uh...thank you, Mr. Spider-Man,” he says, and Tommy almost snorts. He still feels exhausted, a bone-deep kind of tired aching all throughout his body. Ranboo jumps, like he’s just remembered something, and he reaches into a bag, handing Tommy an undamaged suit. “Here’s your suit, before you go. Tubbo fixed it up for you. He didn’t add anything fancy, I made sure.”

“Because Ranboo is a killjoy, I wasn’t able to make any actual modifications, only enough repairs to put it back in working condition,” Tubbo explains with a pout, and Tommy holds the bundle of fabric with a grip so strong, he’s probably going to have to think of Henry to unstick his hands. “I did sew some stronger fabrics into your hoodie and shorts, just so that they don’t fall apart like that every time you encounter a bomb.”

“Not that we hope you encounter any more bombs anytime soon!” Ranboo hurries to add, waving his hands in front of him. “Today must’ve sucked for you dude, we’re sorry.”

Tommy just waves dismissively. This is his burden to bear, not theirs. “I’ll get out of your hair now,” he says, opening up Tubbo’s window. He hesitates, glancing back at his two friends. What they’d done for him today is absolutely insane, and Ranboo doesn’t even like Spider-Man. He’s really fucking lucky. “Thanks again, fellas.”

Their farewells fading away as he swings out of sight, Tommy lets himself breathe. He’s still dangerously close to passing out, so he definitely can’t head back to school. It might completely blow his cover, but he can always say that Phil caught him on his way back and made him stay home because of the explosion. That would probably work. Christ, he’s so fucking tired. Not only physically, but, like, his brain is exhausted. Tommy feels like he needs a three-day nap.

Landing in his usual alleyway, Tommy stuffs both his fixed supersuit and the clothes that they’d let him leave with in the duffel bag and slowly but surely pulls on his usual going-home clothes; a good old sweatshirt and baggy jeans. If he can’t see any injuries, neither will his family, and Tommy would very much like to keep it that way.

He climbs up to his window from the side of the house and slips into his bedroom. Tubbo will probably bring his abandoned backpack over later, but for now, Tommy’s just going to crawl into bed and pass out. God, he can’t wait to fall asleep in his own bed instead of a fucking alleyway. Tommy mentally kicks himself as he ducks under the covers and brings Henry up to his chest, cradling the little cow there.

It had been astronomically stupid to pass out in an alley like that. His identity could’ve been exposed, Lefty could’ve found him and finished off the job, he could’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom—God, Tommy feels so fucking dumb. He should’ve just grit his teeth and bore the pain, should’ve gotten himself home, even if he’d never be able to make it back to school. The Sense should’ve fucking warned him that someone was there, but it’s decided to be a bitch and come and go as it pleases.

Tommy shudders as a breeze rushes in through the still-open window. He should really get up and close it, but he can’t. His entire body isn’t moving. Tommy would panic about it more, but he’s already on the verge of sleep. As his eyes slide shut, he hears the door creak open, and there’s a gasp—then a scream.

And Tommy falls asleep.

*****

Someone’s humming.

When he wakes up again, the sun’s gone, and there are fingers carding through his hair. His eyes are still shut, but Tommy knows he’s awake anyway. He leans into the touch, cringing when the action brings him away from Henry. As he tugs Henry closer to him, there’s a very familiar laugh amongst the hums, as if the mirth is carrying the tune in harmony with the voice creating it. He shifts, and the hand in his hair brushes his curls away from his face.

“Welcome to the land of the living, kiddo,” Kristin murmurs, and Tommy’s eyes immediately open. She chuckles again, gently nudging him down against the pillow as he tries in vain to sit up and tackle her in a hug. Worrying at her bottom lip, Kristin looks back and forth between his eyes. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No,” Tommy says in a voice too small for his body, and Kristin shuts her eyes and sighs, thumb brushing just below a cut on Tommy’s cheek. He winces, and she draws back. “What are you doing back so early, n’yways? New York kick you out or something?”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “No, I wasn’t kicked out of New York. I came home early ’cuz I was worried about you,” Kristin tells him. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Alright, fine, I also missed the rest of my boys, but Phil...he called last night. And honestly, I understand why. I know, I know, you don’t want to talk about it. I just think you should. If not to me, then...to someone, alright? I know how hard it can be to keep secrets—or feel like you have to—from the people you love. I don’t want that for you, Tommy, none of us do.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Tommy clutches harder at Henry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Kristin looks absolutely heartbroken. Through his tired haze, Tommy can’t really understand why she’s so sad, and he reaches up with the hand not holding Henry to squeeze her wrist gently. “I’m sorry.”

She looks away from him; Tommy doesn’t know why. “It’s not you, buddy,” she says, and Tommy hasn’t heard that nickname in a long time. The television’s on, it’s muted, but Tommy can still see news footage of the bank explosion.

Officer Davenport.

His breath catches in his throat, and Tommy suddenly can’t breathe, and he can’t see because of these stupid fucking tears. Kristin pulls him in close, clearly panicked, and Tommy laughs for a second before it dissolves back into sobs. “S’my fault,” he croaks out, too tired to filter what he’s saying, and Kristin pulls back, brows furrowed in confusion as she wipes his tears away with her thumb. “S’all my fault, Mum, I—! Dammit!”

“Want me to get Phil? Or Wilbur?” Kristin asks, and Tommy shakes his head. Things are still so awkward between them, and Tommy doesn’t exactly want to talk about what’s happened. “Okay, Toms, that’s okay. I’ll stay here. You, uh, kind of stink, though, you might want to take a shower whenever you’re feeling up to it.”

A surprised bark of a laugh bubbles up from Tommy, and he’s soon shaking with laughter, Kristin still rubbing a soothing hand between his shoulders. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, but Tommy assumes that’s just the regeneration at work. The door opens quietly, and Tommy doesn’t really have the energy to look up to see who it is.

“Hey, Kristin, Phil wanted me to—oh! Oh, he’s up,” Techno’s voice says from the doorway, and Tommy feels Kristin suppress her laughter. He pulls away from her and sits up properly, and Techno’s eyes go wide. “You look terrible. Not—I don’t mean it like that, I...Tommy, what the hell happened to you? Do I have to go beat someone up? ’Cuz I’ve got plans later, and I only get so much social interaction a year, so…”

“At ease, soldier, we don’t know what happened,” Kristin says, a teasing lilt to her voice, and Tommy slumps back against his pillows. He winces when the metal of the bullet he’d hidden bites into his hip. Thankfully, Kristin and Techno just take it as him being generally in pain, and she turns back to Techno. “What does Phil need?”

Techno shifts, foot to foot. “He’s askin’ if you wanted to join us for dinner. He probably doesn’t know you’re up yet, Tommy,” he explains, and Tommy feels his stomach lose its figurative mind at the notion of food. He shifts to start standing, then winces. Techno looks unimpressed. “I’m not carryin’ you downstairs, better learn to walk again.”

“You fuckin’ learn to walk, you asshole, I’ll stab the shit out of you,” Tommy grumbles, and Kristin’s twinkly laugh fills the room.

“There he is,” she says softly, ruffling his hair. “Good to have you back, buddy.”

*****

Chapter Text

Techno knows something’s going on with Tommy.

Aside from the obvious—the slipping grades, the lashing out, the mysterious injuries—he’s noticed that Tommy’s been sneaking out. That in itself isn’t particularly telling, Techno knows Tommy sneaks out occasionally to mess around in the abandoned parts of the tube line, but it happens during the day, too. Techno will go up to Tommy’s room to check on him for whoever’s the most concerned and awkward that day and find no trace of the kid.

Since Techno’s not heartless, he’s been covering for Tommy, but this method has somehow convinced Phil that Techno is currently the only member of their family that Tommy talks to properly, which is horrible for multiple reasons. Techno would much rather hand Tommy’s problem child behavior  off to Kristin, but Kristin is a parental figure and is therefore obligated to report Tommy’s absences and personal business to the other parental figure in the household. Wilbur, admittedly, has also been giving Tommy a pretty hard time, and the awkwardness is almost too much for Techno to bear, so Techno’s not about to pawn him off to Wilbur, either. Not to mention, Wilbur’s a snitch.

Techno sighs; he can’t concentrate on his assignments right now. He leans back in his desk chair and glances over at the few decorative swords on the wall. He keeps the good ones in his workshop, but the few expensive ones he owns—including the cutlass from Kristin—are up on his wall. He wonders, idly, if he should teach Tommy more proper techniques for fighting. If someone at school is giving him a hard time or whatever, Techno could probably set some time aside to help his kid brother out.

It’s not as if Tommy would take his help, though. He’s been denying it from everyone else in their family, after all. But Techno would still offer. And contrary to popular belief, Techno actually does care about Tommy’s wellbeing. Something’s clearly wrong here, and if Tommy won’t even talk to Kristin about it, well…it’s definitely a problem.

See, Techno’s initial plan was just to keep covering for Tommy, to keep minding his business and pretending that no, Phil, Tommy’s just taking a nap and yes, Wilbur, Tommy’s feeling much better. Now, though, Tommy’s been gone for a day and a half straight, and Techno is this close to telling Phil and having him file a missing person report.

Phil knocks on his door—Techno can tell it’s Phil because Wilbur just barges right in, usually—and Techno opens it, not at all surprised by the worried expression on his face. “Tech, have you seen Tommy today? He’s not in his room,” he says, and Techno holds back a sigh.

“I think he said he was staying at that Ranboo kid’s place, but I wasn’t really listening,” Techno lies through his teeth, feeling kind of guilty as relief clearly washes over Phil. He shifts from foot to foot. “Um, Phil, have you managed to talk to him at all? Talk to him seriously, I mean, we all know the kid can talk endlessly about nothing.”

There’s that tension again. “I haven’t, no,” Phil says, arms wrapped around himself, and Techno feels bad for even bringing it up. Phil sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, looking more tired than Techno’s seen him in a while. “I’m sorry, Tech, I should be asking you how your classes have been going. You doin’ alright, mate?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Techno says, and the two of them fall into an awkward silence. Again, something incredibly unusual. It’s always been easy with Phil; Kristin’s more unpredictable, more chaotic, and while Techno’s chaotic moods crop up occasionally, they do pass. Phil and Techno get along because they both prefer calm to chaos, with Wilbur being an easy mix of both, and Tommy definitely leaning towards chaotic. Their family dynamic is weird. Techno clears his throat. “Classes are good.”

“Good,” Phil says, nodding, “that’s good.”

The tension is palpable.

“So, um, did you need anything else, or…?” Techno asks, and Phil opens his mouth to say something else, but evidently decides against it, shaking his head and giving Techno’s shoulder a brief squeeze before heading back downstairs. Techno can hear the television switch on; it’s some news report about that Spider-Man kid.

“…been active for quite some time now, almost 39 hours straight of civilians reporting Spider-Man sightings in the greater London area,” the newscaster’s voice travels up to the second floor, and Techno pauses, his door halfway closed. “We’re getting word now that this is likely due to the criminal responsible for the robbery that occurred on Friday afternoon on Eighth Street. Reports say he fled the scene, and Spider-Man confirmed that this has been the motivation of his patrol vigil to an amateur reporter on Twitter.”

Techno closes the door. He’s already been blackmailed by Tubbo into following that stupid stan account, he doesn’t need to hear the interview twice. He settles back into his desk chair and huffs at the cursor still blinking on a painfully blank document. He really has to get this assignment done, it’s due in a few days.

But he really can’t concentrate, given that Tommy’s absence is still nagging at the back of his mind. Maybe he’s way off here, but Techno’s pretty sure a seventeen-year-old doesn’t stay out for over twenty-four hours without a serious reason. Sure, Tommy’s spent weekends at Tubbo’s before, but never without a call or text; the kid always forgets something at home, and Wilbur always takes it to him, proceeding to complain to Techno about it the entire time.

He hates to admit it, but Techno’s too worried about Tommy to concentrate on his classes. Huh. Usually, it’s the other way around.

Techno gets up and slips out of his room, padding quietly across the hall, because if anyone catches him snooping, Techno will never hear the end of it. He presses his ear against Tommy’s door, hoping to hear the telltale bumps and clunks of Tommy moving around. Kid’s ridiculously clumsy, he can’t not make noise. Techno doesn’t hear anything, so he gingerly opens the door, careful not to make it squeak like it always does.

Sure enough, the room’s empty, the bed perfectly made and the desk clean. That in itself is odd, especially for Tommy, whose organization method seems to be tossing things wherever and hoping he’ll find them again eventually. Techno spots something peeking out from underneath the bed, and he crouches down to drag it slowly out.

It’s the first-aid kit.

That wouldn’t be surprising ordinarily—like Techno had said, Tommy’s a clumsy kid—but it’s absolutely stuffed with medical supplies, the kind of stuff you have to buy at, like, a pretty decent store, and Techno doesn’t remember Phil going on any first-aid supply runs recently. Techno carefully tucks the first aid kit back under the bed and stands again, looking around the bedroom. Maybe he should feel worse about snooping in Tommy’s stuff than he does, but no kid needs that many bandages. Something is seriously wrong.

Techno heads over to Tommy’s desk and starts to sift through the neatly stacked pile of papers by the monitor. He pauses; the corner of the desk has been haphazardly glued back together. Weird. Techno goes back to the papers. There are a few assignments, all of them marked lower than Tommy would normally get on homework, but Techno files that under ‘unpack later’ and keeps sorting through the stack. Some doodles, most of them so crude it’s hard to make heads or tails of anything Tommy had been trying to draw.

Class notes, grid paper with indecipherable graphs, pretty much normal crap that Techno finds completely uninteresting. Techno’s about to give up on finding anything on the desk when he comes across some sketches that are actually pretty decent. They look old, the ones at the front of the page anyway, but there are some on the back that are newer, less smudged.

They’re covering a notebook, and Techno’s hesitates. Delving into Tommy’s notebook seems like a bit of a bigger invasion of privacy. He shrugs. Sue him, he’s nosy. As he opens up the book, his eyes go wide. These are all inventions, with specs so detailed, Techno can’t even understand half of them. He knows Tommy’s smart, but Christ. It’s no wonder his grades are slipping when he’s spending all this brainpower on these…gadgets.

None of them are labeled, so Techno doesn’t know what they’re for, but they still contribute to the pit of anxiety that’s settled in Techno’s gut. The first aid kit, the disappearances, the sketches—something clearly bigger than school issues or friend problems is going on with Tommy. He should probably tell Phil about this. But if he does, Tommy’s going to either give Techno the cold shoulder or be extra annoying.

And Techno can’t take his chances with the latter.

But he also hates it when Phil’s mad at him. Well, Phil never gets mad, but the silent disappointment on his face until things blow over is always the worst. He really is stuck between Scylla and Charybdis here; he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do. Techno groans, sitting down on Tommy’s bed and rubbing his eyes. There’s something digging into his thigh, and Techno’s brow furrows, lifting the corner of the pillow where it meets his leg and grabbing the little object.

It’s a bullet.

Why is there a bullet on Tommy’s bed?!

Inhaling sharply, Techno drops the bullet, and it clatters to the ground, the sound thankfully dulled by the carpet. What the hell is Tommy doing with a bullet?! Okay, Techno definitely has to tell Phil about this now. Does Tommy have a gun?! Who sold Tommy a gun?! Techno runs a hand through his hair, completely and utterly frazzled.

Dammit, now he’s got to go watch the news in case Tommy’s there being arrested for armed robbery or something.

Techno carefully tucks the bullet into his pocket and straightens up the papers he’d strewn around Tommy’s desk, then slips out of the room and heads downstairs. Phil and Kristin are chatting happily on the couch, cuddled together. Disgusting. “Hey,” Techno says, unsure, and both of them look up at him, twin ghosts of laughter still on their faces. “You guys, uh, watchin’ the news still?”

“Yeah! Spider-Man’s still out and about, that’s mostly what’s on,” Kristin says with a shrug, and Techno’s nods, sinking into his usual armchair. She huffs and leans over to nudge Techno’s arm. “Hey, what do you make of this Spider-Man guy, Tech?”

Shrugging, Techno glances over at the screen. Spider-Man pictures—mostly from Tubbo’s Twitter, Techno knows—are being cycled through next to the news anchor. “He’s alright, seems like he’s got good intentions,” Techno says, and Phil hums his agreement. “Thanks again for the cutlass, Kristin. Looks great with the antique scabbard.”

“Oh, the one with the rubies on the handle?” Phil asks, and Techno nods. It’s one of his favorites, Phil had bought it for him for Christmas one year. Phil takes a sip of tea and then perks up, and Techno sinks down into his chair. “Say, Techno, how’s that essay going for your Greek class?”

“The Greek language is a burden on my shoulders and a plague on my mental health,” Techno answers, not at all dramatically, and Kristin laughs. “How’s your generic office job, old man?”

Phil points a finger at him. “Shut.”

The news cuts to what’s clearly shaky footage from Tubbo’s Twitter, but it’s something Techno hasn’t seen before. “Spider-Man! Spider-Man! How do you plan on stopping 404?” Tubbo’s voice says from behind the camera, and Techno furrows his brow in confusion. Evidently, Spider-Man’s just as confused, because he tilts his head and waits for Tubbo to elaborate. “I call him 404 because he hasn’t been found. Like the web error, y’know?”

Techno snorts, and Phil and Kristin both laugh. That’s actually a little clever. “I’ve been, uh, trying to track him down,” Spider-Man says, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Something tinged with fear sparks at the back of his mind, and Techno sits up a little straighter. “Trying out different patrol routes, stuff like that. Might be hard, all things considered, but thank you for your support, kid. Rest assured, I’m doing everything I can to protect this city.”

He tries to place where he’s heard that voice before. It sounds so familiar, and not just from the clips he’s seen on his Twitter feed. Techno frowns, leaning forward in his seat. “Hey, does he sound—I dunno, like—”

Spider-Man’s boisterous laugh echoes through the room.

Oh, shit.

*****

Tommy’s having a day.

Not a good day—he’s only caught a few wrong’uns today—and not a bad day—he hasn’t been shot, only lightly stabbed—but a day. Well, technically his ‘day’ has lasted about forty-two hours, so it’s really no wonder he’s had a day. He’s in an isolated enough area and on a high-up enough building to take his mask off and properly eat some takeout he’d gotten at a food truck a couple minutes ago. Thank fuck for falafel.

As he devours his food, Tommy reflects on what little he’s accomplished in terms of learning about—as Tubbo had called him—404. He’d checked every shady part of the damn city, combed through every disgusting alleyway and abandoned fucking warehouse. No leads, no clues, no four-oh-fucking-four. The guy’s a shitty mockery of an enigma, and Tommy can’t find him anywhere. The man leaves no trace!

In any case, he should probably head home sometime soon. If Phil asks, Tommy’s just going to say he’s been at Tubbo’s or something. Tubbo would cover for him. Honestly, Tommy’s surprised Phil hasn’t already asked him about any of his mysterious disappearances. Now that Kristin’s home, Tommy’s had to avoid two pairs of eyes, and he doesn’t really know how he’s still getting away with it.

Tommy scarfs down the rest of his meal and sets the takeout container aside; he’ll toss it out on his way home, but for now, he’d love to just look out at the sunset and take it in. Tommy hasn’t let himself have a break in forty-two hours, after all. He should probably feel much more tired than he does, but he supposed it comes with the superpower territory.

The sky’s so pretty at this hour, and the view is so much better from up here. Tommy hasn’t seen a proper sunset in ages. “Oh! Hello, Shp—suh-Spider-Man,” someone says from behind him, and Tommy tugs his mask back on, turning to see—what the fuck is Wilbur doing here?! He gives him a tentative wave, and Wilbur hums, clearly drunk. “Are you up here t’smoke too?”

“Smoke…?” Tommy asks, brows furrowed. Wilbur waves dismissively, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket along with a lighter. Tommy frowns; Wilbur doesn’t smoke.

Wilbur offers him a cigarette, and Tommy shakes his head. “Ah, should’ve known a superhero wouldn’t smoke,” he says, putting the one he’d offered between his lips instead and carefully lighting it. Tommy makes a face; the smell is fucking putrid, and it’s only made worse by his enhanced senses. Wilbur doesn’t even cough or anything. “You here t’stop the party?”

“What party?” Tommy asks, tilting his head. Wilbur just shrugs, and Tommy stands, crossing his arms. Wilbur’s supposed to be at a Teacher’s Association conference this weekend. That’s what he’d told the rest of them, at least. “Is there something going on I should be stopping?”

Wilbur just takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Nah, Quackity’s jus’ throwing one for the teachers from the conference,” he slurs, and he sits down on the roof. Tommy walks over and sits next to him. “Spider-Man, do superheroes give good advice?”

Tommy twiddles his thumbs. The cigarette smoke stinks. He can’t believe he hadn’t known Wilbur smokes. “Sure, but do you have to smoke? Those fuckers kill you, and it smells like absolute shit,” he says, and Wilbur lets out a surprised laugh, but he puts the cigarette out next to him. “Uh, thanks.”

“Not about to say no to a guy that can kick my ass,” Wilbur says, and his breath smells like cigarettes. Tommy hates it. A lot. “Anyways, I got this brother, right? Good kid, s’got a helluva head on his shoulders, but he’s been, like the worst lately. Just. Ugh. Not like s’his fault or anything, but he’s not exactly doin’ anything to fix things, f’you catch my drift. What d’you think, big fancy hero man?”

“I think you’re drunk and need to get home,” Tommy says easily, and Wilbur’s comment about him being the worst definitely doesn’t sting, no sir, not at all. Wilbur makes some kind of weird noise and flips him off. Tommy snorts. “Alright, well…good luck with your brother, man. And quit smoking. Health risks aside, it makes you look like a douche.”

Wilbur shoots him a thumbs-up and a drunken little grin, and Tommy sighs, picking up his empty takeout container and waving at Wilbur as he falls backwards over the edge of the roof. He lets himself relish in the breeze for a solid five seconds before shooting a web out towards a nearby skyscraper and swinging off towards a nearby garbage can.

Slam-dunk! Fuck yeah!

Tommy starts to swing off towards his normal alleyway, but he catches a whiff of smoke. Not Wilbur’s cigarette kind, but the even-worse kind. Ah shit, he’d thought Fire Guy was done with this bullshit. Sure enough, though, there’s a plume of smoke coming from a little bit away, and Tommy redirects his swinging. The building is just a couple webs away, and it seems like the firefighters are already there. That’s good. Tommy can get any civilians in and out much more safely than usual.

He lands on the roof and swings down into the top floor, relieved when he bumps into a fireman putting out the last of the smaller fires. “Spider-Man,” the fireman says, and his voice sounds surprisingly familiar. “Glad to see you. There aren’t any civilians left in the building, but we could use your help getting some of the debris cleared. D’you mind?”

Tommy nods, and the firefighter directs him to the stairway. He heads down, and, just like the fireman had said, the stairwell is blocked up by debris. Tommy starts shifting it out of the way, webbing it to the wall so that it won’t fall on those trying to clear out the fires, and there are footsteps behind him, probably the fireman again.

“Hey, man, I’ve almost got the third floor cleared out, should be just another minute,” he says, not looking behind him, which, he realizes, is stupid as fuck. A pressure hits the very nape of his neck, and Tommy suppresses a shudder at the cool feel of metal against the suit. Slowly putting his hands up, Tommy turns. “Don’t do anything crazy, alright? I’ve got a family movie night to get to, you don’t want me to miss Moana, do you?”

The firefighter from before—at least Tommy had been right about that—hums, shoulders shrugging. “Eh. I like Frozen more,” he says, switching the safety off. Tommy groans as the firefighter lifts the gun to point between his eyes. This might get ugly. The firefighter, probably Fire Guy, chuckles lowly. “Sucks that this is gonna be over so soon. I was looking forward to dragging your death out.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. The guy talks a tough game, sure, but Tommy’s been shot before. If he jumps to the ceiling in time, the bullet will probably hit him in a non-lethal area. Or he could go the funnier route and distract him. “Am I the Elsa or the Anna in this situation? I feel like I’m Elsa,” Tommy says, and the firefighter sputters, clearly confused. Tommy crosses his arms, one hand cupping his chin. “No, yeah, I’m definitely Elsa here. I’m about to make you let it go.”

Not his best work, but he kicks out and knocks the pistol out of Fire Guy’s hands, and the guy groans as Tommy webs it to the floor. Hah! Checkmate, motherfucker. “That’s so not funny, that’s not even how the movie—fucking whatever, Spider-Man, I’ll kick your ass anyway,” Fire Guy growls, and Tommy has to dodge his fist in order to try and web his foot. Unfortunately for him, he misses, and the guy slices his arm with a knife that Tommy hadn’t seen before, what the fuck?! As Tommy gets a good jab in at the guy’s stomach, he stumbles back and leans into his walkie-talkie. “That arachnid motherfucker’s here, put him to sleep!”

Shit. Spore dude. 404. Tommy’s gonna be down for the count in less than ten minutes if that shitbag blasts him in the fact with a fucking fart cloud of mushrooms like last time. His metabolism works as much magic as it can, but whatever’s in that gas is like melatonin on goddamn steroids. But Tommy’s gotta get by Fire Guy to get out.

Flinging out a leg to try and sweep the back of Fire Guy’s knees, Tommy ducks out of the way as Fire Guy aims another punch at his face. Rude. His face is his best feature. Tommy throws out another punch—another web, too—and misses. How the hell is this guy so nimble?! He’s built like a brick fucking wall. Tommy wracks his brain for a plan, and it shouldn’t be this hard, his brain is usually chock full of inane plans, but he’s blanking. The Sense is failing him, not warning at all when Fire Guy punches, meaning Tommy’s ribs are pretty bruised already.

Tommy hates it, but he’s going to have to listen to the flight half of his fight-or-flight. Taking a deep breath, incredibly pained by the aforementioned bruised ribs, Tommy leaps for the ceiling, sticking a web straight to Fire Guy’s face as he dashes away, but he doesn’t get far before Fire Guy starts slashing wildly at Tommy’s legs as he tries to pry the web off his face.

Dropping down at the top of the landing, Tommy dashes to move back up the steps, groaning as fucking 404 himself appears in the doorway to the top floor. “You have got to be kidding me, I’m going to miss Moana for this?!” he shouts, immediately whipping webs at 404’s gun. Thank fucking God, it jams, and Tommy attaches a web to each side of the stairwell and backs himself up, slingshotting himself to the top and kicking with both feet at 404’s chest.

404 topples over like he’s made out of cardboard, and Tommy grabs him by the front of his shirt, holding him over the stairs. The spore gun lays discarded at Tommy’s feet. “Let go, you freak,” 404 huffs, craning his neck to look back at Fire Guy, who’s still struggling and stumbling with the web on his face. “Blaze, you useless idiot, help me!”

“The fuck kind of name is Blaze?!” Tommy says, positively bewildered and absolutely entertained. He just tosses 404 down at the guy—Blaze, what a dumb fucking name—and charges up the spore gun before tossing it down at them. “You forgot your gun, fellas!”

The gun positively explodes into a cloud of green spores, and Tommy whistles as he starts to head into the next room. God, that felt great. There’s no way those fuckers are going anywhere for at least a few hours, if the news coverage of the bank heist is to be trusted. But…404 hadn’t been knocked out during the robbery, and the other guy’s mask is probably just like 404’s if they’re working together. Oh, for fuck’s sakes.

There’s a bullet in his already-been-shot-on-a-previous-occasion shoulder.

“I got him,” one of the fuckers says, and Tommy is so going to lose it if he misses the first twenty minutes of Moana. “404, move in, I’m still—my face is sticky, man!”

“How the fuck is that my fault?! You’re supposed to be the muscle, and that spider-fuck toppled you over like it was nothing!” 404 yells back, and Tommy turns around to look down at the two of them. They’re shoving at each other on the landing.

Well. Tommy had been right. Looks like they’ve both got gas masks.

And it appears they’re too busy arguing to stop Tommy from ducking out of the building and making his way out. He’d stop them, but…bullet in the shoulder. Also, he’s very fond of Moana, and Kristin always does this really funny commentary when they're all watching movies that makes Phil do that dumb snort-laugh. By then, even Techno’s laughing, and they’re all happy enough that Tommy can convince them to watch Up.

Tommy relies on his one good arm to propel himself to his typical alleyway. The duffel bag, his saving grace, is still tucked away in its usual corner. Thank fuck for oversized sweaters. It’s a pain in the ass to put the sweater on, but at least it’s less painful than the last couple of times, since he’s been getting used to it. The cuts on his arms and leg do sting, but they typically patch themselves up pretty quickly.

He slings the duffel over his shoulder and starts to head back to the house, making sure Henry’s little head is tucked safely into the bag. The walk home is fine; not nearly as many people notice him when he’s just Tommy. Which means nobody notices his slight limp as he walks down the street. Tommy’s gotta get that under control before he gets home.

When he does get home, Tommy closes the door as quietly as possible and tries to tiptoe up the stairs, only to be caught out by Phil, who pauses the Die Hard credits and comes over to sweep him into a hug. While Tommy would normally begrudgingly appreciate it, it’s really starting to hurt the bullet wound in his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m back so late, I was over at Tubbo’s,” Tommy says as Phil lets him go, and to his utter surprise, Phil looks incredibly confused, as does Kristin, who’s come into the hall.

“Techno said you told him you were at Ranboo’s,” Phil says, arms crossed, and Tommy mentally screams; he appreciates the cover, even if he doesn’t understand it, but now he’s got to come up with an excuse.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh, uh, yeah, we were at Ranboo’s and then we went over to Tubbo’s because Puffy made that really good stew again,” he lies through his damn teeth, and Phil nods, patting his shoulder—the good one, thankfully—and returning to the living room with Kristin. “I’ll just be a minute! Gotta set my stuff down.”

He heads into his room, closes the door, and takes the first aid kit out from under his bed, setting his sweater aside and pulling out the tweezers. He’s been through this song and dance often enough to grin and bear it without a gag, but it still hurts like hell. He sanitizes the tweezers with an alcohol wipe and takes a deep breath as he digs into the wound with the surgical tweezers and starts to pull.

The sick squelching noise is the same every time. Tommy supposes it’s probably not normal to be used to pulling bullets out of his, y’know, body, but then again, nothing about Tommy’s life has ever been normal. Superpowers aside, his family’s not exactly your typical British nuclear unit. This whole Spider-Man thing is just the radioactive cherry on a toxic waste sundae. Half the time, it’s a wonder the house is still standing.

All this to say, Tommy has gotten very good at distracting himself while cleaning up his alter-ego-induced injuries—it’s a necessity. Sighing as the bullet finally comes free with a nauseatingly wet sound, Tommy rolls his shoulder. The wound oozes sluggish blood, and Tommy makes a face. That part never gets any less gross.

Tommy’s so absorbed with keeping the bloodied bullet off his sheets while he unwraps another alcohol wipe with one hand to set it on that he doesn’t hear the door open. He does, however, notice The Sense at the back of his mind, and he snaps his gaze to the now-open door with wide eyes to see Techno standing there, a clean bullet in hand.

The bullet that had previously been under Tommy’s pillow.

Techno’s gaze falls on the bullet still clenched in the surgical tweezers, then back up at Tommy, shoulders dropping.

Fuck.

“Well,” Techno says slowly, “I guess you’re not a vampire.”

*****

Chapter Text

“Shut the fuck up and close the door,” Tommy hisses, darting up from his bed and shoving Techno inside, bloodied bullet and tweezers long since forgotten on the carpet. He’ll have to clean that shit up later. He hardly bothers to hold back his strength, and Techno stumbles into the room; he catches himself on Tommy’s desk as Tommy slams the door shut. Tommy rounds on Techno, a single finger pointed in his direction. “You didn’t see jack shit, got it?!”

Panic courses through Tommy as Techno looks down at the clean bullet in his hand and then back up. Tommy thinks he looks fucking stupid. Techno’s hand closes around the bullet, and Tommy groans, rushing to pick up the discarded one and wincing when the action proves too strenuous for his steadily bleeding shoulder. To his utter surprise, Techno’s shaky hands shoo his away and take the tweezers and bullet instead.

Still silent, which is freaking the fuck out of Tommy, Techno sets both items down on the desk and nudges Tommy into his desk chair, grabbing the first aid kit from the bed and taking out the peroxide. “The least I can do is patch you up,” Techno mumbles, and Tommy has never heard his brother’s voice tremble like this before. Techno gingerly takes Tommy’s arm and starts to gently disinfect the wound, starting in the middle. The worst part. Techno looks back and forth between each of Tommy’s eyes—which is, again, unusual, given Techno’s distaste for eye contact. “After you’re cleaned up, we’re gonna talk.”

There’s no room for argument, and Tommy tries to slump down in his chair. Techno won’t let him, grumbling something about how he’s gonna make it worse if he doesn’t sit still. “Would you believe me if I told you I got mugged?” Tommy asks, a lilt of wary hope to his tone, and Techno affixes him with a flat stare. Ah. No dice.

“I would find it pretty hard to believe Spider-Man got mugged,” Techno says, that slight tremble to his voice still there in spite of the sarcasm lacing it. Tommy grimaces. So Techno knows knows then.

Techno carefully reaches over to the surgical thread, still keeping pressure on the wound, and Tommy sputters. “Woah, woah, hey, I don’t—you don’t have to—”

Brow furrowing, Techno picks up the needle and thread anyway, gently taking the peroxide-soaked cloth away from Tommy’s shoulder and rubbing numbing cream over the area around the wound. “Tommy, are you tellin’ me you’ve gotten shot before and haven’t gotten stitches done?” Techno asks flatly, and Tommy gives him a sheepish grin. He hasn’t, but that’s because he’s got no clue how to do them up himself and he’s not about to ask Phil to take him to the hospital to get them done there. Techno closes his eyes for a moment, then returns to his meticulous work. “We are havin’ the longest conversation after this.”

“But must we, though—ow! Fuck, Techno, be careful,” Tommy hisses, and Techno stares at him with wide eyes, needle poking through Tommy’s skin, which, ew. Tommy has to look away; he can normally handle the gory parts of being a superhero, but this feels…ickier, somehow. Techno glances down at the empty packet of numbing cream, and Tommy sighs. “Right, yeah, so fun fact about the whole superpower thing, my metabolism goes, like, fuckin’ fast, so unless the meds I’m using are crazy strong, they’re pretty much ineffective.”

Techno practically wilts, eyes apologetic. “So I can’t give you painkillers or anythin’ like that, can I?” he asks, but he clearly already knows the answer. Tommy just smiles sadly at him, and he goes back to poking around in Tommy’s shoulder with a needle, looking up in worry at him with every noise of pain that manages to escape.

“It’s fine, big man, I’m alright. Been through worse shit, this is nothing,” Tommy tells him, but his attempt at consoling Techno seems to have the opposite effect. Instead of relaxing and continuing like Tommy had hoped, Techno whacks him upside the head and looks like a bastardized mix between furious and devastated.

“This isn’t nothing, this is me stitchin’ up my kid brother’s bullet wound in secret because he’s Spider-Man,” Techno grumbles, but he returns to the stitches nonetheless, and Tommy just sighs. There’s not really much he’s going to argue about, not right now, at least. Techno works in the silence that’s settled over them, wincing when Tommy does and setting down the needle and thread after a while. “There. I’ll take them out for you when you’re all healed up. Where else are you hurt?”

Tommy just waves dismissively. “Ah, the other ones aren’t bad, it’s like nothing, Tech, I heal like you wouldn’t believe,” Tommy says, all false confidence. Truth is, his arms hurt like fuck from being slashed by Fire Guy—Blaze, he should really remember that—and his leg feels worse, probably the shallowest of the cuts but the one that stings the most. Techno glares at him, and Tommy groans. “Fuckin’ fine, God, I—there’s some on my arms and one on my leg, but—! It’s not that bad, man, I can get ’em myself.”

Crossing his arms, Techno raises a brow, and Tommy kicks at his ankles. He relents, though, because on some level, very begrudgingly, he respects Techno’s practical medical knowledge, and maybe also respects him as a person, just a little. “I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret for so long, given your history of ruinin’ surprises. How many people know?” Techno asks, and Tommy feigns thinking about it before pointing right at Techno. Nodding, Techno starts to disinfect the gash on Tommy’s forearm. “Good. We’re keepin’ it that way. Now, I don’t particularly approve of this, but I’m not gonna stop you from bein’ Spider-Man.”

“You’re not?” Tommy asks, embarrassingly hopeful, and he clears his throat and glares at Techno. “I mean—of course you’re not, I’d kick your fuckin’ ass if you tried, wouldn’t even need superpowers to do it, I would just—”

“Tommy. Stop talkin’ and let me patch you up,” Techno grits out, more annoyed than he’d just been, and Tommy immediately falls quiet. Techno wraps up the cuts on Tommy’s arms and then crouches down to get the one gash on his leg. He sighs as he disinfects it. “I don’t want you to stop bein’ Spider-Man. Much as I hate that you’re…well, pullin’ a Tommy and puttin’ yourself in danger, you’re makin’ an actual change. I just want you to get shot less. Got it?”

Tommy grins, and Techno narrows his eyes. “Aww, Techie, you care,” he teases, and Techno presses down harder with the disinfectant, making Tommy hiss in pain. At least Techno looks kind of apologetic. Well, then Techno rolls his eyes and goes back to it, and it’s like normal again. “Um, thanks for helping me.”

Raising an eyebrow, Techno secures the bandages. “What was I supposed to do, let you get an infection and die? Phil, Wilbur, and Kristin would be sad. Can’t have all those mopey people around wantin’ to talk about feelings when I’ve got swords to sharpen,” he grunts, standing and crossing his arms. Aw, fuck, that’s Techno’s I-am-very-serious-listen-up face. “We’re gonna set some ground rules here.”

Tommy scoffs as he gets up from his chair, mimicking Techno’s stance. “Who the hell d’you think you’re talking to, bitch?! You’re gonna force Spider-Man to follow ground rules?!” Tommy demands, and Techno blinks slowly, unimpressed. Shit. He actually is serious. “Alright, fine, but I draw the line at a maximum of three.”

“I can work with that,” Techno says with an easy grin, and Tommy groans. Techno starts to list them off on his fingers. “Number one, you’re gonna text me when you get home so I can come take care of your injuries. You clearly have no idea what you’re doin’ here, but that’s not entirely unexpected, you barely know what you’re doin’ in general. Number two, you sit through my tutorin’ to get your grades up. I need volunteer hours for my scholarship, and you need to do better in school so Wilbur and Phil stop sniffin’ around. Number three, you explain the extent of your superpowers and any developments to me and I can use them for my own purposes in exchange for keepin’ this from Phil and Kristin.”

“Deal, great, and fine but only if my patrols don’t suck, I’m not about to sit there and move swords around for you when I’ve been fuckin’ shot or some shit,” Tommy says, and Techno shrugs, offering up a hand. Tommy shakes it, and Techno gestures to the bed, presumably for the first half of rule number three. He begrudgingly sits. “Alright, so what do you want to know about my insanely cool and amazing powers?”

Techno rolls his eyes. “I know the basics. Super strength, that weird web stuff, clearly heightened agility, given how high you can jump, and the regeneration and metabolism you mentioned just now,” he lists, and Tommy nods. He could get into specifics with those, but time is of the essence here; Tommy cannot miss any more of Moana than he has to. “So tell me about everything else, if there is anything else.”

“Well, all my senses are enhanced. Sight, smell, taste, hearing, the whole shebang. All of my powers were really uncontrollable for the first couple of days. You remember, the hallway lights, the migraines, all that shit,” Tommy says, and Techno nods. “I’ve got them mostly under control now, except for The Sense. Sorta this tingle I get at the back of my head that tells me danger’s coming, it’s super cool. I’m basically psychic, which makes me better than you.”

Stifling a snort, Techno glances up at his forehead and back to his face. “A tingle? You’ve got a Tommy Tingle?” he asks, and Tommy goes bright red, shoving Techno off the bed. He snorts as Techno looks completely surprised; it’s not an expression Tommy gets to see often, but it’s always priceless. The surprise quickly shifts back into a flat glare, and Tommy offers him a hand back up. When he pulls Techno to his feet with little effort, Techno’s brow furrows, and he squeezes Tommy’s shoulder. “Your muscles are really tense, man.”

Tommy nods. “Oh, yeah, that’s because I have to constantly restrain myself lest I accidentally use the full extent of my strength and harm others or injure myself as a result,” he explains with ease, and Techno’s typical dumb and apathetic face morphs into one of horror. “What? What the fuck did I say? Why is your face like that? It’s uglier than usual.”

There’s the glare again. “You’re insufferable,” Techno says, and Tommy beams at him. As he turns to put his sweater back on, Tommy hears Techno inhale sharply, and he turns around, raising a brow. “Tommy, your back is…what happened?”

Tommy scrabbles his hands over his back in a very cool and not at all goofy way, humming in recognition. “The scars? Ah, they’re no big deal. I’ve been lightly stabbed there a few times, shot there once, and the explosion hit me there after the bank heist,” he explains, pointing to each, and Techno winces. Tommy tosses on his sweater and claps Techno on the shoulder. “C’mon, asshole, let’s go watch Moana.”

“Can you tell if they’re putting it on right now with your Tommy Tingle?” Techno asks, and Tommy shoves him.

*****

Wilbur storms into the kitchen at six in the morning—Tommy’s only up because he’s foolishly agreed to study with Techno, which, ew—and he’s clearly very hungover, clothes disheveled and hair rumpled. It only takes about ten seconds for Phil to notice Wilbur’s presence, and he blinks in surprise over the lip of his mug.

“Oh, hey, Wil. Welcome home,” Phil says, and Wilbur flips him off, Phil raising his hands in mock surrender. Wilbur grabs the pot of freshly-made coffee and chugs some, coffee dripping down the sides of his face and chin. Tommy watches him with envy; ever since he’d gotten his powers, the effect caffeine has on him is practically nothing. Phil chuckles. “Have a good time at the teacher’s conference, did you?”

Tommy’s abruptly reminded of the smell of smoke on Wilbur’s breath. Gross. “It was fucking awful,” Wilbur says, voice gravelly. Tommy snickers, chomping away at his bacon, and Wilbur glares at him. “The fuck are you laughing at?”

Putting his hands up, Tommy stifles a laugh. “Nothing, nothing, you just look super stupid right now,” Tommy says, and Techno kicks his shin under the table. Tommy kicks him right back, a little harder. “Anyways, Wil, you look a right mess, how the hell are you gonna teach today?”

“I’m not, dumbass, we’re watching a fucking movie,” Wilbur says, chugging some more coffee before letting Phil usher him into his usual seat at the table. Techno slips a plate over Wilbur’s way, and Tommy steals some of his bacon. Yesterday was exhausting, he deserves proper sustenance, thank you very much. Wilbur’s clearly too out of it to care, though he does smack Tommy’s hand away when he goes back for more. “The conference wasn’t a total bust. At least I finally worked up the nerve to talk to Sally.”

“No you didn’t,” Techno says easily, and Tommy chokes on his juice.

Wilbur hangs his head. “No I didn’t,” he admits, and Tommy cackles as Wilbur hides his red face behind the mug Phil passes him. Techno smiles, a rare sight, and Wilbur sighs dejectedly, the melodramatic bastard he is. “I don’t know why I bother lying to you. I almost did, though! I was, like, super hopped up on—ah, Kristin, nice of you to join us—anyways, I was completely sober and was psyching myself up, but then Niki pulled me onto the dance floor and I lost sight of her.”

Kristin chuckles, clearly only having just woken up, and she ruffles Tommy’s hair as she walks by him towards the kitchen. Phil claps a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder as he sits down next to him, an easy grin on his face. “Don’t lie to your mother, you drunkard,” he says, and Wilbur squawks in offense, only for Phil to shove a scone in his face. “Not gonna get over your hangover unless you eat, Wil.”

“Let him lie, I do not wanna know,” Kristin says from the kitchen, and Tommy laughs, finishing up the last of his breakfast. Techno nudges his side, and Tommy groans. It’s too fucking early to be studying. But he did agree to Techno’s terms, and Techno’s held true to his end of the bargain so far. Tommy huffs, but he gets out of his seat anyway, ready to follow Techno out. Kristin enters just then, cup of tea in one hand and a plate full of breakfast in the other. “You two are already done? I just got here!”

“Studying,” is Techno’s very detailed and lengthy explanation, and Tommy rolls his eyes. Techno grabs Tommy’s arm and nods his head toward the hallway. Phil and Wilbur exchange a look; Techno’s really not good at this. “I’m helpin’ Tommy.”

Nodding, Tommy snatches his arm back. “This is unfortunately very true,” he says, and Wilbur raises an eyebrow. The bastard. Tommy gets an idea, his face lighting up as he turns to Phil; he’s a genius, he should win the Nobel Prize, he’s the smartest motherfucker to exist. “But if you’d rather we have a nice and wholesome family meal…?”

Phil sighs and shakes his head fondly. “The two of you can study after school’s out for Tommy, Tech, come sit with us,” he says, and Techno glares at Tommy as he begrudgingly sits back down. Tommy reigns triumphant once again. Phil looks over at Kristin, and Tommy snatches bacon from him this time. If Phil sees, he doesn’t seem to care. “I’ll be going into the office later than usual, d’you need a ride to pick your car up from the shop, love?”

“Oh, that’d be great, thanks,” Kristin says, and Tommy gets his hand smacked away by Wilbur, who catches him trying to take more bacon from Phil’s plate. He’s starving, give him a break. He glares at Wilbur but relents; Kristin’s looking over at them now. “By the way, Wil, I know you’re following that Spider-Man stuff pretty closely, did you see he was active all this weekend?”

Tommy and Techno look at each other. It’s actually kind of fun to have someone who can react with him, rather than having to silently stew in the knowledge that his family’s talking about him without knowing it’s him. Wilbur hums, moving around his eggs with his fork. “I did, kind of disappointed about last night’s fight, though,” he says, and Tommy’s face falls. Wilbur takes a bite of his eggs and gestures with his fork. “Like, I get that there were two of them against him, but to just leave them and let them go free to set more fires? Bit irresponsible, if you ask me.”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Tommy concentrates very hard on the table. He knows he should’ve powered through the pain, and Wilbur’s right, it had been irresponsible to leave 404 and Blaze free. To Tommy’s surprise, though, Techno clears his throat. “Wilbur, it’s not like there’s anythin’ more he could’ve done, the guy tried his best,” Techno says, voice even, and Tommy gives him a sad smile. It’s nice that Techno’s defending him, really, but he knows Techno would’ve agreed with Wilbur if he hadn’t known that it’s Tommy behind the mask.

Wilbur puts his hands up placatingly. “I’m just saying, isn’t he supposed to be a superhero? I think he’s a good person, sure, but c’mon. Even when he’s gotten hurt, it’s never stopped him before,” he points out, and Tommy shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Wilbur’s right, but Techno seems to be getting pissed off. Well, as much as Techno can outwardly show frustration.

Fists clenched at his sides, Techno leans forward. “He was shot. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a single person who’s successfully fought off two armed criminals while bein’ that injured,” Techno says easily, and Tommy gladly takes the bacon Kristin slips onto his plate from her own. “He made a smart move. Not like the cops had any success in catchin’ the guys either.”

“Well, the cops are useless bastards anyway,” Wilbur dismisses, and Tommy has to admit he’s got another great point there. “Besides, Spider-Man’s fought people off and been way more injured than just shot.”

“Shouldn’t that in itself tell you just how dangerous those guys must be?” Techno insists, and yeah, Tommy hadn’t exactly wanted to be on the receiving end of the spore gun again, or whatever Blaze has been using to set those fires. Then again, Wilbur’s still right. He should’ve done more, tried harder.

Wilbur scoffs. “This isn’t even the first time he’s gone off the rails. Don’t you remember the bank heist? Somebody died that day because Spider-Man missed him on his way out,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, and Tommy starts shaking. Wilbur just keeps going, paying no mind to Phil and Kristin’s wary glances, Techno’s glare, and Tommy’s clear horror. “I mean, he’s saved Eret before and helped Niki out, and I’ll always be grateful for it, cheers to him, seriously, but…c’mon, Tech. Even you’ve got to admit he’s not all that Twitter’s hyped him up to be.”

Techno slams his hands on the table, and Tommy jumps, eyes darting between his brothers. Wil looks absolutely bewildered—and slightly amused—and Techno looks furious. “Wilbur, I’m tellin’ you,” he says, and Wilbur blinks. “He did as good of a job as he could, and he’s the only one brave enough to do the damn job.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not bravery, it’s all unearned confidence,” Wilbur says, amusement lacing his tone, and Tommy sinks a bit lower in his seat. Yeah, maybe he hasn’t earned all the confidence he’s got, but the confidence he does have is because he’s cool as hell and kicks ass on the daily. Techno’s eyes narrow, and Wilbur laughs. “Seriously, Tech, chill out. Not like he gives two fucks about a random citizen’s opinion anyway, right?”

Ah. That’s always the kicker, isn’t it? Nobody filters what they say when they think the person they’re talking about isn’t around to hear them say it. Tommy knows that all too well; Ranboo’s well within his rights to be hesitant, but sometimes that shit—the idea that his friend doesn’t even trust him—can hurt. Only a little. Tommy’s not affected. No sir.

“Boys, calm down,” Phil says easily, and Techno leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Phil stifles a laugh as Wilbur and Techno continue to glare at each other. “Maybe we’ll make a rule about no Spider-Man talk at the table if this is how it’s gonna end every time.”

That would make two tables, then.

Kristin swats Phil’s arm playfully and smiles. “A little debate is healthy, don’t you think?” she jokes, and she hands Tommy another piece of bacon. Techno raises an eyebrow at him—given Tommy’s eaten enough bacon to make a whole pig, it’s understandable. Tommy just grunts, and Techno frowns. He’ll tell him about his weird carnivorous spider preferences later.

“Speaking of debate, I want no fights at dinner tonight, I’ve got some potential clients coming over,” Phil says, pointing at each of them, including Kristin, who scoffs. He glares jokingly at her. “They’re the ones from your New York branch, love, don’t lose your job.”

Wilbur nods and affixes her with a deadpan expression. “Yes, otherwise we’ll be left without our extravagant lifestyle,” he says, and Tommy bursts out laughing. Wilbur puts the back of his hand against his forehead and leans back in his chair so it’s almost tipping. “Oh, what would we do without this centuries-old shitty house?”

“Oh no, I hope you don’t fall,” Techno says, equally flatly, and he gently nudges the bottom of Wilbur’s chair. That’s all it takes for Wilbur to topple over, sprawled out on the ground. “L. What a tragedy. Taken too soon. Anyways.”

Tommy clutches at his side and pounds the table as Wilbur scrambles to stand, looking absolutely pissed. His face is scrunched up, and Tommy grins. “Look, he’s even uglier now,” he says, and Techno gives him a high-five without looking. They’re clearly the superior brothers.

Kristin can’t stifle her laughter anymore, and Wilbur turns to her in mock-offense, hand over his heart. “Look at Mumza, laughing at her eldest son’s demise,” he gasps, and Phil snorts, gesturing over to the pitcher of juice, and Techno passes it over. Wilbur shakes his head. “Wow, I really am invisible to you people. I’m a ghost. I’m Ghostbur.”

“You’re not a ghost, you’re a melodramatic little fucker,” Phil says.

Wilbur pouts at him, but he sits back down nonetheless. Techno nudges Tommy, and he groans, knowing that he can’t worm his way out of studying for much longer. “We oughta get to studyin’, Tommy’s got a test comin’ up soon,” Techno says, and Kristin and Phil nod, eerily in sync.

Tommy scowls, but he follows Techno upstairs anyway, hesitating at the door of Techno’s workshop. He’s normally not allowed in here; apparently there’s ‘dangerous equipment’ and Tommy ‘cannot be trusted’ around ‘open flames’ or some shit. Techno leads him in, and it’s pretty similar to what Tommy remembers—he hasn’t been in here in, like, four months, and the only differences are some newer-looking pieces of equipment and even more swords.

“I thought you were going to force me to study…?” Tommy asks, raising his eyebrows, and Techno nods towards the towering bookcase that takes up half a wall. Ah. “Damn, though you were gonna be cool and tell me ‘Tommy, you are so great and a bigger man than I ever will be, and now I will help you study the art of the sword because you are simply the world’s most amazing superhero.’”

Snorting, Techno tosses a textbook at him, and Tommy fumbles to catch it. Techno crosses his arms, clearly amused, the bastard. “I thought you’d use your Tommy Tingle,” he says, and Tommy whacks at his arm with the textbook.

“It’s not—! I’m going to stab you if you call it that one more time, it is not my fuckin’ Tommy Tingle, it is The Sense, you bitch,” Tommy huffs, and Techno chuckles. Techno sits down in an old-ass leather chair that creaks like Phil’s old man joints, and Tommy opens up the textbook. “Gross, why are you making me study literature?”

“Because it’s the class you’re doin’ the worst in, and Wil’s gonna have my head if he finds out I haven’t helped you out in his class while I’m tutorin’ you,” Techno says, and his posture seems to tense at the mention of Wilbur, even though he’s the one who’d brought him up. Techno looks uneasy, like he’s chewing on a food he doesn’t like, which is his ‘emotion processing’ face. “I’m, uh...sorry about breakfast. Wilbur was bein’ a dick.”

Tommy shrugs. “Not like he was wrong,” he says easily, and Techno looks appalled. “What? I could’ve done better. Powered through the pain n’ all that shit.”

“Okay, why the hell is everyone, including you, forgetting you got shot?!” Techno grumbles, running a hand through his hair. Tommy starts to try and reassure him, but Techno cuts him off, a finger pointing threateningly in his direction. He looks startlingly like Phil. “Don’t start. I don’t wanna hear about how it happens to you all the time or how you’re totally fine.”

“Well, what the fuck else do you want me to say, Techno?! It does happen all the time, and I’ve dealt with it alone plenty enough to know I’m always fine!” Tommy snaps, because fuck Techno for underestimating him. “Honestly, man, it’s like you think I can’t fend for myself!”

Techno shuts his eyes in exasperation. “I don’t think you can’t, Tommy, I think you shouldn’t, and I hate that you’re makin’ me talk about this,” he says, and Tommy scoffs. “I don’t like talkin’ about how I feel, or how you puttin’ yourself in danger makes me get all upset ’cuz that’s my kid brother out there, and I can’t do anything about it. D’you have any idea how terrifyin’ it is to watch back robberies and muggings that ‘Spider-Man’ has stopped?”

“So why are you watching?! How did this become about you?! I’m the one getting shot at, I’m the one who decides what I get to do with my abilities, and you’re making this about how oh-so-fucking-worried you are,” Tommy says, and Techno starts to argue, but he cuts him off mid-sentence. He doesn’t want to hear whatever bullshit Techno’s about to spew at him. “You know what? Maybe this little ‘ground rules’ arrangement isn’t gonna work out. Just don’t tell anyone else, I’ll mind my business and handle things alone, just like I’ve been for the past few months, and you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Tommy, you’re not listenin’ to me,” Techno says, brows furrowed, and Tommy rolls his eyes. If he gets another stinted attempt at Techno expressing his emotions, he might have to stab himself with a sword. “I’m not tryin’ to make this about me, and...I’m sorry that I did. I’m just—if it were Tubbo, wouldn’t you be worried?”

“If it were Tubbo, he’d be using his powers to cause chaos, not fight crime,” Tommy answers, trying very hard not to lean into the weirdly genuine conversation Techno’s trying to have. He’s not used to this; he wants things to go back to normal. He wants Techno to go back to not-so-jokingly accusing him of being a vampire, exchanging a few pleasantries at family meals with him every once in a while, teaming up occasionally to take the piss out of Wilbur. But, Tommy supposes, accidentally revealing that you’re a superhero can really change an interpersonal dynamic. “Thanks for worrying, I guess. I hate this, by the way.”

Techno snorts. “You think I’m happy about tellin’ you how I’m feelin’? It’s the worst. I wanna go back to threatenin’ you with mild terrorism,” he says, and Tommy smiles. There it is. Techno nods at the textbook Tommy’s still holding and pulls up a stool. “C’mere, let me try and explain the plot of Les Mis in terms a five-year-old would understand.”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“Shut up and read about Jean Valjean,” Techno interrupts, jabbing a finger at the textbook, and Tommy sticks his tongue out at him.

It’s nice getting along with Techno, in all honesty. They’ve never been terribly close, and, granted, the Spider-Man secret probably isn’t the best way to facilitate ‘brotherly bonding’ or whatever, but Tommy remembers a good few Christmases where he’d managed to talk circles around Techno while being paired up to make paper garlands of snowflakes, and this has the same sort of energy to it.

Tommy focuses more on the reading, because if he’s honest with himself, nostalgia from the past isn’t exactly going to help him pass Wilbur’s class. Techno points something out every so often—some symbolism here, a little foreshadowing there, and Tommy’s pretty much breezing through the section of the book in Techno’s textbook in no time.

After another half an hour of reading, reluctantly listening to Techno, and being generally bored out of his mind, Tommy’s phone buzzes.

we’re outside!!!!!

Tommy drops the textbook, much to Techno’s chagrin, and he waves as he dashes out of Techno’s workshop, grabs his schoolbag, and heads out the door. Sure enough, Tubbo and Ranboo are waiting on his doorstep, and Tommy grins.

“’Ow do, fellas?”

*****

Chapter Text

“So...why exactly are we being stuffed into the auditorium?” Ranboo asks, and Tubbo shrugs. To be fair, Tommy’s got no clue either. They’d just been told to gather their things and head down, something about an announcement. Tommy hadn’t really been paying attention—evidently, even if he had, he’d still be as lost as Ranboo and Tubbo are right now.

Tubbo nudges his side. “Hey, did you guys want to come over to mine after school? Puffy got me an old gaming system from the thrift store, I wanna see if I can corrupt the system files,” he says, and Ranboo shakes his head in exasperation. Tommy gives him a fist bump.

As much as he’d love to bear witness to Tubbo fucking up source code to hell and back, Tommy’s got his daily patrol. “I dunno if I can make it, man,” he says, and Tubbo’s brow furrows. Thank fuck for Phil’s job. “Phil’s got some fancy fellas from his boring ass job coming for dinner, we’re supposed to make a ‘good first impression’ or whatever.”

“Why’s Phil letting you attend the dinner if he’s trying to make a good first impression?” Ranboo asks, an eyebrow raised, and Tommy reaches across Tubbo to shove his head. Dick. He’s about to say something really clever and witty that will absolutely devastate Ranboo, but Ranboo shushes him as the crowded auditorium quiets down. “Don’t get us in trouble, man.”

As their temporary headteacher takes the stage, Tubbo leans towards Tommy. “You’ve been busy almost every day for the past couple months, can’t you just leave my house before dinner at yours starts?” he whispers, and Tommy begrudgingly admits to himself that he has been leaving his friends in the lurch lately.

After a moment of deliberation, in which Tommy comes to terms with the fact that he actually kind of does miss hanging out with Tubbo and Ranboo, he nods. He can skip patrol for one day; what could possibly happen if he takes a day off? Tubbo grins at him, and Tommy rolls his eyes fondly as he turns to properly face the front. Of course Tubbo’s excited about hanging out today, he’s such a clingy bastard.

“Good morning, students and faculty,” Quackity says, shoulders squared out and chest puffed up. The guy exudes confidence, not to mention he’s actually been pretty cool in the time he’s stepped in for their previous headteacher. “As you all may know, the previous head had to, ah, step down, for lack of a better term, after he’d been arrested. Since that time, I’ve been appointed to temporarily take over, but I’m happy to announce that I’ll be your new, permanent headteacher!”

A smattering of applause rings throughout the auditorium, and Quackity waves dismissively—what a modest guy—until it falls quiet. “That’s great, Big Q’s so cool!” Tubbo whispers, and Ranboo nods eagerly. Tommy’s not complaining, either, given that Quackity has let him get away with so many unexcused absences.

Quackity grins easily and lets his hands fall to grip the podium. “Seeing as the rest of the temporary staff appointments have fallen through, I wanted to hold this assembly to let you all meet my faculty, who you’ll all have to be listening to. Not too closely, though,” he says with a wink, and Tommy laughs politely along with the rest of his peers. Quackity gestures to his right, and a man with a goofy smile and neon green suspenders—him and Quackity are kind of matching, now that Tommy thinks about it—steps forward, arms behind his back. “This is your new deputy headteacher, Charlie Sl—”

“You guys can just call me Charlie, I don’t mind!” the deputy head interrupts, leaning into the mic. Quackity looks slightly annoyed, but the tension in his shoulders quickly disappears as the crowd laughs. Tommy’s laughing too, this new deputy head seems much more fun than the temporary one. Charlie glances at Quackity, then back at the audience, then back at Quackity again, all in ridiculously quick succession. “Oh! My bad, go on!”

With a sigh, Quackity gestures to his left, and two men step up. “These two will be your assistant headteachers. The ginger’s not important,” he says, receiving both laughs from the students and a glare from said ginger, “and the man next to him is Karl Jacobs. He’s the one you’ll actually have to listen to.”

Mr. Jacobs gives the students an enthusiastic wave. Tommy glances around the stage to see if he can spot Wilbur. Sure enough, as Quackity drones on about something or another, Wilbur’s seated amongst the rest of the teachers, glaring daggers at the headteacher’s back. Tommy can see Ms. Saumon, too, and he’s surprised to find her giving the ginger Quackity had called unimportant a sympathetic grimace.

“Tommy, pay attention,” Tubbo hisses quietly, and Tommy jumps in his seat, blinking. Nothing interesting is happening on the stage, but Tubbo seems intent on him listening anyway, for some reason. “If you get detention, you can’t come over, dumbass.”

That, Tommy grants, is true.

Unfortunately, the announcements are boring as hell, and Tommy’s about ready to slam his head in a wall just to feel something again. The ginger on the stage seems to be staring very intensely at him, which is less boring, and Tommy straightens out of his slouch. The guy moves onto another target, and Tommy nearly scoffs. What a dickhead.

In any case, Tommy will have to tread lightly for a while now that the school’s gone and hired new teachers. The temporary replacements hadn’t really given much of a shit what Tommy had done, so long as he hadn’t actively caused trouble within school grounds. He’s got no clue how perceptive these new guys are, or how seriously they’ll take their jobs.

“...in any case, it’s my honor to be your official headteacher,” Quackity says, arms thrown wide, and Tommy claps along with the rest of the students. It’s uproarious applause; everybody loves Big Q. “Alright, alright, I know you’re excited, but quiet down, your teachers will take you back to your classes. I can’t interrupt your education too much or the board will have my head.”

The teachers start to file out from the stage, each one of them raising a hand to signal to their respective classes, and Tommy groans. Ranboo pats his back sympathetically as Tubbo tugs them both by the wrist over to where Ms. Saumon is waving. She’s pretty tall, so it’s easy to see her fiery hair over the top of the heads of the student body.

“Ah, hello, you lot,” she says, ruffling Tubbo’s hair, and Ranboo waves nervously. Evidently, they’re the first of their class to gather. Ms. Saumon lights up as she turns to Tommy, big muscly arms crossed. “Oi, Tommy! How’s my star athlete doing?”

Tommy gives her a grin that reads more like a grimace and a thumbs-up. He’d made the initial terrible mistake of using his powers in gym, and Ms. Saumon had interpreted his super-strength as Tommy being in shape. Which, given the whole superhero thing, he is, but he doesn’t exactly want to work hard in gym. That shit sucks.

Ms. Saumon glances around as some more of their class gathers, her gaze lingering on one particular spot in the crowd more than once. Tommy follows her line of sight and is incredibly unamused to see Wilbur’s head of messy hair above everyone, ludicrously tall motherfucker that he is. Damn. Tommy knows what he’s got to do now.

Tugging on the sleeve of Ms. Saumon’s athletic shirt, Tommy looks blankly up at her as she meets his eye. “My brother has lots of money and is great with women,” he says, and Tubbo elbows him hard in his side. Tommy ignores him, noting the way that Ms. Saumon’s cheeks flush as she stares at him, bewildered. “Also, I guarantee he would melt into a puddle of goo if you talked to him, and that would be funny, I think.”

“Tommy!” Ranboo reprimands, shooting Ms. Saumon an apologetic glance. Tommy honestly doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong; if Wilbur stops moping about his inability to talk to women—if he gets to date one—maybe he’ll be less of an asshole about Tommy’s grades. In any case, Ranboo’s still distressed. “You can’t just say that to a teacher!”

“I mean, technically speaking, I already have,” Tommy says, and Tubbo smacks him upside the head. “C’mon, man, I’m just—”

“Shutting up. You’re just shutting up,” Tubbo says.

Tommy supposes he’s shutting up, then.

*****

As it turns out, Tubbo makes very quick work of corrupting the old console.

Such quick work, in fact, that Ranboo barely gets to move his character before the entire screen goes to shit. Tommy cackles as Tubbo laughs maniacally, and Ranboo hangs his head, face cradled in his hands. “See! I told you I could make it happen in less than four seconds,” Tubbo says, and Tommy holds his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright, I will admit defeat just this once, but you better savor it, Tubbo, it’s never happening again,” Tommy says, and Tubbo just grins, pulling his laptop into his lap and tapping wildly at the keys for, like, the fourth time this afternoon. “Hey, Ranboob, hand me my Coke.”

“Stop calling me that,” Ranboo says as he hands over the can, but there’s no real heat behind it; there never is. Tubbo snickers, and Tommy takes a big swig of his soda. Ranboo munches on some popcorn and restarts the system when Tubbo gestures for him to. “What are you up to now, Tubbo?”

Tubbo barely looks up from his screen. “I’m trying to see if I can corrupt the code even faster. I want to get it to completely fuck up the second it gets booted up,” he explains, and Ranboo shakes his head. Tommy’s honestly kind of interested, even if he doesn’t know jack shit about the actual processes Tubbo’s using for this. “Alright, Tommy, power it on.”

Reaching over to turn the system on with the hand not occupied by the soda he’s currently chugging the last of, Tommy watches in awe as the startup screen starts to glitch and make that brrrr noise that means it’s not processing the sound correctly. Tubbo whoops and claps once, fists raised victoriously in the air.

“Damn, Tubs, that took you barely any time,” Tommy says, and Tubbo grins deviously, returning back to his laptop screen. “That’s gotta be a world record or some shit.”

“Oh, it is, I’ve already submitted it to six different forums,” Tubbo tells him, and Ranboo groans, sinking down against the side of Tubbo’s bed. Tommy throws his legs across Ranboo’s lap, much to his chagrin, and leans back against Tubbo, who’s still in his desk chair. Huffing out a quiet laugh, Tubbo reaches down to ruffle Tommy’s hair. “Clingy.”

Tommy scoffs. “I fuckin’ am not, shut up,” he grumbles, making grabby-hands at the bag of crisps Ranboo’s got, only to get a blank stare in return. Tommy tilts his head back in exasperation, and Tubbo smacks his forehead lightly.

This is actually kinda nice, even despite his lack of crisps. “Do you guys ever wonder if ants are capable of conscious thought?” Tubbo asks, still focused on his laptop, and Tommy and Ranboo turn to stare at him. He keeps typing for a moment, then seems to realize that no one’s answered him yet, and he looks up. “Well?”

“I mean, theoretically, they could…?” Ranboo says, tilting his head in thought, and Tommy kicks at his thigh. Ranboo grabs his ankle and tosses Tommy’s leg off of his lap. “They probably think things through more than Tommy does, conscious thought or not.”

“Oh fuck you, boob boy, I think everything through!” Tommy insists, and Tubbo snorts. When Tommy goes to tell him off as well, Tubbo sticks his hand in Tommy’s hair and gently scratches, and holy fuck that’s really nice.

Tubbo chuckles quietly as Tommy leans into the touch, and Ranboo blinks. “Wow, I can’t believe you found his off button,” Ranboo says, and Tommy flips him off, eyes closed in contentment.

Eventually, Tubbo does pull his hand away and goes back to typing, and Tommy frowns despite himself. “By the way, are you guys gonna go to the carnival?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy’s brows furrow in confusion. The fuck is Tubbo on about now? Tubbo glares at him, as does Ranboo, and Tommy throws his hands in the air in surrender. “This is why I told you to pay attention when Big Q was giving that speech, dumbass. They’re doing a fundraiser on Halloween, it’s gonna be pretty huge.”

“When the fuck did he say that?!” Tommy demands, and Ranboo throws the now-empty bag of crisps at him.

“Probably sometime in between you zoning out and you telling Ms. Saumon that your brother has ‘lots of money and is good with women,’” Ranboo says, pitching his voice lower and doing a stupid impression of Tommy at the end there. Tommy scowls at him. Shaking his head, Ranboo sits up properly. “Seriously, I can’t believe you actually said that to her.”

“I can,” Tubbo says, not looking up from his screen, and Tommy elbows his shin.

Arms crossed, Tommy rolls his eyes and shifts to sit up with his legs crossed rather than splayed out. “Well excuse me for wanting my brother to be happy,” he says, and Ranboo raises a brow, clearly not believing him. Tommy groans. “Ugh, fine, I’m just hoping he shuts the fuck up about it. Happy?”

“Not necessarily, but fair enough,” Ranboo says, and Tubbo snickers. Tommy’s phone buzzes, and he gives Ranboo a pleading look. It’s on the bed, within reaching distance for Ranboo, and Tommy really doesn’t feel like getting up. Alas, Ranboo is giving him no slack. “Your legs work just fine, Tommy.”

Tommy shakes his head. “They’re broken, for your information,” he says, and Tubbo bonks him on the head with his laptop. “What is it with you and smacking me around today, Big T?”

“I’m like a goat, I bonk out of affection,” Tubbo says simply, and Tommy huffs out a laugh; his friends are so fucking weird. It’s great. Tubbo leans over him to grab his phone and hand it to him, and Tommy grins triumphantly at Ranboo, who scoffs. “Who’s texting you?”

“It’s just Techno,” Tommy says with a frown, and Tubbo hums.

phil wants to know where you are.

i’m at tubbos wtf do u want

he’s not looking over my shoulder, you can tell me if you’re on patrol.

no i’m literally at tubbos dude

oh okay, on my way to pick you up then.

ew why

because phil has people coming for dinner. did you not listen this morning.

fuck off yes i did but it’s so early don’t pick me up yet

bruh.

you say this as if i want to. see you in 5.

Tommy groans, and Tubbo shuts his laptop. “Are you leaving already?” he asks, and there’s a weird edge to his voice. Tommy nods, shrugging. Tubbo crosses his arms, though Tommy’s honestly got no clue why he’s pissed. “Seriously, man? You’re ditching us again?!”

“Woah, what the fuck do you mean, ‘again,’ Tubbo? It’s not like I’m itching to go to Phil’s stupid fuckin’ dinner party,” Tommy says, and Tubbo just shakes his head, slumping back into his desk chair. Tommy turns to Ranboo, who immediately goes pale at the mere whiff of confrontation, per usual. “Fuck’s his deal?”

“I mean...you have been kind of distant lately,” Ranboo says gently, and Tommy doesn’t take very well to being handled with kiddie gloves. For fuck’s sakes, if Tubbo’d had a problem with him, why hadn’t he said anything earlier?! Ranboo shifts uncomfortably and runs a hand through his hair. “And you keep cancelling on us, man.”

Well, Tommy can’t exactly help it. But it’s not as though he can tell them he’d gotten stabbed the day he’d promised to go to the arcade with them, or that he’d been shot when he’d said he’d go see that one movie Ranboo had wanted to see, or any Spider-Man stuff that’s stopped him from hanging out with his friends.

At Tommy’s hesitation, Tubbo just shoves his backpack at him. “Just go, man,” Tubbo says, and Tommy wants to apologize properly, really, he does, but there’s honking coming from outside, and Tommy doesn’t exactly want to piss off the one person protecting his secret identity.

“I’ll see you guys soon,” he mumbles, shoulders tense as he leaves Tubbo’s room and heads down the stairs. He waves goodbye to Puffy, who’s flipping off Techno—who hasn’t stopped honking—from the living room window, and ducks out the door. He drops into the passenger seat in a not-at-all-melodramatic fashion and only fastens his seatbelt after Techno pointedly refuses to drive off until he does. “Thanks for the ride, prick.”

“What’s got you all bummed today?” Techno asks, an eyebrow raised, and Tommy wonders if he can rip the little pig bobblehead off the dash and throw it—he’s probably stronger than superglue is. Techno blinks at him before facing the road properly and heading down the street. Tommy thinks Techno drives like a grandma. His fingers drum anxiously on the wheel. “Alright, so we’re not talkin’ about it, good to know.”

Tommy slumps down in his seat as the car rolls slowly down the road. He hates fighting with Tubbo. It’s not usually his own fault—because, after all, Tommy is amazing and can do no wrong—but this time...it kind of is. Then again, Tommy can’t exactly put his duties as Spider-Man on hold because Tubbo’s feelings are hurt. And this time it isn’t even because of his superhero stuff! This time it’s out of his control completely!

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Techno reaches behind them to the backseat as they come to a stop by a stop sign, and he tosses a bag of fast food into Tommy’s lap. “The fuck is this?” Tommy asks, peeking in. It’s not, as he’d initially expected, filled with trash, but instead piled high with food. “Oh shit, you got me food?”

“I got you meat,” Techno specifies, and Tommy takes out four burgers and two ten-packs of nuggets. His mouth is legitimately watering; this is like heaven for him—even The Sense is jumping for joy. Tommy immediately starts to devour the first burger, making a face at the lettuce and tomato, but the burger itself is so good he doesn’t care much. Techno snorts and turns back to the road. “I figured that with your bacon thing from earlier paired with your metabolism, you could probably use a bite to eat.”

“I owe you m’fuck’n life,” Tommy says through a mouthful of burger. Techno chuckles and turns down their street, and Tommy stuffs some nuggets in his face. God, this shit is so good. Phil’s been on a health kick lately, meaning most of their family meals have consisted of vegetables and starch. Today’s breakfast had been a fluke.

Techno starts to pass the house, and when Tommy makes a confused noise around the assortment of fast food, Techno makes a face. “I’m givin’ you time to finish. Slow down, I just cleaned my car and if you choke on your food, you’ll get crumbs and stuff all over it,” he grumbles, and Tommy rolls his eyes. Techno and his stupid car. “So…is the protein kick, like, a spider thing? I’ve been readin’ up on tarantulas n’ stuff.”

Shrugging, Tommy finishes up the last of the burgers and starts really working on the chicken nuggets. “Pro’lly,” he says, and Techno makes another face. “Whu’tcha researchin’ for?”

“I just...it’d be good to know more about spiders, just in case,” Techno says, and Tommy looks over to see his cheeks flush.

Tommy grins, and he takes a pause from his food. “Techie, are you worried about me?” he jokes, and Techno slows the car down to take one hand off the wheel, snatch the rest of Tommy’s chicken nuggets, and dump them out of the driver’s side window. “Fuck you! You know what, dickhead, that’s your money you’re wasting anyway.”

Tilting his head, Techno hums. “Worth it,” he says, and Tommy rolls his eyes. Techno rounds another corner and glances over, gnawing on his bottom lip. “So, uh, sorry about pickin’ you up early. I can give you and your friends a ride on Monday, if you want. One of my professors cancelled class, so I’ve got all of that morning off.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Tommy asks instead of accepting or declining the offer, and Techno sighs, fingers still anxiously drumming on the wheel as they turn again. Clicking his tongue, Tommy gestures towards the road. “Seriously, man, there’s nobody else in the fuckin’ street, at least go the speed limit.”

“I’m only goin’ one under, man, relax,” Techno shoots back, but he speeds up slightly anyway, and Tommy grins, victorious. “And I’m...I’m bein’ nice because you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Figure if I can make it easier for you, I should.”

Shifting in his seat, Tommy glances out the window. “Thanks, then, I guess,” he says, and Techno hums. They’re approaching the house again. As Techno pulls into the driveway—and he spends at least two minutes trying to park perfectly, because of course he fucking does—Tommy glances back over. “Techno, you’re a good big brother. And if you tell anyone I said that, I will web you to the side of a skyscraper.”

“Noted,” Techno says, but he doesn’t stop smiling, even after he unlocks the door and lets them both in. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Techno clears his throat. “I’ve successfully brought back the child!”

Tommy smacks his arm.

Phil comes stumbling out of the kitchen, shoulders slumping in relief. “Good, good, both of you go get dressed,” he says, brushing off something that’s either flour, which is likely, or cocaine, which is unlikely, but infinitely cooler, off of the frilly pink Kiss me, I’m a crow apron that Wilbur had ordered custom-made for Father’s Day one year. When Techno gives him an amused look, Phil whacks him lightly on the arm with a spatula. “I know what I look like, alright? I actually care about these fuckers’ opinions, so go on, get upstairs. When they get here, please act like we’re a functioning, normal family. Just for tonight.”

Scowling, Tommy mocks Phil under his breath. He’s caught out pretty easily by Kristin, who puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles in amusement. “D’you have a minute, Tommy? I wanted to have an actual talk with you, yeah? We didn’t really get in-depth over the phone,” she says, and Tommy panics. He’d thought she’d forgotten about that.

Thank fucking God, Techno steps in. “Ah, actually, I got that covered,” he says, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and Tommy gives him a grateful smile. Kristin blinks in surprise, and then narrows her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Yeah, no, me n’ Tommy had a really long talk about what’s been goin’ on with him. I’ve got it covered, Mom, don’t worry about it.”

Kristin smiles softly and cups Techno’s cheek in her hand. “Thank you,” she says, and Tommy snorts. Of course Techno had played the ‘Mom’ card. It’s pretty much a failsafe way to get Kristin to believe him, given he hardly ever calls her that. Kristin ruffles Tommy’s hair and starts towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna go calm your father down before his old man heart gives out.”

“I heard that!” Phil shouts, which is followed by a loud clang and a flurry of swears.

Nodding towards the stairs, Techno stifles a laugh, and Tommy follows him up. “Go get Wilbur when you need to tie your tie,” Techno says, and he disappears into his room before Tommy can start to tell him off. Tommy’s a big man, he doesn’t need Wilbur to tie his tie for him. He can tie a tie just fine, thank you.

Alas.

It quickly becomes apparent that Tommy does not, in fact, know how to do it.

He ends up knocking on Wilbur’s door with his nice red tie in one big clump, and Wilbur bursts into a scream-laugh as soon as he opens the door. “Don’t laugh at me, fuckface, fix this,” Tommy says, almost as red as his tie with embarrassment, and Wilbur has to lean on the wall to support himself, positively wheezing. “Wilbur! C’mon, Wil, just fix it for me, I don’t wanna look stupid!”

“Well, it’s too late for that, but come here, I’ll fix it,” Wilbur says once he’s composed himself enough to actually stand. Tommy begrudgingly steps further into the room, and Wilbur grabs the ends of the tie and starts to detangle them. “Alright, so you cross it here, and—well, then you do the—ah, shit, here, take the tie off, I’ll do it on myself and then put it on you and tighten it, I can’t tie it mirrored.”

Tommy hands it over, and Wilbur makes quick work of tying a knot that probably has one of those stupid fancy names. He takes it off and puts it on Tommy, tucking it underneath his collar and tightening the narrow side of the tie until it’s snug enough that Tommy doesn’t quite feel like he’s choking, but it’s close.

“So why the hell do we have to be all dressed up? And why the hell are these fuckers coming over so early?” Tommy asks, trying to smack Wilbur’s hands away as he reaches to fix Tommy’s mess of curls. “Fuck off, I’m fine!”

“You own a comb, I don’t know why you let it get so bad,” Wilbur laments, pushing his stupid glasses up. Tommy thinks they make him look quite like an owl. “But we’re apparently supposed to behave because it’s a ‘business dinner party,’ meaning everyone involved is going to be stuffy and boring, and we’re not allowed to flick food at each other.”

“This blows,” Tommy huffs, finally relenting and letting Wilbur make his hair somewhat manageable.

“Tell me about it,” Wilbur says, “I have to pretend like you’re not the most annoying motherfucker in the world for who knows how long.”

Tommy shoves at his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, Wil, at least I haven’t got—”

“Boys! Come down and greet our guests,” Phil calls from downstairs, and Tommy glares at Wilbur before sprinting to get to the door first. They fight silently, whisper-yelling at each other and shoving, before Techno yanks them both out by the collar and glares. Sheepishly grinning, Tommy and Wilbur straighten up and follow Techno down the stairs. Phil glances over from the dining room doorway. “Ah, there you three are. These are my sons, Wilbur, Techno, and Tommy. Boys, these are the clients I was telling you about.”

The Sense screams in the back of Tommy’s mind, and he unconsciously reaches out to grab Techno’s wrist tightly. The businessman in the middle steps forward, a mask covering most of his face. “Nice to finally meet you all, I’ve heard so much about you,” he says.

He extends a hand to Wilbur first, then Techno, then Tommy, who hesitates to let go of Techno, but shakes it anyway. The Sense is still setting off alarm bells, and Techno glances down at him, brows furrowed as Tommy’s grip on his wrist returns and tightens.

“Pleasure to meet you as well, ah…?” Wilbur says, ever the fucking charmer, and the man in the middle chuckles lightly.

“I’m Dream,” he says, eyes crinkled at the edges, like he’s smiling, “and these are my associates, Sapnap and George.”

*****

Chapter Text

Apparently, and Tommy hadn’t known this before tonight, business dinners involve a mind-numbing amount of mingling.

He sticks close to Techno in the living room as the guests—mainly Dream, sometimes Sapnap, and seriously, what kind of name is Sapnap?—talk to the rest of his family. Techno leans down just a bit and frowns slightly. “What’s got you so on edge?” he mumbles, and Tommy lets go of his wrist. Ah. It’s probably going to bruise. Tommy had been so distracted by The Sense that he hasn’t exactly been on top of restraining his strength.

“Just nervous. Got a weird feeling,” Tommy answers quietly, and Techno nods. He’s clearly not getting it. “No, Techno, like...a feeling feeling.”

“Yes, your Tommy Tingle, I gathered,” Techno tells him in a flat voice, smiling politely as George glances over at them. Tommy almost laughs at how strained it looks. But he elbows Techno subtly, because it’s not his fucking Tommy Tingle, it’s The Sense, for fuck’s sakes, and he fidgets with his tie. “So...is it just uneasy or is it serious?”

Tommy glances over at Dream, who’s shoulders shake with laughter as Phil offers him a drink and he declines, and The Sense sends a shiver down his spine. “Pretty serious, big man,” he murmurs, happily taking the can of Coke that Kristin offers him. Techno nods and sips on his wine, eyeing the three businessmen warily. Tommy leans a bit closer. “I’m also pretty sure I’ve seen these fuckers before. Few months ago, at this ice cream pla—”

“What are you two whispering about over there? Come join us, we don’t bite,” Sapnap says with the air of someone who very likely does bite. Tommy gives him a tense smile and clutches Techno’s wrist again as they both get closer to the conversation. “How old are you, kid, like, thirteen? Is that why you’re not drinking?”

“I’m seventeen, actually,” Tommy says through gritted teeth, unconsciously shifting slightly behind Techno, who nudges him. Right, Phil wants them to make a good impression. He can’t chew this fucker out. Though, his statement about Tommy not drinking has him wondering; with his increased metabolism, would alcohol even do anything? “So...you work with Ph—my dad? Or…?”

George raises a brow, and Dream leans back in his seat. Tommy thinks he looks like a prick, ankle crossed over his knee and tie coming undone. They’d all made such an effort, and this dickhead is just making himself right at home. “Technically speaking, your dad works for us,” he says, and Tommy is very tempted to punch him. Dream reaches over to tap Kristin on the arm; Tommy almost lurches forward to stop him. “Can you show me to the restroom?”

She nods and leads him off down the hall, and Sapnap slides over to take his spot, eyes narrowed as he leans forward. “Haven’t I seen you around before, kid?” he asks, and Tommy’s grip on Techno’s wrist tightens. He sees Techno’s eye twitch minutely in his peripheral vision and abruptly lets go, shaking his head. Sapnap shrugs.

“So...does our dad also work for you?” Techno asks, and Tommy tries not to laugh at the face Techno makes when Sapnap grins and nods. “Hm. That’s...nice.”

“And what are you studying, Tech?” Sapnap says, and Techno immediately stiffens; ooh, yikes, this guy clearly doesn’t know—hardly anyone outside of their family is allowed to shorten Techno’s name like that. “I’m assuming it’s something sports and fitness related. Your old man told us all about how you won your last fencing tournament.”

Suppressing a shudder, Tommy takes another sip of his Coke. Something about Phil divulging details of their personal lives to these guys doesn’t sit right with The Sense. He knows, logically, that Phil’s probably just talking about his family with some coworkers, but these fuckers have him so on edge, Tommy’s hands are shaking.

Techno runs his free hand through his hair. “Nah, I’m an English major. Greek studies minor,” he says, and Sapnap blinks in surprise. Techno just sips on his wine and shares a look with Tommy. “Fencin’ is more of a hobby.”

“Damn, what a waste,” Sapnap jokes, but it doesn’t land well. Nobody’s laughing. Well, except for Wilbur, but he’s laughing at something Phil’s just said to him and George. Wilbur doesn’t count. Sapnap clears his throat. “So, uh, got any pets?”

They both shake their heads. “We’re not allowed to have any. Not after the Milo Incident,” Techno says, and Wilbur whips his head up to glare at him. Tommy holds back a laugh, and Sapnap looks between the two of them, clearly interested in an explanation. Techno doesn’t bother to give him one, instead barreling on to a different topic. “Have you ever read Sun Tzu’s Art of War?”

Visibly confused, Sapnap shakes his head. He gives the two of them a wary look before moving to the other end of the couch and joining the other conversation. Tommy gives Techno a fist bump. “Nice one,” he mumbles, and Techno inclines his wine glass slightly. Techno’s social awkwardness comes in handy sometimes. Tommy sighs. “God, this is fucking boring. When are we gonna sit down and eat?”

“No clue,” Techno mutters, snorting as Wilbur starts gesturing grandly, Sapnap and George clearly enraptured with whatever fabulously embellished story he’s telling them. Tommy very subtly and not at all obviously reaches for Techno’s wineglass while he’s distracted, but alas, Techno’s reflexes are on par with his own, and thus, Tommy doesn’t get to test his alcohol hypothesis.

“He’s all bells and whistles, huh?” Dream says from behind the two of them, and Tommy jumps like he’s been shocked, whipping around to look at him. Techno puts a hand on his shoulder, and Tommy grins nervously. Chuckling, Dream tilts his head. “Well, somebody’s jumpy.”

Tommy laughs, and it sounds painfully panicked, even to himself. “He’s on edge because he watched a horror movie earlier, like a moron,” Techno covers for him smoothly, and Tommy’s shoulders fall in relief. While he doesn’t appreciate the insinuation that he’d be afraid of some movie—Tommy’s a big man, he’s scared of nothing, Techno—he is grateful for Techno’s quick thinking. “So, what’re you working on with Ph—Dad?”

It’s funny seeing Techno play into the Typical Suburban Family thing they’re attempting to pull off. Dream’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, he hasn’t told you? Well, we had been working on two separate projects—the one we’re doing solely with our company is confidential, of course—but now we’ve got our preliminary testing for the other project mostly out of the way, so we’re able to focus on this one for a while. Your dad and his company are responsible for building the majority of our new headquarters in London,” Dream says, and Tommy narrows his eyes.

Phil works for an architectural firm—The Craft—and Kristin works for a medical or science research supply something-or-other, Tommy’s never really understood the intricacies of her work. Why the fuck would they need a new headquarters? There’s one here already, Kristin goes there whenever she’s not overseas.

“I thought you already had a base of operations here,” Techno says, and Tommy nods, glancing over to the couch, where Wilbur’s newest story has Phil shaking his head. “Kr—our mom works for your company, it’s, like, a ten minute commute from here, isn’t it?”

Waving dismissively, Dream hums. “Well, it makes sense that you’d think so, but Kristin’s fairly low ranking,” he says, and Tommy really wants to punch this guy. Kristin’s a hard worker and she’s in charge of international shit, who the fuck does Dream think he’s talking about?! “Sapnap, George, and I are all higher up on the chain of command. We’re having a new headquarters built just for our top-ranking employees for confidentiality purposes.”

That sounds like bullshit to Tommy, but then again, he doesn’t know jack shit about office jobs or whatever. “Well, congrats on getting a new office,” he says, and Dream nods, clearly grinning under the mask, and Tommy thinks that for a guy whose face is mostly covered, Dream sure does have a punchable one. Phil calls Dream over, and Tommy glares at his retreating back, gritting his teeth. “This guy’s a fuckin’ prick, Tech. He’s a wrong’un, I can sense it.”

“Yeah, well, get your Tommy Tingle in check, it’s gonna look weird if you’re one loud noise away from jumpin’ out the nearest window the entire time we’re eating,” Techno grumbles, and Tommy elbows him for his use of that stupid fucking name again. “We should go talk to them, it’ll be suspicious if we stick together.”

“You just want to get rid of me,” Tommy accuses, but he heads over to where everyone’s talking anyway, standing by Kristin, who throws her arm around his shoulders. That puts Tommy much more at ease; he knows, logically, that nothing’s going to happen to him at a fucking dinner party, but The Sense doesn’t seem to be getting the memo. “So...what’re we talking about? Catch me up, yeah?”

“Wilbur was just telling them the mud story,” Kristin says, and Tommy goes bright red. She laughs and ruffles his hair, dropping her arm back by her side again. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed, Toms, it’s a cute story!”

“It’s the worst story,” Tommy huffs, and Wilbur rolls his eyes.

He turns back to the rest of the guests, much to Tommy’s chagrin. “Anyways, Tommy’s just sitting in the backyard, hands absolutely filled with his little mud pies, and I’m trying to get him to drop them and come back inside since it’s about to storm, but of course, he doesn’t listen to me, so—so I go get Mum,” Wilbur says, trying not to laugh, and Tommy steps on his toes. “And she comes out, and Tommy lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. He’s throwing all the mud in the air—and I need you to imagine it, because I was standing there on the back deck and this little six-year-old dumbass, my tiny, stupid baby brother, gets so excited to see his mummy that he throws what’s gotta be a kilo of mud pies into the air, and they all come crashing down on him.”

Dream positively wheezes, Sapnap leaning on him for support as he cackles, and even George is laughing. Tommy’s shoulders go up by his ears, and Kristin pinches his cheek; the story isn’t even over yet. “Tell ’em what happens next, Wil,” Phil says through his laughter, and Wilbur bursts out into a laugh.

“Oh my God, okay so—! So Mumza over here is, like, frantically trying to get Tommy to stop crying, he’s covered—it’s like head to toe in mud, just absolutely—he’s crying, and Mum’s also trying not to get any mud on her dress because she’s got a meeting in, like, an hour, and she starts to lead him back inside,” Wilbur says, and Tommy tries to manifest the piano in Wilbur’s music room upstairs crashing through the ceiling and dropping directly onto his head so he can die a quick and painless death; it’d be better than this. “And then Tommy slips on a bit of mud that hadn’t landed on him and absolutely eats it on the pavement.”

“And that’s how he lost his first tooth,” Phil adds, and Kristin tries her best to stifle her laughter behind her hand, which Tommy appreciates, even if it doesn’t really work. His face feels hot as everyone has a good laugh at his poor younger self’s expense, and Techno claps him on the shoulder sympathetically. Phil sips his wine. “But to be fair, it wasn’t nearly as bad of a cleanup as when Wil had his sand-eating phase.”

Ah, vindication.

Wilbur sputters, cheeks flushed. “Wh—it was not a phase, I only ate sand once,” he protests, arms crossed, and their guests are still snickering.

“Yeah, because Mom and Dad caught you sneakin’ it in every other time you tried,” Techno says flatly, and Tommy bursts out laughing. Sapnap looks to Techno, bewildered, and he nods. “Seriously, it was a legitimate problem, we kept findin’ loose sand everywhere for months. It was like comin’ back from a beach vacation, but without the vacation.”

Kristin shakes her head. “I would wake up with sand in my hair sometimes,” she muses, and Wilbur scowls. “Y’know, it’d have been less weird and more cute if you hadn’t insisted you could ‘commune with the sand eaters’ every time we tried to convince you that nobody else eats sand.”

Tommy nearly chokes on his Coke. “Did you really?” he asks, incredulous, and Wilbur glares at him, opening his mouth to say something, but the kitchen timer dings, which subsequently distracts just about everybody. “S’it time to eat?”

Nodding, Phil heads into the kitchen, and Dream adjusts his mask as he turns to Kristin. “I won’t be eating tonight, I hope you understand,” he says, and Tommy’s brow furrows as Kristin easily waves the weird-ass statement off.

“Who the fuck goes to a dinner party and doesn’t eat anything?” Tommy wonders aloud before his brain can catch up with his mouth, and he slaps a hand over his face, eyes wide. He’d been doing so well, too! Shit, Phil’s gonna be so mad.

Everyone’s staring. Ah, fuck.

Then Techno bursts out laughing, and Tommy huffs out a nervous chuckle, still glancing around nervously. Wilbur and Kristin exchange a glance before laughing quietly, and Dream’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, Sapnap and George clearly stifling their own. Oh, thank fucking God, this is salvageable.

“I know that you’re probably just joking, but if you actually do want to know, I never take my mask off in front of other people,” Dream says once the laughter’s quieted down, and Tommy makes a face.

“You a germaphobe or something, big man?” he asks, and Dream makes an ‘eh’ sort of motion with his hand. Nodding wisely, Tommy grins. “Just chronically ugly then, eh?”

Wilbur whacks Tommy’s arm. “Tommy, you can’t say that,” he hisses, already turning to apologize to Dream, who waves dismissively.

“No need,” he says easily, tilting his head in curiosity at Tommy as Phil comes into the room again, and Tommy catches a whiff of something absolutely fucking delectable from the kitchen, holy shit. “Your kid’s pretty funny, Phil.”

“Who, Tommy? Yeah, I guess he is when he’s not being a little shit,” Phil says, ruffling Tommy’s hair, and Tommy swats his hands away. Phil claps his hands together and gestures towards the dining room. “Right, shall we go eat?”

*****

Steak.

Delicious, incredible, juicy steak.

That’s what Phil had made for the dinner party.

Tommy doesn’t even really register the conversation going on around him, he’s only got eyes for the heaping serving of sirloin on each plate. His mouth is watering at the smell; Techno nudges him, but Tommy’s too busy trying not to weep at the glorious sight of everything he could ever want condensed onto one plate. He wonders whether he should savor it or eat as much as he can as fast as he can. After all, if there are seconds, he wants to be the first to get them.

“Dude, you look like you’re about to pounce on the table,” Sapnap says, snapping Tommy out of his steak trance, and Tommy’s face flushes with embarrassment. Alright, yeah, maybe Tommy’s leaning over a bit, but no need to point it out. Sapnap glances over at Phil, jerking a thumb in Tommy’s direction. “You feed this kid, Phil?”

“Apparently not enough,” Phil says, brows raised in amusement, and Tommy scowls at him as everyone starts to take their seats. Phil’s pulled out the fancy plates for tonight; these are the ones that Tommy ‘isn’t allowed to touch’ because he’ll ‘break them’ or something. Phil starts to pass around the basket of rolls—Tommy knows for a fact that those definitely come from a can—and smiles brightly. “Everyone go ahead and dig in!”

Tommy immediately goes for the steak, hesitating every now and then to make sure he’s not cutting it hard enough that his superstrength makes the knife go through the plate. Thankfully, no one pays him any mind, much too occupied by their own dinners to really make note of the way Tommy’s hovering over his plate like a feral animal.

Techno discreetly slides half of his own steak onto Tommy’s plate as Wilbur passes George the serving bowl of salad, pointedly refusing to acknowledge Tommy’s look of immense gratitude towards the gesture. Techno’s sympathetic side is really making a rare appearance today, as it would seem.

Dream, however, does take note of the interaction. “You two must be pretty close, hm?” he asks, cheek perched on his hand, clearly amused. Phil and Kristin exchange a look as Wilbur snorts in disbelief. Their other guests lean forward, clearly interested.

“Oh, yeah, me n’ Tech are just the closest. Absolutely the best of pals—Dad, is there any more steak?” Tommy asks, and Phil shakes his head. What a shame.

“Is there a favorite brother, then?” Sapnap asks, taking a swig of beer and grinning. Tommy narrows his eyes and Wilbur gives him a very pointed look. Techno just sits back and shifts uncomfortably. “Which one is it, Tommy?”

Tommy looks over at Wilbur; all at once, he recalls every low grade, every failed assignment, every time he’s been called on and not known the answer, all from the past few weeks alone, and he hums. “It’s Wilbur,” he says easily, “since Techno’s forcing me to study with him.”

“I am forcin’ nothing, you asked me to tutor you,” Techno says, clearly not shaken, and Tommy beams at him. Kristin sighs fondly and passes Sapnap the basket of rolls. They’re going pretty quick, Tommy should probably jump on that. Techno clears his throat. “So, uh, you guys are pretty young for business moguls.”

“Yeah, your parents must be really proud,” Phil says, smiling, and Tommy piles some mashed potatoes on his plate. He hopes Phil had at least used Techno’s recipe for them; nobody can cook potatoes like Techno can.

Dream just shrugs. “Wouldn’t know if she was,” he says, and if Tommy hadn’t known better, he’d say that Dream sounds a bit bitter under that bullshit confidence and nonchalance of his. “I haven’t spoken to my mother in years.”

Everyone goes quiet. Phil makes a choked sort of sound in the back of his throat, and he swallows way too much water before saying anything else. “I’m so sorry, mate, didn’t mean to—I really hadn’t meant to bring up any sore subjects,” he says, and Dream waves him off.

Seriously, there’s no way that Dream is this guy’s actual name. Tommy doesn’t know why it bothers him, but it does.

“No need for apologies, you couldn’t have known,” Dream says, and while Phil seems relieved, The Sense is very much unsettled by Dream’s scarily even tone. Tommy unconsciously clutches at the tablecloth, and Techno elbows him. Ah, shit, his hand’s stuck. Dream leans back in his seat and turns towards George. “About that little, ah, test run, did you get the report in?”

“Of course I did, I’m not an idiot,” George says, rolling his eyes, the first real sentence he’s said all night, and The Sense sends a shiver so violent down Tommy’s spine that his chair creaks with the force of it.

Everyone turns to look at him, and Tommy grins nervously. “Sorry, just a bit chilly,” he says, and Techno’s brow furrows. Tommy shoots him a look to mean I am a big man, I got this, which Techno wrongly interprets as panic—and Tommy never panics, he’s never panicked in his life, thanks. Techno goes to say something, but Tommy leans forward to cut him off, hand still stuck to the tablecloth. “How are you all liking the city?”

Sapnap makes a face. “It blows. Super crowded, polluted as hell, and you can’t even get around unless you ask someone for directions, because every maps app out there has no idea what they’re doing,” he grunts. So he hates London. Tommy can sympathize with that to some degree, at least. Smiling slightly, Sapnap gestures towards his companions with his fork. “Y’know, funny story, actually, we were trying to get back to the office from a client’s place and we ended up getting the complete wrong directions, we ended up at an—oh, shit! That’s where I’ve seen you before! The ice cream shop kid that yelled at us!”

“The one you threatened with violence?” George asks, and Sapnap nods eagerly, the two of them completely oblivious to Kristin and Phil’s twin concerned expressions, and Tommy sinks lower in his seat, trying his hardest to think of Henry waiting patiently on his desk upstairs to subdue his increasing anxiety. George nods, finally noticing the concern, and he waves dismissively. “To be fair, he was rude to us first.”

“Wh—! They were being disruptive!” Tommy protests, finally unsticking his hand from the tablecloth, and Phil buries his head in his hands. Tommy turns to Kristin, gesturing vaguely towards the three men. “I was just trying to be mindful, Mum, surely you understand.”

She pats his shoulder, clearly stifling a laugh. “Sure I do, Toms,” she says, and Tommy rolls his eyes as Wilbur kicks his ankle under the table. Kristin takes a long sip of wine, then turns to Sapnap. “So, are we still on for the company softball game?”

“Oh, hell yeah we are,” he says with a grin, and George groans, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Sapnap regards Wilbur, Techno, Tommy, and Phil, eyes wide. “Guys, she’s an actual fucking beast on the field.”

“Actually, you two can’t make it this year,” Dream interjects, giving both George and Sapnap a stern look. Tommy just keeps eating. As Sapnap starts to protest, Dream holds up a hand, eyes narrowed. “I don’t wanna hear it. You already know why.”

George picks at his potatoes. “Yeah, well, it’s stupid. Can’t we just—I dunno—take that week off or something? Do we have to keep working on the, uh, project?” he asks, and Dream narrows his eyes. Shoulders shrugged up by his ears, George looks away. “Alright, I get it. God.”

Kristin smiles at him sympathetically. “We’ll miss you guys,” she says, and Sapnap snorts, rolling his eyes.

“More like they’ll miss me. George always sleeps through half the game,” he says, and George leans over Dream to shove at him. Tommy’s quite amused, honestly; these guys act like brothers.

“That’s enough out of both of you,” Dream says firmly, and the table falls into uncomfortable silence.

Tommy glances over at the rest of his family, not at all surprised to find Wilbur making that stupid face he does whenever he’s trying to blend into the background. Phil seems more stressed than out of place, as opposed to Techno, who looks so uncomfortable, hunched over in his chair to make himself seem as small as possible, that it’d be funny in any other situation.

Tommy polishes off the last of his food, and Dream’s gaze snaps to him as soon as his fork clinks lightly against the porcelain. “Uh oh,” Tommy mutters, and Techno stabs at his salad much more forcefully than necessary.

“Tommy, could I talk to you for a minute about this...work dilemma I’m having? You seem like the kind of guy that would give me an honest answer,” Dream says, and Tommy glances over at Phil, who nods encouragingly. Ah, shit. Phil is so going to owe him after this.

Shrugging as he stands, Tommy follows Dream into the living room. “What’s up, big man?” he asks, relatively at ease until The Sense makes him shudder, hard, as Dream shuts the door behind them. His thoughts cycle through just about every curse he knows, and Tommy wraps his arms around himself, slouching back towards the opposite wall.

As if he can sense Tommy’s nerves, Dream puts his hands up and chuckles. “Don’t worry, I genuinely did just want your advice. Nothing bad, I promise,” he says, and while Tommy would be very happy to believe him, The Sense insists that Dream is a liar. “See, I’ve been encountering this...problem...with our other company project. To be entirely honest, we do have to run some more preliminary tests. In the meantime, we’re trying to get something back from a...client of ours. But this client is, ah, difficult. As someone who also seems difficult—for lack of a better word—how do you think I should deal with this?”

“Why aren’t you asking my dad? Or my mum? They’d give you way better answers, probably, they’ve actually had jobs n’ shit,” Tommy says, and Dream sighs.

“Well, I would, but they both seem to have a much better temperament for these kinds of people than I do. And to be honest, I don’t think either of them are particularly…equipped to answer this,” Dream explains, and Tommy hums. That’s fair; Phil’s got the patience of a goddamned saint, and Kristin probably doesn’t know—or maybe isn’t allowed to know—about the project, given what Dream had said earlier.

Frowning in thought, Tommy cups his chin with his hand. “If it were me,” he starts, and Dream nods eagerly, “I would probably just bug them until they give back whatever they have. But if that’s not an option, then you should take a minute to check up on stuff. Like, contract loopholes or some shit, I dunno how business works, but—it can’t hurt to outsmart whoever’s pissing you off, big man. Makes beating them at their own game much more satisfying.”

Dream’s eyes crinkle at the edges. Tommy suspects he’s said the right thing. “Tommy, you and I think a lot alike, you know that?” he asks, and The Sense almost makes his fucking knees buckle with the force of the fear he suddenly feels. Dream’s hand clasps his shoulder, and Tommy starts trembling involuntarily. “Thanks, Tommy. You’re a smart kid.”

“’Course I am,” he says, cursing the way his voice quivers in bone-deep terror, and Dream leans away again, hands at his sides. “Did you, uh...need anything else?”

“Actually, I’d love your honest opinion on something else,” Dream says, and Tommy nods, completely ready to be done with this conversation. Dream looks down his nose at him, even though he’s only just taller than Tommy. It’s irritating. “Do you think your dad is good enough to work with us?”

Oh, fuck this guy. Tommy tries his best not to erupt into absolute fury, if only for Phil’s sake. “I think you’ll find no one better for the job,” he says through gritted teeth. Dream tilts his head, as if considering this, before he nods, easily leaning back. “Can we go back now? I still want to eat dessert, y’know.”

At that, Dream lets out a surprised laugh, and he heads over to the door to hold it open. The Sense thrums in warning continuously, even when Tommy’s back with the others.

His superpowers seem to really hate this guy.

*****

Chapter Text

Tubbo’s had a very nice and Tommy-free weekend, for the most part. There are a few unanswered texts, which, granted, he could be a bit nicer about, considering Tommy just wants someone to proofread his code for Sam’s class, but he’s still pissed off. And he’s got a good reason to be pissed off as well. Honestly, Tubbo would have been much more understanding had Tommy given him any warning whatsoever every time he’d ditched their plans, but the most he’s ever gotten is texts apologizing at ungodly hours of the morning.

But, since Tommy’s been leaving him and Ranboo in the lurch, Tubbo supposes it’s only fair to unofficially uninvite Tommy from hanging out until he gets his shit together. Until then, Tubbo is going to mind his business, tend to his Twitter account, and study for his chemistry test, because chemistry is a pain in his ass.

Puffy’s in the shop right now—between that and her going to finish her clinical hours, Tubbo’s been home alone more often than not. He heads downstairs to grab something to eat, not really surprised to see a pre-made meal with a note on it reading: Pop this in the oven at 180 for about ten minutes if you need dinner! Love, Aunt Puffy. Tubbo smiles and sets the oven to preheat.

While Tubbo would much rather just grab something from the pantry to mindlessly chomp on, he knows that Puffy gets worried if he’s not eating proper meals. It’s sweet, really, even if it means that Tubbo burns his hand on the oven rack like twice a week.

He’s checking his mentions as he waits for the telltale beep from the oven when the doorbell rings. And rings again. Tubbo’s brow furrows; he’s not expecting anyone over, maybe Puffy had forgotten her key. He checks through the peephole just in case, only to be thwarted by the giant ghost Puffy hangs on the front door every October. Damn. Well, if he gets murdered, so be it.

Tubbo is decidedly not murdered when he opens the door, but this might be worse.

Tommy’s standing on the front stoop, eyes wide like he hadn’t actually expected Tubbo to open the door. “Uh, hi,” he says, and Tubbo narrows his eyes. He’d be surprised at the fact Tommy’s got the nerve to show up after being a total prick, but Tommy’s audacity has always had a history of exceeding Tubbo’s expectations. He’s learned to not question it by now.

“What do you want?” Tubbo asks, voice flat, and Tommy shifts uncomfortably. He’s holding something, and Tubbo leans back as Tommy abruptly shoves it in his face. It’s a gift basket, full of snacks, sweets, and energy drinks. Tubbo takes it gingerly. He doesn’t entirely trust that it’s not secretly a confetti cannon or some shit.

“Kristin helped me put it together,” Tommy explains, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, and Tubbo stops holding the thing like it’s going to explode. Tommy looks down at him, shoulders slouched. “Sorry for being a bit of a dickhead recently. Shit’s been...I’m not gonna lie, Tubbo, my life is a bit of a hellhole right now. But that’s not really an excuse for being a shit friend. I hate flaking on you, and I wish I could give you a better explanation, but I can’t. I’m sorry, man.”

Tubbo sighs. This happens a lot. Tommy will fuck up, Tubbo will internalize it until he finally lets out how much it actually bothers him—usually after Tommy’s fucked up a bunch more—Tommy will give him a half-assed, or occasionally truly genuine apology, and Tubbo always accepts it. There’s no point in questioning the cycle; it’s been like this since they were kids.

“It’s whatever,” he says, and Tommy crosses his arms.

“No, man, it’s not whatever. I fucked up. More than usual, I mean. You don’t have to, like, steamroll your emotions and let me get away with my bullshit,” Tommy says. “I was a proper prick to you and Ranboo, and I’ve already apologized to him, so…”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “Guess I’m next on your apology tour, then,” he says, and Tommy groans, running a hand through his hair. What fucking right does Tommy have to be annoyed with him?! “No, Tommy, don’t act like you’re the only person this is frustrating for! I’ve been ditched by you constantly! And don’t think I haven’t noticed you never actually show up when you say you’re ‘coming after me,’ you don’t give a shit about me going to Spider-Man fights, it’s just another excuse for you to bail.”

Brows furrowed, Tommy takes a step back. “Wh—Tubbo, that’s not true, I do care,” he says, and Tubbo just sets the gift basket down in the entryway and starts to shut the door. Tommy slams one hand on the door to keep it open, and despite Tubbo’s best efforts, it remains that way. He wonders when the fuck Tommy had gotten stronger than him. “Seriously, Tubbo…can we talk?”

“I guess I have no choice now that you’re holding my front door hostage,” Tubbo says, relenting and letting Tommy in. The oven beeps, and he gestures for Tommy to stay there while he goes to put Puffy’s pre-prepared meal in. Dusting off his hands, Tubbo finds Tommy draped across the couch dramatically. “You look like a prick.”

“I feel like a prick,” Tommy tells him. Good. Tubbo thinks he absolutely should. He whacks Tommy’s forehead, and Tommy sits up properly, scowling. Tubbo just stares at him, utterly unimpressed. This apology isn’t winning any awards as far as he’s concerned. “Listen, Big T, I really am sorry. And before you start, I get why you’re upset. I’ve been flaky and super shitty about showing up, I know, alright? Techno also pointed out—yes, I complained to Techno, I’m a dumbass, so sue me—he pointed out that you probably felt like shit every time Ranboo and I told you that you shouldn’t be trying to convince Spider-Man that you should do his tech, so...I flagged him down the last time I saw him and asked him to reconsider.”

Tubbo’s eyes go wide. There’s no fucking way Tommy did that. “You didn’t,” he accuses immediately, because if Tommy actually had managed to convince Spider-Man that Tubbo should be making his tech, that could change Tubbo’s entire fucking life.

Grinning, Tommy nods. “I did! And I showed him some of the stuff you’ve done over the years, and he said he could definitely use the help of a big man like you,” he says, and Tubbo’s face falls. So this is a joke. This is absolutely a joke, and Tommy is an asshole. To his surprise, though, Tommy doesn’t burst into laughter, instead immediately scrambling to correct himself. “He didn’t actually say ‘big man,’ I said that, but he—the message was the same, he said he’d find you and talk to you whenever he’s not busy. I swear I’m not making it up, Tubbo, I—”

“Did he really say yes?” Tubbo interrupts, voice hushed. There’s no way Tommy had somehow convinced Spider-Man to give Tubbo a shot, not when Tubbo’s been trying to convince the guy since the first time he’d gotten to talk to him.

There’s something about Tommy’s expression, something Tubbo doesn’t really have a name for, but he nods, smiling. “Yeah, Big T, he said he would, so he’s gonna,” Tommy says, and Tubbo lets out a shaky laugh in disbelief. Leave it to Tommy to annoy the crap out of a superhero until they listen to what he has to say. Tommy grins. “You’re gonna help a superhero, Tubbo!”

Whooping, Tubbo throws his hands in the air. “Holy shit, thank you, bossman!” he says, and Tommy just waves him off. “How long did you have to pester him to get him to agree?”

“Oh, not very long,” Tommy says, laughing quietly to himself like he’s just told a joke, but Tubbo doesn’t really get what it’s supposed to be. “He said he’ll swing by sometime tonight. Enough about that, Big T, how’ve you been? I haven’t gotten to talk to you since Friday.”

Tubbo’s too buzzed with excitement about the fact he’s living his actual fucking dream, holy shit, but he supposes Tommy’s more than made up for his transgressions. “I’ve been alright! I had a weird, like, nightmare the other night, but other than that, I’ve just been out and about with Ranboo,” he says easily, pulling out his phone to open up Twitter. However, when the cursor blinks up at him, he hesitates.

Should he say he’s going to be working alongside Spider-Man? No, that’d probably be a stupid idea. It’s like Spider-Man had said that first day, anyone who works with him could be in potential danger. Tubbo bites back a grin. Spider-Man must be so impressed with his work; whichever project Tommy had shown him must be kickass if it’d made Spider-Man reevaluate taking him on as a tech guy.

“What was your nightmare about?” Tommy asks, snapping Tubbo out of his thoughts, and Tubbo blinks in confusion. Tommy’s face goes red—ha, he’s embarrassed—and he runs his hand through his hair. “I’m only asking because I had a weird dream recently too, so maybe it’s your fault, bitch.”

Snorting, Tubbo shoves his arm. “Well, if you must know, I was, like, in this cage thing? It didn’t have a ceiling, it was just these big wooden beams all around me, right? And then there was this guy staring down at me—he was huge, it was nuts. And then, get this, bossman, he was choking me out,” Tubbo says, and Tommy’s eyes go wide. He’s not sure why Tommy’s surprised; Tubbo has weird dreams all the time. “I know, right?! And then someone, like, busted down the door right before I passed out, and I couldn’t tell who it was, but they kinda sounded familiar. Then I woke up. Anyways, what was your dream like?”

Tommy blinks at him. “Right. Uh, I came downstairs and there were the three dudes from Kristin’s work that are working with Phil—long story, boring as fuck, Tubbo, don’t ask—except the weirdo, Dream, he was staring, like, right at me,” Tommy says, and while Tubbo has a sneaking suspicion that Tommy’s leaving something out, he doesn’t care enough about the weird nightmare to pry.

“Huh. Well, enough about dreams—not the guy you mentioned, though what kind of name is that, dude?—I still can’t believe you got me the chance to work with Spider-Man!” Tubbo says, and Tommy smiles, even though it looks more like a grimace. “God, man, I really owe you one.”

“No, you do not, this is just part one of Big Man Tommy’s Apology Mission. Part two is giving you a ride tomorrow in Techno’s fancy car,” Tommy says, and Tubbo rolls his eyes, pushing Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy shifts in his seat. Tubbo tilts his head. It’s not like Tommy to be so nervous. “I might not be able to hang out properly for a while—well, suppose you won’t be able to either, with your new sidekick gig—so I wanted to make sure we were still cool before I leave to go get lectured about allegorical story components by Techno.”

Tubbo’s brow furrows. “You’re still not doing well in Wilbur’s class?” he asks, and Tommy flips him off. Tubbo chuckles, placing his hand on Tommy’s head, surprised as Tommy leans into the touch. “Are you doing okay? Mentally, I mean, usually you tell me to get the fuck off of you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy mumbles, burying his face in his hands. Tubbo doesn’t really know what to do here, so he withdraws his hand and awkwardly fiddles with a stray thread on the arm of the sofa. Tommy leans back against the cushions and smiles weakly. “Things have been hard for me these past couple months, Tubbo. I don’t really know where to go from here.”

That’s an unusually emotionally open thing for Tommy to say. Tubbo tries to alleviate the tension. “You could always blow something up in your backyard. That’s what I do when I need to let off some steam,” he suggests, only mostly joking, and Tommy seems to deflate a little. Tubbo’s got no clue what he’s done wrong. “Or you could talk to someone…?”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Tommy seems to really think for a moment before getting up and stretching, an easy—and definitely fake, Tubbo knows his best friend—smile on his face. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you,” he says, and Tubbo probably shouldn’t pry. If Tommy hasn’t talked about it by now, he’ll only withdraw more if Tubbo tries to coax it out of him. Tommy gives him a hearty pat on the back and starts towards the door. “Later, man.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Good luck with Techno’s tutoring,” Tubbo says, and Tommy gives him a two-fingered salute as he ducks out the front door.

Well, that was odd.

Tubbo’s got chem homework to do, though, so he just takes his dinner out of the oven, plates some for himself, and heads back upstairs.

*****

Puffy gets home as Tubbo finishes putting the last of the leftovers in tupperware, and she slumps down in her usual armchair, hair and clothes a mess. Tubbo frowns; she’s always so stressed out, managing both the shop and her clinical hours on top of taking care of him. Sometimes Tubbo wonders if her life would’ve been easier had he not grown up living with her, but Puffy always tells him that she wouldn’t have changed how things had worked out for the world.

So Tubbo does little things around the house to try and help her out where he can. His room is never too untidy, the kitchen is always squeaky clean, and he always starts up the kettle as soon as he hears her car pull up in the drive. The place has been much quieter ever since Foolish had moved out for college, and Tubbo knows that Puffy can’t stand to sit in silence for too long.

Neither can he, honestly, so Tubbo hands Puffy her usual evening tea and then moves over to the record player in the corner of the living room. He sets up Puffy’s favorite record to play and then moves to sit across from her on the couch. “Thanks for the tea, kiddo,” she says, and Tubbo nods, brows furrowing at the dark circles under her eyes.

“Have you ever thought about asking someone else to man the store?” he asks, and Puffy shrugs, setting down her mug on the little table next to her. “Well, I know Ranboo’s looking for some part-time stuff. Maybe he could take the after-school shift and you could have that extra time for your clinical hours. You could even be home in time for dinner!”

Puffy smiles sadly and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re such a thoughtful kid, Tubbo, but I don’t know. I’ve never left the store with anyone other than Niki, and after she finished with school, well...now she’s your math teacher,” she says, and Tubbo huffs out a laugh. Puffy clears her throat and shakes her head. “Enough about me, don’t trouble yourself with my well-being so much, alright? You just focus on being a kid.”

“Will do, Aunt P,” Tubbo says, and Puffy’s smile turns gentle and content as she takes another sip of tea. He wonders if he should tell her about the Spider-Man thing; at the very least, Puffy deserves to know he’s spending his time doing something potentially dangerous. “So, um, Tommy was over earlier today, and—”

“Oh, are you two cool again?” Puffy asks, and Tubbo nods. She grins. “That’s a relief. Phil’s been pretty worried about him lately, I’m glad you’ve got his back. He’s a good kid.”

Tubbo snorts. “Yeah, a ‘good kid’ who cons his parents into giving him twice the pocket money by telling them the other one hasn’t given him any yet,” he says, and Puffy snickers. Tubbo really registers what she’s said, then blinks in surprise. “You and Phil have been talking again? Like, properly? Not just to talk shit about Tommy’s and my grades?”

“We never stopped, he just got busy with the firm, and I got busy with going back to school,” she says, taking a rather evasive sip of her tea. Tubbo narrows his eyes, and Puffy relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright, maybe we stopped being, like, actual friends for a little bit because of how busy we were, but we’re good now. I think so, anyway. How are you doin’, kiddo?”

Kicking the stand that the record player’s on when it gets to the part of the record that always skips—it goes night-night-night over and over—Tubbo leans back against the couch. “I’m alright. Been having these creepy-ass nightmares, but I’m sleeping fine, so they don’t really matter,” he says, and Puffy’s brows furrow as she frowns in concern. “No, really, they’re just unsettling, not too bad. When’s Foolish coming to visit?”

That’s always a surefire way to distract Puffy. She positively lights up. “He’ll be here for Halloween, and then he’s flying in again during his Thanksgiving break,” she says, and Tubbo grins. It’s fun when Foolish manages to get in from the States; even though he’s a good bit older than Tubbo, they’re still pretty close. “God, it really has been a while. It feels like he left for the semester, like, years ago.”

“Bleh, quit being sentimental, the guy we’re talking about literally forgot his boarding pass was in his suitcase and made us drive half an hour back just to barely make it to his plane on time. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack,” Tubbo says, and Puffy chuckles. “Oh, by the way, there’s this carnival fundraiser my school’s doing, tickets are, like, twenty pounds, I think.”

Puffy’s shoulders slump a little, but she starts to dig through her bag anyway. “Uh, I think I’ve got it here,” she says, and Tubbo rubs his arm. He normally would just get Tommy or Ranboo to buy him a ticket, but Tommy’s just done him a huge favor already, and Ranboo’s definitely gonna be pissed whenever he inevitably finds out that Tubbo’s going to work with Spider-Man. Puffy brightens and hands him a crisp note. “Here you go! When’s this thing happening?”

“Uh, well it’s actually Halloween weekend. Like, on Halloween,” Tubbo says, and Puffy blinks in surprise. Tubbo grins nervously. “Maybe you, me, and Foolish could all go together…? I mean, I’m probably gonna hang out with Ranboo for a bit of it, ’cuz he said he might go, but for the rest of it, it’d be fun to do, like, carnival games with you guys. Foolish is really good at that one game with the bottles! The one where you gotta knock ’em down.”

Smiling gently, Puffy stands and stretches before ruffling his hair. “Sure, bud, I don’t see why not,” she says, and Tubbo grins, ready to thank her before her phone rings. Puffy goes positively pale as she looks down at the number, and Tubbo’s brows furrow. She clears her throat and runs a hand through her hair. “Tubs, why don’t you head up to your room?”

He nods, not wanting to contribute to whatever’s stressing her out, and goes upstairs, pausing at the top of the stairway. Puffy throws her phone onto the couch and slumps into her armchair, face buried in her hands. Tubbo’s never seen her so upset. She probably doesn’t want him to see her like this, either, and he hesitates; should he go comfort her, or would that just contribute to whatever she’s stressing about?

It’s probably none of his business.

*****

Spider-Man knocks on Tubbo’s bedroom window less than an hour later, and Tubbo springs out of his desk chair, hurrying to let him in. He’s completely awestruck—this is the second time Spider-Man’s been in his room! Clambering in a little less than gracefully, Spider-Man stretches above his head and then crosses his arms.

“So, I hear you’re looking to be my tech guy,” he says, and this is so fucking cool, Tubbo might actually die. He nods eagerly, and Spider-Man laughs. “Great! Your friend—what was his name again? Tom? Cool dude. Definitely not annoying whatsoever, totally convincing and polite.”

Tubbo snorts at that. Spider-Man’s pretty funny. “Um, so what were you thinking? I could get started on upgrading your suit, maybe outfitting your web shooters with different modes—oh, that reminds me! Is your webbing made out of a nylon-silicone polymer? Or is it something else? Do you have a formula for it, or some samples I can look at to duplicate?” Tubbo asks, a flurry of questions, and Spider-Man just stares. Maybe he’s blinking. Tubbo can’t tell.

“Uh, I don’t make my webs, not synthetically, anyway” Spider-Man answers, and Tubbo clasps his hands together. Oh, this is so cool. If Spider-Man produces his webs organically, there’s potential for so many types of modifications, or even different gadgets that could utilise the webs for other purposes! “Also, I was sort of thinking about just getting my suit modified? It was you who reinforced the hoodie last time, right? It’s held up really well. Props, man.”

Well, that’s both disappointing and absolutely amazing. On one hand, Spider-Man had actually liked Tubbo’s idea for reinforcing his suit, commended it, even, but on the other hand, Tubbo might just end up being Spider-Man’s seamster rather than his tech guy. “Oh,” he says, feeling awkward, shoulders up by his ears. It’s a little embarrassing; he’d been so eager.

An awkward laugh comes from behind the mask, and Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, if you’ve got other ideas, you can tell me, I’ve done some sketches myself, I just don’t know how we’d do much actual tech without access to expensive materials,” he explains, and Tubbo smiles, relieved.

“Oh, trust me, I’ve got plenty of ideas, and the materials to make ’em,” Tubbo says, and Spider-Man crosses his arms. It’s so hard to tell whether it’s out of amusement or incredulosity when he’s got that mask on. Tubbo’s reminded of his initial idea, and he perks up. “But if you’re looking for suit modifications specifically, I’ve been drawing up a few concepts! My aunt owns a fabric shop, so I can make you a new one no problem! I’m also thinking that it could help with public relations if you had a more expressive mask, like one that makes the eyes move along with your own. That shouldn’t be too hard, I’ve been researching mo-cap stuff—oh, and I could make the embroidery more of a boning, so that you—why are you laughing?”

Spider-Man snorts, shoulders shaking. “Boning,” he manages, and Tubbo blinks. How old is this guy? Clearing his throat, Spider-Man puffs his chest out and nods. “But, yes, those sound like great ideas. Do you have any preliminary sketches?”

Tubbo brightens. Of course he does! He leads Spider-Man over to his desk and pulls out his spare notebook, opening up to his most recent design. “It’s a little rough—I’m not exactly the best artist—but the specs are all there. The exoskeletal embroidery would look like the one you have now, it would just do more to support your super-strength,” Tubbo explains. “By the way, you’ll probably have to give me a more comprehensive idea of all your powers. I know most of them, but it would really help me out if you could let me know the limits so I can work around them, y’know?”

“Huh. You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?” Spider-Man asks, and Tubbo nods. Of course he has, this is the fucking dream. It’s insane; he can’t believe Tommy had managed to get him this opportunity, let alone that Spider-Man’s actually taking him seriously. “Is there any way I could get crime reports while in the suit? I can’t exactly pull out my phone on patrol.”

Tubbo nods, flipping to a page with a sketch of a potential comms system, able to fit within the mask and display alerts in the corner of Spider-Man’s vision. Spider-Man lets out another huh of slight disbelief. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of free time,” he says, and Spider-Man laughs. Tubbo flips through each page carefully, stopping on his favorite. “This is actually one of the only designs in here that I don’t have the materials to make, but it’s so fucking dope, dude.”

“What is it?” Spider-Man asks, leaning down closer to the desk, presumably to get a better look at the sketch.

Grinning proudly, Tubbo scribbles down the name. “The self-piloting interactive drone, engaged remotely. S.P.I.D.E.R for short,” he explains, and Spider-Man turns to stare at him. Maybe he’s blinking. Again, Tubbo has no idea, which is mainly why he’d really like those movable eyelids; it’d make the guy seem less superhuman. More approachable. “It’d be a drone embedded somewhere in your suit—probably the chest area of your hoodie—that I can deploy and engage with right from my computer if you ever find yourself in a sticky situation.”

“Absolutely not, I don’t want you involved in this any more than you have to be,” Spider-Man says firmly, and Tubbo’s shoulders slump. Seemingly softening a bit, Spider-Man sighs, putting one hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Listen, as talented as you are and as great as these ideas may be, I do not want to put you in potential danger. If it’s attached at all to your I.P. address, you could be tracked down if the drone were captured and dissected.”

Well, Tubbo supposes, that’s a pretty fair position. “So, um...just the suit mods, then?” he asks, and Spider-Man hesitates. Tubbo goes into a bit of a ramble; he’s really nervous. “If you want, I could show you some of my earlier sketches—I’ve been modifying the designs to keep up with some of the stuff you’ve been handling! Like those two guys that you were fighting—404 and the other one, can’t remember his name for the life of me—they’re proper bad guys, though, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a mask that properly filters through the gas and smoke, but without any samples of the gas 404 uses, I won’t be able to.”

Spider-Man chuckles. “Y’know, it’s not even gas, the fucker uses spores. Like a mushroom,” he says, and Tubbo nearly chokes on his own laughter. “I know, right?! Why cause more trouble for yourself trying to cultivate the right combinations of plants?”

“Pretentious assholes that rob banks don’t seem to have the best track record with common sense,” Tubbo jokes, and Spider-Man laughs—he actually laughs! At a joke that Tubbo had made! This really is the best day of his life, Tubbo’s becoming friends with an actual superhero! “Right, well, I should really get your measurements so I can start working on the new suit, but my aunt’s downstairs, and that’s where the measuring tape is, and she’ll ask questions if I take it up to my room. D’you happen to know them off the top of your head?”

“Uh...I think so?” Spider-Man says, scratching the back of his neck as he details them to Tubbo, who scribbles them down in the margins of his notebook as fast as he can. “While I’m at it, I should probably explain all the, ah, stuff about my powers, shouldn’t I?”

Nodding, Tubbo readies his notebook and pen. “I’m all ready to take notes, bossman,” he says, and he pauses for a moment. “Wait, I guess technically you really are my boss.”

Spider-Man waves his hands frantically in front of him. “No, no, I’m not here to boss you around or anything—you’re the one doing me a favor here, man,” he says, and Tubbo can’t bother to hide the grin that spreads across his face at that. “Right, where to start, where to start…”

Tubbo spends the next half hour writing faster than he’s ever written in his entire life.

By the time Spider-Man’s left—something about how he’s got to get home before someone gets worried, which is nice, because Tubbo’s always wondered if someone’s looking out for him—he has six pages of notes on Spider-Man’s powers and about a billion different ideas based around them bouncing around in his head.

He starts to head downstairs to ask Puffy if he can use her sewing machine for a ‘personal project’ when he hears her shout in frustration. That’s...unusual. “No! I told you, I’m not doing this again,” she hisses into the phone, clearly trying to keep her conversation quiet. Tubbo feels like he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. “...Absolutely not. No, that’s—! How dare you. If you come within—no, I’m serious. I am! ...I don’t care. If you come within ten miles of my house, I swear to God, I’ll—I will! No, no! You will not. I’m done—no, I am! I’m done having this conversation with you every few years! You’re not! Good-fucking-bye. Stop calling me!”

Tubbo can hear her angry footsteps from here. Puffy throws her phone, probably into the couch again, if the thump of cushions is anything to go by. He heads down the stairs, purposefully making his steps heavy and slow so she knows he’s coming and will have time to get herself together. Tubbo doesn’t understand why, but Puffy always gets so upset with herself when Tubbo sees her being anything less than put together.

“Hey,” he says, tentatively waving, and Puffy smiles weakly. “Can I, um, go to the shop tomorrow to work on a personal project? I need the sewing machine.”

“Oh, of course, kiddo,” she says, and he tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the way her eyes are red-rimmed. Clearing her throat, Puffy ties her hair up and out of her face. “Did you need a ride to school tomorrow, or are you walking?”

“No, Tommy said Techno’s giving us a ride,” Tubbo says, glad to give Puffy one less thing to worry about at the very least, and she smiles, ruffling his hair. “Are you alright, Aunt P?”

Puffy just waves dismissively. “Don’t worry about me, Tubbo. You just keep up the good work, okay?” she tells him, and Tubbo nods. This sucks. Sometimes Puffy’s too worried over keeping him out of whatever problems she’s having that she forgets to take care of herself. Puffy yawns, eyes droopy. “Get to bed at a reasonable hour, got it? I don’t want you up until three in the morning again. It’s important for teenagers to get enough sleep.”

Rolling his eyes, Tubbo nods. “I will, I will. I’ve just got to take care of some stuff for class before I do,” he says, and Puffy presses a kiss to the top of his head before heading upstairs. Technically that’s true, Tubbo’s just not mentioning the Spider-Man work he’s gonna do; if Ranboo were here, he’d be telling Tubbo that a lie by omission is still a lie, but Ranboo’s not here.

So Tubbo waits for Puffy’s light to go out under her door before sneaking down to the garage and getting to work.

*****

Chapter Text

“You did what?!”

“Now, hang on just a second, Tech, you’re not getting this,” Tommy says, hands in front of his chest in a placating manner, and Techno pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, his other hand on his hip. It’s a little funny. “See, Tubbo doesn’t know my identity, he’s just gonna be making my tech! He feels better because he gets to work with me as Spider-Man, he forgives me, I get free shit, it’s a win-win! Or, uh, win-win-win? Do I count myself twice since I’ve got an alter ego?”

Techno lets out a pained groan. “You’re...literally the worst. This is so stupid. You have to realize that. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, and that’s sayin’ something,” Techno tells him, and Tommy waves him off. He just has to be a little extra careful around Tubbo, that’s all. “You have to be cautious. I know you trust Tubbo, alright, but with those weird guys runnin’ around—what did you say their names were again?”

“404 and Blaze,” Tommy answers, tinkering with his web shooter and jumping back slightly as a spark flies towards his face. His reflexes kick in and he accidentally fires a web off; it sticks to Techno’s ceiling and Tommy grins sheepishly. “Whoops. My bad, big man.”

Scoffing, Techno swipes at the webbing with the knife he’s taped to the end of a broom handle, and it comes away after a few hacks. “Such stupid names,” Techno mutters, setting the broom back down. He picks up Tommy’s English lit book and raises a brow. “I’m givin’ you crap about this later, but Wilbur’s got a quiz planned for Tuesday, so you gotta study. Next question is, uh...where did Valjean plan to move with Cosette?”

“It’s England, innit?” Tommy asks, and Techno nods. Oh, thank fucking God, Tommy’s surprised that he’s retained any of this shit. He fidgets with the screw embedded in the top panel of the web shooter, sighing in relief as it click-clacks back into place. “Fucking finally! That was a piece of work, I hope that motherfucker doesn’t kick my web shooters again. Blaze and his goddamn steel-toe boots, man, Christ.”

“Uh huh. What does Enjolras do to the drunk revolutionary that shoots a homeowner?” Techno asks, barreling on through their study session, and Tommy thinks for a moment before drawing his thumb across his neck and sticking out his tongue. Techno snorts and tosses him the last burger of what had previously been a pile of fast-food meals. Tommy devours it. “Alright, that’s all the questions for now. Wilbur and Kristin are goin’ to the store, you should go with ’em.”

Tommy squints. “You’re just trying to pawn me off to them so you don’t have to hang out with me,” he accuses, and Techno nods. Tommy kicks at his ankle. “Fuck you, bitch, I’ll have you know I’m an absolute delight.”

Rolling his eyes, Techno shoves Tommy towards the door. “Get outta here, child, and make sure you get me a new potato peeler, Phil broke my good one,” he says, and Tommy swats at his arms. Techno just huffs and leans in the doorframe, taking up as much space as he can so that Tommy can’t make a mad dash back in, and Tommy scowls. Techno pokes his forehead. “I know you don’t wanna hang out with Wil because neither of you can get over yourselves, but you’re gonna have to eventually. He misses you, and I know for a fact you miss him too.”

“I’ll have you know I do not miss Wilbur, and you are simply spewing lies and slander,” Tommy says, eyes narrowed, and Techno just closes the door in his face. Bastard. Tommy slams his hand on the door. “Let me back in! Techno! I’ll fuckin’—I’m gonna wear you down, Techno, I’ll just keep talking until you let me in!”

He smacks the door again, hearing Techno sigh when he presses his ear against it, and Tommy grins. All he’s gotta do is annoy Techno into giving in, and then he won’t have to spend, like, an hour with Wilbur and Kristin while they argue over what brand of tea to get or some shit. He goes to start a screechy rendition of ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ when Wilbur’s door opens up down the hall. Shit.

Wilbur blinks in surprise behind those goofy owlish glasses of his, clearly unsure of how to go about this. Tommy’s got no fucking clue either, in Wilbur’s defense. “Oh, uh...hey, Toms,” he says, and Tommy nods, returning to his efforts of pounding on Techno’s door with a bit more frantic energy than he’d already had. Wilbur coughs awkwardly and Tommy momentarily pauses his knocking. “Did you, ah, want to come with me and Mumza to the store? I could get you some of those energy drinks Phil doesn’t let you have.”

At that, Tommy actually considers it. “Is this—are you serious, or is this just a bribe?” he asks, only half-joking, and Wilbur laughs. Good. Tommy can work with this, he can be the comedic relief again. “Because if this is an empty promise, I’m gonna be so pissed off.”

Snorting, Wilbur ruffles his hair. “Yeah, yeah, you’re very intimidating,” he says, and Tommy is very intimidating, thank you very much, Wilbur just so happens to not be a criminal facing him down. Wilbur jerks a thumb towards the stairs. “C’mon, I don’t want to keep Kristin waiting.”

“Fine,” Tommy grumbles, and he follows Wilbur down into the entryway, pulling his shoes on and nodding in greeting at Kristin. She twirls her keys in one hand and checks her phone with the other. Tommy straightens up, stretching his arms above his head. “Are we leaving or what?”

Kristin looks up from her phone, then puts her arm around Tommy and tugs him close, doing the same to Wilbur on her other side. “My boys! Well, two of my boys, anyway,” she amends, and Tommy wiggles out of her grasp, holding the door open. Wilbur and Kristin leave first, and Tommy sprints out to the car, already clambering into the passenger seat as soon as Kristin unlocks the car. Wilbur squawks in protest, tugging on the car door handle as Tommy sticks his tongue out. Kristin sighs. “Tommy, Wil’s taller than you, just let him have the seat.”

Wilbur grins triumphantly, and Tommy’s half-tempted to smack the smirk off his face as he takes Tommy’s rightful place in the front seat. “I am going to kill you, I will stab you in your sleep, Wilbur, I—yes, Wil, I did in fact do my homework, I’m such an angel and I definitely belong in the front seat, so glad you agree,” Tommy says as Kristin settles into the driver’s seat. She rolls her eyes and gestures for him to put his seatbelt on. Damn. “So why exactly are we going to the store?”

“I needed to grab some groceries and Wil needs some more pencils to put in his communal stash,” Kristin says, pulling out of the drive. “Plus, he has to pick up—”

“Don’t say it! It’s so fucking embarrassing, I can’t believe Quackity’s making us do this,” Wilbur bemoans, head in his hands, and now Tommy has to know. He very much appreciates anything that embarrasses Wilbur. Kristin goes to elaborate, and Wilbur glares at her. “Kristin, don’t.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not embarrassing, Wil, it’s cute! All the teachers are required to volunteer anyway, it’s just a uniform!” Kristin reassures him, and oh, Tommy knows he’s gonna get a kick out of this. He’s hoping to get lucky enough to get a picture, for blackmail material, of course. Kristin glances back, slightly wary of Tommy’s grin, but she continues anyway. “Your headteacher’s having the staff dress up like carnival barkers for the fundraiser, that’s all. Like, I said, Wilbur, it’s cute!”

Pretending to slam his face on the dash, Wilbur groans. “I’m dead. I’m dying. I want to end it all,” he mumbles, cheek pressed against the dash. Kristin nudges him upright. Wilbur immediately whirls around to glare at Tommy, who blinks innocently. “I don’t want to hear a word about this, and you will be avoiding me for the entire time. Understood?”

“Oh, but Wilby, I just have to see my big brother at the carnival,” Tommy says, and Wilbur’s glare gets harsher. Tommy grins at him. “We’re gonna take lots of pictures there to remember our lovely brotherly bonding, Wil, don’t you worry.”

Wilbur starts to lean into the backseat to shove at Tommy, but Kristin pushes at him until he’s properly seated again. “If you make me crash this car, so help me God,” she warns, and Wilbur shrinks sheepishly into his seat. They sit in a relatively peaceful truce until she pulls into the parking lot. “Alright, now behave. We don’t need to be kicked out of another store because you two are having a ‘soup can war’ again.”

“I will have you know that Tommy started it,” Wilbur says, and Kristin affixes him with a flat stare. He sighs. “Yeah, okay, admittedly, I was the one who hit Techno with the can of chicken noodle, but he’s the one who missed Tommy and hit that old guy by accident.”

“I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life,” Tommy says, and Kristin rubs her temples. At that, Tommy pokes her shoulder, brows raised. “You did join in on the can war, Kristin.”

“I know, but Phil’s not here and Techno’s busy, so someone has to be the sensible one,” she says, and Wilbur snorts. The three of them get out of the car, and Tommy sticks by Kristin so that Wilbur’s the one stuck pushing the cart. Kristin glances down at her phone, frowning thoughtfully as she scans what’s presumably a list. “Right, so Phil wants some more coffee pods, we need milk, eggs, rice, produce, laundry detergent…also, tofu for this recipe Phil sent, which is probably going to be horrible, so everybody better tell him it’s great. Wil, you needed pencils, and Techno needed…”

“Another potato peeler,” Tommy finishes for her, and she smiles gratefully at him as she follows Wilbur down the first aisle they come across. Tommy stays back a bit, if just to look around; he can probably convince Kristin to get him something not on the list. He’s surprised to see a display towards the back with red and white theming, and he scoots past Wilbur—who’s currently picking out Halloween-themed pencils—to get a closer look.

Holy shit. It’s got Spider-Man merch.

Well, the merch probably isn’t technically merch, given that Tommy hasn’t exactly given anyone the rights to his alter-ego’s likeness, but it’s still shirts, pencil cases, and folders with his mask on them. That’s insane. He barely registers Kristin coming up to him and giving him a curious look, and Tommy quickly steps back from the display, cheeks pink.

Kristin grins at him. “Are you a Spider-Man fan now?” she asks, and Tommy rolls his eyes. If he weren’t the superhero in question, maybe, but he’s not that self-absorbed. Then, an idea pops into his head, and Tommy lights up.

“No, actually, but I know Techno’s a big fan,” he says, and Kristin blinks in surprise. Tommy nods. “Oh yeah, Techno talks my fuckin’ ear off about the guy. It’s super annoying, it’s all ‘Wow, Tommy, look how cool Spider-Man is, look how good he is at beating up criminals, listen to me talk about fighting techniques for the next three hours’ and shit.”

She chuckles, examining one of the shirts on display. “D’you think we should get him something?” she asks, and Wilbur comes to join them, a few groceries in the cart with the pencils he’d grabbed. Kristin picks up one of the shirts, one that says I’m a Super-Fan of Spider-Man! and Tommy stifles a laugh. “What about this one?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” Tommy says, nodding eagerly, and Wilbur raises a brow at him, clearly wondering what the hell is happening. “It’s for Techno.”

“Techno’s a Spider-Man fanboy?” Wilbur asks skeptically, and Kristin shrugs, putting the shirt in the cart. Oh, this is fucking great. Tommy grins and shoots Wilbur a thumbs-up. Humming, Wilbur starts to head towards the next aisle, and Tommy walks beside him. Wilbur picks up some gross-looking health bars and puts them in the cart. He glances at Tommy. “No wonder he got so uptight about it that one time.”

Ah, shit. “Uh, yeah, probably, but we don’t have to rehash it,” Tommy says quickly. He’d rather not have to hear Wilbur being reasonably critical of his alter ego again. Wilbur makes a noise, sort of between a yes and a sigh, and Tommy’s shoulders slump in relief. Tommy figures he should steer the subject further away, just in case. “So...how are things going with Ms. Saumon?”

Wilbur glares at him. “Well, a certain idiot child I happen to know didn’t exactly help the situation,” he grumbles, and Tommy grins sheepishly. Wilbur looks away, cheeks suspiciously red. “But she did have a laugh over it, and then she complimented my sensible cardigan, so I told her I liked her braids, and then we ate lunch together. So not a total loss.”

Brightening up, Tommy nudges Wilbur’s arm. “Aye, there you go, big man! You’re very welcome, by the way,” he says, smug, and Wilbur rolls his eyes. Tommy runs a bit ahead and grabs a pack of the energy drinks Wilbur had promised him, shoving them into the cart, right next to the stupid health bars. “I have more than earned these.”

With a sigh, Wilbur keeps pushing the cart, and eventually, Kristin meets them towards the front, arms filled with the rest of the groceries. She sets them in the cart with a huff. “You could’ve waited for me,” she says, and Wilbur gives her an apologetic grimace.

The three of them get in a long-ass line, because evidently, only three cashiers are in the store today, and the whole of London’s practically getting their groceries all at once. Alright, maybe that’s a tad dramatic, but still, this line is long. “You gonna ask Ms. Saumon out or what?” Tommy asks, and Wilbur smacks him upside the head. Jackass.

“Fuck off,” he huffs, and Kristin shakes her head fondly before going back to skimming the magazine headlines on display. Wilbur glances over the heads of the people in front of them, and Tommy straightens up as The Sense itches at the back of his mind. Wilbur’s eyes go wide, and a shot rings out. Wilbur grabs both of them and shoves them all to the ground. “Stay down, stay down, there’s a fucking maniac waving a gun around up by the doors.”

Christ, Tommy’s luck is shit.

“Oh my God,” Kristin whispers, and Tommy freezes up. Well, fuck. He can’t just sit here and do nothing, but it’s not like he’s got the suit on right now. The guy with the gun is currently demanding that the cashiers hand over everything in the register, and Kristin is shaking, and Wilbur’s covering his own mouth with his hands, eyes watery, and Tommy stands up.

The robber whirls to point the gun at him, and Tommy puts his hands up, a shaky smile on his face. This is fine, all he’s gotta do is the Spider-Man thing without actually being Spider-Man, that’s all. “Hey! You, uh, look very good today, king,” he says, and Wilbur grabs at his leg and tugs, but Tommy stays standing. If he can keep the guy occupied enough to let one of the cashiers or patrons get the cops here, everyone will be fine. “Why don’t you put the gun down? I think you’re scaring quite a few people, yeah?”

Slightly taken aback, the robber jerks the gun in Tommy’s direction, and Tommy frowns. Well, that’s just plain unsafe, doesn’t this guy know anything about firearms? “The fuck’s your problem, kid?! Shut up and I won’t shoot,” he says, and Wilbur’s tugging gets more frantic. The Sense tugs too, and Kristin reaches up with a trembling hand to grab the bottom of Tommy’s shirt and pull. The robber sees it, and he laughs. “You got people that want you alive, so get back on the ground.”

“It would be a whole lot easier for me to live if you put the gun down? I mean, we all know you’ve got it by now, right, so—so it’s not like the cashiers are gonna stop getting you the money, see?” Tommy says, all of his thoughts quickly turning into word vomit, and the robber blinks, gun wavering for a moment. “Yeah, see? You don’t have to point it at anyone, it’s intimidating all on its own—not that you’re not intimidating, you’ve got that all-black thing going on and honestly, it’s working for you, so. Holster the gun for now?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the robber asks, and Tommy gives him a helpless shrug. The tugging hasn’t stopped. The safety clicks off, and Tommy immediately pales. “Talks a big game and gets queasy at the first sign of danger. Fuckin’ take a look at that.”

Tommy laughs nervously. “Listen, man, I dunno if you’ve heard, but Spider-Man’s on patrol today,” he lies, and it’s the robber’s turn to go pale. Tommy takes a step forward, just out of Wilbur’s grip. “Yeah, so now is probably not the best time to have a bunch of hostages. I hear he doesn’t exactly go easy on the guys that put innocents in danger. Maybe you should let some of us go, man.”

The robber’s gun is pointed directly at him again. “Fuck do you know about Spider-Man’s schedule, shithead?!” he demands.

“I have a Twitter account, shithead,” Tommy answers back, like an idiot, and Wilbur whimpers somewhere behind him as Kristin tugs harder on Tommy’s shirt. The robber looks unsure again, though, if not a bit pissed at being called a shithead. “Help’s gonna get called either way, because you’re only one guy, and—fun fact—people are capable of texting when they’re sitting on the floor. Make things easier for yourself and let some of us go.”

Tommy glances briefly down at Kristin, whose eyes go wide, and she lets go of his shirt to pull out her phone. The robber starts to march over, so Tommy steps forward to meet him halfway, hands still in the air, so that Kristin doesn’t get caught. “Listen, you little shit, I’ll shoot every fucking person in this store if I have to,” the robber growls, and Tommy lets out a shaky little laugh at that.

“What, and get a life sentence rather than just a couple years? I mean, c’mon, man, you could probably get out in two to five if you willingly let hostages go. You could argue in court you were only in it for the money,” Tommy says, and he looks down at the people still on the floor, and one toddler—vaguely familiar—stares up at him from his mother’s lap before putting a finger up to his own lips. Tommy’s eyes go wide. He turns back to the robber. “There’s a kid in here, man. Like an actual, little kid.”

Hesitating, the robber looks down at the kid, then back up. The gun wavers. “Two to five?” he asks, and Tommy nods.

“Yeah. You’d be out in no time if you let us go,” Tommy says. He’s dealt with this type of criminal before—talks a big talk, but has someone that matters to them. This guy’s probably got a kid, if his reaction to the kid on the ground is anything to go by. Tommy swallows around the lump in his throat and steps closer. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“I got no choice, kid,” the robber says, and The Sense kicks into overdrive, and Tommy ducks to the right as the robber shoots. The bullet whizzes past his ear. Fuck. There are sirens outside, at least, which means Tommy bought the cashiers and the patrons enough time. People start making a mad dash for the exit as a cop bursts through the door, and Tommy has no time to react before the robber grabs him and holds the gun to his temple. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. I let myself get distracted, and now?! Now this is your fault.”

Well, he’s not entirely wrong. The shop’s emptied out by now, and the cops have their guns up, but they can’t do anything until Tommy’s out of the way. He winces at the cold metal at his temple, but again—it’s nothing new. “I mean, to be fair, you let me talk for a while, I honestly can’t believe that wor—okay, okay! I’ll shut up,” he says as the gun digs into the side of his head; it’s painful.

“You’re gonna let me walk or I shoot this kid!” the guy shouts at the cops, and Tommy’s hands start to get shaky. No superpower’s gonna let him survive a bullet to the brain. “And no calling that spider-fuck either!”

Irony. Gotta love it.

One of the cops starts to step forward, and the robber fucking yanks Tommy closer by his neck, and Tommy nearly gags at the heavy breathing by his ear. It sounds so gross, especially with his enhanced hearing. Plus, this guy must’ve had a bag of fucking onions for lunch or some shit. “I can’t let you walk, but you’ll get less time if you let him go,” the cop says, and Tommy snorts.

“I already told him that, he’s not a very good listener,” he says, and the robber’s chokehold gets tighter. Tommy makes a face.

And then, suddenly, the robber’s hold drops, and the gun clatters to the floor. Tommy whirls around, and Kristin’s standing there, a broom with the tag still attached in her hands, her chest heaving as she holds it like a baseball bat. Wilbur kicks the gun away, and the guy groans, clutching at his head. The cops rush forward.

Tommy gets crushed into a hug immediately, and he shakily wraps his arms around Kristin’s shoulders. “What on earth were you thinking?!” she demands, pulling back to cradle his face in her hands, and she looks positively infuriated. Tommy just gives her a shaky grin, and her anger melts away into relief. “Thank fuck you’re okay, I can’t believe you did that, you’re gonna give me a goddamned heart attack, I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Lots of conflicting emotions,” Tommy says, and Kristin sighs, eyes falling to his neck, probably to look for bruising. The good news is that, if there is any—and there doesn’t seem to be much, judging by her expression—it’ll be gone in a few days. Tommy looks to Wilbur, who’s currently giving a statement to one of the officers. His hands are shaking, and his eyes are watery. “Is he alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” another officer says before Kristin can answer, and Tommy makes a face. Fucking Christ, that’s the I am better than you because I have a badge, and you must listen to my wisdom even though you solved the problem face that cops always have when he’s handed criminals over to them as Spider-Man. He’s about to get a lecture. “Don’t put yourself in danger like that, kid, it’s—”

“Excuse me, but he’s the one who bought you enough time to get here. It was a very stupid and dangerous way of doing it,” Kristin elaborates as Tommy starts to brighten up, “but you don’t get to tell him that, I do, unless he’s participating in illegal activity. You aren’t his parent, just do your job, get our statements, and let us go home.”

Tommy slips towards Wilbur, who’s still shaking, and gently nudges him. The officer he’d been talking to is already walking out, and Wilbur tugs Tommy into a hug almost as tight as the one Kristin had given him, and Tommy lets out a quiet oof. “You fucking moron, I was so scared,” he mumbles, hands fisted up in Tommy’s shirt, and Tommy chuckles. Wilbur huffs. “I’m serious! If you ever see a gun, the first thing you do is not try to talk the person holding it out of using it, are you insane?!”

Worming his way out of the hug, Tommy scowls. “I’m gonna get an earful from Kristin already, I don’t need to hear it twice,” he says, and he’s surprised at how shaky his voice is. Huh. That’s never happened in the suit. Tommy doesn’t know why his hands won’t let go of Wilbur’s jacket, either; he hasn’t had a problem with unsticking in ages. “Wilbur. Wil. I-I think I need to go sit down now. Please.”

At that, Wilbur blinks, and Tommy thinks about Henry, who’s waiting in his bedroom, where there are no guns and no robbers and no dangers. His hands unstick, and Wilbur leads him to one of the benches at the front of the store. “You alri—that’s a stupid question,” Wilbur mutters, rubbing small circles over Tommy’s upper back as Tommy struggles to breathe enough. “Of course you’re not fine. You did something brave—stupid, but brave—and it must’ve been terrifying. You’re okay now, Toms.”

“I know I’m okay now,” Tommy says through gritted teeth, and the sirens still going off are starting to sound like too much in that all-too-familiar enhanced way. Wilbur just keeps rubbing his back, and the store staff start to filter back in, along with some of the patrons who’d left their carts inside. Tommy takes a deep breath. He’s been face-to-face with the barrel of a gun before, this should be nothing.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Wilbur says, and Tommy believes him. “So long as you don’t pull another stunt like that, that is. I’ll throttle you myself if you so much as sniff a gun ever again, got it?”

Tommy lets out a quiet laugh, and he leans onto Wilbur’s shoulder, the tremors finally leaving his body. “I think I’ve got a bit of a hero complex,” he says, only half-joking, and Wilbur snorts.

“No shit, you idiot,” Wilbur says, “now let’s go get our shit, I wanna see Techno in that stupid shirt.”

*****

Getting home is a pain in the ass, mostly because Kristin lectures him the whole way there.

He excuses himself to his room pretty quickly; Tommy just wants to lie down and have an actual break for once before he has to go to Tubbo’s as his alter ego to pick up his new suit. It’s not even half an hour before Techno comes barging in, stupid shirt and all, and Tommy groans, one arm over his eyes.

“Fuck off, I’m taking a nap,” Tommy says, and Techno shoves his legs over so he can sit on the bed. Tommy does a double take and sits up abruptly. Techno raises a brow, and Tommy pokes a finger into his chest. “You’re wearing the shirt.”

“So I am,” Techno says, completely unembarrassed, and Tommy frowns. His plan had backfired, and rather badly at that. Techno seems to genuinely like the shirt. As though he can sense what Tommy’s thinking, Techno smiles easily. “I don’t like the shirt, I just refuse to let you win. Now explain to me exactly what you were thinkin’ when you started trying to talk a criminal out of holdin’ up a store, because I genuinely can’t wrap my mind around it.”

Tommy tosses a pillow at him. “I was just trying to do the right thing, man. I can’t just stop being Spider-Man when I take off the mask,” he says, because that should be obvious to Techno by now, but apparently it isn’t, given the way Techno’s brows furrow.

“Tommy, that’s...literally the point of a secret identity. You get to stop bein’ a hero once that mask comes off,” Techno says, and Tommy sighs. “I know what you meant, alright? You just gotta stop puttin’ so much pressure on yourself to be perfect all the time. You’re gonna make mistakes, and you get to be scared when somethin’ scary happens to you.”

“But I shouldn’t be. I’m Spider-Man, if anyone’s going to be scared, it can’t be me, not when there’s a store full of civilians being held at gunpoint,” Tommy tells him. Techno has to understand—Tommy takes the initiative because he has to. There’s no time to be scared when he’s in the heat of battle, sure, but there’s no room for fear when there’s people to be protected, either. “Listen, Tech, I know you mean well, but I’m fine.”

Techno falls silent for a minute, and Tommy knows better than to think it’s because he agrees with Tommy. He’s probably just formulating his next argument. Techno looks at Tommy and grabs his chin, tilting Tommy’s head to the side. Right. The bruising. Sighing, Techno lets go, and Tommy makes a face at him.

“Wilbur said you were shaken up after it happened,” Techno says, and Tommy blinks. He knows he has to curb that fear, but he hadn’t actually expected Techno to point that out. To his surprise, though, Techno says the opposite. “Understandable. You had a gun in your face and couldn’t do anything to defend yourself. What I don’t get is why you’re clearly beatin’ yourself up about it.”

At that, Tommy scoffs. He’s not beating himself up over anything, thank you very much. He’s just...thinking about how to prevent a similar situation in the future. “I’m not, I-I...I had a moment, I’m fine now, it won’t happen again,” he says quickly.

Techno gently places his hand over Tommy’s. “You know it’s...it’s okay if it does, right?” he asks, and Tommy hesitates. “You’re a normal kid under that mask, Tommy. You can’t use your powers when it’s off, and when you’re unmasked and in danger like you were today, you’re not untouchable anymore. Fear is normal, Tommy. Even in the suit, it’s normal. You should feel scared when you’re facing down criminals every day, because it’s scary.”

“I shouldn’t! I can’t be scared, not when there are civilians that don’t have powers to defend themselves like I do, not when they’re so much more fuckin’ scared than I am!” Tommy protests, and Techno searches for something, eyes scanning over Tommy’s face.

“Tommy...what you’re doin’ is being brave. You can be scared. You can feel fear. What you do, the fact that you stand up and do what’s right in spite of that fear,” Techno says, “that’s what makes you brave.”

Tommy’s protests die on his tongue. “I guess.”

“Now what you did today? That was brave and stupid.”

“Shut the fuck up, Techno.”

*****

Chapter Text

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite tech nerd, fancy meeting you here,” Tommy says, currently upside-down in Tubbo’s window, and Tubbo shrieks, throwing his headphones off and looking around the room wildly. Tommy snorts, and he clambers in, tapping Tubbo on the shoulder. “Sorry if I startled you.”

Tubbo clears his throat and smooths down his hair, and Tommy stifles a laugh, glad that the mask makes it hard to tell he’s trying not to cackle. “Hey! What’s up, Spider-Man, how’ve you been?” Tubbo asks, feigning nonchalance, and Tommy glances over at Tubbo’s desk. His Twitter is open. Tubbo grins nervously. “So, here for your suit, yeah?”

Nodding, Tommy crosses his arms and leans back. “I mean, considering I’ve got to patrol tomorrow, it’d be great to have a suit that’s not torn in, like, three different places,” he says, and Tubbo chuckles quietly, heading over to the closet.

“I had to hide all of this from my aunt, which was—ack—not easy to do,” Tubbo says, slightly strained as he drags a bag out, and Tommy’s brows furrow. What the hell is in that thing that’s making it so hard to carry? “This also has supplies for other shit, your suit isn't fifty kilos or anything, don’t worry!”

Tommy just blinks, though he must look frustratingly blank to Tubbo, whose lips press into a thin, nervous line. “That’s—funny thing is that it wouldn’t even be much of a problem if it were fifty kilos, super strength and all that,” Tommy jokes, and Tubbo huffs out a laugh as he crouches down to sift through the bag. There are a few mechanic clanks, and something that sounds like glass shattering, but then Tubbo is lifting up a newspaper-wrapped parcel. “Here you are! The Spider-Suit two-point-oh!”

Surprisingly, it is a little hefty, and Tommy starts to unwrap it, but Tubbo stops him, a hand on his wrist. “This isn’t a bomb or anything, right?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo lets out a bewildered little laugh. “Like, I’m not gonna open this and have it explode in my face? That’s not why you’re making me wait, is it?”

He’s only half-joking. “You should wait to open it because it makes for easier travel like this, that’s all!” Tubbo says, looking suspiciously nervous, and Tommy narrows his eyes. “I just—! It’s sort of a—the way it works is that it’ll recognize whatever surroundings you activate it in as a safe place to deactivate, and I wanted that feature to be, like, a fun little surprise, but I guess I should’ve told you out the gate because you don’t exactly want me knowing your identity whenever you come in here, right? So I—!”

“Tubbo, it’s fine, I think that’s a cool feature,” Tommy reassures him, and Tubbo visibly relaxes, an easy smile on his face. “So…no other features aside from the ones we discussed, right? I don’t want any more surprises out on the field or anything, so there better not be some hidden speaker that blasts We Are The Champions or some shit every time I take down a criminal.”

Tubbo snorts, and Tommy grins. God, talking with Tubbo like this is so much fun. Things are still a little tense without the mask between them, given that Tommy had kind of offered an opportunity in lieu of a proper attempt at rectifying the problem—then again, he can’t really do that. So talking with Tubbo as his alter ego is a much needed source of levity.

“Nope, no surprises here,” Tubbo says, so easily that Tommy believes him and leaves it at that.

*****

Truth be told, Tommy’s really happy with the new suit.

It’s got all the features Tubbo had said he’d add—the eyes move in accordance with Tommy’s own, the spiderweb embroidery’s now an exoskeleton of sorts, and the hoodie and shorts are so reinforced that they’re practically armored. Well, they’re still soft; Tommy doesn’t exactly know what kind of magic Tubbo had worked to make that happen, but he’s certainly not about to complain.

The gloves of the bodysuit have even been outfitted with a new kind of fabric on the tips of the fingers that let Tommy not only use his phone while in the suit, but his gripping and sticking is so much more effective now. Plus, the suit fits much better than the previous one; Tommy’s great at many things, but accurately sewing according to his own proportions is not one of them.

Tubbo had even included the little crime alerts that pop up in the corner of his vision, and Tommy’s stopped more crimes in progress today than he has in the past week because of it. He’s taking a lunch break—the guy running the food truck he’d gotten his lunch from actually gave it to him for free, which had been really nice—when he hears the telltale little chime of another crime alert, but it doesn’t pop up in the corner of his vision like he’d begun to start expecting.

“There’s an arms deal happening a few blocks over, sending the address to you as soon as I can,” a voice says in his ear, and Tommy jumps up, what little is left of his lunch now discarded on the rooftop, and he whirls around, frantically looking for the source of the voice.

When there’s no one there, Tommy hesitantly looks up at the sky. “God…?” he asks, a bit bewildered, and there’s laughter coming through now. Tommy’s eyes narrow. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Tubbo?!”

There’s a panicked squeak, then silence. Tommy groans. “Maybe…?” the voice—Tubbo’s voice, specifically—says, and Tommy resists the urge to throw himself off of the roof. “I know you said no additional features, but this one is good! See, I can talk to you, let you know about stuff that’s going on, help you out, be your guy in the chair—”

“This is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Tommy says, irritated, and Tubbo falls quiet once more. Which makes Tommy feel kind of bad, all things considered. “Not...it’s not that you’re not smart or capable or helpful, because you are, but I don’t want to endanger you, Tubbo, seriously.”

Tubbo’s still quiet, and Tommy starts to pace on the roof. He doesn’t want to upset Tubbo, really, he doesn’t, but he also doesn’t want Tubbo tied up in superhero business. Not when it could mean putting him in any line of danger, whether direct or indirect. There’s another little chime, and an address appears in the corner of Tommy’s vision.

“The arms deal’s supposed to go down there in about five minutes,” Tubbo says softly, and Tommy pulls his mask down fully, glancing longingly at the rest of his discarded lunch. He wonders if he should apologize to Tubbo; after all, he didn’t say not to secretly make a comms system and install it in the new suit. Then again, that’s really not the type of thing Tommy should have to specify. “I can turn off the comms if you’d like, y’know.”

Tommy sighs. Tubbo just wants to help him, he shouldn’t be so uptight. He’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t reveal to anyone that he’s got someone talking to him. That should keep Tubbo sufficiently safe. “No, no, it’s fine, just...give me something to call you other than your name, just in case,” he says, and he can practically hear Tubbo light up.

“Oh, let me think! I could go by Big T, that’s what my friend Tommy calls me, you’ve met him, yeah? Ah, no, that might mean someone could recognize it, everybody knows he calls me that...maybe something to do with computers? Shit, I don’t know…” Tubbo trails off, and Tommy starts to swing towards the address. “I’ve got it! My codename could be Hive! Like hivemind, y’know? It makes sense, ’cuz you can always hear me. Plus, it goes with the whole bug theme you’ve got going on.”

Snorting, Tommy lands atop a rooftop above the alleyway where two men are waiting by a van, and he narrows his eyes. “Alright then, Hive, fill me in. What’ve you got on these guys?” he asks, watching one of the guys start to pace. He’s got a massive gun, and it’s pretty similar to 404’s, but he’s not got on any of the shit 404 usually wears.

He hears Tubbo’s keyboard start to clack frantically. “Right, so I found out there was an arms deal happening through a black market forum for people in the greater London area looking to find illegal weapons—don’t ask how I managed it, I did it in a safe way, blah blah blah—and apparently these guys have tech taken from a research and development company,” Tubbo says, and Tommy watches the guy not pacing reach into his pocket for his phone, presumably checking the time. “Super classified shit, definitely not supposed to be used for weapons.”

Tommy keeps an eye on the front of the alleyway, only to be surprised at who he sees starting to enter. He swings over and drops down in front of the building, out of sight of the guys at the back of the alley. “Hey, aren’t you the headteacher of that one school?” he asks, pitching his voice down slightly so that Quackity doesn’t recognize him. Clearly taken aback, Quackity nods, and Tommy hums. “Might not wanna go that way, some shit’s about to go down, and it’s not gonna be safe.”

A myriad of emotions crosses Quackity’s face, mostly panic, then fear, then something Tommy can’t name, and finally relief. “Thanks for letting me know, man,” he says, and he starts tapping away at his phone, presumably to call the cops. Tommy grins, and Quackity blinks in surprise. “You get a new suit or something? I like the eye thing. Cool shit.”

Tommy nods, and Quackity gives him a strained smile before leaving in the other direction, still tapping furiously away at his phone. Tubbo clears his throat, and Tommy jumps a bit in surprise before heading back up to the rooftop. “How’d you know he was the headteacher?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy scrambles to answer in a non-incriminating way.

“I keep track of community leaders. It’s important to me to make sure there’s nobody corrupt in positions of local power,” he says, and he’s basically parroting a philosophy of Techno’s, but it seems to work, because Tubbo hums and lets it go. Tommy drops down slightly to stick to a high area of the wall of the alley, still out of sight of the criminals. “Anything else you can tell me about their tech? It’d be great to know what I’m up against.”

“Apparently, they’re advertising it as an ‘electricity based weapons system,’ so my guess is a bunch of glorified tasers,” Tubbo says, and Tommy stifles a laugh. “I’d be careful if I were you, though. I’m looking at the post history—incredibly hard to do, these guys don’t leave breadcrumbs so much as fucking bread particles, so you’re welcome—and they’ve apparently been advertising this as ‘3 megawatts of pure power.’”

Tommy hums. The guys are clearly starting to get impatient. The one that’s pacing keeps glancing back at the other one, who’s intensely absorbed with his phone, until he looks directly up at Tommy and readies his gun. Tommy leaps out of the way as the guy shoots, and he hears Tubbo gasp through the comms. Ah, right, Tubbo’s not used to being immediately met with violence as soon as someone sees you.

The other guy shoots off a blast of—yeah, those are definitely spores. That’s a poorly-disguised 404 for sure. “Well, hey there! Long time no see, fellas,” Tommy says above the gunfire he’s actively dodging, and 404 huffs in annoyance. “Don’t be shy, show me those shiny new electric weapons you brought with you!”

The two startle at that, and 404 shoots another blast of spores towards him. “D’you think you could grab me a sample of those? There should be a test tube in your hoodie pocket! I packed it in case this happened,” Tubbo says, sounding way too excited at the prospect of studying whatever the hell kind of fungus 404 keeps spraying everywhere.

But, sure enough, Tommy’s fingers close around a test tube, and he holds his breath as he swings through a cloud and collects some of the spore cloud in the tube. He deposits it back in his pocket and perches on the edge of a window, snickering as Blaze’s gun clicks; he’s out of ammo. “Are you gonna bring out the big guns or what? Heh, big guns, get it? Because yours isn’t working,” Tommy taunts, shoulders shaking with silent chuckles.

Blaze discards his empty gun and reaches into the van to presumably grab the weapon in question—and Tommy rolls his eyes, because Blaze is always so easy to rile up—but 404 puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “We’re under strict orders not to touch it,” he says, and Tommy gets a little tired of the chit-chat, firing off a web towards the two of them, who jump out of the way as soon as they hear the thwip of the web shooter. “Fuck off, arachnid!”

“My name is Spider-Man! D’you need me to sound it out for you? Makes sense, the two of you have the collective IQ of an eight-year-old, and that’s being generous,” Tommy huffs, swinging down to aim a kick at Blaze, who stumbles back as Tommy’s foot connects with his stomach, and 404 smacks Tommy with the ass end of the spore gun. “Seriously, dude, get that fuckin’ fart cloud gun out of here, it’s so stupid.”

He webs the spore gun to the van and ducks out of the way of Blaze’s next punch, tumbling back as 404 kicks the back of his legs. Blaze takes the moment to dash for the van, and 404’s too busy trying—and failing—to hit Tommy to notice. “Screw this, I’m ending it,” Blaze says, and Tommy’s eyes go wide as he looks down the barrel of a crazy-looking gun, the end of it glowing a bright purple and almost crackling with electricity. Tommy dives out of the way as the charging ends, and an enormous shock of violet light shoots out of the end of it, burning a hole into the brick directly behind where Tommy had been standing.

“You’re not supposed to—! Dammit, Blaze, he’s gonna be pissed!” 404 shouts, and Blaze ignores him, charging up the gun again, and Tommy goes pale, swinging and dodging through the alleyway as fast as super-humanly possible. “Put it down! We haven’t tested it enough, that’s why we needed to—”

There’s a bang behind him, and Tommy turns around to see the two villains sputtering and coughing. He grins, swinging back towards them and crouching on the ground next to them, head tilted curiously. “Didn’t your mums ever teach you boys not to stick a fork in the wall socket?” he asks, ruffling what little of Blaze’s hair sticks out of his hood and mask. “Well, you’ve been punished enough. No need to humiliate you further, but I will be taking this.”

He picks up the remains of the gun, finding the switch that Blaze had pushed earlier and turning it to the off side. 404 grabs his leg and digs his nails in. “Give—I’ll kill you—give it,” he says, and Tommy smacks his hand away. 404 pulls a pistol from his hip and points it up, clearly ready to shoot. “Leave...leave it here…”

And now Tommy’s got two pistols aimed at him, and he stumbles back as Blaze reloads his gun. “Fuckin’ pain in my ass,” Blaze growls, and he fires. Tommy barely dodges in time. He should leave, but he can’t just let them stay free; Wilbur had been right, he can’t let that happen again. He goes to aim his web shooters at them, but Blaze keeps the pistol aimed steadily at him as he leans into his phone.

“Detonate,” he says, and Tommy’s eyes go wide as a distant boom sounds out. Blaze shoots again, and Tommy barely dips out of the way.

He takes off, dropping the gun and swinging through the city as fast as he can. Shit, he can’t believe Blaze had planted a fucking bomb as a backup plan for some arms deal. Well, scratch that, he can believe it, but holy fuck is it annoying. “Spider-Man?! Is everything alright? Did he just say detonate?!” Tubbo asks, frantic, and Tommy can hear him typing away as he swings through the city. He doesn’t answer, instead trying to find where the bomb had gone off. “It’s on main, it doesn’t look too bad, but the building’s not exactly brand new.”

“Is it at risk of collapse?” Tommy demands, veering to the left and swinging towards where Tubbo had pointed him towards, and Tubbo’s uneasy groan tells him all he needs to know; he has to get there before the ancient-ass foundation gives in. “Is there anyone in the building?”

“Yes, but they’re evacuating as we speak. It’s an office supply company’s corporate building, they’ve got protocols set in place for fires, but not bombs...let’s see...fourth and sixth floors are both used for storage, seventh is currently vacant, but the rest of them are for cubicles or individual offices,” Tubbo tells him, and honestly, having him over comms is really useful. Now Tommy doesn’t have to waste precious time looking through empty floors.

He swings and sticks himself to the side of the building. “Do a headcount for me, Hive?” he asks, and Tubbo hums as Tommy glances out over the crowd below.

“Almost everyone’s out, eighth and ninth floors are still evacuating,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy nods, starting to head up to the windows, but the entire building trembles. Blaze must have planned a second wave. Shit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, the foundation’s really at risk now, I don’t know if you can get everyone out in time, man!”

Tommy wracks his brain for a plan, looking down at his wrists. He could always try to hold the building together himself. “Where are the weakest points?!” he asks, slightly frantic as the brick continues to tremble, and Tubbo starts shouting them out. Tommy sticks a web to each one, swinging circles around the building and gathering each string of web in his hand until he’s got about fifteen in his grasp.

He’s glancing around for his best vantage point when the building starts to slip, like it’s a watermelon that’s been sliced in half or some shit, and Tommy panics, swinging up to a rooftop opposite the way the building’s falling and pulling as hard as he can on the webs. His shoulders quake with the effort, and the building slows.

“Are you holding the fucking building together?!” Tubbo shrieks, and Tommy just grunts as his feet start to slip. He grips the webs harder and tugs, and the building starts to shift back into place. “Uh, fuck, I’m—let me tell the cops to get everyone off the street, holy shit, man!”

Tommy just laughs grimly and keeps his grip steady as best as he can. People are starting to file away from the front of the building, and his upper arms start to shake. As it turns out, buildings are heavy as shit. “How’re we doing on getting them out?!” Tommy asks, panicking slightly as his grip slackens just slightly and the building shifts again.

As he pulls it back again, Tubbo’s frantic typing starts up once more. “Almost everyone! Don’t let go just yet, they—there’s still a risk of the building collapsing on them if they’re not out of range,” he says, sounding apologetic, and Tommy grimaces, eyes narrowed in focus as the adrenaline starts to pump harder through his veins. “Alright, everyone’s out, but they still have to take everyone out of the potential collapse area, just a few more minutes!”

Tommy honestly doesn’t know if he can wait a few more minutes, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone else die because of him. Switching to grip the building with one hand for just a few seconds, Tommy webs his feet to the roof. He pulls as hard as he can on his webs, eyes going wide when they start to splinter at the edges.

“I don’t think I’ve got a few minutes,” he says, sounding haunted even to his own ears, and Tubbo just keeps typing. The people on the ground start running, and the few that are able to pile into cop cars that take off as fast as possible. Tommy’s chest heaves, and the webs continue to splinter, the muscles in his arms finally starting to twitch and give out. His voice cracks. “Please tell me everyone’s out of the way. Please.”

Tubbo makes a panicked sort of noise in the back of his throat. “Just one more, they got left behind, they’re almost out of the danger zone,” he says, and one web splits off completely, the building tilting violently for a moment. Tommy curses under his breath. Two more webs snap, and Tommy chokes back a sob, still pulling as hard as he can despite the stabbing pain in his arms. The building is leaning over the street. “They’re gone, you’re good!”

The webs slip from his fingers, and Tommy falls back onto the roof as it crashes, his whole body shaking. The silence settles in once the bricks stop clanking against each other, and Tommy rips his feet out from under the webbing. “Fuck,” he chokes out, “I almost let them die.”

His shoulders start to shake, and his eyes sting. He can’t tell whether it’s from the steady drift of the dust cloud or from the debilitating fear that’s washed over him. Tommy’s breathing is shaky, and he looks down at his hands, only a little surprised to see the fabric on the palms of his gloves torn away. His hands are blistered and calloused, pretty badly, and Tommy’s not looking forward to the adrenaline wearing off.

“...Are you alright?” Tubbo asks, voice soft, and Tommy huffs out a laugh, and it comes out all wet with tears. God dammit, he can’t be crying in front of Tubbo, not when he’s in the mask, anyway. Not as though he’s particularly happy when he cries in front of anyone as himself, but it’s preferable to this. Tubbo doesn’t seem to mind all that much, though. “Okay, I guess not...I could show you where the nearest ice cream place is! Unless you’re lactose intolerant. Oh, or I could put a funny video where the crime alerts usually go, if that’d make you feel better?”

Tommy laughs again, less emotionally charged this time, thankfully. “No, I’m good, I’m fine,” he says, and Tubbo hums skeptically. Tommy rolls his eyes, arms crossed. “Go do your homework or something, I’m gonna see if they need help with the cleanup.”

“Fine. But you should go home eventually. You deserve some rest, Spider-Man,” Tubbo says easily. “I mean, I imagine it’s pretty tiring, holding up an entire fucking building.”

Another laugh. Tommy thinks Tubbo’s pretty good at this ‘guy in the chair’ thing.

*****

“You’re such a moron,” is the first thing Techno says before wrapping Tommy’s hands in neosporin and bandages. He can’t exactly argue; he had just tried to single-handedly keep a building standing, after all. Techno gives his hand a satisfactory pat once he’s done with his handiwork and looks back up to Tommy’s face. “Who bombed the place?”

“Blaze,” Tommy grumbles. He can’t stand that guy, honestly. “I had him and 404 on the fuckin’ ropes, man! I was so close! And then he leans into his fucking phone and goes ‘detonate’ like some goddamn movie villain, and I have to scramble to get across the city and make sure a building full of people doesn’t collapse!”

Techno blinks. Tommy’s fuming now, running a hand through his hair and starting to pace along the length of his room. He’ll probably have to bring the suit to Tubbo at some point to repair the gloves and drop off the spore sample, but that can wait. “I convinced Kristin to teach the two of us how to grill,” Techno says in lieu of an actual response, and Tommy’s brows furrow. The fuck does that have to do with anything? Techno just shrugs. “Figured it can’t hurt, given you’ve been costing me a fortune in fast food, and it’d probably be cheaper to buy a bag of frozen patties at the store and cook ’em ourselves.”

The corners of Tommy’s mouth quirk up as he stifles a laugh. “Am I eating you out of house and home, Tech? Is this what you’re telling me?” he asks, and Techno rolls his eyes. “What, is your pizza delivery graveyard shift not enough to provide for your dearest little brother? Why, Techno, I’m hurt, truly—”

“Shut up and do your homework,” Techno says, “we’ll grill with Kristin on Friday, so take that afternoon off of patrol.”

“No promises,” Tommy says, settling down in his desk chair and opening up his in-progress essay on his laptop. He scowls. “Why don’t I just pay you to do this for me?”

“Because that would be plagiarism, and Wil would recognize my writin’ style from a mile away,” Techno answers easily, “now, what did you decide to write about?”

Tommy groans, burying his head in his arms and blowing a strand of hair out of his face. “I dunno, we have to talk about some fuckin’ literature theming bullshit. Wilbur wants us to compare the short story we just read with a piece of ‘modern media,’ whatever the fuck that means,” he explains, and Techno hums. “At least we’re done with the French book.”

“Les Mis,” Techno corrects automatically, and he slides the rubric printout closer to get a better look at it. He frowns thoughtfully. “I haven’t read this story in years. Wilbur’s makin’ you guys read this?”

“He said it was, and I quote, ‘really Halloween-y,’ and then had to try and not laugh because it sounded like he’d said ‘weenie,’” Tommy says flatly, and Techno runs a hand through his hair. It’s loose, which is unusual; Techno usually keeps it in a braid. “Why’ve you got your hair down?”

Techno goes a bit red in the face, and Tommy tries not to laugh. He won’t get an actual answer if Techno’s too embarrassed, after all. “Phil wasn’t home this mornin’ and neither was Kristin, and I hate it when it’s not balanced in the middle of my back, because then it just gets in the way,” he mutters, and Tommy scoffs. “Let’s get back to your essay—”

He stops talking when Tommy starts gathering his hair up. “I can do it for you, and you can tell me how I should write my essay,” he offers, and Techno raises a brow at him. “Okay, you can explain how to do it, and then you can tell me what to do for my essay.”

Techno huffs out a laugh, but he turns around nonetheless. “Just part it into three even pieces first,” he says, and Tommy gets to work doing that, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Techno slides the rubric off the desk and examines it further. “Why don’t you use a horror game or somethin’ as your example? There’s gotta be some themin’ or whatever in one of those that’ll give you enough to get a good grade.”

“I guess so. I was thinking of doing that, but I wasn’t sure which one to use,” Tommy says, and Techno hums as Tommy finishes smoothing out the three sections of hair. “Alright, what do I do next, big man?”

“Start moving them over one another—alternate, there you go, you’re gettin’ the hang of it,” he says, and Tommy tries his best to imitate the way he’s seen Phil and Kristin do it a thousand times. “You could always just point out similar means of causing suspense. Don’t yank so hard, you’re gonna rip my hair out.”

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbles, carefully moving the leftmost strand to the inside. “Right, so I just explain how the scary shit makes you feel scared?”

Techno huffs. “No, you have to talk about thematic elements,” he emphasizes, and Tommy makes a face. That sounds like pretentious bullshit, and it probably is. “Like, what words in the story make the atmosphere tense? What parts of the game have you on the edge of your seat? Stuff like that. You almost done?”

“Yeah, I’m just finishing up the last bit. I think I get what to do for my essay now,” Tommy says, and Techno passes him a hair tie. He ties the end of the braid and slumps back into his chair, fingers ghosting over the keyboard. Tommy wonders if he should tell Techno about Hive. That name still makes him want to laugh. He starts to type and pointedly keeps his eyes on the screen. “Techno, I’m only going to say this once. You were right.”

“Of course I was,” Techno says. “About what?”

Tommy looks away, only looking back to his laptop to keep writing. “Tubbo seems to have appointed himself as my guy in the chair,” he says, and Techno’s face is the epitome of exasperation. “He doesn’t know my identity, don’t get me wrong, I’m not that bad at this alter ego thing. But...he did install comms in my new suit, and I cannot find them for the life of me, which means he’s pulled a Tubbo and done something annoyingly intelligent.”

Stifling a laugh, Techno brings his fist to his mouth. “He...he Tommy-proofed your suit,” he says, voice shaking with barely-concealed chuckles, and Tommy kicks at his ankles before returning to his essay. Techno clears his throat. “Seriously, though, I told you so.”

Tommy groans and throws his head back. “I know, just help me with my essay and leave me to wallow,” he huffs. Techno rolls his eyes, but he leans forward slightly anyway, eyes scanning over what Tommy’s already written. “You can tell me if it’s bad, big man, I can take it.”

“It’s not bad, you just talk in circles here...and here. But you can fix that no problem,” Techno says, and Tommy huffs. He hates essays.

At least holding a building together had at least been less tedious than this shit.

*****

Chapter Text

Tommy isn’t entirely sure what’s happening.

It’s lunch, and Tubbo is currently pleading for Ranboo to bring his high-powered microscope over and look at what Tommy knows is a sample from 404’s spore gun, but Tubbo is only referring to it as ‘mushrooms from the backyard.’ Ranboo, of course, is understandably skeptical of this. And, for some reason, Purpled is sitting at their table today, albeit a good ten feet away from them.

“I’m telling you, it’s not a prank! I legitimately just want to know what kind of mushroom the spores came from,” Tubbo protests, and Ranboo buries his face in his hands. “Ranboo, if I wanted to prank you, this is not the way I’d do it.”

“I know, and that’s exactly why I’m being cautious,” Ranboo tells him flatly, and Tommy snorts, choking on his Coke slightly. Ranboo glares at him, and Tommy puts his hands up. He’s got no dog in this fight, thanks. “Are you in on this? What does he actually want?”

Tommy shrugs. “Fuck if I know, man. If this were a prank, though, Big T probably wouldn’t look like he’s one minute away from kidnapping you and forcing you to sit in his room and inspect some mushrooms at gunpoint,” he says, taking a massive bite of his sandwich so that he’s no longer forced to contribute to the conversation.

Tubbo pulls on Ranboo’s arm with both hands and leans back in his seat. Ranboo hardly reacts, only shaking his head slightly as he takes a sip of water. “C’mon, bossman, just do me this one favor! I’ll get you as many American sweets as I can buy,” he promises, and Tommy frowns a little at that. Tubbo shouldn’t be spending his own money to help out Tommy’s alter ego; that’s kind of the opposite of what Tommy’s going for here.

“I cannot be bought,” Ranboo answers easily, and Tommy snorts. Good on him, honestly. Alas, Ranboo is the only one out of the three of them that’s actually pretty good at biology—Tommy would normally go to him for help with classes, but Techno’s pretty good at it too, so he doesn’t bother to bug Ranboo about it. Tubbo pouts, but Ranboo is still unconvinced. “I’m not gonna look at your weird shrooms, dude. On the off chance that you’re actually not trying to prank me, I still don’t trust whatever you’ve got growing in your yard.”

Scoffing, Tubbo turns to his own lunch and scowls. “I’ll just do it myself, then. If I happen to accidentally ingest some, and if it just so happens to be poisonous, I suppose you’ll just have to live with that,” he says, and Ranboo groans.

Tommy grimaces. That’s a noise of defeat and acceptance for sure. “Fine,” Ranboo mumbles, and Tubbo grins, taking a triumphant bite of what looks like leftovers from one of Puffy’s signature pre-prepared dinners. Ranboo shoves his bag of crisps at Tommy, and he pounces on them, shoving a couple in his mouth and making a face when the sweet and tangy taste of barbeque hits his tongue. He passes the bag back. Ranboo looks surprised. “I thought these were your favorite?”

“Too sweet,” Tommy explains, and Ranboo hums, brows furrowed as he takes the bag and eats a few crisps. Tubbo’s practically buzzing with excitement, sketching something frantically. He has a feeling he’ll be getting a new piece of suit equipment soon. “You look like somebody just gave you a winning lottery ticket, man, it’s just mushrooms.”

“Fuck off, Tommy,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo sighs.

“All three of you are morons,” Purpled chimes in from the end of the table, and they turn to look at him. Tommy’s brow furrows as Purpled reaches into his backpack, grabs a book, and slides it down the table to them. “Detailed guide of fungi species. Now you don’t have to argue while I’m trying to eat.”

Ranboo takes the book curiously, and Tubbo scoffs. “Why are you even sitting here, then? And who carries around a book of fungi species with them?!” he asks, and Tommy laughs around another bite of his sandwich. Purpled just flips them off and turns back to his food and his phone. Fair enough, in Tommy’s opinion. Tubbo scowls, snatching the book from Ranboo and flipping through it.

Tommy scoots down a few seats towards Purpled and looks at him, really looks at him. The kid is an enigma; whatever had happened during his and Tubbo’s project together had made Tubbo hate the guy. “Go back to your trash heap, raccoon boy,” Purpled tells him without looking up from his phone, and Tommy frowns.

“What’s your deal?” Tommy says, more curious than accusatory, and Purpled looks up at him then, face flat. “I meant, like, why are you sitting over here? You’ve never sat with us before.”

“One of the new teachers keeps standing over where I usually sit. I didn’t want the trouble,” he answers, gesturing over his shoulder at a table towards the very back, and sure enough, Mr. Jacobs is standing there, arms crossed as he casually leans against the wall. In all honesty, he’s not that intimidating. Tommy raises his brows, and Purpled shrugs. “You guys are the only people I know. Figured you two wouldn’t mind, and Tubbo would just have to deal with it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tommy takes one of the nuggets off of Purpled’s tray. “Table tax,” he says, and Purpled nods. So they have reached an understanding. Tommy moves back to his usual seat and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Gentlemen, I vote we let him stay.”

Tubbo glares at him. “You’re only saying that because he paid the table tax,” he grumbles, and Tommy just shrugs. So what if he can be won over by people allowing him to steal from them?

“To be fair, I got to stay because I paid the table tax too,” Ranboo chimes in, and Tommy grins at him. He turns back to his lunch bag, knowing Techno had slipped him a pack of beef jerky before he’d left for class, only to find nothing left in it. Ranboo’s brows furrow. “You good, dude?”

Tommy groans. “Wilbur must’ve taken it, he’s such a fuckin’—ugh,” he groans, and he stands up, crumpling up the paper bag. He usually dreads missing any part of lunch, but he’s really hungry today, and Wilbur had taken the one thing Tommy had really been looking forward to. “See you guys in class if I don’t make it back. Don’t wait up.”

Tubbo waves and Ranboo sends him a sympathetic glance as Tommy makes his way out of the cafeteria and down the hall. Normally, Tommy wouldn’t have cared if Wilbur had taken something out of his bag—Wilbur always takes the sweets, anyway, and Tommy can’t exactly enjoy those anymore—but Techno had put the beef jerky in his lunch for a reason, dammit.

And Tommy’s not about to keep denying himself enough food to keep up with his metabolism.

“Tommy!” someone chirps from behind him, and while it doesn’t sound like he’s about to get scolded, Tommy remains wary as he turns to face Deputy Head Charlie. Ah. “You’re supposed to be in the cafeteria, aren’t you? Dap me up!”

Charlie offers his arm, and Tommy...daps him up. He assumes that’s what Charlie’s trying to do, anyway. “I am, but I’m going to the staff room because Wi—Mr. Soot took part of my lunch this morning and I didn’t notice until now,” Tommy explains, not really sure if Charlie’s one of those kinds of teachers that balk at the use of another teacher’s first name, and Charlie nods.

He adjusts his neon green suspenders, which are never not goofy-looking, and grins. “Why don’t I come with you?” Charlie offers, and Tommy shrugs. He doesn’t see why not. Charlie’s turned out to be pretty harmless so far, all things considered; a little absent-minded, but ultimately pretty easy to get around if Tommy’s nice enough while he’s sneaking out. Charlie hums idly as they walk down the hall together. “So...is everyone in your family so tall?”

A surprised laugh leaves Tommy, and he shakes his head. “Ah, no, Ph—my dad and my mum are both shorter than me and my brothers,” he says, and Charlie narrows his eyes in confusion. Tommy feels The Sense pull at the back of his head, and he gets the sudden feeling that he should change the subject away from his family, and quickly. “How are you settling in? This place can be a bit of a shithole sometimes. Uh, I mean—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard Quackity from the front office say much worse,” Charlie says easily, and Tommy doesn’t really know how to respond to that. “Wilbur from room eight-oh-two is your brother, huh? That’s interesting.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and The Sense thrums dully. “I guess so…?”

Charlie waves his hands in front of him quickly and smiles apologetically. “Sorry if I sound weird! I’m still getting used to this Deputy Head thing. I’m also still learning my way around, and I like to keep track of the staff to make Quackity from the front office’s job easier,” he elaborates, and Tommy honestly has no idea what to do with that either. Talking at length with Charlie is fucking weird.

They reach the staff room, and Charlie holds the door open for him. There are a few teachers in there, Wilbur included. Tommy scowls and starts to march over, but he’s abruptly interrupted by Ms. Saumon, who grins at him. “Hey, kiddo! Here to see your brother?” she asks, slinging an arm around his shoulders with ease, and Tommy smiles back at her, nodding.

Ms. Saumon jerks her head to the table Wilbur’s at, and they walk over, Wilbur looking positively mortified at the two of them getting along. “I would like my food back, bitch,” Tommy says, and the teachers that know him snicker quietly at Wilbur’s exasperation.

The one that’s new—that ginger that Tommy still doesn’t know the name of, crosses his arms and furrows his brow. “You can’t use that kind of language in here, and especially not to a teacher, understand?” he asks, and Tommy stifles a laugh.

“Don’t mind Tommy, he does this all the time,” Sam interjects, walking past to get to the coffee machine and ruffling Tommy’s hair as he does. The ginger still looks huffy. Sam shakes his head and claps a hand on the ginger’s shoulder. “Seriously, Fundy. Wilbur’s his brother. Tommy visits us, like, twice a week.”

The ginger—Fundy—goes a bit pink in the face and abruptly turns away. Ms. Saumon chuckles, shaking her head. She turns to Wilbur, and Tommy rolls his eyes as Wilbur’s face goes red almost immediately. “You oughta give him his food back, Soot, I can’t have my best athlete going hungry on me,” she says, and Tommy grins wickedly.

Wilbur looks about three more seconds of humiliation away from jumping across the table to throttle him. “You heard her, Wil, I’m a growing boy. I need my nutrition,” Tommy says, and Ms. Saumon turns her head to hide her laughter.

“Is Tommy in here?” Niki’s voice asks from the doorway, and Tommy turns to her. She brightens up and sweeps him into a hug. “Hey! If I’d known you were gonna join us today, I’d have brought you cookies!”

He’s about to respond, but Charlie re-enters the conversation abruptly. “Niki from room eight hundred, you know Tommy too?” he asks, head tilted, and she grins, nodding.

“Of course I know Tommy, everybody knows Tommy,” she says, and Tommy goes a bit pink with embarrassment as she pats his cheek and passes him a wrapped baked good that he’s fairly certain had supposed to have been part of her own lunch. “Oh! That reminds me, Wil, are you gonna bring him bowling with us like you’d said?”

Wilbur has slammed his head onto the tabletop, and Tommy cackles, half-bent with his arms around himself as he tries to quell his laughter. “I didn’t tell him, because I don’t want him to come with us,” he mumbles, muffled slightly by the table, and Ms. Saumon tuts; Wilbur’s head shoots up. “B-But if you want me to bring him, I’d be happy to, Sally!”

“Could he be any more obvious?” Niki murmurs, and Tommy stifles a laugh behind his hand as Ms. Saumon beams at Wilbur, who practically melts. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Niki clears her throat and holds a hand out in front of Wilbur, who looks confused for a brief moment, then, pouting, he hands her the still-unopened packet of jerky, and she hands it to Tommy. “Here you are, Toms. Say hi to Ranboo and Tubbo for me, yeah?”

“Will do,” Tommy says, and he gives the teachers a two-fingered salute before heading out again, no longer trailed by Charlie, who’d thankfully chosen to remain in the staff room. He heads back to the cafeteria, and he settles back down at the table, waving the two newly acquired snacks in triumph. “Fellas, I have once again emerged victorious. Also, Niki says hi.”

Ranboo and Tubbo grin. Tommy goes to take a sip of his Coke, but the bell rings, and everyone starts to get up. Their footsteps make the floor feel like it’s rumbling, and Tommy’s ears start ringing. Before he knows it, the Coke can pops, and his hand is dripping with soda. Tubbo and Ranboo are staring at him with concern, neither of them really sure of what to do, and Tommy laughs nervously, dropping the mutilated can on the table.

Mr. Jacobs taps him on the shoulder, and Tommy nearly jumps out of his skin. “Hey, are you alright? I can send you to the nurse if you need,” he says, and Tommy shakes his head.

“No, no, I’m—I’m fine,” he says, and Tubbo puts a hand on his arm. Mr. Jacobs looks hesitant to let him leave, so Tommy smiles and hopes it doesn’t seem shaky. “Just nervous about a quiz, that’s all. Sorry if that was—if I scared you.”

He gathers his things and starts to leave. “Tommy, if you’re...if you’re having trouble with panic attacks…” Ranboo starts, and Tommy scoffs. That’s not what had happened at all. That’s not a panic attack, that’d be blowing it way out of proportion. Tommy had just...remembered something bad and gotten a little startled, that’s all.

“I’m alright, big man,” Tommy says, “seriously.”

Ranboo doesn’t quite seem to believe him, but he drops the subject anyway.

*****

Tommy is currently stewing in anxiety.

Wilbur’s supposed to be handing back their results today, and while Techno’s tutoring had helped a great deal, he’s still not entirely confident that he’d done well. His leg bounces underneath his desk as Wilbur starts to hand back papers at the front of the class. Ranboo tilts his head curiously, and Tommy flips him off.

“Haven’t you been studying for, like, a month? You probably at least passed,” Ranboo says, and Tommy knows this is reasonable, yet his mind is still telling him he’s definitely failed. Tubbo glances over his shoulder at them—Wilbur had moved him towards the front to try and curb the note passing. Ranboo waves dismissively, and Tubbo turns back around. Wilbur gets closer to their row, and Tommy’s leg bouncing intensifies. If he’s fucked up this as well, there’s no hope for his grade, he’ll have to retake the class or take it again over the summer, which means he won’t see his friends or get to patrol as often, and then— “Tommy, you’re hyperventilating.”

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes out, and Ranboo reaches over to gently put his hand on Tommy’s arm; that in itself feels like too much and too little. Tommy’s got no idea why he’s so worked up over this. Well, actually, he does, it’s for all those reasons he’d just listed in his head, and he supposes his grade has never depended on just one quiz, like this one must, but he shouldn’t be this stressed over it.

Wilbur starts at the end of their row, and Tommy’s throat feels like it’s going to close up any second now. Ranboo pulls his hand away, and Tommy feels both relieved and disappointed at the loss of contact. “Well done, Ranboo, as usual,” Wilbur says with a wink and a smile, and Ranboo lights up. Wilbur hands Tommy’s paper back face-down. Fuck.

As Wilbur moves to the next person in their row, Tommy stares down at his desk and the offending white rectangle on top of it. His vision starts to blur, and he vaguely registers Ranboo scooting his chair closer in his peripheral vision. Tommy’s fists are clenched, slightly trembling, and he blinks rapidly. Ranboo puts a hand on his shoulder. “Tommy, it’s okay, here, why don’t we look through it together, see if we can—”

“Fuck,” Tommy chokes. Ranboo falls silent as Tommy buries his face in his hands. He’s fucked it up again. He keeps making mistakes. And this isn’t even the first time Tommy’s done everything in his power not to fuck things up! Maybe that’s his real superpower.

“Do...do you want me to look for you?” Ranboo offers, and Tommy takes a shaky, deep breath as he nods. He can’t start fucking crying in English lit, this isn’t—it’s still fixable, he can do something, ask for extra credit, study more. Ranboo takes the paper slowly, and he barks out a surprised laugh. Tommy’s stomach swoops; he knows he did horribly, but Ranboo doesn’t have to laugh at him. “Tommy. You did perfect. Full marks, man.”

Shoulders dropping along with his hands, Tommy stares wide-eyed at Ranboo, who gives him an easy smile and hands over the quiz. Tommy takes another shaky breath, eyes widening at the number written in Wilbur’s messy scrawl at the top. “Full marks,” he whispers, incredulous, and Ranboo punches his arm playfully. Tommy feels a wave of relief crash over him, and he starts laughing, probably too loudly, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Settle down, Thomas,” Wilbur says, and Tommy can’t even get annoyed. He’s done it—there’s hope for his grades yet.

Ranboo’s still looking at him funny, but that doesn’t matter. Tommy’s going to buy Techno so many swords. “Listen, I’m bringing my microscope to Tubbo’s later, so it can’t be today, but if you ever want to have, like, a study session, I’d be down for that,” he says, and Tommy smiles at him. He probably won’t be able to take him up on the offer between patrols and Techno’s tutoring, but he’s thankful for it nonetheless.

Wilbur starts talking about something or another up at the board, and Tommy tunes it out, still hyper-focused on the number that’s currently his main source of happiness. That’s probably an unhealthy attachment, but Tommy doesn’t care, he’s just so relieved he’d passed. Phil’s gonna be so proud of him—Kristin will be too! Techno’s going to pretend like he doesn’t care, but Tommy will know that he’s proud anyway, and—

“Would you care to join us back on earth, space cadet?” Wilbur’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and Tommy blinks, cheeks heating up. He slumps down in his seat, and Wilbur chuckles lightly, turning back towards the board.

Tommy stews in a mix of silence, anger, and elation for the rest of class. Silence, because obviously, he can’t talk. He’s in class. Anger, because Wilbur’s being a bitch even after Tommy had evidently started to do well in class again. And elation, of course, because he’s incredible and amazing and had saved his grade.

When class ends, Tommy marches up to Wilbur’s desk and slams the paper down. “If I did good, do not give me a heart attack and hand it back face-down,” he says, and Wilbur stifles a laugh behind his hand. Tommy frowns. “I’m serious! I was fuckin’ panicking, man, even Ranboo was all worried n’ shit.”

Wilbur actually seems a little apologetic. “Oh,” he says, and Tommy crosses his arms. Wilbur blinks, shaking his head. “Wait, Tommy, why would you be panicking over it?”

“Because I thought that meant my grade was doomed!” Tommy says, rather peeved, and Wilbur still looks confused. “I’m borderline failing—well, not after this, but—I thought I was screwed, man, I had no idea what I was going to do.”

“Tommy, if I hadn’t been confident that you could turn it around, I would have offered you extra credit much sooner. If any of my students aren’t doing well, and that includes you, that’s on me as a teacher,” Wilbur says, and Tommy looks away. “I’m serious. We’re only about halfway through ’til winter break, you’re doing fine, you’re on track to pass the class.”

Well, that’s a relief. “Okay,” Tommy says, feeling kind of sheepish at how he’d blown things out of proportion so easily. “Uh. Thanks.”

Brow furrowing, Wilbur claps a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Are you alright? There’s never any need to panic over a quiz in my class, ever, I won’t let something like that make or break your grade,” he says, and Tommy knows that...in retrospect. Wilbur’s a good teacher, even if he’s a bit of an ass to Tommy sometimes. Wilbur pulls Tommy in for a hug, and Tommy doesn’t fight it, but he doesn’t return it, either. He’s too wrapped up in wondering what the hell’s gotten into him lately. “Toms, I know that you don’t want to...I know Techno’s probably got it covered, but if you ever need to talk about what’s bothering you…”

Tommy pulls back, clutching at his arms. “Yeah, no, I’m—I’m fine,” he says, because logically, he should be. His grades are fine now, his hands have healed, he’s been having a good day. “I’ll see you at home, Wil.”

Wilbur gnaws nervously at his bottom lip, clearly uncertain. “I think you might need to see a therapist,” he says, and Tommy blinks in surprise. He doesn’t need a therapist; he hadn’t needed one when Phil had suggested it, and he definitely doesn’t need one now. Wilbur puts his hands up placatingly. “I know you probably think you’re fine, but...Toms, you’re clearly not sleeping, your appetite is all over the place—first you weren’t eating nearly enough and now you are—and I don’t even know how many panic attacks you’ve had.”

“No, Wil, I’m fine, honest,” Tommy says, slightly frantic. If Wilbur brings it up to Phil, Phil will bring it up to Kristin, and then Techno might agree with them, and then Tommy won’t have enough time to patrol on top of everything else, and the crime rates might rise again, and it’ll be all his fault. “Seriously, I-I don’t need a therapist, man, Phil already suggested it, I don’t need one.”

“Tommy, you’re shaking,” Wilbur says quietly, and Tommy concentrates on keeping his hands steady. “Is this...is it about what happened during the robbery?”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Tommy nods. “Yeah, that’s probably it,” he croaks, and he hates lying to Wilbur, at least about the important stuff. Wilbur doesn’t deserve that, but Tommy has to keep him safe, he has to, he’s already putting Techno and Tubbo in danger, he can’t let that happen to Wilbur as well. “I’ll ask Tubbo if I can talk to Puffy about it.”

The lie tastes like bile. Wilbur gets visibly relieved. “Good. That’s a great idea, Tommy,” he says, his smile soft and proud, and the knife twists just a little bit more. Tommy starts to head towards the door, but Wilbur puts a hand on his arm. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“I know,” Tommy says, and he doesn’t, “thanks, Wil.”

Wilbur’s still smiling, and Tommy heads out of the classroom. He’s got maths next, so it’s just a trip across the hall. It’s easy. Even though the rumbling footsteps of the people still in the hall make his breathing shaky, even though someone laughing too loudly makes his ears ring, it’s easy. Tommy sits in his usual seat next to Tubbo.

“Here,” Tubbo says, and he hands Tommy a tiny paper...shape of some kind. Grinning sheepishly, Tubbo shrugs. “It’s supposed to be a crane, but I kind of fucked it up.”

Tommy snorts and fiddles with it for a minute, then tucks it carefully into his front pocket, taking caution not to crumple it. It’s stupid, but he loves it. “Alright, everybody,” Niki says, shuffling a stack of papers, “I’ve been told that we’re supposed to talk about the fundraiser at the beginning of this class period, so thankfully, we can put off the actual work for a while.”

Chuckling along with the rest of the class, Tommy leans back in his seat. “Wilbur says they’re all volunteering, and they all have to wear uniforms. He won’t let me see what it looks like, though, so it’s probably fuckin’ terrible,” he mutters to Tubbo, who snorts.

Niki starts to pass out the sheets she’s got, and Tommy’s surprised to see that they’re little flyers, cutely decorated and well put-together. The last fundraiser they’d had at the school had been an utterly disorganized disaster, but that’s mostly due to the fact that their previous headteacher had been more focused on not getting sent to prison than a bake sale. Big Q’s really turning things around.

“Right, now that you’ve all got your flyers, I’ll tell you about the carnival itself,” Niki says with a smile, and Tommy glances over at Tubbo to find him frantically sketching something; he assumes he’ll hear about it later. Niki claps her hands together, and she’s clearly pretty excited about the whole ordeal. “There’ll be stalls set up with games where you can all win prizes, rides that you can purchase additional tickets for after you’ve run out of the ones we give you when you enter, and plenty of other attractions!”

Purpled raises his hand, surprisingly, and Niki nods at him. “Is attendance mandatory?” he asks, and she shakes her head. Purpled hums. “Cool.”

“Entry tickets are twenty pounds each, and you don’t have to come, but it’ll be a lot of fun! Of course, if you’d like to attend but can’t because of the price, if you have an adult willing to volunteer, you can come for free,” Niki says, and Tommy leans his cheek against his palm. This is kind of boring, and he might not be able to go depending on how patrol goes that day, but he doesn’t want to not pay attention in Niki’s class, she’s too nice. “I’ll be there as a volunteer, as will most of your teachers, so come say hi! Additional ride tickets are ten for five pounds, and you can go into the attractions for free as many times as you want.”

“What kind of attractions are there, Ms. Nihachu?” one girl asks, her hand in the air, and Niki grins.

“Oh, there are so many! We’re getting a funhouse, a bouncy castle for the little kids, spinning teacups, a mini-coaster, a pirate ship ride,” Niki lists, and there’s some excited chatter starting up amongst the class. Tommy has to admit, that does sound pretty fun. Niki gestures for them to quiet down, and they do. “The one I’m most excited for is the hall of mirrors, but there’s going to be so many more I haven’t even mentioned! There will be food and drink booths, and the money that doesn’t go towards paying for the carnival itself will be put towards upgrading our gym equipment, our marching band’s instruments, and better computers for the computer lab.”

At that, Tubbo perks up, as does Ranboo. Tubbo raises his hand, and Niki nods for him to go ahead. “How long is it going to last for?” he asks, and Niki hums, glancing down at her desk.

She frowns thoughtfully down at whatever she’s looking at, then gives him a smile. “It’ll be from five in the evening until midnight,” she says, and Tubbo nods, returning to his frantic doodling. “It’s happening on Halloween, for those of you that were absent for the initial announcement.”

As she goes on to answer questions about bringing siblings, more specifications about the attractions, and about the volunteer schedule, Tommy glances over at Tubbo. He can’t curb his curiosity for much longer. “What’re you sketching like a madman over there?” he asks, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

“It’s a prototype gas mask for you-know-who,” Tubbo whispers back, and Tommy blinks in surprise. Ah, right. Tubbo had said he’d wanted to design a gas mask for him to use in fights against 404. Ranboo, on Tubbo’s other side, glances over, brows furrowed in confusion. Tubbo waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, bossman.”

Ranboo sighs, and Tommy feels a bit bad for keeping him out of the loop. Then again, it’s just to keep him safe; he’d taken a massive risk when he’d let Tubbo continue to be his guy in the chair.

He can’t do that to anyone else.

He just can’t.

*****

Chapter Text

Ranboo lives a pleasantly average life as a pretty average guy.

Well, maybe not average in every way, he’s pretty darn tall, to be fair. But for the most part, Ranboo’s life is perfectly ordinary, and he likes it that way. Which is why, when Tubbo asks him to look at mushroom spores after school, he’s hesitant. Ranboo likes to think of himself as a guy with a decent amount of common sense, and his common sense says that Tubbo ‘discovering’ a weird mushroom in his backyard and being so curious about it that he practically pleads for Ranboo to tell him what it is can only mean bad news.

Unfortunately for Ranboo, he also likes to think of himself as a pretty good friend, which means putting up with the occasional shenanigan that Tubbo and-slash-or Tommy happen to drag him into. So here he is, standing on Tubbo’s doorstep with his very expensive and delicate microscope cradled in his arms and waiting for him to open the door.

“Just a minute!” comes Tubbo’s very frantic voice from somewhere inside, followed by several deeply concerning crashes, then a solid ten seconds of silence. Ranboo sighs as thudding footsteps get closer to the door. “I’m okay!”

The door swings open after just a moment more, and Ranboo nods in greeting, since his hands are full. Tubbo eagerly ushers him in, and Ranboo follows him up to his room. “So are you ever going to tell me what this is actually about?” he asks, and Tubbo just grins over his shoulder at him. Ranboo rolls his eyes. “Is Tommy coming later?”

“Probably not,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo can tell that Tubbo’s probably still a little bitter over being ditched so many times. He clears out a spot on his desk, and Ranboo gently sets down the microscope. He’s not entirely sure if this will end in disaster, but there’s a good thirty percent chance that it’ll at least end in mushroom spores being spilled everywhere. Tubbo rushes over to the closet, digging through a bag very loudly. “Just a second! I think it’s in here somewhere…? Aha!”

Holding up a little vial of a gaseous, green substance that Ranboo does not trust at all, Tubbo grins triumphantly. This can’t mean anything good. “Do you have a slide to put it on?” he asks, taking the vial and starting to open it, but Tubbo frantically grabs his wrists to stop him.

Tubbo laughs nervously, and Ranboo lets him take the vial back. Okay, now he definitely doesn’t want any part of this. “Let me just...is it at all possible for you to take a look at it while it’s still in the tube?” he asks, and Ranboo nods hesitantly. It’ll be a pain to have to hold it still, and he’ll have to account for the image being slightly warped, but it’s possible. Tubbo sets the vial under the microscope, and Ranboo starts adjusting the settings.

“How magnified do we want it?” Ranboo asks, and Tubbo shrugs a little helplessly. “Right, um, I guess I’ll just...I’ll just use each setting, then.”

He adjusts the lenses, then works on focusing the image, huffing a little as the vial starts to slip slightly. Thankfully, Tubbo moves in to hold it still for him, which means Ranboo can use both of his hands; that’ll make things much easier. “What d’you see, bossman?” Tubbo asks, sounding pretty hopeful as he props Purpled’s fungi book on the desk next to them with his free hand, and Ranboo’s brow furrows.

“Looks like…” he trails off, glancing over at the book. The spores are feather-like, the thin white strands drifting gently through whatever gaseous substance it’s housed in. Ranboo skims through a couple of the pages of the book, frowning in concentration. There are a couple of spores in the book that are similar, but Ranboo keeps flipping until he finds the most accurate one he can. “These are probably fly agaric mushrooms, judging by the spores, but there’s something off about them. Let me zoom in more.”

He does, and he focuses the image until he can see properly. Now, Ranboo does not, in fact, consider himself an expert on biology, let alone mycology, but he knows that something is absolutely incorrect here. When he leans back, brows furrowed, Tubbo tilts his head. “What’s up? What are you seeing?” he asks, and Ranboo hums in uncertainty, going back to look at the sample again. “Is it just...it’s normal, right?”

“No, it’s got...if I didn’t know better I’d say these are melatonin receptors and releasers,” Ranboo says, but that’s literally scientifically impossible. That cannot be it. He stands upright again, and he crosses his arms as he tries to think of something else it could be. Tubbo still looks confused, so Ranboo decides he should probably elaborate, at least a little. “Basically, plants and people have different hormones and hormone receptors. So, like, if you were to eat a plant with a lot of a certain plant-specific hormone, you wouldn’t get the effects of it, since you don’t have the right receptor. But these have human melatonin receptors and releasers, and a lot of them at that, meaning if you were to accidentally ingest or inhale them, then...”

And then it hits him. Tubbo definitely didn’t find these mushrooms. As if Tubbo can sense Ranboo’s realization, he puts his hands up placatingly and grins. “Listen, these may or may not be spores from—”

“That supervillain,” Ranboo finishes for him, pressing his fingers to his temples. He’d thought Tubbo’s danger-seeking streak had died down somewhat, but apparently it’s back in full force, judging by the fact that he’s got a sample of whatever the hell that 404 guy has been using to knock people out. “Tubbo, are you kidding me?! That’s so dangerous, I can’t believe you would steal genetically modified mushroom spores—well, no, actually, I can believe it.”

Tubbo sighs. “Ranboo, I promise, I’m being careful. And I didn’t even put myself in any danger to get this! Well, not really anyway, Spider-Man doesn’t want me putting myself in danger,” he says, ending in a mumble, and Ranboo shakes his head. Honestly, he still doesn’t understand why Tubbo’s kept such a high opinion of the guy this whole time.

There’s no reasonable explanation as to why the government’s currently letting a vigilante in a mask run around ‘solving’ crimes. And his initial prediction had been right—with a superhero comes supervillains, and Ranboo knows that he, for one, would very much not like to be on the receiving end of whatever kinds of weapons these guys have. It would naturally follow that Ranboo doesn’t exactly want his friends to be either.

While Ranboo respects what Spider-Man does, and is grateful that he at least has the good sense to tell Tubbo not to endanger himself, he’s not about to put an unshakable trust in a random superpowered individual who could easily turn on the public if provoked. He’s fine for now, but that could change, and Ranboo doesn’t want to feel betrayed if and when it does.

Ranboo’s trying to think of how to properly convey this, because he’s tried before to no avail, when there’s an odd beep coming from Tubbo’s speakers. “What’s that?” he asks, and Tubbo looks way too panicked for it to be anything Ranboo wants to be a part of.

Tubbo’s setup is incredibly impressive; he’s built it up slowly over the years. It’s got four monitors and two keyboards, and his PC sends a shiver down Ranboo’s spine whenever he thinks about just how much of a tank that thing is. And, clearly, a new alert system. Ranboo isn’t naive enough to hope that it’s not in regards to Spider-Man’s antics.

“It’s nothing!” Tubbo answers, but he does plug his headphones in, snatches the spore sample out from under the microscope, and immediately starts pushing Ranboo towards the door. He really has no sense of subtlety.

Squirming out of his grasp, Ranboo heads over to the computer. In spite of his better judgement, which is telling him to leave this alone, so he can continue minding his own business in peace and quiet, he wiggles the mouse, and the monitors light up with databases, radar maps, and crime alerts. And an incoming call from—

“Hive! Thank fuck you picked up, man,” says a voice, very quiet but still distinct enough to hear from the headphones, and Ranboo’s brows furrow. Tubbo dashes over and starts to wrestle for the headphones, but Ranboo puts up as good of a fight as he can. What the heck is going on, and why doesn’t Tubbo want him to know about it?! Ranboo shoves the headphones over his ears and glares at Tubbo in defiance. “Hive, are you there?! I’m losing this guy, man, I need you to track his car!”

“Uh...who’s this?” Ranboo asks, wondering what kind of crime ring Tubbo’s evidently trying to infiltrate, and the person on the other end of the line makes a choking noise. “Hello?”

Tubbo finally succeeds at yanking the headphones off of Ranboo’s head and promptly shoves him out of the way, sitting down and typing frantically. “You’re on with Hive, sorry about that, bossman,” he says, and Ranboo sputters out a few incoherent noises. What is happening right now?! Tubbo glances back at him, bottom lip worried between his teeth, then turns his full attention to the computer again. “No, no, it’s nobody, I was trying out a voice changer.”

Ranboo frowns. First of all, who’s Tubbo talking to that apparently needs to track a car?! And second of all, it’s so weird that Tubbo is denying he’s even here. That, coupled with the thing about the mushrooms, it almost makes him think that—

Oh, you have got to be kidding.

“You’re on a call with Spider-Man!” Ranboo accuses, and Tubbo tenses up, but his typing doesn’t pause.

He does, however, grimace. “Yeah, okay, maybe I lied,” he says, and Ranboo assumes he’s talking to Spider-Man, but it still applies to their conversation, so he crosses his arms anyway. Tubbo groans, double-clicks on one of his little radar maps, and turns towards Ranboo. “Hang on—yeah, no, I’ll be...no, I know, I’m not stupid, man. Yeah. Okay, fuck’s sakes, give me a second, let me talk to him. Right, look, I know you’re probably pissed—”

“That doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Ranboo says. He runs a hand through his hair nervously and his shoulders go tense. Fuck, this is bad. “You’re aiding and abetting somebody that probably qualifies as operating against the law! You’re actively endangering yourself, of course I’m mad! I’m worried! What are you thinking?!”

Sheepishly, Tubbo presses a button on his keyboard and slides the headphones off. “I wasn’t muted yet,” he says, embarrassed, and Ranboo almost laughs. But this isn’t funny, Tubbo’s working with some masked stranger who, evidently, knows who he is and where he lives, if the delivered spores are any indication, meaning he could be in so much danger if it came down to it. Tubbo folds his hands on the desk and sighs. “Ranboo, I’m...this is important to me.”

Resisting the urge to shake Tubbo by the shoulders until he comes to his senses, Ranboo just shakes his head and lets his arms go limp by his sides. “I know it is, but it’s...Tubbo, this is unreasonable. I mean, c’mon, there’s no good outcome to this,” he pleads, hoping that Tubbo will at least try to hear him out here. “Best case scenario, nothing happens, but the worst case?! I don’t even want to think about it, not when there are supervillains running around!”

“And I get that,” Tubbo says, clearly frustrated, which Ranboo honestly thinks he has very little right to be, all things considered. “Look, I’m doing what I think is right. I understand that you don’t trust Spider-Man, and I can follow your logic there, I respect your position, but—this isn’t just me doing something impulsive, I’ve been careful, I’m taking every precaution possible. And I want to help Spider-Man do what he does more efficiently. I want to help him so that he can help more people. Ranboo, I want to—I wanna be part of something.”

“Why does it have to be this?” Ranboo asks, defeated, because there’s nothing else to say. Tubbo’s clearly made up his mind.

Shoulders slightly hunched, Tubbo looks at each of his monitors. “Because this is what I’m good at, man. I’m damn good with this shit. Nobody can do the job better than me,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo bites back the urge to tell him that somebody has to be, because there has to, there’s gotta be someone who could do this instead of Tubbo, someone to endanger themselves that isn’t his best friend. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to help stop a carjacker.”

Tubbo goes to put the headphones back on, but Ranboo stops him. “Let me listen in,” he says, and Tubbo hesitates. He wants to know the extent of what’s going on. While he’d much rather prefer to keep his life as normal as possible, Ranboo’s a little tired of being in the dark.

Still unsure, Tubbo unplugs the headphones, and Ranboo’s immediately hit with the sounds of sirens, cars whizzing by, and other assorted London noises. The audio matches the rightmost monitor, which is a camera view from what’s probably Spider-Man’s mask. Tubbo grabs the mic and pulls it towards himself, turning back towards the monitors and typing frantically. “This is Hive, checking in, what’s your progress?” Tubbo asks, and Ranboo watches as two little dots on the map in the corner of the center monitor blink in and out of sight.

“Fuckin’ slow! I mean, I’m going, like, thirty kilometers at least, but I can’t get the up on this dickhead!” Spider-Man says, and Ranboo’s a little startled by the profanity. The guy seems so polite whenever he’s being interviewed by whatever reporters can manage to pull him into a chat. “Is there anywhere I can cut him off?”

Tubbo and Ranboo both turn to look at the leftmost monitor, and Tubbo’s eyes narrow, like he’s searching for something. He probably is. “You’re gonna wanna turn to the right, there’s an alleyway there where you can cut him off, and it’s a one-way, he’ll be forced right into it,” he says, and Ranboo’s never seen Tubbo so focused.

“On it!” Spider-Man says, and there’s the whoosh of wind flooding the speakers. Ranboo watches as the camera footage veers to the right, and Tubbo’s mouth quirks up in a triumphant smile. The feed shows the speeding—stolen—car head straight for Spider-Man, and Ranboo has to turn away at the motion blur as Spider-Man drops down on the hood of the car, smashes his fist through a window, and yanks the guy out. “Looks like somebody’s been playing a bit too much GTA, hm?”

“Fuck you!” is all the guy manages to get out before he’s being webbed to the side of the alley, and Ranboo’s eyes go wide as Spider-Man hops right into the car through the busted window.

There are gloved hands on the wheel—Ranboo is completely bewildered, it’s like watching a video game cutscene with scarily good graphics—and Spider-Man’s voice sounds slightly panicked as it comes through the speakers. “Uh, do you happen to know how to drive?” he asks, and Ranboo covers his face with his hands. This isn’t going to end well.

“How do you not know how to drive?!” Tubbo demands, and Ranboo would also very much like to know the answer to that. But he stays silent, peeking at the screen through his fingers. “Just hit the brakes!”

“Alright, well, which one is the brake?!” Spider-Man asks, frazzled, and Ranboo tries his hardest not to groan, because he’s not supposed to be listening in on this, but Tubbo is more than reactionary enough for the both of them.

“Are you shitting me?! How the fuck do you not know where the brake is?!” Tubbo shouts, and Ranboo slumps into a crouch. Okay, maybe if Spider-Man is this clueless, he really does need Tubbo’s help. “It’s the—oh, shit, of course I can’t remember now, what the fuck?!”

“You’re both hopeless, the brake pedal is the one to the left of the accelerator!” Ranboo shouts, finally fed up and anxious enough to say something, because the car is going towards the dead end of the alley really quickly.

Spider-Man visibly flinches on the camera feed. “Wh—! Hive, is there somebody with you right now?!” he asks, voice cracking, and Ranboo kind of wants to throttle this guy.

“You are in a car hurtling towards a wall at an ungodly speed, worry about that after you hit the brakes, you moron!” Tubbo bellows, and thankfully, Spider-Man has the good sense to listen, because Ranboo hears the telltale squeal of rubber as the car slows and slows, coming to a stop just before the brick. The tension leaves his body, and Ranboo slumps down on the ground. This is ridiculously stressful. Tubbo leans back in his chair, head tilted towards the ceiling. “Thank fucking God.”

Ranboo can hear Spider-Man’s slightly panicked breathing even out over the speakers. “So. Are you...is there someone else there?” he asks, and Tubbo groans. “...I’ll take that as a yes. Hive, I trust you, man, but I don’t want to endanger more people.”

Watching as Tubbo struggles to find something to say, Ranboo clears his throat. “Don’t worry, I-I’m not gonna—this was a one-time thing. I have zero interest in ever dealing with something like this again,” he says, and Spider-Man’s fingers drum on the steering wheel on the monitor. It kind of surprises Ranboo; it’s such a small, normal gesture. “And...trust me, I’m not going to tell anyone about this. I want no part of it.”

There’s silence for a moment. “Hive. Do you...you trust this guy, yeah?” Spider-Man asks, and there’s something off about the question, like there’s something he wants to say, but isn’t saying it. Ranboo’s brow furrows.

“I’d trust him with my life,” Tubbo says easily, and Ranboo blinks in surprise. “He won’t say anything, Spider-Man, I swear. He doesn’t even like you, for one—”

“Well, that’s not entirely true, I respect you, Mr. Spider-Man, and I don’t dislike you,” Ranboo interrupts, slightly panicked. He shoves Tubbo’s shoulder slightly. “Don’t tell him I don’t like him, that’s not helping!”

There’s a light, nervous chuckle from the speakers. “I didn’t realize there was anyone other than cops that didn’t like me,” Spider-Man jokes, and Ranboo feels a little bad. He watches as Spider-Man clambers out of the car and dusts his hands off in front of him. It’s still so surreal to be watching it on Tubbo’s monitor; he’ll probably see it happen on the news later. “Right, Hive, what’s next?”

Ranboo probably shouldn’t be surprised, but he genuinely has no idea how Spider-Man’s so ready to hop right back into the action. It’s gotta be exhausting. Tubbo starts typing again, and Ranboo glances over to one of the left monitors, positively terrified to see weapons listings scroll by at an abnormal speed.

Tubbo hums. “Looks like Blaze and 404 aren’t selling more weapons, which is both good and bad. Good for obvious reasons, bad because I really wanted to take a look at that electric thingy,” he says, and Ranboo puts his head in his hands again. “But there is a robbery in progress—tiny shop, guy’s only got a blade. Cops are about twenty minutes out, you could probably get there and end things before they even get into the car.”

“Show me the address,” Spider-Man says, and Tubbo clicks, then types, then clicks again, and Ranboo watches as an almost cutesy little popup appears in the corner of the monitor with video feed. Tubbo grins proudly; it’s a tiny, slightly transparent square, adorned with a spiderweb in the bottom left corner and a waving tarantula in the top right. Ranboo finds this both delightful and truly absurd. “Any details I should know about?”

“Nope,” Tubbo says, popping the ‘p,’ and Ranboo finally takes a seat on the bed. He still keeps an eye on the video feed monitor—mostly because he can’t keep up with whatever Tubbo’s doing on the other ones—and fidgets with his hands. “Just your run-of-the-mill criminal.”

Spider-Man sighs in relief—relief!—and chuckles under his breath. “Thank fuck, I was hoping for something easy,” he says, swinging towards where Ranboo assumes the store being robbed is. He still doesn’t know his way around London, and he’s been here for a good few years. It’s a wonder that Spider-Man’s got so many streets memorized.

It’s absolutely enrapturing to watch as Spider-Man bursts into the store, whipping a web at the robber like it’s effortless, like this is just another Thursday for him—which it probably is—and starts joking around. “Does he always talk so much?” Ranboo mumbles, and Tubbo stifles a laugh behind his hand. Ranboo takes that as a yes.

“Oof, that one’s gonna hurt in the morning, mate, let me get you some ice for it!” Spider-Man quips, attaching a web to a bag of ice and throwing it into the robber’s chest. The guy finally goes down, and Spider-Man webs him to the floor as sirens finally start to approach. The video feed turns to the cashier, who looks put out at all the webbing on the floor. “It’ll come off! It dissolves after about two hours. Or just use his knife to cut through it if you don’t want the trouble.”

That’s actually kind of interesting; Ranboo doesn’t follow Spider-Man news if he can help it, so he doesn’t really know how Spider-Man’s powers work. “Does Tu—uh, does Hive know how to make your webs?” he asks. He’s a little curious as to what exactly Tubbo’s responsible for, other than apparently telling Spider-Man where crimes are happening.

“Oh, I don’t make his webs,” Tubbo answers before Spider-Man can respond, and Ranboo watches as he starts to swing away from the store. “They’re completely organic. Also, Spidey, there’s a few muggings going on, but they’re all pretty close to a precinct. You should grab something to eat, I’ll look into the market some more to see if there’s anything I missed with those arms deals we’re investigating.”

“The arms deals that I’m investigating,” Spider-Man corrects, and Tubbo pouts. He swings down to a food truck. “Good afternoon, miss, can I have...um…”

As Spider-Man proceeds to give his order to the woman in the food truck, which is an absurd situation for Ranboo to be watching in Tubbo’s bedroom, Tubbo starts to type, and Ranboo glares warily at the sketchy-looking website on one of the monitors. “Right, Ranboo, you should probably get going,” Tubbo says, holding down a key that’s presumably for muting himself.

“Yeah, I-I don’t think I really want to be here while you investigate the black market with a vigilante,” Ranboo agrees, starting to gather up his things. He’s shaking slightly, and he’s not exactly surprised about that, but it makes it a lot harder to make sure he doesn’t drop his very expensive microscope.

“Oh! I just remembered, would you mind running over Tommy’s notebook? I borrowed it to copy his notes for the last class period, but I’m a little preoccupied,” Tubbo says with a sheepish grin, and Ranboo sighs, but he takes it anyway. “Thanks, bossman! Ayup, Spidey, I’m back.”

He leaves Tubbo to his devices, and he heads out, pausing to scream internally as soon as he’s a little ways down the street. Thankfully, his microscope has not slipped out of his grip. Ranboo takes a few deep breaths and keeps walking, wondering what exactly he’d just bore witness to.

It’s definitely not normal.

And the last thing Ranboo wants is for anyone to get hurt.

As long as Tubbo keeps this on the down low, he should be fine, right? And if he were in danger, Ranboo’s, like, ninety-three percent certain that Spider-Man would be right there to save him, since Tubbo does important work for him. It’s not as if Tubbo’s helpless either, Ranboo knows perfectly well that he can take care of himself, he’s just...worried. Really, really worried.

Ranboo likes his very average life, and it had already been thrown off-kilter when he’d helped Tubbo carry Spider-Man for a half a mile after the bank explosion, but apparently, nobody else wants to keep their own lives normal. Everyone’s either arguing or running into danger or refusing to talk about their emotions, and Ranboo’s struggling to play catch-up.

He’s still worried about Tommy having and denying his panic attacks, and he’s stressed about the new staff at school, and there are literal supervillains now. Everything’s so overwhelming all of the time, and Ranboo had thought he could rely on his friends to give him some sense of normalcy, but apparently Tubbo’s working for Spider-Man, and Tommy’s always inexplicably busy, so Ranboo’s left alone to wonder what he’s supposed to do about it.

But he knows his friends care about him, and if he voices it, they’d probably try to at least compromise to make things easier or try to fix things. And Ranboo doesn’t want to pile even more on their plates. Instead, he’ll mind his business like he always does, and he just hopes they’ll come to him if they need anything.

As Ranboo turns onto Tommy’s street, he almost bumps right into somebody. “Ah, I’m sorry, I was just—oh, hey, Purpled,” he says, and Purpled nods up at him. “Sorry, I don’t have your book, Tubbo’s still got it.”

Shrugging, Purpled kicks a pebble into the street. “It’s whatever. I don’t need it anytime soon,” he says, and Ranboo chuckles nervously. “What’d you two need it for?”

Ranboo blinks at him. He can’t exactly go around telling everyone he’d accidentally figured out how a supervillain’s specialized weapon works. “Uh. Biology project,” he says, and promptly remembers that he is not, in fact, currently taking biology, whereas Purpled is. “Not, like, a class project, because that would be a stupid thing to say, you know we’re not taking bio—it was a personal project, Tubbo wants to do something with the mushrooms in his backyard, see, and—”

“Dude. I don’t actually care,” Purpled says. “I’m just being polite.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Purpled echoes flatly, and Ranboo shifts.

This conversation is uncomfortable.

“I, uh, gotta get Tommy’s notebook back to him,” Ranboo says, smiling nervously even though Purpled can’t see, and Purpled just shrugs again, walking right past him. What a weird dude. He makes his way down to Tommy’s house and rings the bell, slightly surprised to see Techno answering the door. “Hey, Techno, I’ve got Tommy’s, um, notes. Tubbo forgot to give them back before school ended.”

Techno glances back and holds up a finger, then promptly cups his hands around his mouth and turns towards the stairs. “Tommy! Your weird, tall friend is here!” he shouts, and Ranboo winces at the volume of it. Techno waits for a moment, then turns back to Ranboo. “He’s not here right now. Come back later.”

As he goes to close the door, Ranboo reaches out to grab it. “Wait! Can’t I just...I dunno, go leave it in his room or something?” he asks, not really wanting to make three separate trips today. He wants to go home to process everything properly at some point. Techno frowns, but he lets Ranboo in anyway.

Ranboo heads up the stairs, slightly wary as Techno follows him, because he’s barely ever spoken to Techno despite coming over here pretty frequently. Well, less frequently as of recent, but his point still stands. Techno stands in the doorway of Tommy’s room as Ranboo sets the notebook down on his desk. Ranboo stifles a laugh behind his hand; the corner of it is still haphazardly glued together.

He glances up at Techno, who’s typing something on his phone, and while he does wonder why exactly Techno’s still standing here, he just turns back to the desk. Opening up his bookbag, Ranboo takes out a post-it and places it gently over the cover of the notebook.

Tubbo forgot to give this back to you after classes

-Ranboo :D

Smiling down at the note, Ranboo puts his pencil back in his backpack and turns back to the door. Techno glances up at him. “Tommy wants to know if you want to stay for dinner,” he says, waving the phone, and Ranboo starts to say yes, then pauses.

He honestly could use some time to himself. While he would normally say yes right away, because dinner at Tommy’s is always pretty fun—Phil lets them take the food to the gaming room, and then he and Tommy get to play Mario Kart while eating in between races—Ranboo’s had a pretty exhausting day.

“I don’t think I can,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Techno just shrugs and walks back down the hall. Ranboo sees himself out. He’ll just talk to Tommy tomorrow. He can’t exactly tell him about what Tubbo’s taken on as a side gig, but he’ll still apologize for not staying. He just needs some time.

Just a little bit of space, that’s all.

*****

Chapter Text

“Tommy, you’re gonna burn yourself. Stop tryin’ to touch the grill,” Techno chastises, and Kristin sighs. Tommy pouts. He’s not trying to touch the grill, he’s telling Kristin about his day, because she asked, and he just so happens to be gesturing a little enthusiastically, that’s all. “I think the burgers are good. Do I flip them now?”

Kristin glances over, humming thoughtfully. “Yeah, that should be good. Give this side a little less time, though,” she says, and Techno flips the burgers, and Tommy’s stomach is rumbling. God, this is one of the best ideas Techno’s ever had. Not that Tommy would ever tell him that. Kristin turns back to him, and Tommy beams. “Go ahead, Toms, I’m listening.”

“So then I’m telling Ranboo that he should just come over, but then he’s all, ‘Meh, meh, meh, but Puffy’s finally giving me a job interview’ and I say to him, I say—I go, ‘Ranboo. What is more important to you? Our friendship, or money?’ And Ranboo looks me in the eyes, Kristin, he looks me right in the eyes,” Tommy says, and Kristin nods eagerly. “He dead-on just goes, ‘Money.’ And I just fuckin’ lose it, man, I’m just—!”

Tommy breaks off into barely-stifled laughter, and Kristin chuckles, ruffling his hair as she glances over at the burgers. Techno’s pressing them gently against the grill with his griddle spatula, and Tommy stifles more laughter at the way the frilly apron looks on him. “I’d say money too if I were him,” Techno says easily, poking at one of the burgers.

Kristin tuts and shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “No he wouldn’t,” she murmurs to Tommy, and he snorts. “Right, so, Tech, lower the temperature a bit. Yeah, there you go, now just let ’em sit.” Techno nods, backing away slightly. Tommy leans a bit closer, and he sighs contentedly at the smell; he can’t wait for these burgers. Kristin nudges his shoulder, and Tommy reluctantly steps back.

Techno snorts. “It’s like watching a cat near a stove,” he says, wiping his hands lightly on his apron.

“Oh, fuck off,” Tommy huffs, though he had been very tempted to just grab one of the burgers right then. Techno raises a brow at him, and Tommy flips him off. “Kristin, I am being continuously bullied and am having a terrible day. I need to watch Up in order to feel better.”

“We just watched it last weekend, bud,” Kristin says, and Tommy pouts. He has more than earned the pick of the movie tonight; he’s solved so many crimes this week! Of course, Kristin doesn’t know that, so it’s an understandable—albeit regrettable—point of view. “Besides, it’s Wilbur’s week.”

Both Techno and Tommy groan at that. “Fuck, his picks are the worst,” Tommy whines, and Techno nods in agreement. Tommy kicks at the ground. “He always picks something ‘artistic’ with a shitload of subtitles.”

Techno tilts his head. “Well, we keep the subtitles on for regular movies too,” he points out, and Tommy gives him a flat look.

“Yes, but I don’t have to actively read those, which means I can check my phone for two seconds without being completely lost when I look back up,” he says. Kristin gives his shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Plus, the artsy bullshit is basically indecipherable anyway, the subtitles just make the confusion more frustrating.”

Kristin just shrugs. “I don’t know, I think his picks are nice,” she says. Then she frowns in thought, brows furrowed. “Well, I didn’t really get that Swedish film he picked, that one was just weird. Also, Tech, you can take the burgers off the grill now.”

He nods and starts to plate the burgers, and Tommy darts forward, snatching the first one off the plate. This immediately proves to be a bad decision, given that they’re still really fucking hot, and he drops it. Cursing under his breath, Tommy waves his hand frantically. Techno sighs and grabs his wrist to inspect the damage, which is annoying. Tommy can handle a little burn all on his own, thank you very much.

“Go inside and run it under cool water. Do not put ice on it. That will make it worse,” Techno emphasizes, and Tommy’s cheeks go red with embarrassment. One time. He mistreats his fire injuries one time, and he never gets to live it down, apparently.

Nevertheless, the pads of his fingers are still in pain, so Tommy heads into the kitchen, letting the cool water run over his hands. That’s actually much better. “Oh, hey,” Wilbur says from behind him, and Tommy jumps. Only a little, though. Wilbur snorts. “Chill out, I’m just in here to get some water. What, did you burn yourself?”

“None of your business, bitch,” Tommy informs him, and Wilbur rolls his eyes, patting the top of Tommy’s head as he grabs a water bottle from the fridge. Tommy clears his throat, and Wilbur nods in acknowledgement as he takes a swig from the bottle. “Right, so, um. Can I...Wil, can you lend me twenty pounds so I can go to the fundraiser next weekend?”

He figures it can’t hurt to attend. Since Tubbo’s going to be there, Tommy’s not going to have a guy in the chair to lean on, and while, yeah, he can patrol that night on his own, he kind of wants a night off from his usual superhero bullshit. Plus, he’ll get to use Wilbur’s uniform for blackmail material, which is an excellent bonus.

Wilbur blinks at him. “What the fuck? No,” he scoffs, and Tommy groans. “Where the hell has all your allowance gone? Have Kristin and Phil finally caught on to your little schemes?”

“No, I haven’t got money because I…” Tommy trails off. What can he even say here? He can’t exactly tell Wilbur that he’s spent most of his money on bandages, food, and some supplies for Tubbo. He sighs and turns his attention back to the sink, scowling. “Forget it, I’ll just ask Techno or something.”

The water bottle crinkles a little; it’d be barely perceptible if it weren’t for Tommy’s enhanced hearing. “No, no, I can—I’ll give you the twenty,” Wilbur says quickly, and Tommy looks back up at him to see him fumbling for his wallet. That’s...weird. Wilbur puts a twenty pound note on the counter next to the sink. “There you go.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “No strings attached?” he asks, and Wilbur shakes his head. This is all suspiciously nice. Wilbur hasn’t even told him he’s not allowed to make fun of whatever stupid outfit Big Q’s making the teacher volunteers wear. Wilbur looks weirdly nervous, though, so Tommy just softens his demeanor and smiles. “Thanks, Wil.”

“Of course,” he says easily, and he ruffles Tommy’s hair again. Wilbur takes another sip from his water bottle and coughs awkwardly. Tommy’s burns are feeling much better now, so he turns the tap off and dries his hands on the little dishtowel hanging from the cupboard below the sink. Wilbur runs a hand through his hair. “So, uh. What movie do you want to watch tonight?”

“The fuck are you asking me for? It’s your week, big man,” Tommy says, smoothing down his shirt and turning to leave. Something feels off, though. He turns back around. “Wait, are you offering to give me your pick? What’re you on about?”

Wilbur just shrugs. “I may or may not need you to cancel whatever plans you have for tomorrow to come bowling with me and my friends,” he says, faux-nonchalantly, and Tommy huffs. There it is. This makes much more sense now. He turns to leave again, and Wilbur groans, tagging along with him. “Please, Tommy! I need someone to be a buffer between me and Sally, and all my friends love you!”

“I’m not playing wingman. And you don’t have friends, your coworkers love me. I’m a pleasure to have in class,” Tommy says, nose upturned as he leads the two of them into the backyard. Techno presents him with a plate full of burgers, and Tommy pumps a fist in the air. He bites into one of the burgers and his body slumps in relief; ah, sweet sustenance. “This is why Techno’s my favorite brother.”

Scoffing in disbelief, Wilbur smacks him upside the head. “Fuck off, you’re only saying that ’cuz he’s given you food,” he says, and Tommy gives Wilbur his best shit-eating grin before properly digging into the burgers. Wilbur snorts. “Christ, you really do eat like a raccoon. Anyways, come with me tomorrow and I’ll teach you how to drive.”

“No you will not,” Kristin says, eyes wide. Tommy frowns at her; he’s going to be such a great driver, he’s already stopped, like, three carjackings semi-successfully. “You just bought that car, Wil.”

“I’m not going to crash his fuckin’ car, Kristin,” Tommy huffs, and Kristin eyes him warily. She turns to Wilbur and gives him a firm Mum Glare, and he wilts. Alright, so no driving lessons for Tommy, then. “Right, if you don’t have anything else to offer me, I will be spending tomorrow night in my room, playing PC games with Henry.”

“Who’s Henry?” Phil asks as he, too, enters the yard, and Tommy grumbles a few swears as he steals one of Tommy’s burgers.

Kristin points her finger at Tommy and twirls it in a circle. “Is that what you named your potted plant, or am I misremembering?” she asks, and Tommy stares flatly. This family is incapable of retaining information, as it seems.

“It’s what he calls that stuffed cow he’s had since he was a baby,” Wilbur answers for him, and Tommy nods, taking a bite out of his second burger. Wilbur tilts his water bottle in Tommy’s direction, eyes narrowed. “If I promise to buy you as many arcade games at the bowling alley as you want, will you come along?”

Techno snorts. “You’re gonna go broke if that’s what you’re offerin’,” he says, and he gives Tommy a meaningful look, probably trying to convey the importance of brotherly bonds and the beauty of family or some shit. More than likely, he’s fed up with the arguing. “Tommy. Go bowling with Wilbur and his borin’ friends.”

Squawking in offense, Wilbur shoves at Techno. “My friends are not boring!” he says.

“I bet they don’t still live at home, though,” Phil jokes, and Tommy lifts the plate of burgers to his face to hide his laughter.

“Don’t say that,” Kristin chastises, playfully swatting at Phil’s stupid hat. “Even if it is kind of true.”

“Oi! Whose side are you even on?!” Wilbur demands. “I’ll have you know, plenty of them still do!”

Phil raises a brow. “Plenty of them? Do they all go to another school as well, like the girlfriend you made up in your last year of primary school?” he asks, and Kristin shakes her head fondly.

Techno just sips his beer and slides Tommy a can of Coke. “Gotta love a family barbeque,” he mutters, and Tommy clinks the side of his can against Techno’s bottle.

“Cheers to that.”

*****

Bowling with his brother’s friends is not Tommy’s ideal Saturday night, unsurprisingly.

“Tommy!” most of them cheer as the two of them approach, rented shoes in hand, and Tommy gives the group a wave. He’s slightly taken aback at Eret, Karl, and Charlie being some of the newer faces in the group, but they’re a welcome addition.

Niki claps him on the shoulder, and Tommy beams at her. “Glad to see he could drag you along,” she says, sticking her tongue out at Wilbur, who rolls his eyes as Niki brings Tommy to the middle of the group. “Okay, somebody has to make sure the bumpers are up for him.”

Tommy glares at her, then points threateningly at Sam, who’s already starting to add him to the list of players. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare, Sam,” he says, and Sam blinks innocently at him as he taps a button, presumably to comply with the bit. Tommy shakes his head. “Assholes. All of you are assholes.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, now hurry up and pick a ball out,” Niki says, and Tommy mocks her as soon as her back is turned, but he’s promptly flipped off. She’s not even looking at him. Damn.

He turns to the bowling balls on display, and Wilbur points out a neon yellow one reading 0.5. Tommy rolls his eyes. He’ll take the heaviest bowling ball they’ve got; that’ll show them, and then that way he can convince them to take the bumpers down. Because Tommy doesn’t need the kiddie bumpers, he’s great at this.

As he’s effortlessly carrying the heaviest one—a ten kilo—back to the group, Charlie waves. “Hi, Tommy! Hi, Wilbur from eight-oh-two!” he chirps, and Tommy nods. This guy’s still weird; The Sense seems to be relatively fine with him, but...still. Charlie offers his arm, and Tommy shifts the ball to one hand. “Dap me up!”

He does. Charlie’s enthusiasm is kind of funny. The others, including Wilbur, are all staring at him, and Tommy tosses the ball up and down. “Kind of light for a bowling ball,” he says, and Sally grins, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

She looks rather pretty with her pink floral dress and her dark red braids up in a ponytail. Wilbur’s probably losing it right now. “That’s my future rugby star right there,” she says proudly, and Tommy grins. Niki shakes her head. Sally glances over at Wilbur, who immediately goes a bit red in the face; Tommy resists the urge to scoff. “Pink’s my favorite color, Wil, you picked a good ball.”

“O-Oh, did—if you wanted the pink one, that’s fine, I can—here!” Wilbur says, and Eret shakes their head. Tommy catches their eye and inclines his head. Tell him about it. Sally takes the ball and smiles gently at Wilbur, her arm falling away from Tommy’s shoulder as she moves to stand next to Sam by the little screen.

“You should put me in as Big Man Tommy,” Tommy says, and Niki nudges Sam, leaning down to whisper something to him. Tommy narrows his eyes, then turns his attention to the scoreboard, which reads Niki, Eret, Sam, Sal, Charlie, Karl, Wimblur. A new name pings underneath Wilbur’s, and Tommy shouts in alarm. “Fucking ‘Child?!’ Are you kidding me?!”

Eret chuckles. “At least it’s accurate,” they say, and Tommy thinks they have a lot of nerve for someone who’s only just joining Wilbur’s circle of friends. Eret turns to Niki, shooting her a thumbs-up. “Nice pick, Niki.”

“Why thank you,” she says, doing a mock-bow, and Tommy scowls at her. She shrugs and grabs her ball—a similar pink to Sally’s that reads a slightly smaller number. “You suggested something for yourself. Now you have to have a stupid nickname.”

“Those are the rules,” Sally says, and Tommy shakes his head. “Right, Niki, you’re up first! You got this!”

Niki smiles brightly and moves up to the lane, and Tommy sits down on the nearest chair to switch out his shoes. To his surprise, someone sits next to him, and he looks up to see Karl, who is evidently trying to pretend as though he hasn’t noticed he’s sat next to Tommy. To his credit, it would almost be convincing if it weren’t for the occasional glance that Tommy catches in his peripheral vision.

“Hello, Mr. Jacobs,” Tommy says as he laces up his left shoe, and Karl clears his throat, smiling and waving lightly. Tommy looks over to Niki, who’s just gotten six of the pins down—a split, but she’s a great bowler. He’s not worried. Tommy’s not entirely sure what to say to Karl, whose hands keep clenching and unclenching on his knees. “Um. It’s nice to see you…?”

“Oh, it’s—! It’s nice to see you too, Tommy,” Karl says, and Tommy’s not sure if it’s just the weird bowling alley lighting, but Karl seems a little...nervous. Karl swallows and looks out towards Eret, who’s up now, so Tommy shrugs it off. “So, who do you think is gonna win?”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “Me, obviously,” he says, narrowing his eyes when Sam looks in their direction. Sam shakes his head fondly and steps up to the lane with his dark green ball as Eret moves to sit back down, having gotten a strike. Tommy looks back to Karl and shrugs. “Honestly, I dunno. Could be anyone’s game. Well, anyone but Wilbur, mans can’t bowl for shit.”

Karl laughs, which means that he’s probably cool. There have been friends of Wilbur’s from the faculty that haven’t really liked him or Techno, and Wilbur had stopped hanging out with them pretty quickly. “I kind of suck at it too, if I’m being honest,” he says easily, and Tommy chuckles, turning his ball over in his hands. Karl’s brow furrows. “Can I ask why you picked the heaviest ball?”

Sam comes away with four pins total, and Sally steps up. “I like a challenge,” Tommy answers simply, and Karl’s smile seems weirdly disappointed. Is Big Q’s new staff full of fucking weirdos that don’t know how to have a normal conversation or some shit? “Anyways, uh. Did Niki invite you?”

“Charlie did, actually,” Karl says, sticking his hands in his hoodie pocket, and Tommy leans back in the chair. Sally’s gotten a spare. Good for her. “He got invited by Sam and didn’t want to come alone, so...I’m here. His first pick was Quackity, actually, but he was busy. Said something about having to run his club tonight.”

“Wh—Big Q’s got a club?” Tommy asks, brows furrowed, and Karl nods, seemingly confused at Tommy’s confusion.

He hums. “Yeah, it’s called Las Nevadas, it’s only kinda far from the school,” he says with a shrug, and Tommy hums. He’s passed by that place a couple of times on patrol; no bouncer has let him in, though, with or without the mask. “How else would we be able to afford a carnival for a fundraiser, man? You really think the board would’ve given us enough funds?”

Tommy laughs at that; yeah, no, he honestly should’ve seen something like this coming. “Geez, Big Q’s really trying to make things better around here, huh?” he hums, and Karl nods. Charlie’s still struggling with the ball, and Tommy stands, grabbing one of the lighter balls and tapping Charlie on the shoulder. “Here, this’ll be better—holy shit, why are you using the same kind of ball as me?! That shit’s heavy, man!”

“I figured it would be fine since you had it,” Charlie says, switching out for the lighter one, and he hefts it in the air a couple of times. “Oh, this one’s much better. Thank you, Tommy!”

“No problem, man,” Tommy says easily, on his way to sit back down next to Karl when Eret and Niki call him over. He heads over to them and sits next to Niki. “’Ow do?”

“Eret and I are taking bets on who’s actually gonna take the game. You want in?” Niki asks, and Tommy sighs. He’s got no money on him. Niki rolls her eyes. “Not with money, with, like, food or favors, stuff like that!”

Eret hums. “Yeah, I’m wagering a day where I’ll give whoever wins free rides to wherever they want and an ice cream cake,” they say, and while Tommy would’ve been enticed by that a few months ago, his sweet tooth has been evicted to make room for whatever the fuck his appetite’s become. “Niki’s betting a free tray of whatever baked goods whoever wins wants.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Tommy nods. “Alright, I’m in. I’ll bet you one store trip where I carry all your bags that you’re going to win, Niki,” he says, and she positively lights up. “And, when you win, I’ll expect my food to be delivered to me on a silver platter.”

Niki taps at her phone, then gives the two of them a firm nod. “Right! So, that’s Sam betting on Wilbur, Eret betting on you, me betting on Sally, and you betting on me,” she lists out, and Tommy snorts. Sam’s definitely going to lose.

A few chairs away, Wilbur scowls at them. “Are you involving my baby brother in your filthy gambling again?” he asks, and Niki gives him an innocent grin.

“Our baby brother. Collectively,” she says. Wilbur shakes his head and goes back to what’s probably his best attempt at having a conversation with Sally.

“Ah yes, communism,” Tommy says, nodding wisely, and Niki and Eret burst out laughing.

Karl steps up to the lane and his ball rolls right into the gutter. Tommy stifles a laugh. Niki chuckles and turns to Eret, chin perched on her hand. “So, how’s the new job treating you? Or are you still not allowed to disclose anything yet?” she teases, and Eret rolls their eyes.

“I’m prevented from telling anyone about our research projects because of my NDA, I’m allowed to tell you that it’s going well and I’m having a lovely time,” Eret says, and Tommy watches Karl knock over two of the pins on his second try.

Now Tommy’s up, and he’s gotta be careful. He can’t bowl too forcefully; he might break the fucking pins or something. He can’t be too good at the game either, he doesn’t want to lose the bet. So Tommy aims for the very corner and rolls the ball down the lane, hiding his grin when it knocks down eight of them. That’s pretty decent, and he’s gotten a split, so he’ll only be able to get nine of them.

This is actually pretty fun.

*****

In the end, it’s Charlie who wins, with an almost perfect game, meaning none of them have won the bet.

It kind of sucks—Niki had gotten second place which means Tommy would’ve gotten all that good shit had Charlie not won. But hey, Charlie had seemed pretty happy about the whole thing, so Tommy’s got no beef with the results.

He and Wilbur say their goodbyes, and Sam presses an ice cream cone into Tommy’s hands anyway, and they pile into the car, Tommy somewhat enjoying the plain vanilla in spite of all the sugar. Wilbur starts to pull out of the parking lot, and Tommy glances out the window, watching the bowling alley get further and further away in the side mirror.

“So...did you have a nice time?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy nods, taking a huge bite of the ice cream, and Wilbur makes a face. “Don’t fucking chomp your ice cream, what the hell is wrong with you? Doesn’t it fuck with your front teeth?”

“Nah, it’s all go—AH! Brainfreeze, fuck, fuck!” Tommy says, clutching the front of his head, and Wilbur laughs as he turns onto a main road. The brainfreeze fizzles out, and Tommy glances over at the side of Wilbur’s face. “Thanks. For taking me with you. That was less stupid than I thought it’d be.”

Wilbur smiles gently. “Yeah, man, no problem,” he says easily, and Tommy fiddles with his seatbelt as he nibbles at the waffle cone. He doesn’t really know what else to talk to Wilbur about. Not that just sitting here and enjoying Wilbur’s company isn’t fine, but Tommy’s too restless to just sit in silence. Thankfully, Wilbur seems to pick up on that. “Tommy, have you actually talked to Puffy about your panic attacks like you said you would?”

Dammit! Normal conversation is once again foiled by Spider-Man bullshit. Tommy huffs. “I’m not having panic attacks, Wil. I just had an off-day, and yes, I did speak to Puffy,” he says, and that’s not technically a lie. Puffy had called Tubbo the other day at lunch, and Tommy had said hi to her. Wilbur’s not buying it, though. “I’m serious, man, I’m not having panic attacks. It’s not that bad, and it goes away in, like, a couple minutes.”

“Alright, well, sue me for caring, I guess,” Wilbur mutters, and Tommy feels that’s a little unfair, considering he’s had a decent week other than that one day. He scowls, and Wilbur groans, turning down another street. “I’m just saying, hyperventilating and almost crying over one grade isn’t a normal reaction, Tommy, and smashing your Coke can to bits isn’t normal either. Karl told me how shaken up you were at lunch, man, I’m not stupid.”

“It was one day! I’m telling you, Wil, I’m fine! I get that you’re worried, alright, I do, but I’ve already talked to Techno about what’s going on, he’s helping me out!” Tommy says, and that’s technically true. He hasn’t told Techno about his...lingering tension from Spider-Man’s patrols, but he’s fine! And Techno’s looking out for him!

Wilbur scoffs. “Yeah, fuckin’ Techno, of course you told Techno,” he says, and Tommy makes a face again.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?!” he demands, and Wilbur just shakes his head. “No, fuck off with that, Wil, what the hell are you talking about?!”

“I just think it’s a little weird that all of a sudden, you and Techno are just—the best of friends now or some shit. You barely even spoke to each other when you didn’t have to a few months ago!” Wilbur says, and Tommy thinks that’s a bit unfair as well. He and Techno are still brothers, they might not have been that close before this, but they didn’t have some weird vow of silence. “Which is why it’s fucking weird that you’re apparently telling him all about what’s going on with you, and you haven’t said shit to me, because you’ve always told me everything, and I have no idea what I’ve done wrong!”

Wilbur’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel, and Tommy’s shoulders drop. “Wilby, I’m not...the reason I’m not telling you stuff isn’t because I’m pissed,” he says, and Wilbur just shakes his head, still focused on the road as he turns onto their street. “I’m serious. I...I am sorry that I haven’t been talking to you about this, but...Wilbur, who I talk to and who I confide in isn’t a slight on how much I trust you, you know that.”

“What else am I supposed to think when you’re borderline avoiding me?” Wilbur asks, sounding tired as he pulls into the driveway. “Toms, I don’t know what you’re going through, but I do know that it’s clearly hurting you, and the fact that you keep insisting nothing’s wrong, that you’re fine, it’s...it’s worrying.”

He goes to open the driver’s side door, but Tommy stops him, a hand on his arm. “Wil, I...I’m not...I am fine. You don’t have to worry about me, alright? I’m handling it,” he says, and Wilbur stares sadly at him. “I swear it on Henry. Nothing’s going on that you don’t already know about.”

Okay, well, that’s a bold-faced lie, but Wilbur doesn’t have to know about that.

“If there is something going on, just tell me if there is, and then tell me whether or not you want to talk to me about it. I don’t like assuming that I’ve somehow pissed you off to the point where you won’t fucking speak to me,” Wilbur says, and Tommy nods. After another moment of the two of them sitting in silence, Wilbur pulls him in for a very awkward over-the-console hug, and Tommy chuckles. “I don’t feel like arguing with you anymore, so stop doing stupid shit and I’ll stop doing stupid shit too, alright?”

“You got it, big man,” Tommy says, closing his eyes in contentment even though the console between them is digging into his side. “I’ve missed you, Wil.”

“I missed you too, Toms.”

*****

Chapter Text

There is a strange man in Tommy’s home.

Well, not a complete stranger, he’s met Dream before, of course, but that doesn’t make the fucker any less strange.

He’s sitting at the dining room table with Phil, some kind of blueprint laid out in front of the two of them, and Tommy blinks, water bottle in hand. “Uh, afternoon, fellas,” he says, and Phil gives him a smile. He can’t tell what the fuck Dream’s expression is. That stupid mask is really annoying. “Right, well, I’ll get out of your hair, then—”

“No, no, please, sit down,” Dream says, gesturing to the chair across from him, and The Sense yells in the back of his mind that he should fuck off and do the exact opposite. But Tommy doesn’t want to be rude, not in front of a very important client of Phil’s, so he sits down. The Sense is probably annoyed at him. “It’s great to see you again, Tommy. Your dad was just telling me how much better you’ve been doing in school with your brother’s tutoring.”

“We’re all very proud of you, Toms,” Phil says, idly circling something on the blueprint, and Tommy nods, though his smile feels more like a grimace. “Right, so, Dream, did you want to have this room over by the left? Because I’m not really sure if that would be—”

“You should do what you think is best, Phil, I have full faith in your expertise,” Dream says, eyes not leaving Tommy’s face, and while Tommy is immensely uncomfortable, he is a little miffed at how dismissive Dream’s being. “How’s your day been, Tommy?”

Tommy blinks. “Um. It was…good,” he says, and Dream’s eyes crinkle in the corners. The Sense sends a shiver down his spine, and Tommy does his best to suppress that. Tommy turns to Phil, who glances up from the blueprints, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I’m gonna study with Techno for a bit and then head over to Tubbo’s. Is that okay, or do we have plans?”

Phil nods. “You’re good, just be back before it gets too dark out. I don’t want you walking alone, even with a superhero patrolling the streets,” he jokes, and Tommy chuckles. Dream looks down at the blueprints and then up at Phil. Phil twirls his pencil idly in his hand. “If you’re giving the go-ahead for the underground portion of the facility, we’ll have to talk about air conditioning and ventilation units, y’know.”

“Money’s not an object,” Dream says, and he turns back to Tommy. Ah, shit, he should really get up to Techno’s room before this gets any more unbearable. “You know, I’m specialized in biological research and development and the head of my department. If you ever need supplies or information for a project, I can help you out.”

“Good to know,” Tommy says, tilting his water bottle towards Dream in appreciation. That actually might be pretty helpful; he could probably get some stuff for Tubbo to use for gadgets that way. “Anyways, Dadza, if you need me, I’ll be—”

“Before you go,” Dream interrupts, and Tommy holds back a groan, “what do you think of the plans so far? We could probably use a pair of fresh eyes, we’ve been staring at this thing for the past few hours.”

Well, it can’t hurt, can it? Tommy looks over it, and his first impression is that he’s just looking at a whole bunch of shapes. “What am I looking at, exactly?” he asks, and Phil chuckles, shaking his head. Tommy squints, and he can kind of understand what the floor plan is. “Oh, nevermind, I think I got it now.”

It looks pretty cool, honestly; the offices are big and the basement’s got a bunch of rooms that Tommy is pretty sure are supposed to be labs, and the sketch of the building itself looks like a really cool and modern layout. “You like it?” Phil asks, and Tommy nods. Phil claps his hands and grins, and Tommy rolls his eyes. “We’ve got the Tommy seal of approval, Dream.”

“Great,” Dream says, and Tommy edges towards the doorway. Hopefully they’ll finally fucking let him leave. Phil turns his attention back to the blueprints, but Dream’s still watching him. It’s uncomfortable. The Sense is losing its shit. “You’re a good kid, Tommy. Thanks.”

Tommy gives him an awkward thumbs-up. “No problem, big man,” he says, and he high-tails it out of the dining room before Dream can drag him back into more conversation. Tommy heads upstairs and knocks on Techno’s door—because the last time he hadn’t, Techno had hung him upside-down out of the window by his ankles—and grins when Techno opens it. “Hello, brother dearest, I am here for my tutoring.”

Sighing, Techno lets him in, and Tommy flops down on the bed next to a newly-polished scabbard. “Don’t touch that,” Techno says, and Tommy grabs it, sticking his tongue out at Techno as he swings the scabbard in his direction. “You’re a moron and you’re gonna slice your hand off. Put it down.”

“Fine, but you’re no fun,” Tommy says. He grins and tosses the scabbard in the air, webbing it to the ceiling before Techno can catch it.

“I hate you,” Techno tells him flatly, and Tommy flips him off. He whacks Tommy’s shoulder lightly. “Get up. We’re not doing schoolwork today, your grades are good enough that I’m not worried about them for now.”

Tommy sits up, incredibly intrigued. Techno moves to the door, then jerks his head for Tommy to follow. He does, and Techno leads him down to the backyard, where a small punching bag and a few assorted pieces of gym equipment have been set up. Tommy’s eyes light up, and he turns to Techno, who raises a brow at him. “Are you teaching me how to fight?!” Tommy asks, and Techno grins.

He picks up the hand pads from the ground and stands before Tommy, clapping them together with that same easy grin. “I figured, if you’re gonna do your heroics while you’re out of the suit, it can’t hurt to have you learn to throw a punch properly,” Techno says, and Tommy goes a little bit red with embarrassment. Techno sees it, of course, and he snorts. “I’m serious, kid, it’s almost painful to watch you fight those guys when your form is so off.”

Tommy huffs, smiling despite his annoyance. “Alright, asshole, how do you think I should be fighting?” he asks, and Techno’s amusement shifts to focus. Oh, hell yeah, Techno’s actually serious about this! Shit, wait, he should probably address the superstrength thing. “Right, I should warn you, even when I’m holding back, the punches can be...kind of a lot.”

Scoffing softly, Techno nods. “Show me what you’ve got right now, we’ll work on form from there,” he says, and Tommy hesitates. How hard should he punch? Techno will probably get annoyed if he thinks Tommy’s purposely holding back more than is strictly necessary, but Tommy’s not about to punch his brother as hard as he punches criminals. “Tommy. C’mon.”

Well, Techno’s asked for it.

Tommy takes a swing—most of his focus is on holding back—and his fist comes into contact with the hand pad. Techno only stumbles back a bit, which is good. “See? I can punch just fine, big man,” he says, and Techno narrows his eyes. “The fuck is that face for, man, I’m—! God, you’re a shit teacher, Techno, y’know that?”

“Punch me like you normally punch. I can’t work around your usual fightin’ strength and style unless I see it,” Techno emphasizes, and Tommy grimaces. “I can handle myself, Tommy, you’re not gonna hurt me.”

“But I could, though,” Tommy says, and Techno sighs. He starts to take the hand pads off, and Tommy smacks his arms. “No! No, I’ll do it, I’ll punch for real, fuck you, I wanna learn!”

Nodding, Techno readjusts the hand pads and gets back into his goofy-looking defensive stance, his shoulders squared. “Good. Now pretend I’m a criminal and punch me,” he says, and Tommy takes a deep breath, trying not to tense up as he throws a punch at Techno’s left hand pad.

Techno topples to the ground arm-first. Shit.

Tommy winces and offers a hand to help him up. “Christ, Tommy, what the hell are we feedin’ you?” Techno asks, slightly winded, and Tommy chuckles.

“Radioactive spider superpowers, evidently,” he says, and Techno lets out a huff of a laugh, rolling his left shoulder and squeezing the muscle there. Tommy gives him an apologetic grin. “I mean, you did say to hit you hard. At least now you know why criminals go down so easy.”

Techno laughs again, and he readjusts the straps of the hand pads. “I did say that,” he agrees, and Tommy wonders if he’s accidentally fucked up Techno’s arm. Techno gets back into position, and Tommy squints. This...is a very stupid thing for Techno to be doing. “Listen, I am gonna tell you to hold back a little more until we perfect your form, but I’m not ditchin’ you.”

Well, that’s somewhat of a relief. Tommy grins and cracks his knuckles, getting into his usual fighting stance. Techno starts to correct the way he’s standing already, and Tommy listens, becuase Techno knows what the fuck he’s talking about.

This is gonna be so great.

*****

Tommy is losing very badly.

“This fucking banana peel is yours again, Tubbo?! Are you kidding me?!” he screeches, veering his kart to the right, and Tubbo grins wickedly. Okay, so Tommy’s a little bit rusty; so sue him, he hasn’t had a chance to sit down and hone his Mario Kart skills as of recently. Tubbo inches ever-closer to the finish line, and Tommy narrows his eyes. “Oh, fuck you, I’m gonna kick your ass, I swear, Tubbo—”

“You can’t kick my ass from eighth place,” Tubbo taunts, throwing his arms up as Toad crosses the finish line, and Tommy swears under his breath, trying very hard to pass the AI in front of him. Tubbo leans back, bastard that he is, and he pokes at Tommy’s sides; Tommy squirms, then jumps, and he scoots away from Tubbo’s hands, groaning in frustration as he gets passed yet again. Now he’s in ninth. “Wow, bossman, you’re shit at this.”

Tommy grumbles a few more swears, finally passing the two people in front of him and finishing in seventh. “Don’t you even start, Tubbo, you got lucky, you fuckin’ prick,” Tommy says, and Tubbo grins as he flips Tommy off. “So...how are you liking working with Spider-Man, Big T?”

Practically lighting up, Tubbo leans back against his bed. “It’s a fucking dream, Tommy, you’ve got no idea! Seriously, it’s so incredible,” he says, and Tommy grins. He’s really glad that Tubbo’s enjoying himself. And, honestly, his help is needed. Eyes wide, Tubbo grabs his shoulders and shakes him slightly. “Dude, I helped him keep a building up!”

“Did you really?” Tommy asks, feigning shock, and Tubbo nods eagerly, dashing over to his desk and pulling up the footage. He has to hold back his laughter; Tubbo’s so excited to show him, and Tommy had lived through it. Tommy tries his best to be believably reactionary as the video plays, and it’s surreal to watch his own perspective all over again.

When his hands start to get shaky, he takes a few deep breaths as discreetly as possible. Tubbo’s practically bouncing out of his seat, and Tommy’s not about to be the cause of that diminishing for him. “Isn’t that cool?! And Spider-Man saved all those people! He’s so fucking strong, and he’s super down-to-earth, so much funnier in person than when reporters interview him,” Tubbo says, and Tommy is so tempted to rub the fact that Tubbo had openly called him funny in his face, but he refrains, because Tubbo’s safety is more important than his own ego.

Tommy nudges Tubbo’s side and beams at him. “Glad I could make it happen for you, Big T,” he says, and Tubbo punches his shoulder playfully. Tommy stretches above his head and lets out a sigh. “Right, well, what d’you wanna do now? I’ve got ’til, like, eight at the latest.”

Rubbing his hands together, Tubbo grins in that scary way that only Tubbo can, and Tommy smiles nervously. “Actually...wanna help me test out a gadget for Spider-Man?” he says, and oh, does Tommy want to say no. But he nods eagerly, because it would be entirely unrealistic for him, as Tommy, to not want to help his best friend with things meant for a superhero.

This might even be beneficial for Tubbo; he can test out whatever it is on Spider-Man, even if he doesn’t know it. So Tommy leans against the desk, arms crossed, as Tubbo roots through his closet for something. “What’re we testing out, here?” Tommy asks as Tubbo tosses miscellaneous gadgets and gizmos behind him, a few clinks and clanks coming from within the depths of the closet. Tommy’s brows furrow. “If I grow an extra limb, I’m suing you.”

“You’re not gonna grow an extra limb, bozo,” Tubbo says, and Tommy barks out a laugh at the use of the word ‘bozo,’ and Tubbo’s cheeks are pink with embarrassment as he fiddles with something white and large. “Fuck off, Ranboo made me watch one of those John Mulaney specials the other day, the ‘bozo’ bit’s still stuck in my head.”

Tommy eyes the thing in Tubbo’s hands warily. “What exactly are you making me use?” he asks, and Tubbo tuts, rolling his eyes as he starts to strap something onto Tommy’s face. “Wh—! Warn a guy before you start shoving something on his face, Tubbo, Christ—”

“Shut the fuck up and wear the gas mask, stop being a baby—hah!” Tubbo says as he struggles against Tommy, and Tommy gives in after another moment or two, letting Tubbo adjust the matte white straps against his head. He feels like a muzzled dog. Tubbo puts his hands on his hips triumphantly and holds up a little vial. Tommy’s eyes go wide. “Now all I have to do is test out the spores—you might pass out, we’ll see—and then you can be done.”

“You’re gonna blow spores at me?! What the fuck?!” Tommy squawks, and Tubbo waves dismissively, though Tommy thinks he’s having a very reasonable reaction. Honestly, he hasn’t gotten a good look at the mask itself, but it looks scarily similar to the expensive kind you’d get at a costume shop, only it’s white with what appears to be, from what Tommy can see, a little spiderweb-like shape on one of the cheeks. “Well, it’s on theme, at least.”

Tubbo grins and pinches his nose shut, taking a massive gulp of air before picking up the fan off of his desk, opening up the top of the vial, and blowing a very small cloud of green into Tommy’s face. Tommy makes a face under the mask, and as Tubbo goes about waving the fan throughout the room and opening the window to air it out, he looks a little blue in the face.

He takes a big gasp of air again, and Tommy stifles a laugh as he doubles over. “Christ, I should make two of those for testing purposes,” Tubbo says, sounding winded, and Tommy pats his back sympathetically. Perking up, Tubbo starts to turn Tommy’s face back and forth as he inspects his handiwork. “So it worked! You’re not passing out, which is great, that means it’s worked, that’s great! Then again, Spider-Man had a delayed reaction to the stuff when the bank heist had happened, maybe we should wait a bit just in case, I’m not entirely certain how the spores work, maybe they differ person to person—oh! I’m rambling. My bad, bossman.”

Tommy chuckles and starts to take the mask off. He doesn’t mind Tubbo’s science rambling; he welcomes it, even. The less time he spends alone with his thoughts, the better. “Nah, you’re good. I’m glad the mask works! Or, well, jury’s still out, I guess, but...y’know,” Tommy says with a shrug, and Tubbo grins.

Then he snaps his fingers like he’s just realized something, and he brings out what Tommy recognizes as his old Spider-Man mask, and Tommy tries not to show his sudden nervousness. “I’ve duplicated the spores—it was pretty easy, honestly, 404 should get better lab techs—so we can try this out again, this time with you in another mask!” Tubbo says, and Tommy nods, slowly taking the mask and pulling it on.

There’s no way Tubbo will recognize him like this, right? It’s not as if he’s fully suited up, and if Tubbo hasn’t recognized his voice in the suit yet, surely he won’t if Tommy’s just wearing the mask. “Right, well, if you blow spores in my face and I pass the fuck out and hit my head and die, I’m going to kill you,” Tommy says, strapping the gas mask back on, and Tubbo snorts, grabbing another vial, presumably full of spores.

They repeat the process, and Tommy does not, in fact, pass the fuck out. Tubbo pumps his fists in the air, and Tommy grins despite himself. “It fuckin’ worked! I am the best guy in the chair in the history of the world!” Tubbo cheers, and Tommy laughs softly as he pulls both masks off.

“I’m sure you are,” Tommy says, and Tubbo makes a face at him. Tommy freezes up a little as there’s a soft little rumble from the bottom of the stairs, then tenses as the footsteps approach the door. The Sense isn’t warning him, so it’s probably Puffy, and judging by Tubbo’s face as he starts to hear the footsteps, it’s definitely Puffy. So, like the ride-or-die best friend that he is, Tommy responds to the gentle knock on the door by opening it just enough that he can lean into the gap and be ninety-nine percent confident that he’s covering up Tubbo’s frantic tidying. “Oh, hello, Captain, we’re having a lovely round of Mario Kart. Care to join us?”

She chuckles, shaking her head fondly. “I’m here to get the two of you downstairs to eat something,” she says, and Tommy grins. Puffy pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and tilts her head in that Therapist Look. Tommy is immediately a hundred times warier. “How’ve you been, Tommy? I heard you were having a tough time a while ago.”

“Oh, I’ve been—everything has been just peachy, Captain P, nothing to report,” Tommy says, waving dismissively, and Puffy raises a brow at him. “Mhm. No Thera-Puffy needed, don’t you worry! Normal Puffy mode is appropriate and acceptable for these circumstances, yes indeed.”

Tubbo throws open the door fully then, his grin far too strained to be convincing, but Puffy gives him a warm smile anyway. “Hey! Aunt P! Sorry, I was just cleaning up some, uh, controllers. So, dinner?” Tubbo asks, and Puffy rolls her eyes, but she leads the two of them downstairs anyway.

The smell is exquisite, and Tommy tries to hide his excitement; Puffy’s made The Stew again! It is, quite possibly, the best meal in the world, and it’s been Tommy’s favorite since he was a little kid. He can vividly remember eating some on a cold winter day after he’d spent it with Tubbo, Foolish, and Wilbur, the four of them making snowmen and coming inside with red hands and red noses, to be greeted and fussed over by a very frazzled Puffy. Idly, Tommy notes that she’d been so very stressed back then. She’s doing better now, looks healthier and happier than the living ghost of a woman he remembers from his childhood. It’s a relief.

“I made your favorite!” Puffy says as the three of them get to the breakfast bar, two steaming bowls set in front of the barstools, and one on the counter under it. She gives Tubbo an apologetic smile, and Tommy immediately makes a beeline for his usual spot. “Sorry I haven’t been around too much, Bee. I’m working on it, I promise.”

It’s not something Tommy’s meant to overhear, but he does—enhanced hearing is a bitch sometimes. He glances over his shoulder at Tubbo, who gives Puffy an honest grin, then dashes for the seat next to Tommy, starting to scarf down the stew at a pace almost on par to Tommy’s own. “Fanks, Puff-ee!” they say in unison, cheeks full of delicious, delicious sustenance. Puffy sighs and takes a few bites of her own stew.

“So, Toms, what time do you have to be home?” Puffy asks, and Tommy tries his hardest to mime the sun going down with only one hand. Puffy snorts, but she nods nonetheless, and Tommy smiles, cheeks puffed out. “Alright, so before it gets too dark, I’m assuming. You should take some stew home with you for Wil, I know he’s a fan.”

“I will take stew home, yes,” Tommy says, with no intention of allowing Wilbur to indulge in this absolutely delightful food. Puffy crosses her arms, knowingly, and Tommy grumbles a few swears under his breath. “Alright, fine, I’ll share some.”

Tubbo pouts. “Don’t let him take home too much, I want the leftovers as well,” he protests, and Puffy chuckles, ruffling his hair. Tubbo turns to Tommy, waving his spoon in his general direction. “By the way, am I seeing you at the carnival? You never told us whether or not you were gonna be there.”

Nodding as he finishes off another bite of stew, Tommy hums. “Yeah! Wil gave me the twenty pounds for the entry fee, I’ll be there. Is Ranboo coming too?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo grins as he nods. Smiling slightly, Tommy nudges Tubbo’s shoulder. “Hey, that means the three of us are gonna be hangin’ out that night, then!”

“Me and Foolish will be there too,” Puffy chimes in, and Tommy grins. Foolish is coming back from the States! Fuck yeah! Puffy takes a bite of stew, then makes a little mm! sound like she’s just remembered something. “That reminds me! Tubs, did you want to meet up there or have us drive you? I’m fine with either.”

Tubbo glances over at Tommy, and he shrugs. He’s willing to demand that his family drives Tubbo with them, and he’s also cool with walking there together. “Um, I’ll drive with you and Foolish,” he decides, and Tommy shrugs. “I kinda miss him. Even if he is an idiot.”

“Don’t say that,” Puffy chastises, and Tubbo gives her a toothy grin. She hums, a fond sort of sound, and she sets her stew to the side. “You know, this reminds me of when you two were little, like really little, maybe seven or eight, and you both came in missing the same tooth, and I gave you both stew because it was a really cold day.”

“Oh yeah! I pulled Tommy’s out because he wanted to match,” Tubbo says, snapping his fingers, and Tommy shoves at him. With a smug smile, Tubbo puts his chin in his hand. “And you say I’m the clingy one. I’m not the one pulling bones out my face to be matching, bossman.”

Huffing, Tommy returns to his stew, then remembers a particularly embarrassing moment for Tubbo. “Hah! I’ve got you beat, bitch, you cried for days when you had to go back home after staying with us for those few months,” Tommy says triumphantly, and Puffy’s smile wavers, whereas Tubbo just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you fuckin’ did, didn’t you, you clingy fuck. I remember you clinging to me going ‘Wah, wah, I don’t wanna leave my Tommy!’”

“Fuck off, you were losing your shit as well, dumbass,” Tubbo scoffs, and Tommy refuses to admit that he does, in fact, remember clinging to Tubbo in return and screaming his little lungs out. “Anyways, it’s not nearly as embarrassing as you falling on your ass trying to ride a bike, which you still can’t do.”

“I can so ride a fuckin’ bike, Tubbo, fuck you!” Tommy shoots back, and Puffy gives both of them a flat look. Right. Their playful bickering can get kind of loud sometimes. “Anyways, I barely remember why you and Foolish were staying at mine for so long, but I do remember that you refused to eat anything but Kristin’s homemade waffles for breakfast for the first two weeks.”

Grinning mischievously, Tubbo nods. “I was a little nightmare,” he says, like he’s proud of it, and Tommy assumes he probably is. “Oh! Remember when Wilbur fell off the swingset and Foolish was the only one who could stop him from crying by pissing him off with those anteater stickers? That was fuckin’ funny.”

“Yeah, Techno was freaking the fuck out,” Tommy snickers, and Puffy sighs, rubbing at her temples. “And Phil was absolutely done with us, imagine having to chase a bunch of shithead kids around the yard because they stole your fuckin’ hat!”

Tubbo cackles. “Shit, I forgot we did that!” he snorts, and Tommy’s shoulders shake as he laughs. The two of them compose themselves a bit, and Tubbo hums, idly pushing around the last dregs of his stew in the bowl. “I remember Kristin was really good about nightmares. Tech was too, but he slept like a rock most of the time.”

Tommy’s half-tempted to say that Techno’s still good about nightmares, but he feels like he’d never hear the end of it. “Techno broke his wrist in his sleep one time and nobody realized until he came downstairs with a bone sticking out,” Tommy says instead, and Puffy makes a face.

“Ugh, don’t say that while we’re eating,” she says, and Tommy gives her an apologetic grimace, shoulders up by his ears. Yeah, probably not the best topic of discussion for the dinner table, but it had at least made Tubbo laugh. “In any case, it’s a miracle you haven’t managed to do that, Tommy, judging by how often I hear you fall off of the air mattress.”

“That’s because Tubbo pushes me off of it when I keep talking past three in the morning,” Tommy tells her, and Tubbo very nearly pushes him off the barstool. Tommy gestures towards him, eyes narrowed. “Case in point.”

Puffy huffs out a laugh and starts packing a tupperware container of stew. “Well, I do think you should be asleep before three in the morning, but sometimes your brain just can’t stop thinking,” she says easily, and Tommy nods eagerly. That’s exactly it, Puffy’s so great. She snaps the lid on, humming as she does, and Tommy finishes off the last of his stew. “Y’know, Toms, I saw this really nice sweater the other day, it made me think of you.”

At that, Tommy perks up, but his suspicions raise as soon as Tubbo starts trying to stifle his laugher. “What’s on the sweater…?” he asks, squinting, and Puffy visibly fights to keep the smile off her face.

“A raccoon,” she answers, and Tubbo leans his head on his arms, laughter muffled by the countertop, and Tommy glares at Puffy. “No, no, it was cute! It was, like, this little raccoon peeking its head out of a trashcan, it was so cute.”

“Is this what I am to you, Puffy?” Tommy asks, hand over his heart in mock offense, and Puffy covers her mouth, clearly stifling her laughter. “A garbage creature in a bin? That’s how you think of me?”

“She’s not wrong,” Tubbo says, still muffled, and Tommy shoves at him. “Fuck off, don’t make me fall!”

“I will make you fall so fast, Tubbo, don’t even test me,” Tommy says, and he and Tubbo start to make mad attempts to shove each other off of their chairs.

Puffy whistles, two fingers in her mouth—it’s that fancy kind of whistle that Tommy’s only ever seen Kristin, Phil, and Sally do—and she glares playfully at the two of them. “You’re both insufferable and you’re getting broth everywhere, go wash your hands, you grubby children,” she says, taking their mostly empty bowls, and Tommy pushes past Tubbo, locking the door to the downstairs bathroom behind him.

Tubbo groans and slumps against the door, judging by the quiet thud, and Tommy grins, glancing at himself in the mirror. He’s still visibly not getting enough sleep, but he’s hardly tired; the bags under his eyes aren’t a reflection of actual exhaustion. At least he doesn’t look outwardly hungry anymore. His hair looks a little darker than usual, which is odd, but that’s probably because it hardly sees the sun. Tommy could definitely do with a haircut, too. His eyes still have that slightly weird, glowy quality, which is probably, y’know, his superpowers at work. At least his carnivorous-leaning diet hasn’t made his teeth sharp or anything crazy noticeable like that.

He shudders at his own reflection.

There’s a few impatient knocks on the door, and Tommy jumps, turning the faucet on and washing his hands like he’s supposed to have been doing. “Hurry up, dickhead,” Tubbo says, and Tommy opens the door without drying his hands off, flicking water into Tubbo’s face and cackling as he sputters. “Oh, fuck you, Tommy, I swear to God—”

“Boys! No water fighting! The floorboards are still warped from the last time!” Puffy calls from the kitchen, and Tubbo glares at Tommy.

“I will get my revenge,” Tubbo says, and Tommy pats him on the shoulder with a still-damp hand, and Tubbo shoves him out of the way.

“Sure you will,” Tommy says, and Tubbo flips him off.

*****

Chapter Text

The lights are sparkling like multicolored stars, flashing and twinkling in rhythm and in contrast to the music pumping through evenly distributed speakers. The smell of deep-fried and spicy and sweet food drifts throughout the fairgrounds, each one distinct and mingling with one another at the same time. There are voices calling out in glee, in excitement-laced fear, in anticipation and triumph. Families chatter, siblings bicker, volunteers call out to patrons, all of them in costume. Tommy is just dressed as a generic zombie, but some of these costumes are really decked out, and his alter ego’s a pretty popular costume this year, as it turns out.

It’s chaos and tranquility, it’s too much and not enough all at once.

This is going to be fucking incredible.

Tommy bounces in place as he hands over Wilbur’s twenty pound note to Sam, who’s evidently been tasked with running the ticket booth. Techno, Kristin, and Phil probably aren’t too far behind him, but Tommy’s too excited to wait for them. “Well, well, well, look who’s here to wreak havoc on the carnival,” Sam says, amused, and he puts the note in a money lockbox, handing over Tommy’s tickets. Oh, fuck yeah.

“Thanks, Sam!” Tommy says, waving over his shoulder as he hands his ticket to the attendant in front of the entrance, who gives him a little yellow stick-on bracelet, one of the ones that you can’t get off without scissors, and he glances around. There are brightly-colored booths everywhere, and he can see some of his teachers behind them, calling out to patrons and peers, gesturing to the prizes on display. Tommy’s going to kick ass at all these games.

“No using your powers to win carnival games, kid, it’s unfair to everybody else,” Techno mutters, nudging him in the side, and Tommy jumps, eyes wide. Techno chuckles, and he nods towards the towering swing ride. “You gonna go on that, or did swinging from building to building not cure your fear of heights?”

Tommy’s brow furrows. “Techno, I haven’t been afraid of heights since I was seven,” he says, and Kristin and Phil start to approach, each with their own yellow bracelet secured firmly on their wrists. They’re dressed as that couple from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Tommy cups his hands around his mouth. “Hurry up! I wanna go on the pirate ship!”

Techno looks a little sheepish, and Tommy pokes him in the forehead. The sheepish expression quickly becomes one of flat unamusement. “Don’t antagonize each other, just for tonight,” Phil pleads, and Kristin gives his hand an affectionate squeeze. Tommy makes a face. Disgusting. “If I leave you to your own devices, you won’t burn down the carnival, right?”

Before either of them can answer, everyone’s attention is drawn to the main path, lit by street lamps of all different colors on either side. Quackity himself stands with a megaphone, looking like a ringleader straight out of the circus. It’s honestly kind of a cool look for him. With a grin, he lifts the megaphone up to his mouth and throws up his other hand.

“Come one, come all, to Carnival de Las Nevadas! It is our absolute pleasure to have you all here with us tonight!” he says, and Tommy whoops and cheers along with the rest of the crowd. Techno looks slightly wary, but Tommy writes that off easily; Techno’s not a big fan of people, after all. Quackity gestures widely out in front of him. “We’ve got games! Prizes! Rides! Attractions! Anything your heart desires, you will find it here tonight! So go out! Have fun! And don’t forget—what happens in Las Nevadas, stays in Las Nevadas!”

Another round of deafening cheers sounds, and Tommy’s cheeks start to hurt with how much he’s been grinning. He glances around again, still in awe of how fucking incredible everything looks, and he spots a very familiar tall figure wearing a mask and sunglasses trying to win a prize at the basketball booth.

“Oi! Ranboob!” he calls, waving his arms above his head, and Ranboo looks around wildly, shoulders slumping with relief as he spots Tommy. His costume is weird; he’s got a button up with lemons all over it and a pair of devil horns. Tommy tugs Techno over, because he’s, like, eighty-five percent sure that Techno will stick to the sidelines and avoid everyone if Tommy doesn’t bring him along. Tommy grins up at Ranboo, who runs a hand through his hair. “Have you won anything yet, big man?”

“No, I suck at this,” Ranboo says with a shrug, and Tommy snorts. Ranboo blinks in slight surprise at Techno, who is actively attempting to make himself look as small as humanly possible. “Oh, uh, hey, Techno.”

Techno nods, avoiding any and all eye contact. Tommy blows out a breath as he looks out over the crowd again. “So, is Tubbo here yet?” he asks, and Ranboo shrugs. Tommy just hums, then grins. “Wanna go ride a bunch of bullshit rides?”

“You know I do,” Ranboo says easily, and Tommy knows he’s grinning. He leads their little group to the swings ride—because he isn’t afraid of heights anymore, Techno—and they take their seats in the same row. Ranboo snaps his fingers, and Tommy tilts his head. “I remember riding this at a county fair one time. It was much smaller than this one, though. This is, like, Six Flags quality stuff.”

“The fuck is a Six Flags?” Tommy asks as the ride starts, and he lurches forward as the swings do. Techno is holding onto the chains for dear life. Ranboo looks perfectly at ease, leaning back and crossing his arms. It reminds Tommy of the way Phil will sit on the couch before falling asleep while watching a movie. “Hey, Tech, you good over there?”

Techno makes a sound somewhere between an affirming hum and a groan. “Remind me to never, ever tease you about heights ever again,” he says, and Tommy snorts. He looks over, and Ranboo’s still at ease, probably enjoying the breeze. “Is this, like, at all similar to...that?”

Tommy’s brows furrow in confusion, but Techno’s doing the little hand thing that Tommy does to expel webs—very subtly, cheers to him—and Tommy nods. “Yeah, kind of,” he hums, shutting his eyes and enjoying the sensation of wind whipping through his hair. He doesn’t get much of this swinging through London. He glances at Ranboo again, barking out a laugh at the way his hair’s being tossed around. “You havin’ a nice time there, boob boy?”

“I was until you called me that,” Ranboo says with no bite behind his words, and he’s probably smiling. The swings start to slow and lower, and Ranboo ruffles his hair back into place. He glances over at Techno, and Tommy turns to look too, brows furrowed. “Uh. Is your brother, like...okay?”

“I’m fine,” Techno mumbles, visibly becoming relieved as their feet touch the ground. He lurches forward a little as he clambers out of the seat, then clears his throat, suddenly looking far more composed than he’d just been. “Right. Where are you draggin’ me next?”

Tommy hums thoughtfully, glancing around. They could do the ferris wheel, or the mini-coaster, or some booths. “Oh, hey, isn’t that Mr. Soot?” Ranboo asks before Tommy can decide on something, and he and Techno look over to where he’s pointing. Sure enough, there’s Wilbur, standing next to Fundy in the balloon pop game booth.

He looks ridiculous. Tommy grins.

As the three of them head over, Techno nudges Ranboo. “You know you can just call him Wilbur, right? Plus, Soot is his middle name. Dunno why he doesn’t just go by Watson at your school,” he says as they approach the booth, and Tommy hands Fundy a five pound note for three darts.

“I go by Mr. Soot because under no circumstances do I want people associating me with Tommy,” Wilbur answers, and Tommy glowers at him, throwing his first dart directly into a bright red balloon and popping it without looking. Fundy’s eyes go wide. Wilbur adjusts his cheesy top hat and straightens his red-and-white pinstripe vest. Tommy and Ranboo try not to laugh.

Techno snorts. “Nice outfit, Wil,” he says as Tommy takes a picture of Wilbur’s ridiculous outfit, and Wilbur flips them both off. A mother gasps and covers a very small child’s eyes nearby. Wilbur smiles apologetically and waves as they dash off; Tommy bursts out laughing. Techno raises a brow. “Quackity’s not gonna be too happy if he catches you scarin’ off potential donors.”

Fundy nods in agreement, and Tommy tosses the next dart into a green balloon. It pops too, and Ranboo gives him a rather sarcastic round of applause. “One more, kid,” Fundy says, and his walkie-talkie beeps.

“Ginger. I need you by the funhouse asap,” Quackity’s voice says from the intercom, and Tommy pierces a purple balloon with his last dart, throwing his hands in the air and whooping in triumph.

“On my way,” Fundy says, and he glances at Wilbur skeptically. It very clearly pisses him off, and Tommy glances nervously between them. “Can you handle the booth on your own, or should I go get someone to run it with you?”

Wilbur scoffs and gestures vaguely towards the prize pile as he starts to tell Fundy that no, he does not, in fact, need help running one of the least popular games. Tommy starts scanning over the prizes, trying to decide between a little moth plush and a spider. “Spider’s a bit on the nose,” Techno mutters, and Tommy steps on his foot. “I’m just saying.”

Ranboo leans closer to the two of them, clearly wary of the now heated argument Wilbur and Fundy are having, which mostly consists of the words Quackity is such an assshole and I’m the one in charge here, Wilbur. “What are we whispering about?” Ranboo mumbles, and Tommy groans as Fundy mutters something under his breath and starts to head off.

“Have you decided what you want?” Wilbur asks flatly, and Tommy points at the moth. He’s a bigger fan of them anyway, despite his alter ego. Wilbur blows out a puff of air that makes his fringe flutter as he hands Tommy the tiny thing, and he seems to relax minutely. “You guys enjoying the carnival so far? It actually seems pretty decent.”

“We’ve only been on one ride, Wil,” Tommy scoffs as he smiles down at the little moth. “Oh, I am so badass, one game in and I’ve already won shit, I’m so cool—”

“Hey, dickheads!” Tubbo’s voice rings out, and Tommy turns to see him waving frantically in a Spider-Man costume next to Puffy, who’s dressed as a pirate and apologizing to that mother from before, and Foolish, who gives them an easygoing nod in his shark costume. Tubbo gets there first, and Tommy gives him a fist bump. “Won something already? Nice going, bossman. Hey, Ranboo, Techno, Wil. Christ, Tommy wasn’t lying about those uniforms.”

Wilbur scowls as the rest of them stifle their laughter. “Hi, Ms. Puffy, hey, Foolish,” Ranboo says before anything semi-resembling an argument can break out again, and Puffy ruffles his hair affectionately. “You guys been here a while?”

“Nah, we just got here. Somebody’s forgotten how to properly drive,” Puffy teases, reaching up to pinch Foolish’s cheek, and he goes a bit red. Puffy outstretches her arms with a grin, and Techno joins Foolish in going red in the face. At his hesitation, Puffy pouts. “Too old to give your Aunt Puffy a hug, Tech? I’m hurt, really, I am.”

Glaring at the rest of them, as if challenging them to say a word, Techno gives Puffy what has got to be, in Tommy’s opinion, the world’s stiffest of hugs. “Hullo, Puffy,” he mumbles as he pulls away, and Puffy beams. Tommy’s barely-stifled laughter earns him a glower, and Techno’s elbow juts into his side momentarily. He nods at the other adults, and Tommy kicks at his ankles. “We should leave the children to their own devices. I do not need to go on another ride.”

Tubbo grins and tugs Tommy and Ranboo by the wrists now that they’ve essentially—not really—gotten permission to go off on their own. “You fuckers have no idea how excited I’ve been for this!” Tubbo cheers, leading them straight for the ferris wheel, and the three of them hand their tickets over. “Right, so I’m thinking after this, we go to the hall of mirrors, then the funhouse, then the coaster—”

“We should have a break somewhere in there for food,” Ranboo cuts in, and Tubbo nods eagerly as the three of them squish into one cart with Tubbo in the middle. As they start to go up, Ranboo glances at the skyline and points up at a cluster of stars that, to Tommy, look like a jumbled mess. “Hey, that’s Cygnus.”

“The fuck are you on about?” Tommy asks as the cart goes higher. Tubbo’s just grinning out at the fairgrounds; Tommy just assumes he can’t make heads or tails of whatever the fuck Ranboo’s trying to point out either. “What the hell is a sig—seeg—sick nuts?”

Sighing in exasperation, Ranboo nudges Tubbo and Tommy tries his hardest to follow along as Ranboo traces the shape of...something along the stars. “Cygnus. It’s a swan, see? And it tells the story of—ah, what was his name again? Orcus? Something like that, I can’t remember,” Ranboo mumbles, and Tommy squints. Ranboo tuts. “The guy with the—! He was trying to lead that girl out of the underworld…?”

Tommy snaps his fingers. “Orpheus!” he says, eyes wide in realization. Then, he groans and tilts his head back, and their cart swings a little. Tubbo chuckles as Ranboo clutches the side of the cart. “God, Techno would not shut the fuck up about that story when he was, like, eleven. It was so dumb.”

“I remember that! Wasn’t that when I was staying with you guys?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy shrugs. It probably had been. Ranboo’s still staring at the stars, looking rather content, and Tubbo nudges him lightly. “You havin’ a good time, bossman?”

“Yeah,” Ranboo says, “I’m happy to be here with you guys.”

“Me too,” Tubbo says with a grin, and he bumps Tommy’s arm with his shoulder.

Huffing, Tommy glances out the opposite direction. “You’re both fuckin’ clingy, I am having a miserable time.”

The cart swings precariously as both of his friends lurch towards him to smother him with affection. Tommy can’t help but grin.

*****

After going on all of the rides that Tubbo had been dying to go on, and after witnessing Ranboo lose to several of the carnival games at the booths, the three of them decide to meet back up with their families. As they wait in line at a funnel cake stand—something completely foreign to Tommy and Tubbo, but Ranboo had insisted—Tommy texts Phil and tells him where they’re at.

“Phil says he’s with Puffy and the lot of them, they’ll meet us here,” he informs his friends as Ranboo bounces slightly in place, clearly ridiculously excited at the idea of whatever the hell a funnel cake is. Tubbo beams too, and Tommy finds himself being happier than he’s felt in a while. “Right, boob boy, the fuck are we about to eat?”

Rubbing his hands together like some kind of fruitfly, Ranboo hums. “They’re kinda like these little spirals of doughy cake stuff, they’ve usually got some powdered sugar on them,” he explains, and Tubbo perks up significantly.

Tommy, on the other hand, makes a face. “So it’s sweet?” he asks, nose scrunched up in distaste, and Ranboo nods, visibly concerned as to why Tommy wouldn’t want a food that’s apparently really delicious. Then again, Ranboo is an American, so his opinion cannot be trusted nonetheless. “Well, you and Tubs enjoy that, then, I will be getting a kebab.”

A short little huff of fond annoyance draws his attention to Tubbo, who pokes him in the side, and Tommy squirms. Bastard. “Figures, you weirdo,” he says, and Tommy flips him off. As it turns out, Tubbo spots their families, because he starts waving and raises his voice. “Over here, guys! Come get fuckel cake—”

“Funnel cake!” Ranboo corrects hurriedly, and Tommy bursts out laughing as they move up to the front of the line. Slumping his shoulders in defeat, Ranboo hands the attendant a twenty pound note and sighs. “Two funnel cakes and three water bottles, please.”

The attendant nods and hands over the bottles, and they move to wait for their food, Phil, Kristin, Techno, Puffy, and Foolish joining them as they do. “Hey, nerds,” Foolish says fondly, ruffling Tubbo’s hair, “are you enjoying the festivities?”

“I very much enjoyed watching Ranboo fail to put a ring on a bottle, yes,” Tommy says, and Ranboo sputters something about how they’re rigged, and Tommy flicks his forehead. “You know what you sound like, Ranboob, you sound like—you’re all ‘meh meh meh meh, I can’t win at kid’s games, meh meh.’ That’s you.”

“Says you,” Tubbo snorts, and Tommy narrows his eyes. “You’ve been clinging to that moth plush and haven’t put it down, not even on the coaster.”

“Excuse me, her name is Clementine and you will address her as such,” Tommy hisses, and Tubbo rolls his eyes, making a stupid exaggerated show of it.

Puffy shakes her head fondly. Phil claps a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Alright, alright, that’s enough out of you lot,” he says, and as Tommy goes to protest, he’s met with a flat stare. “And no, I do not care who started it. I’m glad you boys are having fun, though. It’s nice to see you three together again, it’s been a while.”

Kristin hums in agreement, and Ranboo grabs the funnel cakes. Glancing around, her brows furrowed, Puffy rolls her shoulders. “We should find a place to sit,” she says, and their ragtag group starts looking around for a space large enough for all of them.

Thankfully, there’s a group of tables nearby that Techno and Puffy manage to drag together, and Tommy sits between Ranboo and Kristin, picking the odd crumbs off of Ranboo’s plate. The dough itself isn’t unbearably sweet, but the main part is absolutely drenched in powdered sugar, which does a hell of a good job of staving Tommy off.

As he half-listens to everyone chat idly—probably catching up, Techno hasn’t seen Puffy in a while and Foolish has just come to visit, after all—Tommy glances over at the hall of mirrors, which is one of the few places they hadn’t actually gotten around to going in yet. Tubbo kept getting distracted by rides on the way there.

There are a few figures lurking around the side, and Tommy squints at them; with his enhanced sight, he can make out that they’ve all got masks and fucking holsters, but they’re dressed just like the rest of the volunteers. But Tommy had seen security, and they’d been wearing black shirts with ‘SECURITY’ across the chest in big white letters, and The Sense is telling him that yes, Tommy, this is something you should fucking look out for, dumbass.

“Uh, I’m gonna go use the bathroom,” Tommy says, and he catches Techno’s eye, widening his own and hoping that Techno will get the hint. After all, he hasn’t got his suit, and Tubbo isn’t at home, he’s right there, so Techno’s the only one he can give an explanation to at the moment.

Thankfully, as Tommy starts to walk away, hands clenching anxiously at his sides, a chair scrapes out. “I’ll go with him so the gremlin doesn’t get lost trying to find his way back,” Techno says, and there are a few laughs from the table as he catches up with Tommy. Tommy pointedly nods at the side alley near the hall of mirrors, and Techno’s brows furrow. “S’your Tommy Tingle goin’ off or something? I don’t see anyth—oh, that’s...those are...definitely not good guys.”

“No, they are not, and quit calling it my Tommy Tingle, bitch,” Tommy grumbles. His fingers continue to curl, and Techno nudges them as they get closer to the funhouse, which is directly next to the hall of mirrors. “I don’t have my suit, which fucking sucks, but I figure if I can get up to that balcony there, I can hop over to the roof of the hall of mirrors and listen in to whatever the fuck these nutters are up to, yeah?”

“What do you need me to do?” Techno asks, and Tommy’s only slightly surprised at how willing Techno is to help. He gnaws at his bottom lip as they get closer to the funhouse, then stops abruptly in the middle of the pavement. Techno blinks at him. “What? What is it?”

Tommy gives him a slow grin. “I may or may not have a plan,” he says, “and I need you to hear me out on this.”

Techno sighs, eyes shut, but he crosses his arms and nods. “I’m listening.”

*****

This is how Tommy finds himself wearing a slightly-too-long-on-him volunteer uniform and a stupid bag with holes cut out for the eyes over his head, Clementine having been entrusted to Techno. In the front pocket of his stolen jacket, his phone is tucked away, and as he scales the back of the funhouse, Tommy keeps a wary eye out for anyone nearby.

“This is Arachnid to Pig Boy, can you hear me? Over,” Tommy mumbles into his phone, and he hears Techno sigh. Tommy stifles a laugh as he ducks to hang upside-down underneath an awning as some people pass through, one hand securing his phone so that it doesn’t fall. Techno still hasn’t answered, so Tommy pouts. “C’mon, it’s too stressful if you don’t play along with the bit, Tech.”

After a brief pause, Techno clears his throat. “Pig Man to Arachnid Child, over,” he mutters, and while Tommy could do without the child part, that’ll do for now. “The guys by the hall of mirrors are still talki—why, yes, Aunt Linda, I do miss our chats.”

Tommy slips on top of the funhouse, making a face. “The fuck are you on about, big man?” he grumbles, and he watches the lights flashing on the ferris wheel. If he times it right, he should just be a silhouette against a black sky right in between the cycle of blue and gold.

“I can’t exactly make it obvious that I’m talking to a maniac on the rooftops,” Techno hisses, and Tommy supposes he does have a point there. He leaps across the gap as the lights start to switch, and he’s thankfully unnoticed. “Are you at the hall of mirrors yet?”

“Yep, I’m right on top of ’em, now shut up so I can hear,” Tommy whispers, and thankfully, Techno doesn’t protest. Tommy crawls ever-closer to the edge of the roof. He can hear pretty easily from up here.

There are three guys, all around the same-ish height, at least from what he can see from his perch, and they’ve all got guns holstered at their sides. Not ideal. “Right, we should be good, everyone’s busy enough for us to make the trade, Boss,” the one closest to Tommy says, turning back from where he’d been glancing at the entrance of the side alley.

The one leaning on the far wall nods. “Good. I don’t need anyone up my ass about this, understand? We get the shit and get going. Don’t let them talk in circles. We’re all business tonight, am I understood?” he says firmly, and Tommy definitely pins that one as the one in charge. The other two nod, the one closest to Tommy doing it sharply, and the other kind of relaxed. “Now, when they get here, you’re in charge of handing over the money. Slime will take his case after the deal’s done and transport it, and I am in charge of making sure we don’t get fucked over again.”

Tommy doesn’t even have to wonder who this mysterious arms dealer is, because the van that pulls up to the chainlink fence is all too familiar. “Arachnid to Pig Man, they’re buying weapons from Blaze. I’m pretty sure, anyway,” he murmurs, and Techno hums—it would be monotone to anyone else, but Tommy knows that’s his worried hum.

“Don’t move in, you can’t cause a scene at a fundraiser,” Techno says, and Tommy supposes he has a point. Sure enough, here comes Blaze in the same getup as the last time Tommy had seen him. “Just take note of what they’ve got and get back here. We’ve been gone way too long for just a bathroom break, so I’ll buy you some food if you hurry as an excuse.”

Now that’s an enticing offer.

So Tommy’s happy to take it. Honestly, there’s not much he can do, and it’s probably a smart move to know what he’ll be dealing with. Blaze approaches with two large black cases, and the guy in charge steps into the middle of the side alley. “Well, look who’s finally decided to show his ugly mug,” he says, and Blaze is probably pissed off. Tommy stifles a laugh as Blaze visibly stiffens, but Blaze holds up the cases, head tilted in inquiry. The guy in charge snaps his fingers, and the guy closest to Tommy steps forward, fishing a card out of his back pocket. The guy in charge holds out an expectant hand, and Blaze hands him the cases. “Always a pleasure doing business, but why are you so quiet tonight? I expected more of a hassle, Sparky.”

“He wants me to explain the functions and go. I’m not at liberty to disclose anything else with you at the moment, apparently, as much as I’d love to chat,” Blaze answers, slightly frustrated, and whoever he is, it’s evidently enough to make the guy in charge stiffen. “We had some...issues with the prototype. It’s no longer an automated gun, it’s a fitted gauntlet that releases a few hundred watts of electricity at will and enhances your strength. The other weapon you asked for was a challenge for us to develop, but I’m sure you’ll be happy. Injection should take approximately ten minutes, so long as the subject is willing.”

“A gauntlet and a symbiote...what fun toys,” the guy in charge says, the other two falling in line behind him, and Tommy goes pale. What the fuck is he supposed to do about that?! The guy in charge hands the cases off to his men and pokes Blaze in the chest, leaving his finger there to rest. “Well, I hope to see you again soon, but I make no promises. I’m a very busy man, after all.”

Blaze doesn’t respond, but something in his posture shifts. Tommy’s eyes narrow as the guy who’d had the payment steps closer to the guy in charge. “Boss, we should—”

“Nothing? Really? God, he’s got some hold on you, doesn’t he?” the guy in charge interrupts, and the guy who’d spoken looks annoyed. Tommy’s really hoping for some more valuable information rather than pointless banter, but he’s done his fair share of bantering pointlessly, so he supposes it’s only karma. Waving his hands dismissively, the guy in charge reaches up to pat Blaze’s cheek. “Until next time, then, Sparky.”

With that, he turns, and his men follow him into the back room of the hall of mirrors. Tommy scrambles back, just in case Blaze or the other guys decide to look up. “Tommy? Did you get any information?” Techno asks, and Tommy swallows.

“Yeah, big man,” he says, “lots.”

Tommy rushes to get down and discards his stolen volunteer uniform, running towards where Techno’s standing by a kebab stand. “Well, you look utterly terrified,” Techno says, face pinched slightly in concern, and Tommy shakes him by the shoulders.

“Fuckin’—! Techno, they have a gauntlet now,” he whisper-yells, and Techno blinks as the attendant hands him a kebab, which he promptly hands over to Tommy. Ah, sweet sustenance; Tommy will have to thank Techno when he’s not focused on this shit. “And a symbiote! I have to do something!”

Techno just shifts his shoulders up by his ears.

When the two of them return to the tables, it’s to easy waves and a few cheers. “Took you two long enough! What held you up for so long?” Kristin asks, and Tommy’s got his mouth stuffed with food, so he lets Techno answer.

“Tommy insisted on me buying him that,” he says, gesturing to the half-devoured kebab in Tommy’s hands, and Tommy grins. Puffy makes a face at the food that’s probably still stuck in his teeth.

Tubbo and Ranboo stand, and Foolish joins them as they come over. “Hey, we were all gonna hit the teacups, you wanna come with?” Foolish asks, and Tommy shakes his head. He’s got some investigating to get to. At least they’re not going to the hall of mirrors. Foolish slings an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “Good to see you, by the way. I didn’t even get to give you your souvenir since you two ran off so fast, man!”

Eyes wide at the notion of a gift, Tommy rips another chunk off the kebab with his teeth and holds out a hand expectantly. Foolish reaches into his pocket and places a little bracelet in Tommy’s palm. “The fuck is this?” Tommy asks, ignoring as Phil lightheartedly scolds him for being rude.

“I gave one to Tubbo and Ranboo, too. If you guys all tap on it, it’ll buzz n’ stuff, so you guys can be clingy whenever you’re away from each other,” Foolish says easily, and Tubbo and Ranboo hold up their wrists with twin grins.

“I hate it,” Tommy says, slipping it on his wrist.

It’s one of the best presents he’s ever gotten.

*****

Chapter Text

The carnival’s still in full swing, and while Tommy’s having a great time, he can’t help it if The Sense is demanding he do something about those weapons.

Of course, it’s not easy to convince Techno to cover for him while he lurks around, waiting for one of the many costumed patrons to leave a Spider-Man mask lying around. And he does feel bad taking the mask, but he’s got to swing home and grab his suit. He’s not about to let those guys ruin Big Q’s carnival with weapons like that.

Tommy dips into his room, placing Clementine gently on his dresser next to Henry, and he whips off the stolen mask, not bothering to scrub the zombie facepaint off of his face as he gets changed and dashes right back out the window. A few civilians—some dressed as him—try to flag him down for a selfie, but Tommy pretends not to see them; he’s a man on a mission, after all. He swings back to the fairground and discreetly perches on a nearby cell tower.

“Spider-Man? What’re you doing out right now?” Tubbo’s voice says from the comms, and Tommy stiffens up. He can hear the sounds of the carnival both where he is and through the comms, but on Tubbo’s end, they’re slightly muffled. “Is there something you need me to help with? I’m at a school fundraiser thing with some friends and family, I’m on my phone, but I can pretend to be sick if you want help!”

“No, no, there’s no need, just...I’m at the same place you are, I got a tip from someone that they saw shady figures at the fundraiser,” he lies, and Tubbo makes a noise of surprise. Tommy tries to sneak from attraction to attraction, staying stealthy as he slowly but surely makes his way towards the hall of mirrors. “I need a favor. Keep everyone you can away from the hall of mirrors, got it? I wanna take care of this quietly, the last thing I want to do is cause a panic.”

Something shifts on Tubbo’s end, and Tommy hears the carnival get louder on his end. “I’m on it, bossman,” he says before he hangs up, and Tommy lets out a sigh of relief. He perches on the roof, watching below as Tubbo walks up to the attendant—the chemistry teacher, if Tommy recalls correctly—and starts rambling.

They tell him something, and Tubbo seems satisfied, glancing up nonchalantly and grinning when he spots Tommy up at the top of the hall of mirrors. Tommy shoots him a thumbs-up and slips down the side of the building, strolling out in front of it as innocently as possible. “Hey there! Can I go in?” he asks, and the teacher nods.

“Another Spider-Man, eh? Real original,” they say sarcastically, and Tommy has half a mind to flip them off, but he’s got business to take care of. They open the door for him, and Tommy slips in, jumping a little when the door closes behind him.

Okay, so this is really fucking cool.

The hall of mirrors is pretty self-explanatory, but the lights give it a sort of eerie atmosphere; if Tommy weren’t so concerned with the crazy weaponry that’s at risk here, he’d be enjoying himself immensely. He hops up to the ceiling and reaches out towards the nearest mirror, relieved to find that they don’t go all the way up. He crawls to the back and carefully wrenches away the vent to the back room, which is presumably where the three men from earlier are.

Bingo.

“I’m telling you, he’s not gonna show,” the boss says, and Tommy narrows his eyes. The guy that had been in charge of the payment is pacing, and the other dude, Slime, is just chilling in the corner, fiddling with the handles of the cases. “He has no idea that a trade even went down tonight, we covered up our tracks better this time.”

“And I’m telling you, he’s here somewhere, I can feel it,” the pacing guy snarls. The boss stands and crosses his arms; it’s clearly imposing, if the way the other guy immediately cowers at the sudden attention is anything to go by. “Sorry, Boss, I just—I’m on edge, and Slime’s putting off the injection, I mean, seriously, hurry up!”

Boss—Tommy’s decided that’s what he’ll be called now—shoves the other guy hard, and he hits the wall, posture like that of a scared animal. “Who the fuck are you to question him?! I put him directly in charge of you, don’t forget that,” Boss snarls, and the other guy lowers his head; Tommy keeps an eye on Slime. They’re all still masked, which is annoying, because if he could see their faces, it’d be so much easier to give a description to the public. “I need you with me here, not in your little mental panic room, Vos.”

Aha! Another name.

Vos nods, hands shaking with barely concealed rage at his sides. “Of course, Boss,” he says easily, and Tommy’s brows furrow. Vos looks over at Slime, who finally seems to have come to a decision. “You ready?”

Slime nods, and Vos takes one of the cases and leads him out. Tommy debates on whether to follow them or try to take the other case, but before he can make a decision, Boss looks directly up at the ceiling—up at him. “There you are, little spider,” he says, and Tommy’s eyes go wide.

“Uh, I’m...this is my Halloween costume?” Tommy tries, and Boss grabs the gauntlet from the other case, slamming it on. Ah, shit. Tommy drops down into the room and puts his hands in front of his chest. “Listen, Boss—can I call you Boss?—I’m just here to take that little glove from you and go home, no need to ruin a carnival, yeah?”

Boss leans into his walkie-talkie, and wow, these guys are pretty well-coordinated, and narrows his eyes at Tommy. “Keep everyone out of the hall of mirrors,” he says as the gauntlet starts to glow purple, almost in a skeletal pattern, and Tommy squares his shoulders.

“At least you and I have the same priority. Can’t have the public too shocked, if you catch my— oomph!” Tommy’s abruptly cut off as Boss punches him in the gut with the gauntlet, and he’s thrown through the fucking wall. He skids to a stop against a mirror—because fucking duh—and he stands, shaking the ache out of his bones. “Well that’s rude, I was in the middle of my sentence, man.”

Boss’s metal-covered fingertips crackle with indigo lightning, and Tommy feels a pit of anxiety in his gut as he hops back up on the ceiling and drops down in another section of the maze. It’s fine, he can work with this. “Oh, Spider-Man! Come out, come out wherever you are!” Boss croons, and Tommy shudders, making sure his footsteps are as quiet as possible as he feels along the walls.

The lighting flickers slightly as a mirror shatters a little ways behind him, and Tommy’s really tempted to jump up, but Boss is probably gonna be keeping an eye on the ceiling for him. That’s simply not ideal. He continues to wind his way through the maze; he’s got no fucking clue where he’s going, but if he’s got any hope of not being electrocuted, he’ll have to sneak up on Boss.

Tommy flinches as the lights flicker again, the sound of glass shattering accompanying it, and he finds himself in, presumably, the middle room of the maze; there are mirrors all around him, each reflecting the image of Tommy visibly wary. He takes a moment to pause and really look at himself, squaring his shoulders and shooting finger guns at the one directly in front of him.

“Big man Spidey, lookin’ good,” he says quietly, then promptly stifles his laughter, because if he gets caught while doing stupid poses in the mirror, Techno’d never let him hear the end of it.

The carnival music playing over the speakers slows and glitches as the lights flicker and more glass shatters, then starts back up again as if it were never warped in the first place. Tommy shudders, and The Sense starts to prick at the back of his neck. He turns around rapidly, but none of the mirrors have changed; it’s still him in the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, there’s Boss, sixth—

Oh.

There’s Boss.

Tommy’s sent through several mirrored walls as Boss punches him, and a jolt of electricity shakes through his whole body. It takes a good five seconds for Tommy’s body to stop shaking uncontrollably. Five seconds that he doesn’t have. He hops up on the ceiling, leaping out of the way as Boss sends a blast of indigo lightning right towards him; it leaves a smoldering mark on the ceiling. At least it’s probably not lethal.

Panting, Tommy drops down and books it. There’s no way he’s gonna be able to take on Boss face-to-face, at least not without some kind of nonconductive insulation. Tommy doesn’t exactly want to end up like a squirrel stuck in an electric fence, so his best option is, again, sneaking up from behind. But it’s virtually impossible in the hall of mirrors, so Tommy starts to formulate a half-baked idea.

If he makes it out of the maze, he can blend in with the crowd and keep an eye on Boss to corner him. But he has to find his way out without being caught first, and that’s proving to be quite an issue, given that he’s bumped into several mirrored walls so far, which only draws more attention to himself.

Tommy dodges another electrified punch from Boss and sprints. At least The Sense seems to have somewhat caught on, and it starts to warn him every time he’s about to run face-first into another goddamn mirror. “C’mon, Spider-Man, don’t be shy! I’m not gonna hurt you, I’ve got orders specifically to take you in alive,” Boss says, and that’s very concerning.

“No can do! I’d rather not be fried, thanks!” Tommy pants, dodging yet another punch, and his hair sticks to his face with the static that whizzes by him. He leaps over the mirror wall and starts running again, only to groan as Boss just punches his way through. Tommy huffs in annoyance. “You know, this is actually the first time I’ve faced a criminal chasing me instead of the other way around, and I can’t say I’m a fan!”

Boss laughs behind him, and it sounds like an honest laugh, not a bitter one like Blaze’s or an incredulous one like 404’s, which is another very weird aspect of this whole thing. “I’m not gonna fry you!” Boss says, and Tommy thinks the way he says it is very reminiscent of a kid playing tag. This is slightly disturbing. “Don’t make me keep chasing after you, man!”

“Again, I prefer not being electrocuted!” Tommy yelps as he dodges another blast of electricity, swinging up and over a good few walls. He can vaguely make out the entrance. Boss doesn’t seem too happy about the fact that he’s gonna escape, which probably explains why Tommy’s ankle gets grabbed mid-jump the next time he tries.

He’s abruptly slammed into the ground, and Boss stands over him, gauntlet pointed directly at his chest. Oh, shit. “Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Boss tells him smugly, and Tommy’s chest heaves as he looks around. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotta—agh! What the fuck was that?!”

Boss clutches the back of his head and growls a few swears under his breath as he turns around, and Tommy scrambles to his feet, latching immediately onto Boss’s back and scrambling for the gauntlet. Unfortunately for the both of them, Tommy is much taller than Boss, so they fall backwards, Tommy still grappling for the gauntlet and Boss still struggling to shrug him off.

Tommy flips them over with all the strength left in his legs and promptly elbows Boss’s temple, trying his hardest to pull the gauntlet off. Every time he touches it, though, a shockwave briefly wracks through his body, and he scrambles away from Boss’s unconscious form, still a little shaky from the excess electricity.

“Are you okay?!” someone demands next to him, and Tommy jumps into a defensive stance, only to ease out of it when he realizes it’s not one of Boss’s goons, but Tubbo standing there with his hands in the air. “It’s me, it’s me! I threw a big shard of glass at him, and I know you said to keep everyone away from the hall of mirrors, but there were volunteers that already had that covered, and your comms weren’t connecting, so I ran in the back!”

“The gauntlet must’ve short-circuited them,” Tommy mutters, and he would run a hand through his hair if he weren’t masked. The gesture translates into him awkwardly smoothing a hand over the top of his head. “Right, well. Thank you. Seriously.”

“Y-Yeah, man, of course,” Tubbo says, and Tommy snorts at how embarrassed he looks. Then, his costume registers, and Tommy bursts out laughing, hands clutching at his sides. Boss starts to stir at the noise, and Tommy webs him to the floor, still shaking with laughter rather than the effects of electricity now. Tubbo crosses his arms. “Don’t even, I’m not—I just thought it would be cool, okay, I’m not—! Stop laughing at me!”

He swats half-heartedly at Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy composes himself, though he does have to stifle another snort when Tubbo fidgets with the hoodie part of his Halloween costume nervously. “Right, right, I’m sorry. It’s just—I forget you’re such a fan,” he says, and Tubbo groans, pushing past him towards the entrance. “Woah, woah, we’re going through the back, dude, I’m not about to get caught, and neither are you.”

Tubbo nods. “Good point. So...how do we get through to the back?” he asks, and Tommy thinks for a moment. He could easily just get up on the ceiling and crawl his way there, but he doesn’t exactly want to leave Tubbo behind.

After a brief pause, he puts his hands on Tubbo’s shoulders. “How do you feel about being upside-down?” he asks, and Tubbo lights up.

*****

The two of them walk through the crowd. It’s kind of nice not to be noticed, being just a single Spider-Man in a crowd of them, but Tommy is very wary of the fact that someone is looking out over the carnival. It’s probably Boss’s goons, and he knows he just looks like another kid in a costume—ironic, considering that’s technically what he is—but he’s still a little nervous.

Tubbo seems to be just as nervous, which is understandable considering he had just thrown glass at a nutjob with an electrified gauntlet, but he gets visibly more nervous when the two of them bump into Puffy. “Tubbo! There you are, we were looking all over for you! Ranboo left a little while ago, we couldn’t find you,” she says, and he grins apologetically. Puffy notices Tommy, who stiffens. “Oh, is this a friend of yours?”

Tommy waits for Tubbo to figure this one out. “Uh, it’s just Tommy!” he says, and Tommy wants to scream. Tubbo nods eagerly. “Yeah, I went to go find him, turns out he went to change costumes, y’know? Anyways, um—! You guys good?”

“Yeah, we were gonna head home soon. You comin’ with, or are you gonna hitch a ride with Tommy?” Foolish asks, and Tubbo frowns in thought.

Tommy says nothing for fear that if he does, Tubbo will put together the fact that he is, in fact, actually Tommy. “Ah, yeah, I-I’ll head home with you guys,” Tubbo says to Puffy, who smiles and ruffles his hair. Tubbo glances at him, eyes wide. “You, uh, gonna be good to make your way back, bossman?”

Nodding, Tommy waves as the three of them head for the exit. He sighs, shoulders slumping in relief. Slipping through the crowd, Tommy makes his way back behind a building and takes his mask off. Not that he needs to hide it, but still, it’d be nice to blink without feeling panicked that someone’ll see it.

He joins back in with the rest of the crowd, and he’s surprised to be met face-to-face by a very panicked-looking Quackity. “Oh! Tommy! Great to see you, nice costume, are you—is that a zombie Spider-Man? Creative,” he appraises, and he sounds out of breath, his clothes all disheveled. “Hey, uh, have you seen Charlie? Or Fundy?”

“No, can’t say I have, Big Q,” Tommy says, apologetic, and Quackity groans, taking off his red top hat to run his hand through his hair. Tommy should probably get back to his family sooner rather than later, but Quackity’s really nice, and he looks pretty stressed. “I could help you look, if you need.”

Quackity waves dismissively. “Nah, I’ve got it under control, you just worry about having fun, okay, kiddo?” he ruffles Tommy’s hair affectionately and gives him a pat on the back before starting to push his way through the crowd again.

Tommy grabs his phone and shoots a text to Techno, asking where he is. Techno doesn’t respond, so Tommy calls him. “I am heading back home, tell Phil and Kristin I’m getting a ride with Tubbo. I’m not, but tell them that anyway,” he barks out as Techno picks up, shouldering his way past an Alice and Mad Hatter.

“Fine. How’d it go?” Techno asks, and Tommy just sighs. “That bad, huh? Did you at least get any of those...things back?”

“No,” Tommy grumbles, passing a group of Spider-Men, and he finally makes it to the exit, waving goodbye to Sam as he heads toward the nearest alleyway. “Anyway, I’m gonna swing by Tubbo’s to get my comms repaired, then I’ll head home.”

“Alright, but Phil’s getting cranky like the old man he is, we’ll probably be leaving soon too,” he says, and Tommy snorts as Phil’s protesting starts up in the background. “See you at home.”

“See you,” Tommy says, and there’s a heavy pause there before he hangs up, like they’d both wanted to say something else. Tommy tugs his mask back on as soon as he’s out of sight from the general public and swings off in the direction of Tubbo’s house.

The breeze is really nice, and it’s soothing the heat still dancing under his skin; Tommy’s always run a little warmer than the average person, but this is different. It almost feels like it’s the remnants of the electricity, still pulsing and wired. Tommy takes a few deep breaths as he continues to thwip and swing through London, wincing when there’s a familiar piercing pain in his chest. His ribs are probably bruised from those punches.

As he lands on Tubbo’s bedroom window, Tommy takes a minute to calm himself. His hands are shaking, but the electric pulsing had stopped a while ago. It’s probably fine, probably a leftover reaction from it, but he’ll ask Techno to make sure there’s nothing wrong just in case.

Tubbo’s door opens, and Tommy gives his best friend a wave. “Oh my God, what’re you doing out there? Come in, come in,” Tubbo says, shutting the door behind him and letting Tommy in through the window. “Have you come to get the comms fixed?”

Tommy nods. “Yeah, figured it’d be better to get that done now rather than later,” he says, sounding pretty tired, even to himself, and Tubbo’s brows pinch in concern. “D’you—can I sit down somewhere, man?”

Leading Tommy to the bed, Tubbo frets a little. “Of course, just stay here, let me grab your old mask so you don’t have to stand in the corner or something,” he jokes, still clearly worried, and Tommy rubs at his temples. He’s got a killer headache all of a sudden. Tubbo frowns. “You alright, bossman? I don’t have any painkillers strong enough to work with your metabolism, but I can get you some water or something while you switch masks.”

“That would be nice,” Tommy says in a voice much smaller than himself, and as soon as Tubbo closes the door behind him, Tommy whips the mask off, shoving the other on and taking a few shaky breaths. He knows that being electrocuted probably has a lot of side effects, and his body is probably rapidly trying to patch itself up, which is likely why it’s all overwhelming all at once.

As he buries his head in his hands, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and shudders. He wants to go home—he wants to sit on the couch with his knees up by his chest and a cup of hot cocoa in his hand, he wants to joke with Wilbur while they watch some cheesy movie with outdated special effects, he wants to clutch Henry to his chest when Techno puts on a horror movie just to scare him. He doesn’t want to be here, sitting and waiting for Tubbo to fix his supersuit while he tries his hardest to recover from being electrocuted.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Tommy had wanted to be a hero, and now he is. He has to deal with the responsibility it comes with, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to sit by while asshats that fancy themselves villains run around with dangerous weapons and malicious motives, terrorizing people and blowing up buildings. That’s just not something Tommy’s willing to sit by and let happen, not while he’s got the power to stop it.

Even trying to find a compromise between the two sides to his life is difficult. Tommy’s been tiring himself out just thinking about how he could possibly manage both. Not to mention, it’s actively fracturing his relationships with the people he cares about. Tommy’s never felt like this before—like half of his brain is commending him on doing the responsible thing and being whatever the people of the city need him to be, while the other half gets shaky at rumbling floorboards, trembles at the idea of Blaze’s crazed laugh and 404’s sneer.

Tommy’s always prided himself on his bravery. And yeah, sometimes it’s more unearned confidence and spite than bravery, but Tommy knows he’s courageous. He stands up for the little guy, protects mum and pop shops, makes sure people get back home safe after he’s stopped a robber or knocked out a mugger. Making sure people know that someone’s out there with the best of intentions is important to him, and Tommy can’t leave the city without a protector, not when his appearance as his alter ego had been the catalyst for most of the villains he’s still trying to apprehend.

He owes it to the kids at school, his neighbors, his friends, the people of London to keep his chin up and fight through it.

“Okay, so I didn’t know if you wanted ice or no ice, so I brought one up with ice and one without—are you alright?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy looks up blearily at him. He nods and gestures vaguely to his broken mask, and Tubbo pushes the glasses into Tommy’s hands, all no-nonsense as he gets to work. “This should be a quick fix, I just have to replace...ah, shit, that’s a little fried too. Doesn’t matter, I’ll just—hah! There we are!”

Tubbo holds the mask out again, and Tommy takes it, running his thumbs over the fabric and humming. “Thanks,” he says, and Tubbo nods. He’s gnawing at his bottom lip nervously, and Tommy sets one of the water glasses on the floor to lift his mask slightly and down the one he’s still holding. Then, he takes the other and downs that, too. Tubbo takes them and sets them on the desk, politely turning as Tommy switches the masks out again.

“Can I turn around again?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy goes mhm as he stands from the bed, swaying a little on the spot. Tubbo reaches out to steady him, and he looks even more concerned now. “D’you...I think you should sit again, Spidey.”

“I can’t. I have to get home,” Tommy says, feeling all hollowed out. The water had helped. It probably helps his body generate enough energy to fuel his regeneration. That’s probably why he’s so tired. It’s probably fine. Probably. Tommy huffs out a laugh. “Prob-uhb-lee. Such a stupid word, don’t you think?”

Blinking at him in confusion, Tubbo shrugs. “I guess…? I don’t know. Are you sure you can make it home? You can stay and rest if your house is too far,” he offers, and Tommy waves dismissively; he doesn’t want to be an inconvenience, and he can get home once he snaps himself out of...whatever this is. “I can sleep on the couch if your identity’s what your worried about, I swear I wouldn’t—”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Tommy cuts in easily, because he does, and Tubbo is a wonderful, wonderful friend. Tommy closes his eyes. “I’m very tired, Tubbo.”

“I can only imagine,” Tubbo chuckles nervously. Tommy shuffles over to the still-open window and swings his legs out. Tubbo gently places his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy feels a little guilty for making Tubbo so concerned. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Things have been hard for me these past couple months, man. I don’t really know what to do about it,” Tommy says, and Tubbo goes through what looks like forty different emotions all in one second. Tommy tilts his head. “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve just had a stroke.”

Swallowing, Tubbo shakes his head. “No, sorry, I just—you sounded so much like Tommy for a minute there,” he says, voice shaky, and Tommy just blinks slowly at him. He’s too tired. He’s so tired. He wants to go to bed. “You, uh...you should talk to someone. I should’ve told him that too, but I made a stupid joke—doesn’t matter. Tell somebody about it. Doesn’t have to be me, of course, don’t get me wrong, I...I just think you oughta talk to someone.”

Tommy smiles softly, even though Tubbo can’t see. “I make no promises,” he jokes weakly, and Tubbo looks like he wants to say something else, but he hesitates. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ve got...people.”

He does, technically speaking. He could talk to Techno or Tubbo. That’s more than one person, so it counts. Tommy’s not going to talk to Tubbo, of course, the last thing Tubbo needs is superhero baggage on top of all the other things he’s got to deal with, and Techno’s not the most emotionally available hammer in the toolshed.

“Wait here,” Tubbo says, and he dashes out of his room, leaving Tommy to wonder what the hell that’s all about. He’s left in the windowsill, and while he’s not about to just ditch Tubbo, Tommy is a little tempted to just up and go home. Thankfully, it’s only a minute or two before Tubbo rushes back into the room, pressing a tiny object into Tommy’s hands. “Here! You can pin it to your hoodie. Oh, and let me get you your gas mask before you go!”

As Tubbo goes to the closet, presumably to grab the mask, Tommy looks down at his hand, breath hitching. It’s a little bee pin, worn from old age, and Tommy knows for a fact that Tubbo’s dad had given it to Puffy to give to Tubbo before he left for the Peace Corps. “Tubbo, I couldn’t possibly take it, I…” Tommy trails off, not sure how to explain how he knows just how much the pin means to Tubbo. “It looks really sentimental, I-I don’t want to overstep.”

“Nonsense,” Tubbo says, playfully swatting Tommy with the gas mask and making sure it’s securely fastened around Tommy’s neck. His expression softens, and he smiles in a gentle kind of way that makes Tommy’s stomach churn with guilt. “It’s just...a reminder that you’ve got somebody, no matter how far away they are.”

“Thank you,” Tommy says in a choked voice, and he clears his throat. “I should...I gotta get going. Thanks again. For everything.”

“It’s my honor, bossman,” Tubbo says, beaming, and Tommy pulls him into a tight hug. Tubbo laughs after a good few moments and shoves him away lightly. “You’re crushing me! Now get out of my room before my aunt comes to say goodnight.”

“You got it,” Tommy says, giving Tubbo a two-fingered salute as he swings out above the neighborhood and towards his own house.

And when Tommy turns the little bee pin over in his fingers later that night, his hands aren’t shaking.

*****

Chapter Text

Now, if you were to ask Tommy what he’d expected to find when he’d entered the living room, his answer would have been something mundane. Perhaps Phil, having a cup of tea. Maybe Kristin, crocheting a new sweater for one of them. Hell, even Wilbur playing the guitar, or Techno testing out one of his many, many swords on various fruits.

Tommy had not, in fact, expected to see Wilbur half-dangling out of the window, a plume of smoke coming from the lit cigarette in his hand.

As the door swings shut behind him, Wilbur jumps, bumping his head on the top of the frame, and Tommy stifles a laugh as he scrambles to put the cigarette out on the side of the house and duck back in. “Tommy! You’re home early,” he says, shutting the window and smoothing down his hair, and he grins nervously.

“That I am,” Tommy says, brows raised, and Wilbur sighs, eyes closed. Truth be told, he’d been planning on staying out on patrol for a good while longer, but Tubbo had pointed out that he’d been really shaky whenever he’d stood on top of a building, which really won’t do if he’s going to be saving people. “And you are smoking in the living room.”

Grimacing, Wilbur runs a hand through his curls, which undoes the smoothing-down he’d just done, and it sticks up in all directions. Tommy sets his duffel bag down to cross his arms. “I don’t smoke often, y’know? I just...it’s a stress reliever,” he says, and Tommy frowns. He wonders just how many cigarettes he’d had between their rooftop conversation and now. Wilbur scans Tommy’s face and gives him a pleading look. “Just...don’t tell Phil and Kristin, alright?”

Tommy sighs, but he nods anyway. “Fine, but you owe me,” he says, and Wilbur rolls his eyes, shoving Tommy’s head lightly as he makes his way past and into the kitchen. The stench of cigarette smoke fills Tommy’s nose, and he scrunches his face up. “God, you smell gross, Wil.”

“Comes with the territory,” Wilbur answers easily from the kitchen, and Tommy grabs his duffel bag again, ready to head upstairs when Wilbur steps back out, two mugs of coffee in hand. “Oh, are you heading up already? I was gonna—I mean, that’s fine, I just. Y’know.”

Ah, right.

Things are still a bit tense. After their conversation in Wilbur’s car, Tommy’s found it easier to talk with him, but it’s still weirdly awkward whenever they do talk, especially if Tommy’s been hanging out with Techno. “Oh, um, I can—yeah, no, I could use some coffee,” Tommy says, half-smiling, and Wilbur’s shoulders drop in relief. They sit down across from one another in the living room, and Tommy keeps his duffel bag by his feet. “So...how’s work?”

It’s a stupid question, but it makes Wilbur laugh. Tommy counts that as a win. He sips on his coffee, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Quackity’s been having a shitload of staff meetings, something about getting us all accustomed to the new dynamic, but other than that, it’s been nice,” Wilbur says. He smiles softly and leans back into the couch, and Tommy takes another sip of coffee. It’s actually pretty decent; Wilbur always forgets to put enough sugar in his, but that’s not exactly a problem anymore.

Not that caffeine can really do anything now that Tommy’s got his crazy metabolism, but he quite likes the taste. “Big Q’s really cool. The other day, I ran into him in the hallway and we had this whole conversation about this game I’ve been getting into,” Tommy says, and Wilbur makes a barely-concealed face of annoyance. Okay, so maybe bringing up Quackity hadn’t been the smartest move. But Tommy can still salvage this! “Anyway, Tubbo told me the other day about how his chemistry class has been up to their necks in labs n’ shit, glad I’m taking bio instead.”

Wilbur chuckles, and Tommy can still smell cigarette smoke. “Bio’s much better. Y’know, Sam was telling me earlier today about how well you’re doing in his programming class,” he says, looking quite proud, and Tommy tries to smother his inevitable grin. Wilbur’s proud of him. Wilbur tilts his mug. “Also, don’t tell your friends, but I’m grading the essays from your class period, and you’ve all done great. Well done, Toms.”

“Thanks, Wil,” Tommy says quietly, a soft smile on his face in spite of his best efforts to appear as though he couldn’t care less. They sit in a peaceful silence for a while, sipping on their respective mugs of coffee; Wilbur’s has a little blue sheep on it, and he’d given Tommy the infamous raccoon mug, though Tommy doesn’t have it in him to protest. Tommy clears his throat. “Um, listen, I wanted to—”

“I thought I heard you in here, gremlin,” Techno says from the doorway, and Tommy glances at him. The Sense hadn’t warned him, but Tommy’s pretty sure The Sense thinks it’s funny as fuck when Techno catches him off guard, and The Sense is a little bitch like that sometimes. Techno eyes his duffel bag warily, then nods in greeting at Wilbur, whose smile doesn’t meet his eyes. Techno turns to look at Tommy, leaning against the doorframe. “We can get a headstart on stuff since you’re back so soon. Might finally be able to teach you how to block properly, too.”

Tommy brightens up at that. Techno’s fighting lessons have actually been really helpful; he’s come home with less bruises and cuts now that he knows a better technique. “Yeah! I’ll be there in just a second, Tech, lemme put my shit in my room,” he says, gathering his things and starting to head upstairs.

He drops his duffel in the closet and changes out of his sweatshirt into a shirt that’s easier to breathe in. His joggers should be fine; it’s getting colder out, so training in shorts has gotten kind of bothersome. As he makes his way to the backyard, Tommy’s slightly surprised to find Wilbur sitting in one of the patio chairs, a replenished mug of coffee in hand. Glancing over to Techno for an explanation, he’s met with a helpless shrug.

“I figured I’d sit in and see what you two have been up to,” Wilbur says easily, and Techno rolls his eyes as he sets up their usual equipment. Tommy squares his shoulders, stretching out his arms so that Techno doesn’t scold him about it again. Honestly, Tommy finds it a little stupid to waste time on stretching; it’s not as though he’ll have time to do that before he fights criminals. He’s snapped out of his concentration as Wilbur chokes on his coffee. “That’s a shitload of protective gear, Tech.”

“Tommy packs a hell of a punch,” Techno says, and Tommy grins as he cracks his knuckles. It’s not technically a lie. Tommy still holds back his usual amount of strength, and he had been the one to insist that Techno wear something to protect himself, just in case, but he doesn’t actively try to punch hard no matter what Techno tells him. “Alright, kid, do your leg stretches and then we’ll get into it.”

Tommy gives him a salute and starts to stretch his legs, which has been a significantly easier activity since his powers have supplied him with increased agility; Tommy used to dread toe touches, but now they’re a fucking breeze. As he rolls up his sleeves to his shoulders, Wilbur chokes again behind him. Tommy gives him an annoyed look.

“Sorry, shit, I just—Tommy, since when have your arms looked like that?!” Wilbur demands, and Tommy glances down at himself. Yeah, his arms are less noodly, but it’s not like he’s got biceps like Techno or Sally, even with superpowered muscles.

“He’s still built like a spaghetti noodle at best, he hasn’t suddenly turned into The Rock while you weren’t lookin’, Wilbur,” Techno says, and Tommy flips him off, making a point to strain his muscles slightly so that they flex. Techno rolls his eyes and gets into his usual defensive position. “Alright, show me what you remember from last time.”

Tommy swings out a punch, careful to keep form and throw his weight into it. Follow through had been Techno’s main point from their last little training session, but Tommy’s still hesitant to do it. He doesn’t want to accidentally maim someone. Techno nods approvingly, and Tommy swings out a kick, then another punch, then a roundhouse. That one had been particularly tricky to get down, but it’s been so useful.

He’s been asking Techno to teach him how to flip into it, so he looks extra cool while fighting, but Techno has adamantly refused every time. “Hah! Fuck you, bitch!” Tommy cheers as his next kick knocks Techno back a little, even while he’s restraining his strength. Another two punches, then a jab with his elbow, then a right hook.

The pattern’s easy enough to follow, which Tommy appreciates. He can’t exactly try out different combos when he’s fighting in the streets of London. Techno nods once, and Tommy falls back; they’ve begun to have a sort of wordless code as they’re training, which comes in handy when Tommy’s in the zone and shutting out any distractions. His quips can be saved for when he’s not learning how to properly fight.

“Nice work,” Techno says, and Tommy beams, basking in the praise. Techno moves to start rearranging Tommy’s position—he kicks lightly to move Tommy’s right leg back, and Tommy falls back into a defensive stance, just like Techno wants. “Put your arms up like you’re about to punch. Good. Now move your fists closer—no, Tommy, not by your shoulders—there you go. And keep your balance on your rear foot, don’t fall back, but use it to ground yourself.”

“Right, right, and am I—does my knee placement look okay? My center of gravity or whatever the fuck isn’t off?” Tommy asks, and Techno nods in approval, moving to adjust Tommy’s elbows so that they point out slightly while keeping his fists close to his face. “Okay, now what the hell am I meant to do?”

Techno throws an elbow toward his face and Tommy catches it easily. “No, block it. You catch someone’s arm with both hands like that, you risk them usin’ the other to take you down,” he scolds, and Tommy groans. It’d been a reflex! But, he supposes, that’s kind of the point of this training; he’s got to make proper fighting techniques and stances replace his current reflexes. Techno moves to stand in front of him, and Tommy tries his best to keep his stance. “Show me how you think blockin’ should look, and I’ll correct you.”

Wilbur clears his throat from the patio, and the two of them turn to give him an annoyed look. If you ask Tommy, Wilbur’s more than welcome to sit in, but he shouldn’t go interrupting Techno’s lessons. “Why exactly are we teaching the child how to fight?” he asks, and Tommy blinks. That’s actually a pretty fair question to have.

“He asked,” is all that Techno says as an explanation, their agreed-upon excuse, and he throws a punch at Tommy, who throws up his arm in front of his face to block it. Techno grins. “Much better, Tommy! Keep your elbows lower than your fists, that’s it, you got it.”

He throws another, and Tommy blocks it, making sure to follow Techno’s advice. “Can’t get me, bitch, I’m too fast,” Tommy jokes as he blocks a high kick, and Techno counters with another punch, still smiling easily at him.

The hits start coming a little bit faster, and Techno only has to correct him once or twice, and Tommy starts getting in the zone. Training with Techno is always so nice—Tommy barely has to think, and Techno always looks so quietly proud after they’re done. Techno’s not holding back, but Tommy’s got this, it’s so much easier to block hits now that he knows how to do it.

“For fuck’s sakes, be careful!” Wilbur calls out, very nervously, and Tommy snaps out of his concentration at the sound of it. Techno’s fist connects with his nose. Stumbling back, Tommy clutches at his face, eyes squeezed shut as they prick with tears. Christ, that hurts. Techno’s by his side in a second, moving Tommy’s hands away from his face and inspecting the damage. Wilbur rushes over too, and Tommy glares at him. “Techno, I just told you to be careful!”

“You distracted him,” Techno shoots back, eyes narrowed, and Tommy squirms out of his grip as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t feel broken, but that might just be the adrenaline. If it is, they’ll have to set it before his accelerated regeneration keeps it in place. Techno moves in front of Wilbur and swats Tommy’s hands down again, tilting his head slightly as he sighs. “You are bleedin’, but it’s not broken. C’mon, let’s get you some ice.”

Tommy follows him in, and Wilbur trails behind them, still clearly buzzing with worry. “I knew that wasn’t going to end well, I fucking knew it, now you’re bleeding,” he frets, and Tommy rolls his eyes. A little bruising isn’t going to kill him, it’s not as though Techno’s shot him or something, but Wilbur still glares daggers at Techno like he had. “How could you be so careless?!”

Scowling, Techno gestures for Tommy to hop up on the counter, and he digs in the freezer for an ice pack. “Oh, I’m careless? What did you think yellin’ ‘be careful’ would even do, Wil? He was focused, he stays focused if he’s not distracted,” Techno shoots back, carefully placing the ice pack over Tommy’s nose, and Tommy takes it gratefully. Wilbur hovers. It’s vaguely annoying, but Tommy’s not about to tell him off—he’s more focused on the throbbing pain in his nose.

“Why the hell are you even teaching a teenager how to fight?!” Wilbur demands, and as Techno goes to obviously restate what he’d said earlier, Wilbur glares at him. “No, I don’t give a shit if he asked, not only are you teaching a child to fight, but you’re not a professional, Techno! He could get hurt, or he could break a bone, or—”

“He is right here,” Tommy cuts in, and Wilbur sighs in frustration. “It’s fine, Wil. Techno’s a really good teacher, I’m getting much better at it. Shit just comes with the territory, Big Dubs.”

Wilbur gestures wildly, clearly stressed out. “It’s decidedly not fine, Tommy, you shouldn’t be—he shouldn’t teach you how to fight, you don’t need to know! I don’t want to hear it, Techno, even if he asked, you should know better!” he says, and Tommy feels rather patronized. He can hold his own, and Wilbur’s got no clue what he’s actually talking about.

Phil comes into the kitchen, brows furrowed with concern. “I heard arguing from the home office, what’s going on?” he asks, looking to Techno and Wilbur for an explanation, but when his eyes land on Tommy, they go wide. “Oh my God, what happened to your nose, mate?!”

“Techno’s teaching Tommy how to fight, and he ended up punching Tommy in the face,” Wilbur snitches, and Tommy squirms as Phil moves the ice pack down to inspect the damage. The swelling has probably gone down significantly, but he knows he’s still bleeding.

Techno groans. “It’s not like that, Wilbur was the one who distracted Tommy, I was teachin’ him how to block properly,” he explains, but Phil’s fretting doesn’t stop. Techno nudges Phil out of the way and puts the ice pack back in place, patting Tommy’s knee. “Just keep it in place, we’ll get the blood cleaned up in a bit after the swelling’s gone completely.”

Almost comically worried, Wilbur puts his hands on his hips. “His nose is swollen! How many times has he been injured before this?!” he asks, and Phil puts a hand on his arm. Wilbur points an accusatory finger at Techno, who rolls his eyes. “Have you been hiding his injuries from us?!”

“Wil, I’m fine, he’s teaching me, I’m doing good! This is the first time something like this has even happened, you’re overreacting,” Tommy interjects, and Phil shakes his head in clear disbelief, one hand massaging at the spot where his brows furrow. “Seriously, it’s fine, I keep telling you, Techno’s a good teacher!”

“He’s not a professional, as skilled as he may be, and safety is the most important aspect of learning hand-to-hand combat. That’s one of the first things they teach you,” Phil says calmly, and Wilbur gestures to him vigorously, as if Phil’s opinion somehow justifies his tantrum. Tommy groans and tilts his head up at the ceiling in annoyance, only to have it gently guided back down by Techno.

“Don’t tilt your head up when you have a nosebleed,” he says, and that’s as close to scolding as Techno ever gets, so Tommy listens. Techno turns back to Phil and Wilbur, arms crossed. “I know safety’s important, Phil. I’m takin’ every precaution recommended, I swear. And we can’t give Tommy professional lessons because his schedule’s a little hectic right now, so—”

Wilbur cuts him off with a scoff. “Oh, and what the fuck do you know about his schedule, why the hell are you speaking for him?!” he says, and Tommy’s of the opinion that everybody’s been speaking for him, thank you very much. “Tommy barely talked to you two months ago, how the hell would you know—”

“I know because I listen to him, Wilbur, maybe if you did, you’d get your nose out of places where it doesn’t belong—”

“Oh, fuck you, Techno, am I not allowed to be worried when someone who should know better than to teach a kid to fight decides on a whim that it’s perfectly acceptable for my little brother to—”

“He’s my kid brother too, jackass! And you don’t know anything about what’s goin’ on with him right now, don’t act all holier than thou when you’re just compensating for treatin’ him like he’s not even there—”

“I’m not treating him like—! You know what, fuck off, of course I know what’s going on with him, I was there at the robbery! You’re the one who’s got no clue—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that being present while somethin’ traumatic happens to him excuses all the other things you’ve done,” Techno snarls, and Tommy tries his hardest to blend in with the counter he’s sitting on. He looks towards Phil for assistance, solidarity, anything, but Phil’s just watching helplessly as Techno shoves Wilbur’s shoulder. “Let me think, if I’m in your shoes, what would I do? I certainly wouldn’t mess with his anxiety by handin’ him his test like he’s failed! And I definitely wouldn’t steal food from his lunch when he’s just started to eat normally again!”

“It was habit, and I thought it was your lunch I took it from! He’s gone back to normal, I’m not gonna sit there and handle him with fucking kid gloves, he hates that, and if you knew him at all, you’d know that! I don’t want him to feel pitied!” Wilbur says, shoving at Techno in return, and Tommy’s hands start to get shaky again. All this yelling is scarily reminiscent of hearing Blaze and 404 argue in that burning building. “But you don’t know him at all, because you’ve never made the fucking effort!”

Techno’s posture gets defensive—defensive in the real way, the kind of way he’ll slip into if Tommy kicks too hard, or if he’s seen some moron on the news or on Twitter shitting on how Spider-Man’s handled the latest crisis. Tommy hops off of the counter and steps between them, one hand on Techno’s arm. “Tech, he doesn’t mean it, he’s just worried right now, don’t—you don’t have to defend yourself, of course you’ve made an effort,” he says, and confusion mixes into the anger on Wilbur’s face.

To Tommy’s dismay, Techno just shakes his head and steps closer to Wilbur. “No, you don’t get to say that, you have no idea what Tommy’s been through, and for you to throw that in my face ’cuz you’re not gettin’ your way—”

“Oh, I’m not getting my way, am I?! Phil seems to disagree, which trumps whatever shitty argument you’re trying to cobble together,” Wilbur sneers, and Phil looks very uncomfortable suddenly. Tommy’s just glad the attention has somewhat shifted off of him. Then Wilbur turns to Tommy. Nevermind on the attention shift, then. Damn. “Why the hell are you standing up for him, as if you haven’t spent nights in my room asking me why he’s never tried to get to know you, as if I haven’t watched you cry because of him estranging himself from you—”

“I haven’t! I’m not—Wilbur, stop, that’s not true, I—!” Tommy cuts himself off in frustration, and he runs the hand not holding the ice pack to his face through his hair.

“No, I know what it is, you’re too afraid to call him out on it, aren’t you?! You’re worried if he knew how you really felt, he’d stop being all fuckin’ buddy-buddy with you! Worried he’ll ditch your birthday again for fencing, I fucking bet that’s what it is—”

“That was one time, and it was because I was in a different country,” Techno says heatedly, and Tommy’s shoulders find their way to his ears. Phil pulls Tommy to his side and starts to say something, but Techno starts to laugh mirthlessly. “And how many things have you missed?! I’m the only one who actually, really talks to the kid right now, don’t act like you fixed everything because you took him bowlin’ and make small talk whenever things feel just a little too tense! If anyone’s a bad brother here, it’s you!”

“That’s enough!” Phil bellows, and Techno and Wilbur both fall silent, leaning away from each other, chests heaving with angry breaths and eyes still locked in some weird standoff. Tommy shrinks back. “Both of you, cut the bullshit and stop arguing over your brother when he’s standing in the room! Christ, Toms, I’m sorry.”

Tommy shrugs. He just wants to leave the kitchen. Phil hands him a dishtowel, and Tommy wipes away the blood under his nose. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, even if his throat feels tight and his lungs are burning at his effort to keep his breathing steady.

Phil shakes his head. “It’s not fine. You two are grown men, start acting like it. I’m gonna take Tommy to grab some food, and I expect you to have resolved this issue by the time we get back,” he says firmly, and Techno and Wilbur have the good sense to look a little sheepish at that. Phil puts an arm around Tommy and shepherds him out of the room, lips in a thin, tense line. When they’re out in the hall, Phil stands back and smiles gently. “C’mon, mate, I’ll get you whatever you want, God knows you’ve earned it. And I can’t, in good faith, endorse Techno’s ‘lessons,’ but…I’m sure we can work something out.”

Tommy nods and slips his shoes on, as does Phil, and he follows him out to the car, trying to ignore the way he can still hear Wilbur and Techno’s raised voices. Phil doesn’t seem to, though, so Tommy just assumes it’s his enhanced hearing putting him through more bullshit. As he slips into the passenger seat, Phil starts up the car and drums his fingers on the wheel.

“Can we just get fast food? I’m not in the mood to sit down at a restaurant,” Tommy says quietly, and Phil nods as he pulls out of the driveway. Tommy slumps a little in his seat, fidgeting with his sleeves so that they roll back down properly. “That was kind of my fault back there. Sorry they started arguing.”

Phil’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head. “No, Toms, that’s not—you’re not at fault there, they were both being dickheads. You happening to spend more time with one of your brothers isn’t something they should be having a screaming match over, they’re just being immature,” he says easily, and Tommy feels a little comforted by that. “Wil’s just jealous, he’ll get over himself soon enough, don’t worry.”

Tommy snorts. “Nothin’ to be jealous over, honestly,” he says, and it’s true. The time he spends with Techno is either getting patched up, tutored, or trained. Wilbur would hate doing any of that stuff.

Chuckling softly, Phil pulls into the drive-thru of the nearest burger joint, and Tommy beams; he’s always up for a burger. Something seems to be bugging Phil, though, and as they move up the slow line, he sighs. “Tommy, is there something I should know?” he asks, and Tommy feigns confusion. Phil’s brows are pinched together. “Is there something going on with you, mate? I know you took care of whatever had been bothering you before, and you’ve seemed much less stressed recently, but I’ve got this...feeling that there’s something wrong, and I don’t have a fucking clue if it’s just me being paranoid.”

“No, no, you’re not, I...I just don’t know who to talk to, and I’m scared that if I do, they’ll...they won’t look at me like I’m me,” Tommy answers honestly, and it feels so good to tell someone that.

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone—not about the weird way his pulse quickens and his lungs struggle to keep up with him hyperventilating out of nowhere sometimes, not about the way his hands still shake when he walks by a ten-story brick building, not about how being the only one to know about certain aspects of London’s world of crime occasionally makes him feel as though his chest is being pressed down by a massive block of concrete. They’d look at him with pity he doesn’t want, handle him like glass, call his bouts of slight, harmless anxiety ‘panic attacks’ and force him to tell them when it had started, where it had come from.

And he can’t handle that. Tommy is loud, confident, brave, unafraid even when it’s detrimental, and whoever he is right now doesn’t feel exactly like himself. It’s uncomfortable and terrifying in a way that makes Tommy nauseous when he looks at himself in the mirror for more than a minute, and he can’t even begin to explain the feeling he gets when he stands at the grill for too long and catches a whiff of smoke that smells just a little too familiar.

So how is he supposed to look Phil in the eyes and spill his guts? How’s he meant to tell his dad that he’s putting himself in constant danger, that he’s the real source of tension in their family, or that the reason he jumps and startles so easily isn’t because someone’s caught him off guard, it’s because he’s so used to The Sense warning him he’s about to be shot or stabbed now that he instinctively assumes that’s what's coming when it happens with little things?

Tommy barely registers Phil ordering for the both of them. “Toms? You’ve been quiet for a while there, bud,” Phil says gently, and Tommy hums in question, then straightens up. “You’re afraid if you talk to us about your problems, we won’t look at you the same? Is that it?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, because if he were to tell anyone else that he’s Spider-Man, they would look at him differently. “But don’t worry about it too much, Phil, I’ve got it handled.”

“It’s my job to worry about it,” Phil says as they pull up to the first window, and he hands the cashier his card. “I joke about you lot giving me grey hairs with all the trouble you cause, but that’s not me saying I don’t want to be there for you when you’ve got troubles.”

Smiling sadly, Tommy nods. “I know,” he says, and he does, Phil’s a good dad, he tries so hard, and Tommy’s just making him worried over nothing. “I’ll be alright. It’s just a bunch of shitty stuff making me stressed, I’ll get through it.”

Phil returns his sad smile as the cashier hands his card back, and they pull up to the next window to wait for their food. “...Is my cooking bad?” Phil asks, immediately breaking the tension, and Tommy bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking. Phil’s grinning now. “Oh, fuck off, it’s not, is it?”

“Phil, it’s so bad,” Tommy says through his laughter, and Phil sighs. “I’m telling you, man, just let Wil or Kristin cook, they actually make shit taste like what it’s supposed to. Spices n’ shit, Big P, I mean seriously.”

“I always forget! And nobody says anything,” Phil says with a laugh, and Tommy makes an eh sort of gesture with his hand. Phil shakes his head. “You fuckers are just eating it to spare my feelings, I can’t believe this.”

Tommy gives his shoulder a pat as the worker hands them their bag of food. “Nobody wants to stress you out, Phil, lest your heart gives in and you...y’know,” Tommy says, absolutely delighted at the flat look of unamusement he gets in return, and Phil shoves the bag at him while he looks for a place to park. “Right then, old man, let’s see...chicken sandwich is for you, I’m hoping, and—! I owe my life to you, there’s three burgers in here, Phil, I would die for you.”

“Christ, mate, it’s just a few burgers, no need to lay your life on the line,” Phil jokes, reaching over to grab a few chips as he pulls into a spot, and Tommy shoves the burger in his face. God, that really never gets old. Phil takes his sandwich and hums pleasantly as he has a bite. “That’s pretty decent, actually, didn’t expect it to taste this good.”

Nodding, Tommy chomps on his burger some more. “Tech takes me here sometimes after I’ve had a shit day, they make really fuckin’ good burgers,” he says, adding some chips to his next bite of burger, and Phil makes a face at just how much food Tommy’s got in his face all at once. He’s been told it can be an intimidating sight.

They enjoy their food in peaceful silence, and as Phil finishes off his chicken sandwich and Tommy finishes his second burger, Phil turns on the radio. It’s at a quiet volume, but it’s a nice little pop song. Tommy hums along, and Phil joins in at the second chorus.

“How long d’you think it’ll be until they’re holding forks to each other’s throats?” Phil asks as the song fades out, and Tommy snorts.

“I give ’em five more minutes,” Tommy says easily, and Phil raises a brow.

“I say two.”

*****

Chapter Text

Honestly, Tommy’s got no fucking time to deal with Wilbur and Techno right now.

He’s got Boss, Blaze, and 404 on his radar now, he’s not going to waste any unnecessary time on entertaining their clear attempts at becoming the favorite. It had started out kind of funny, with the two of them scrambling—in their own way—to prove that they’re a better brother, but now? It’s just a pain in Tommy’s ass.

This is the third day in a row that Wilbur has tried to bribe him with promises of laser tag, arcade games, and going to see whatever movie Tommy wants. “If you want to have a very brotherly chat afterwards, that would be perfectly okay with me, Tommy,” Wilbur says, and Tommy idly notes that he smells strongly of cigarettes. Techno scoffs from his spot on the couch, and Tommy just wants to fucking leave already so he can patrol. Wilbur puts a hand over his chest, the melodramatic bastard he is. “Because unlike some people, I am an emotionally intelligent, mature, and competent adult willing to assist my little brother with whatever problems he may or may not be facing.”

Tommy blinks. “That’s great, Wilbur. Cheers,” he says flatly, and he turns towards the door, only to be stopped by Techno, who crosses the room in, like, three seconds. Tommy glares up at him; if there’s anyone who knows exactly why Tommy’s heading out, it’s him. “What do you want, prick?”

“I can teach you how to wield a sword,” Techno says, and Tommy’s gotta admit, it’s more tempting than his previous propositions of pushing Tommy on their old swingset in the backyard. When Tommy had pointed out that he hadn’t been on those swings since he was nine, Techno had gone red and promptly changed the subject.

“I’m good, but thanks anyway,” Tommy says flatly. Techno huffs slightly in annoyance, but Tommy pays him no mind. He’s got patrol to get to, after all.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with me to the arcade? I’ve got an all-access pass with your name on it, Toms,” Wilbur offers, waving his wallet, and Tommy’s tempted to both laugh and groan. “Plus, I can take you to that sweets shop down the street afterwards—”

“He doesn’t like sweet things, Wil. I’ll take you to a steakhouse,” Techno cuts in, and now both of his brothers are in the front hall with him, moving in front of him and blocking the goddamn door. “And I can take you to that trampoline place before we eat.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Dumbass, he broke his wrist there when he was eleven, that’s why he never went there again,” he snaps, and Techno glares at him. Tommy is suddenly very uncomfortable with the energy in the room now. “Tommy, you should hang out with me, I know what you actually like to do.”

A sarcastic laugh from Techno makes Wilbur’s face flush with either anger, embarrassment, or a mix of the two. Tommy hates this. “He’s got no clue what he’s talkin’ about,” Techno says easily, and Tommy wants to scream. “I’m the one who knows what’s goin’ on with you, you can trust me, Tommy.”

“No he can’t, you barely know anything about him—”

“There you go, speakin’ for him again even though that annoys the hell out of the kid—”

“Oh, and you having said that just now doesn’t count as ‘speaking for him,’ then?! Fucking bastard, you’ve no idea what you’re on about, you weren’t there—”

“What wasn’t I there for, Wilbur?! Go on, say it with your chest, say it like you mean it—”

“I fuckin’ will, if you’d just let me speak! You weren’t there for him his whole life, he doesn’t need you now—”

“So he needs you?! What, do you think he’s not old enough to decide who to confide in for himself or somethin’?!”

“That’s not what I said, you’re putting words in my mouth, you dickhead—”

“I’d like to put my fist in your face, you—”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” Tommy shouts, hands shaking at his sides and chest heaving. Wilbur and Techno freeze in their bickering. They look at him with wide eyes, like they haven’t got a goddamned clue why he’s so upset, like they’re just so innocent. It makes Tommy absolutely fucking furious. “I’ve had enough of this shit!”

Wilbur’s face falls. “Tommy—”

“No! No, Wil, you’re gonna fucking listen to me for once, I swear to God,” Tommy says as his fingers curl into fists. “You’re both acting like fucking toddlers! I’m tired of you smothering me because you feel guilty over some bullshit you have no control over and having it spiral into stupid fights every damn time you talk! No, Techno, you weren’t there. Wilbur’s right, you missed out on a huge chunk of my childhood because you didn’t like spending time with me for whatever fucking reason, and all you do remember about me is outdated shit from before I was eight! That doesn’t just go away because we’re reconnecting! And before you get fuckin’ smug, Wilbur, Techno’s right, too! You have no idea what’s going on with me right now, and you just want to feel as though nothing’s changed, but it has, and that’s not your fault! It’s not something you can control, so stop fucking trying to! And stop assuming that I’m pissed at you because I go to someone else to confide in for once! Techno, you know exactly how shit things are right now, you’re just piling more shit on, whether you mean to or not! And Wilbur, you don’t know, so stop acting all high and mighty and get over yourself! Neither of you are being good brothers! So get your shit together and fucking talk to each other so that I don’t have to deal with your goddamn tantrums!”

Tommy pants, shoulders up by his ears by now, and Techno and Wilbur are just standing there, staring at him like he’s the one out of line, like he’s the one throwing a tantrum, and it’s fucking infuriating. “Everything okay out here?” Phil asks softly from behind them, and Tommy whirls around, still scowling. Phil’s brows furrow, and he puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, only for it to be shrugged off. “What’s going on, mate?”

“I’m going to my room,” Tommy mumbles, still scowling, and he pushes past Phil to go upstairs and slam his door behind him. He’ll just sneak out of the fucking window, he wants no part of this weird back-and-forth pissing contest. If you ask Tommy, his brothers are fucking stupid, and they’re just being dicks to each other. As Tommy starts to unzip his duffel bag to grab his suit and get changed so that he can finally go on patrol, there’s a knock on his door. “What the fuck d’you want?!”

Phil opens the door slowly, and Tommy zips his bag back up. “Hey,” he says gently, and if Wilbur had been right about one thing, it’s that Tommy is tired of being handled with kiddie gloves. “I just wanted to pop in and check on you. That was a lot of anger back there.”

Scoffing, Tommy starts making his bed, just to give his hands something to do with all this nervous, rage-induced energy. “Yeah, no shit it was a lot of anger,” Tommy says, “I’m fuckin’ pissed off, Phil.”

“I can see that,” Phil says, sounding a little amused as Tommy puts Henry down in front of his pillows a little more forcefully than he’d normally do it. He’s more delicate with Clementine; he shouldn’t take his anger out on some stupid stuffed animals. Phil walks over and sits down on the bed, patting the spot next to him. Tommy is vaguely annoyed; he’d just straightened that sheet out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tommy sits down. It can’t hurt to complain for a few minutes before he goes to patrol. “They’re being fuckin’ stupid, man,” he huffs, and Phil nods, smiling sadly. “I mean, they’re both right, but they couldn’t be more obtuse about it! How the hell is that even—why the fuck are they still arguing about it?! It’s been days, Phil. Days.”

Phil nods, arms crossed. “I think it has less to do with you than it has to do with them being insecure, if that helps,” he says, and it does. Just a little. Phil’s brows furrow, and he leans his elbows on his knees, fingers threaded together. “They shouldn’t have put you in the middle of everything. I’m sorry, Toms. I’ll do better to make sure they don’t drag you into it.”

“It’s whatever, I just want it to stop,” Tommy mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’ve got enough shit to deal with without them yelling at each other over things that don’t fucking matter in the long run. Techno’s apparently struggling with the fact that I’m not nine fucking years old anymore, and Wilbur’s throwing a fit because I didn’t tell him about something. The fuck am I meant to do here?!”

“I think they’re just not used to it yet,” Phil says, and Tommy’s brow furrows. What the fuck does that mean? Phil hums and drops his hands to rest in his lap, still clasped together. “Well, you and Wilbur have always been close, it’s natural that he’d freak out a bit when that changes. He sees you getting close with Tech, and it scares him, because he thinks he’s not going to have the same role in your life anymore. You’ve always looked up to Techno too, which adds another layer of ‘oh shit’ for him. And with Techno, well...he doesn’t like to be told that he’s failed. And when Wilbur lashed out and pointed out that he’s not exactly been...the warmest towards you, Techno got a little too defensive about it. They both love you, they just don’t know how to deal with the fact that they make mistakes, the damn perfectionists that they are.”

Tommy stays quiet for a moment; now that Phil’s put it into words, the seemingly pointless argument starts to make a lot of sense. Of course Techno and Wilbur are too stupid to realize that they’re both good brothers. “What about you?” Tommy asks, and Phil hums in question. Tommy fiddles with the hem of his shirt and looks away. “Are you used to it?”

“I’m used to a lot of things,” Phil says, annoyingly vague, and Tommy gives  him a flat look. Phil knows what he means, he’s just being a prick. Chuckling, Phil pats his hand. “I’m used to Wilbur writing songs in the music room at ass o’ clock in the morning, for one thing. I’m also used to Techno locking himself in his room to study to the point of concern. I’m used to you sneaking out and thinking I don’t know about it.”

The last bit is said with a playful punch to Tommy’s arm, and he goes flush with embarrassment. So maybe he’s not as stealthy as he’d thought. “Fuck off, old man, you know what I meant,” he says, and Phil smiles.

“I’m not used to it, but I’ve not got much of an issue with change. I’m glad you and Techno are finally getting closer,” he admits, and Tommy snorts. That’s one way of wording it. “I’m also kind of relieved. Techno has a hard time admitting that he cares, especially when he cares so much. Maybe this’ll teach him and Wil to be a little less emotionally constipated.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says with a small smile, “maybe.”

*****

“Bossman, you will not believe the day I’ve had,” Tubbo says as soon as Tommy’s suit activates in the alley, and Tommy quickly propels himself up over the rooftops. “Okay, so first, my friend—Tommy, you know him—he was inviting us over for this weekend, and by us I mean me and Ranboo, the kid you heard on call a while back, you remember him, right? So he’s inviting us, and then this kid, Purpled, I can’t fuckin’ stand the guy, interrupts and says he and Ranboo have a project for the programming class we’re all in that they have to work on this weekend and only this weekend apparently, because he can’t do it earlier or later, for whatever fucking reason. So now our plans are kinda shot to shit because Ranboo was meant to bring—”

“Hive, my friend, not to cut this short, but have you managed to find any leads on Boss and the others?” Tommy asks, having already lived through the story Tubbo’s telling him, and Tubbo starts to type, loud and fast. Tommy swings past a few alleys, keeping his eyes on the street; you never know when you’ll see someone getting mugged.

Tubbo hums uncertainly, and Tommy lands on the rooftop of a pretty short building. “Well, there’s been no reported activity that looks too unusual, but I’m checking black market listings and hitman offers now,” Tubbo says, and while Tommy would normally be worried that Tubbo’ll get tracked down or some shit, he had once managed to make the front page of several national news sites blast a rickroll when you tried to click on an article, without getting caught, just because he’d been bored. “Right, so nothing there, but I’m looking into a bunch of different databases of research companies to see if there’s anything there about the stolen goods.”

Tommy nods and starts swinging again, waving to a couple of primary school-aged kids as he passes by. They start excitedly chattering once they think he’s not looking, and Tommy grins; that’s one of the parts of this that he’ll love no matter what. Tommy spots a girl walking alone, and a guy walking the same way with a notepad in hand, and The Sense starts to pulse at the back of his head. So Tommy drops down in front of the girl, and in his peripheral vision, the guy falters back a little, moving a bit to the right where, if Tommy were a normal person with normal peripherals, he’d be out of Tommy’s line of vision.

The girl seems a little astonished, and she blinks. “Uh, hello, Spider-Man,” she says, and he grins at her. She glances over her shoulder and her gaze hardens.

“Miss, can I offer you an escort home?” he asks, and the guy doesn’t walk away, instead scribbling something down. God, Tommy hates creeps. “This part of the neighborhood can be pretty shady.”

Her shoulders go from tense to relaxed. “Oh, that would be great, but I’m actually on my way to work, if that’s alright,” she says, and Tommy nods. Her grip on her bag tightens minutely. “You don’t mean—like, we won’t be swinging, will we? I’m kinda afraid of heights.”

“Nah, I can walk you,” he says easily, and she smiles, starting to continue her way, and Tommy walks next to her, hands in his hoodie pocket. As he glances back, the guy’s started to walk in the other direction. “He’s gone now, don’t worry. Figured I could scare ’im off, being London’s resident super-spider n’ all. What’s your name?”

“Hannah,” the girl answers, offering her hand, and Tommy shakes it. She seems pretty nice. “I can’t tell you how many times journalists have tried to follow me to work. I appreciate the escort.”

Tommy just shrugs, and although he’s a little surprised, that would explain the notepad. “No skin off my back. How far’s your work?” he asks, and Hannah points to a tall building up ahead. Tommy vaguely recognizes it as the same building Kristin works in. “Oh, so it’s not far, then?”

“Nah, and I can take it from here now that he’s gone, it’s just another block,” Hannah says easily, and she beams at Tommy. “Thanks, Spider-Man!”

Tommy gives her a two-fingered salute and starts swinging through the streets again. Tubbo, as it seems, is still looking for leads. “I think I’ve found something, but I’m not sure. It’s this experimental site...the coordinates are encrypted, though,” Tubbo says, sounding rather perplexed, and Tommy perks up. That’ll help to get his mind off of things for sure! Breaking into a lab for valuable information regarding heavy weaponry? Yes fucking please. “Right, I’m sending you the location now, but it looks like it’s underground, almost. Like, the street address is for aboveground, I mean. The place itself…”

“Is it in the tube line?” Tommy asks as the address pops up in the corner of his vision, and he turns abruptly, heading right for it. The Sense is right there with him, like it knows where to go, like it knows where to lead him. Tubbo hums an affirmative, and Tommy heads down towards the nearest train platform, ducking down and waving vaguely at the people who marvel at him as he walks by.

“Where are you going?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy dashes into one of the tunnels, ignoring the security guards that call after him as he hops the barrier. “Spidey, seriously, how the hell d’you know where to go…?”

“Hive, you have to trust me here, okay?” Tommy says as soon as he dips into the abandoned part of the tube line. He knows these tunnels like the back of his hand; he hasn’t been here in a while, sure, but when you’ve spent the majority of your secondary school years dancing around curfew in a place where you can claim bad cell signal, it’s instinct. And Tommy knows exactly which tunnels to go down.

“Spider-Man, how the fuck are you navigating these tunnels?” Tubbo demands, more like a statement than a sentence, and it’s laced with barely-concealed panic. Tommy freezes up, swallowing hard.

He takes a deep breath and keeps going. “Don’t worry about that,” he says firmly, and Tubbo falls silent; there’s no typing to be heard anymore. “Is it...it’s gotta be this way—or maybe over here? Fuck, I don’t remember. No, no, it’s definitely this way, i-it’s...shit.”

Tubbo’s still scarily quiet, but the typing starts back up again. “Take a left, then two rights once the tunnels fork,” he says, kind of monotonously, and Tommy follows his instructions. Now this is starting to look more familiar. The Sense chirps—like a chirping sound actually happens in the back of his head—and Tommy grins. “You’re right on top of the coordinates now.”

Tommy glances around for the hatch; it’s in one of the walls here, it has to be, and now that he’s got his enhanced vision, he doesn’t even have to use his phone’s flashlight this time. His heart drums loudly in his chest. Tubbo makes a vaguely concerned noise, and Tommy rolls his eyes. Of course Tubbo’s monitoring his vitals.

“It’s here,” Tommy says breathlessly as he opens the hatch and steps inside. The Sense chirps again, and he grins. “Oh, it’s all still here!”

“Is this...is this your lab, bossman?” Tubbo asks hesitantly, almost hopefully, as if the alternative he’s thinking of is worse, and Tommy shakes his head. But it’s all here, everything he remembers from that night, untouched even after the months since he’s been here.

The tables are still haphazardly placed around the room, and while the lab equipment is no longer functioning, covered in thin layers of dust that come away with the delicate brush of Tommy’s fingers, he can still see the liquids and gases bubbling and churning in his mind’s eye exceptionally well. Tommy glances over to the spot on the floor where shards of glass are scattered and he crouches.

He wonders if he can still find the spider.

Tommy stands again, looking around the room. The half-erased equations are still on the board. Papers are still strewn everywhere, remnants of what had clearly been a rushed exit, a hurried escape. Tommy picks a few up, and he hears Tubbo’s typing start up again, like he’s either transcripting the texts or scanning them into PDFs, and Tommy lays out as many important-looking ones on the least occupied table as he can.

Once Tubbo’s typing stops, Tommy moves over to the mostly-empty terrariums by the back wall, frowning at the few corpses of spiders that are in some. He trails his fingers over the glass of one that looks scarily similar to the one that had bit him, the only difference being a shock of bright blue that runs down its thorax.

“You poor thing,” he murmurs, and he steps back from the terrariums, glancing around at the ground. Aha! There’s the one that had bit him. Tommy frowns; there are a few chunks ripped from its body, likely the work of rats or other pests running around in the tube line. “That’s the one that bit me, y’know. That’s how I got my powers.”

Tubbo makes a slight noise of surprise. “You got your powers from an actual spider? Like, no radioactive accident or nuclear waste?” he asks, still sounding slightly shaken, and Tommy nods, moving back to the other terrariums. “Do you think...were they creating these spiders in this lab for that? Whoever was in this lab before you, I mean.”

“Probably,” Tommy says honestly. He can’t think of any other reasons to keep a bunch of weirdly-patterned arachnids in an abandoned laboratory in the tube line. “Have you found any information about who started this lab?”

“N-No, not yet,” Tubbo says, and he starts typing again. Tommy’s brows furrow; he wonders what’s got Tubbo so distracted today.

He takes a minute to look around again. Without this place, he would’ve never become Spider-Man. Idly, Tommy wonders where he would be right now without superpowers. Probably not snooping around a shady lab, that’s for certain. He wonders if the villains that have emerged since his debut would’ve operated irregardless of his presence. Maybe Blaze and 404 would still be terrorizing the public; maybe they’d be normal people going about their business.

Tommy finds it a little ironic, but it’s like the butterfly effect, innit? Without his powers, he never would’ve been a superhero, the villains may or may not have even existed, he wouldn’t be somewhat closer to Techno. If he hadn’t seen that hatch, would he just be at home, bothering Wilbur into playing a song on his guitar for him? Would Tommy just be what he’s always been, just a normal kid?

Would his hands still shake at rumbling floors? Would he still feel that thrum of anxiety whenever he feels that something’s off? Or would he have not come into contact with any of the things that have happened to him?

Surely, if whoever had made this lab—created these spiders—had been successful, there would still be a superpowered individual out there doing good work, wouldn’t there?

Or had his powers been meant to be used for something nefarious?

“Any updates?” Tommy asks, because if he thinks about this for too long, it’s bound to make his head hurt. Tubbo sighs, and Tommy takes that as a no. He continues to sift through the papers, making his way through each table until he finds a file buried underneath some of the lab equipment, most of which Tommy can’t make heads or tails of in terms of perceived purpose. There’s messy writing scrawled across the front of the file, big and looping letters in pitch black ink. “I think I’ve found something, Hive…”

Project: Guided Evolution

Tubbo gasps. “Fuck, fuck, this is top secret shit, bossman,” he says, frantically typing. “It’s way too fucking encrypted to get through, I can’t make heads or tails of the code protecting it either, it’s a project from—dammit, it won’t even show me the company heading it! This is protected more heavily than military records are, what the shit?!”

Tommy lays the file out on top of the table and opens it up, eyes widening. There’s a photo clipped to the top of the papers within the folder. It doesn’t show the subject’s face, but there’s a bite that looks almost exactly the one he’d had, only it’s pulsing a faint green color rather than red. The label under it reads Subject 1, twenty minutes after initial infection.

The phrasing of it makes Tommy a little nauseous. The Sense almost seems offended at the term infection. His powers hadn’t...infected him. He’d been bitten, sure, but it’s not an infection, it’s not some virus or bacteria or whatever. “What the fuck?” Tommy whispers, starting to read the observation notes. “‘Subject is responding positively thus far, though it’s only been two minutes since the initial infection. The spider is dead. We have incinerated it—’ Oh, that’s just fucked!”

“Keep reading, it’s likely the best information we’re gonna get because—and I’m sorry about this, but—I cannot get through these fucking blocks, they’re indecipherable,” Tubbo says, blatantly frustrated, and Tommy clears his throat.

“‘Four minutes. The subject is showing signs of…’ Shit, man, this is gross. ‘The subject is showing signs of intense nausea and slight oral hemorrhages,’” Tommy reads, resisting the urge to vomit at the close-up picture of some poor motherfucker’s mouth drenched in blood. Tubbo audibly gags. Tommy’s hands are shaky. None of this shit had happened to him. “‘Subject does not appear to be experiencing any of the beneficial side effects intended from the infection. He is complaining of a migraine and...feeling as though his jaw is tearing in two.’”

Tommy has to look away for a minute. Poor, unlucky bastard. “What else does it say?” Tubbo asks, sounding as if he very much doesn’t want to hear the answer to that question as he continues to type.

“‘Twenty minutes. He’s bleeding. Shit. Shit. He’s fucking bleeding everywhere, his jaw’s in two, I don’t want to keep writing but he’s making me keep track of this, his jaw is fucking splitting, he’s screaming,’” Tommy says numbly, and Tubbo’s typing stops. “‘His jaw just fucking unhinged, he can’t speak anymore, I’m stopping so I can hold his jaw together.’”

His voice is trembling.

“Is that everything?” Tubbo asks, equally as shaky.

Tommy averts his eyes from the blurry photograph taped close to the writing and flips over to the next paper. It’s different handwriting, the same handwriting that’s on the front of the file folder. “‘It’s been three days and I haven’t healed. We’re developing something for me to wear that’ll keep my jaw together and allow me to speak. My voice will be different. I…’” Tommy trails off, putting a hand up to his own masked face. Tubbo makes a choked sound. “‘I can’t believe it didn’t work. I’m going to be like this forever. She was right. I shouldn’t have tried to fix it myself, I reaped none of the intended benefits. I do not heal faster, nor am I physically stronger. I have no enhanced senses as intended. The others tell me they have night terrors of what had happened frequently, and I think it is caused by an unintended side effect. I never should have done this, but now I cannot stop until I fix what I have become.’”

That’s the end of the file.

With shaky hands, Tommy tucks the papers and photographs back into the file neatly and puts it under his arm. “That’s not going to happen to you, y’know. I won’t let it,” Tubbo says fiercely, and Tommy nods. If it hadn’t happened to him initially, it’s not going to now. He’ll be just fine, his jaw isn't gonna...unhinge. “We’ll bring the file here and compare it to the papers, there’s probably something genetic that didn’t work with Subject One, there’s nothing to panic over.”

“Yeah, I’ll...I’m heading back up and to yours to go over the file,” Tommy says, still feeling the urge to touch his jaw and make sure it’s intact. He takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm himself. That’s not going to happen to him. Tubbo’s right. Clearly, they hadn’t perfected whatever experiment they’d been doing, and Tommy had gotten lucky enough to get the spider that worked. “I’ll see you in a few, Hive, I—”

He cuts himself off, tensing as The Sense starts to tingle at the back of his mind. Tommy keeps the file close to him and steps closer to the hatch, trying hard to listen for any signs of potential movement. There aren’t any, so Tommy carefully crawls through the passage and starts walking quietly through the tunnel.

The Sense is incredibly displeased by this decision.

Tommy pauses.

There’s something—someone—looming behind him.

“Hand over the file, little spider.”

*****

Chapter Text

Well, then.

Tommy’s in a bit of a sticky situation, you see.

The thing—whatever the fuck it is—is enormous, and a weird, Jell-o color green, almost see-through to the point where Tommy can vaguely make out a humanoid shape within it, and he pales. The thing tilts its head at him, like it’s sizing him up.

“The little spider is just a baby. We cannot harm it,” it says, and Tommy laughs nervously, eyes wide and panicked. The thing shakes its head insistently. “No, no, Boss says you must, we know this! Ah, but he is scared of us! Little spider, tiny spider, hand over the file so we can be friends, see? No! Seize the boy! I won’t! We have to!”

“You seem to be having a very compelling argument with yourself there, big fella, I think I should leave you alone to finish it,” Tommy says, and as he takes a step back, the thing takes a step forward. It’s, like, twice his fucking size. This is utterly terrifying. “Look, buddy, whatever you’ve got going on? Great look for you, the color green is quite lovely, I think. I have to go visit someone, I’ve got plans, yeah?”

The thing fucking coos at him, like he’s a toddler or something trying to get away with taking cookies from the jar without anyone seeing. “Little spider has friends!” it says, and Tommy nods. The little spider does indeed have friends, ones that would definitely notice if he were to be maimed by a giant Jell-o monstrosity. “What is little spider’s name?”

It extends its hand, and Tommy takes it between his index finger and thumb, cringing at the fucking squelching noise it makes as he delicately shakes it. “I’m Spider-Man, and I kinda really have to take this file,” he says, and the thing makes a displeased noise.

“Enough procrastinating!” it roars, and Tommy stumbles back. It blinks its blank white eyes, then puts its hands out, like it’s apologizing for something. “We do not mean to scare you, Spider-Man. File?”

It outstretches its hand, and Tommy shrinks back. “I can’t give you the file. It has very important...medical information...that I have to investigate,” Tommy says, because that’s actually true, and this thing hasn’t immediately resorted to solving things with violence, so it’s worth a shot to try and talk it out. “I’m sorry, you seem like a really nice Jell-o monster, but I do have to take this with me.”

The thing lowers its head slightly. “We are not...Jell-o. We are Slime,” it says, and Tommy winces. Oof. So that’s the symbiote, huh? Slime slumps down to look him directly in the eyes, and Tommy leans back. “We need the file. Sorry about this, little spider.”

“Sorry about wh—”

Tommy’s back slams into the wall of the tunnel, and the wind gets knocked out of him. He’s panting on the ground, coughing and sputtering as he clutches the file. “Holy fucking shit, oh my God,” Tubbo says, “what the fuck are we dealing with?! What the fuck is that?!”

“Slime, pal, amigo, buddy,” Tommy wheezes out as Slime steps closer to where he’d fucking launched Tommy, “you don’t gotta—we can talk about it! Oh, shit—”

He is swiftly kicked further down the tunnel.

For fuck’s sakes.

“Get up! Quick, he’s coming, he’s almost to you again, roll out of the way!” Tubbo shouts, and Tommy flings himself to the left as Slime charges towards him. Thankfully, he misses this time, and Tommy stands, leaning against the wall. “Your ribs are bruised, not broken, but you shouldn’t take another hit, alright?! Just leave the file behind, leave it!”

“Fuck are you on about? ’Course I’m not leavin’ it,” Tommy mumbles as Slime slowly turns his head all the way around, then the rest of his body follows—dear God, that’s horrifying. “Hey, Slime, don’t you remember? I’m a little spider! Just a tiny fella, harmless, really—! AH!”

He dodges Slime’s incoming fist by leaping to the ceiling and dropping down behind the towering symbiote, an embarrassing squeak of a noise escaping him as he dives out of the way of Slime’s next kick. “We need the file for Boss,” Slime says, and Tommy scowls as he jumps backwards, out of range of another punch. “We do not want to hurt little spider.”

Tommy scoffs, firing a web at Slime’s arm. It slides right off. Son of a bitch. “Bit late for that one, don’t you think?!” he says, ducking to the right as Slime makes a mad grab for him. This fight is not going in Tommy’s favor. Unfortunately, Tommy had dodged his way into Slime’s other hand, which he evidently can make big enough to grab Tommy by the waist, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him up. “Ack—! Fuck! Get off!”

“File,” Slime demands, but he’s quite literally trapped it in Tommy’s hand. When Tommy attempts to point this out to him, Slime shakes him up and down. It’s quite a disorienting experience. “File!”

“I can’t give you the file!” Tommy protests, and Slime shakes him again. Tommy’s stomach lurches, and he struggles. “Dude, cut that out, I’m gonna puke in my fucking mask and then nobody’s gonna be happy!”

“Okay, so you know how you said not to make S.P.I.D.E.R.?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy lets his eyes slide closed in frustration. He’s about to be eaten—absorbed?—by a villainous symbiote with rows of knives for teeth, and Tubbo’s worried about a drone? Tommy and Slime glare at each other. Evidently, Tubbo takes that as his cue to continue. “I may or may not have installed it in your suit anyway.”

Slime shakes Tommy again. He nearly retches. “I am telling you, stop shaking me! I literally cannot hand you the file, you have trapped my arms and subsequently screwed yourself out of getting it,” Tommy says, and Slime seems confused for a moment.

“Then you will be brought in with the file,” he says, and Tommy starts to struggle wildly. No, sir, not fucking today. He does not want to go to whatever fucking place Slime had come from, and he is fairly fucking sure he doesn’t want to find out what Boss wants to do with him and the file. “Spider-Man, stop struggling, or we will crush your bones.”

Tommy stops struggling.

Slime starts to walk through the tunnel. “Y’know, I much prefer my bones uncrushed,” he says, and Slime grunts. And honestly, it would be great if Tubbo could jump in with that drone right about now, if only to distract Slime long enough for Tommy to escape. Tommy starts to ramble nervously. “Fun fact about spiders, actually—I don’t know if you know this, but tarantulas can actually learn to like being pet and subsequently experience a feeling like touch starvation in people. Also, jumping spiders can be taught to perform tricks, so they’re kind of like the dogs of the arachnid world, and—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Slime growls, and Tommy laughs nervously, grimacing as Slime’s grip gets a little too tight for comfort.

“Y’know, lots of criminals ask me that. So you’re the strong and silent type, then?” he asks, and Slime squeezes again, presumably in annoyance. “Right! Point taken…!”

There’s a few clicks and some typing in his comms, and Tommy brightens up. “Finally got it to work,” Tubbo breathes out, and Tommy hears a whirring noise coming from his chest, and the spider emblem breaks away, propelled by tiny whirring blades. “S.P.I.D.E.R. to the rescue! I’ll get you out of here, don’t you worry.”

Tommy’s wondering how exactly that small piece of metal is going to get him out, and then it fucking expands, rapidly shifting and clicking until it’s the size of Tommy’s head. S.P.I.D.E.R. is appropriately named, considering it’s a sleek metal tarantula, with a pitch black body and red eyes. Slime is understandably startled, and as he goes to punch at it with his free hand, S.P.I.D.E.R. leaps up into the air, tucking its legs under its body as it fucking floats, the red eyes glowing.

Of fucking course Tubbo had equipped it with tiny guns.

Slime abruptly drops Tommy as the bullets—little rubber pellets, upon closer inspection—start to fire at him. Tommy ducks out of the way and makes a fucking run for it, and Tubbo’s probably piloting S.P.I.D.E.R., considering it veers out of the way of every one of Slime’s attempts to take it down and speeds forwards to fly next to Tommy, still firing at Slime. It doesn’t seem to be doing any damage whatsoever, but it is proving to be an incredible distraction.

“Did you fucking make a flying gun shaped like a spider?!” Tommy whisper-yells, and Tubbo’s responding cackle tells him all he needs to know. Tommy continues to run through the tunnels, relying on his memory to lead him through the labyrinth, and S.P.I.D.E.R. continues to fire beside him. “Okay, I can’t just call this thing by its acronym every fuckin’ time, Hive, I’m gonna give it a nickname.”

“That can wait until you’re out of the tube line and are no longer running from an insanely strong symbiote, dickhead,” Tubbo reminds him, and Tommy has to admit he’s got a point. As he ducks through another tunnel, finally making it to the active part of the tube line, Tommy leaps on the ceiling and flattens his back against it. S.P.I.D.E.R. folds itself back into the empty spot in his hoodie, and Tommy grins as a train starts to move under him, dropping down to lay flat on its roof. “You’re damaging your ribs further, you absolute moron. You’re lucky you heal so quickly.”

Tommy rolls his eyes as the train slows to a stop in the station, and he’s very relieved to see that Slime doesn’t appear to have attempted to follow him. He probably has orders not to be seen in public, if Boss’s attempts to keep people out of the hall of mirrors are any indication of how he handles criminal activity. If that’s the case, then it’s likely that Boss is operating separate to Blaze and 404, given how fucking public the latter tend to be.

“Hello, folks, just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man hitching a ride on the tube line, don’t mind me,” Tommy says, hopping off of the train and strolling through the platform and posing for a few bystanders as they take photos. “Right, have a good trip, cheers, fellas!”

He dashes out and thwips out a web to start swinging through the city again. Tubbo is oddly quiet as he does; Tommy’s not even getting the usual sarcastic comments that come with crime alerts. And when Tommy does start to head for a crime alert, because it’s on his way to Tubbo’s place anyway, Tubbo manually takes the address out of his view.

“Get your ass to my house. Now,” Tubbo says, and he logs off.

Well, if there’s anything more terrifying than a massive, slimy symbiote that argues with itself like an old married couple, it’s an angry Tubbo.

*****

Tommy lands on Tubbo’s windowsill and is promptly yanked in by the front of his hoodie, tossed rather unceremoniously onto the floor, and he sputters, clutching at his ribs. Tubbo looks a bit apologetic at that, but it’s overshadowed by what mostly looks like rage and disbelief. As he stands, Tommy dusts himself off and tosses the file onto Tubbo’s bed, crossing his arms.

“Well that was rude,” he scoffs, and Tubbo just continues to glare at him. Tommy’s brows furrow; there should be no reason for Tubbo to be pissed right now, logically speaking. He’s been far more injured before, and all Tubbo had shown then was concern and a desire to help him out, so he can’t possibly be pissed that Tommy’s gotten himself hurt again. “What? What is it? Do I have something on my face? Wh—”

“Take your mask off,” Tubbo bites out, and Tommy blinks at him. Tubbo just narrows his eyes, jaw clenched, and Tommy winces at the memory of the image in the file. “Do I have to repeat myself?! Take the fucking mask off!”

“I’m not gonna take my mask off, fuck are you on about?” Tommy asks, rather panicked, because Tubbo can’t know. He’s already in so much danger, Tommy can’t let him see who he really is. “It’s called a secret identity for a reason—”

“Tommy, take your fucking mask off,” Tubbo says, voice quiet and laced with barely-contained fury.

Ah.

Shit.

Tommy tries to laugh it off, but he sounds panicked, even to himself. “I’m not—what are you talking about, Tubbo? Of course I’m not Tommy, I…” he trails off. Tubbo’s hands are shaking. “I promise, I’m—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Tubbo interjects. His gaze is hardened and determined, and Tommy tenses. There’s no way Tubbo knows. “If you don’t take that mask off, I’m gonna rip it off myself, so pick your fucking poison, Tommy.”

There are two options here.

One, go back to using his old suit and never talk to Tubbo ever again. Of course, this option isn’t feasible, considering Tommy’s fairly certain that Tubbo would just hunt him down anyway. Not to mention, it would make a lot of people ask a lot of questions.

And two, he could take the mask off. Reveal himself.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers, “I can’t.”

“The fuck d’you mean you can’t?! Take it off!” Tubbo demands, shoving at Tommy’s shoulders, and Tommy stumbles back.

“I can’t do that to you,” Tommy says, voice barely audible now and full of tremors. Because he can’t, he can’t willingly put Tubbo in more danger, he’s already fucked up so bad, he’s already let Tubbo make his tech. “I-I can’t, Tubbo, I’m not—I can’t do that to you, I’m sorry.”

Tubbo’s shoulders square, and he glares at Tommy. “You’ve done enough already,” he says, and Tommy’s fucking wracked with guilt at that. “So fucking take the mask off.”

With quivering hands, Tommy finds the seam of the mask and slowly pulls it off, and Tubbo takes one look at him, then closes his eyes and sighs. “I know you’re pissed, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, it’d put you in more danger and that’s the last thing I want, Tubbo, you have to believe me,” Tommy rambles, trying his hardest to keep the nerves from making his voice waver.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Tubbo says before tackling Tommy into the carpet. Tommy can’t tell whether or not it starts in a hug, but it ends up in Tubbo balling up the front of Tommy’s hoodie and shaking him violently. “You let me fanboy over you, you motherfucking prick! I’m gonna kill you myself if Blaze and 404 don’t do the job for me, I swear to fucking God!”

Tommy puts his hands up in surrender. “Woah, woah, Tubbo, calm yourself, we can talk about this before you make me puke all over your carpet,” Tommy says, and Tubbo stops shaking him. Tommy’s being tossed around a lot today, as it seems. “Seriously, I’m, like, this close.”

Releasing his hold on Tommy’s hoodie and snorting as his head smacks slightly against the ground, Tubbo sits back. “Okay, putting aside how mad I am with you for abusing your alter ego to make me less mad at you—and yes, I’m coming back to that, dickhead—how the hell did you manage to keep this a secret from me for so long?!” he asks, completely bewildered, and Tommy sits up, shrugging helplessly. “You couldn’t even keep quiet about my surprise party when we were twelve!”

“My lying has improved, apparently,” Tommy sputters, and Tubbo glares at him. “How the fuck did you even figure it out?! I was being so careful! Techno even said that I was—oh, shit.”

Tubbo shoves him. “Fucking Techno Blade Watson knew before I did?! What the fuck?! Telling your best friend that you’ve got superpowers is, like, friendship one-oh-fucking-one! You’re such a prick, Tommy, oh my God!” Tubbo says, and Tommy bats his hands away. “I can’t believe you just made me your tech guy because I was mad at you! You’re unbelievable!”

“I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t exactly explain that the reason I kept ditching was because I’m Spider-Man without endangering you!” Tommy says frantically, and Tubbo makes a face at him. Tommy scoffs. “The fuck is it now?!”

“Let me just get this straight,” Tubbo says, rubbing his temples. “Not only did you become a superhero for no particular reason after acquiring powers that likely could have taken your jaw off, but you let me idolize your alter ego. And then, when your secret identity got in the way of our friendship, you bribed me into forgiving you by letting me work for you! Which endangers me anyway! Where the hell is your logic here?!”

Tommy lets out a huh and slumps back against the wall. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Tubbo, I don’t really know what I was thinking there,” he says, and Tubbo rolls his eyes. “But it wasn’t a bribe, honest! Okay—granted, maybe it kind of was, but—I swear, the only reason I even did it to get you to forgive me is because I know for a fact how fucking brilliant you are, Big T! I see what you do firsthand, you really think I’m gonna let some fuckin’ chump be my guy in the chair? Fuck no! It’s you and me, Tubbo. ’Til the end.”

He offers a hand to Tubbo in earnest, and Tubbo takes it. “You’re still a moron, and I’m still mad at you,” Tubbo says as he pulls his hand back. That’s understandable. Tubbo buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’ve spent weeks talking about how cool Spider-Man is, and he’s the biggest fucking dork I know. This is bullshit. Utter bullshit. I am entitled to financial compensation.”

“If you’re looking for money, you came to the wrong guy, I’ve spent both my allowances on medical supplies,” Tommy says. Tubbo looks up at him, absolutely incredulous. Honestly, Tommy’s got no clue why he’s surprised. “I mean, I’ve also spent some of it on burgers, but that’s just because my powers have made me, like, slightly carnivorous.”

“I’ve watched you get shot,” Tubbo says, suddenly sounding very small, and Tommy sucks in a breath. “You were just tossed around by a fucking slime symbiote. You’ve been chasing down carjackers and—and supervillains, and fucking—you’ve been shot, Tommy!”

Tommy grimaces. “Yeah, that tends to happen with criminals sometimes,” he jokes in an attempt to alleviate at least a little bit of the world’s most suffocating tension, but Tubbo doesn’t laugh. “Seriously, how the hell did you even figure it out?”

Tubbo clears his throat. “You knew your way around the tube line way too well. That, paired with what you said on Halloween...well, it’s not hard to put the pieces together,” Tubbo says shakily, and Tommy’s a bit embarrassed now. Now Tubbo’s gonna know that he’s got weaknesses, Tubbo knows the reason why his hands get so shaky, why he’s so jumpy. “It would be stupid to ask if you’re okay, because you’re obviously having some kind of breakdown, but you’re clearly doing the Tommy Denial thing you do—”

“I don’t do a ‘Tommy Denial’ thing—”

“Yes, you fucking do, you’re doing it right now, you did it whenever Ranboo brought up the fact you get panic attacks—”

“Tubbo, I don’t get panic attacks, I just get nervous sometimes! Everybody does!” Tommy huffs, and all he gets in return is a flat stare. “What?! I don’t!”

Tubbo smacks his forehead. “You’re a fucking idiot. I literally cannot stand you,” he says, and Tommy squawks in offense. He’s not an idiot, but he certainly doesn’t get panic attacks, that’s for fucking sure. Tubbo starts listing occurrences on his fingers. “You have one every time you’re on a brick building, you had one in the cafeteria, one in Wilbur’s class, one in the bathroom that day you came back to school, you had one—”

“Okay, I see your fucking point!” Tommy cuts him off, and Tubbo raises a brow at him. “They aren’t panic attacks, they are momentary bouts of—”

“Oh, fuck off with that shit, Tommy, they are panic attacks and you fucking know it. But I’m not going to play therapist with you, because I know we’d both hate that, so just tell somebody that they’re happening or at least admit it to yourself,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy glowers at him, but he stays silent anyway. The last thing he wants to do is piss Tubbo off further, after all. “I’m going to be a good friend and start testing shit for you so that you’re not scared your jaw’s gonna fall off—because I know you are, anybody would be, I’m scared for my jaw after that.”

Tommy stays on the floor as Tubbo grabs the file from the bed and moves to his desk. “Thank you,” he mumbles, drawing his knees up to his chest. His phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket—the one with the zipper, it’s specifically designed to keep his phone safe—and Tommy takes it out. Ah, he should’ve expected this. “Hey, Phil. I’m at Tubbo’s, what’s up?”

At least it’s not a lie this time.

“Hi, Toms,” Phil greets him warmly, and Tommy smiles in spite of himself. At least there’s one person today that’s not mad at him, someone else, or themselves. “I’m gonna order out for dinner, but all Tech said is that he’s sick of pizza, and Wilbur gave me an equally unhelpful answer of ‘I don’t give a shit, old man,’ so I’m deferring to you, at least until Kristin gets out of work.”

Tommy hums. “I dunno. I’m not really hungry,” he says, and Tubbo turns around to give him a weird look. Tommy brings his knees even closer to his chest, and he takes a shaky deep breath as he switches the phone to his other hand. “How was your day, Dad?”

Phil’s voice gets soft. “Are you okay?” he asks, and Tommy’s hands start to shake. “It’s alright if you’re still upset about the boys fighting, mate. Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to tell you about my day?”

He knows what that offer really means; he’s seen Phil give the same one to Techno after a particularly difficult exam and to Wilbur when his guitar strings had broken after the music store closed for the night. “Tell me about your day, please,” Tommy says quietly, self-conscious of Tubbo’s observant stare.

“Alright, I can do that,” Phil says easily, and Tommy’s mouth quirks up in a shaky smile. “Well, I’ve been lecturing corporate shitheads all afternoon because apparently nobody double-checks their math anymore. I’m having to crunch all the numbers again, which takes me three hours, even with help from some of the interns. Then, when I tell this motherfucker to do his damn job right, they go ‘Be professional, Watson,’ and fuck them, I was practically seeing red, I was so mad.”

Tommy snorts. “Should’ve gone feral on ’em, Phil,” he says, and Phil laughs, a good-natured sound that makes Tommy’s smile less shaky. “Did anything else eventful happen?”

“Other than Kristin texting me that one of her colleagues was escorted to work by Spider-Man? Not much,” Phil says, and Tommy wilts at the mention of his alter ego. He doesn’t want Phil to pick a side, only to be disappointed later. It seems to be a recurring theme these days. “If you want, I can get those burgers you like again.”

“That sounds good,” Tommy murmurs. “I’ll see you when I get back from Tubbo’s.”

“See you then!” Phil says, chipper as ever, and Tommy hangs up.

Tubbo drums his fingers on the desk, having turned back around at some point during Tommy’s conversation. “So...does he know?” he asks, and Tommy scoffs.

“Of course he doesn’t, d’you actually think Phil would have willingly let me be a fuckin’ superhero, Tubbo?” he says, and Tubbo just hums. He’s looking at the papers from the lab still, and Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “The only other person that knows is Techno. That’s it.”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Tommy grabs his mask and stands. He winces when his torso aches, but he’s not too worried. Worst case, he’ll have bruises for a couple of days. As he makes his way over to the window, Tubbo gets out of his chair and grabs him by the wrist. Tommy turns to face him, and Tubbo’s eyes lock onto the bee pin.

Tubbo smiles, just a little, and Tommy’s grip on the mask tightens. “You’re a good person doing a good thing, even if you’ve made astronomically stupid decisions while doing it,” he says, and Tommy snorts. Tubbo looks determined. “I mean it, Tommy. I still think you should’ve fucking told me, and I’m gonna be pissed for a good bit, but I’m glad it’s you. I don’t think anyone else in the whole of Britain would be stupid enough to get superpowers and jump right to fighting crime.”

“Yeah, unearned confidence is usually more of an American fad,” Tommy jokes, and Tubbo lets go of his arm to shove lightly at his shoulder. “I’m sorry again. I just didn’t want you to be in any danger. As much as I hate to admit it, I care about your wellbeing or whatever.”

Tubbo grins. “Unfortunately for the both of us, I care about yours too, so you’re gonna be stuck with me, bossman,” he says, and Tommy fights back a smile. Tubbo perks up—Tommy can practically see the lightbulb go off in his head—and he dashes back towards the computer, typing frantically. “Hey, wait a fuckin’ second, get over here!”

“Uh, okay…?” Tommy says, walking over to stand next to Tubbo as he pulls up something beside the scan of one of the papers from the lab. It almost looks like—  “Are those my fucking medical records?!”

Tubbo waves dismissively. “Unimportant,” he says, and Tommy would argue that no the fuck it is not, but Tubbo barrels on regardless. “Right, so the genetic testing that these guys did reveals that one of them has this gene—I don’t know how the fuck to pronounce it—but your records don’t have it! You have this one instead, dunno how to pronounce that one either, shit’s got, like, three ‘X’s in it, I’m not gonna bother.”

Brows furrowed, Tommy leans closer to the screen and follows to where Tubbo’s cursor has highlighted. Sure enough, the genes don’t match up. “D’you think that’s why the spider worked on me? That gene that I’ve got?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo sits back down in the chair, typing away in a secure web browser.

Evidently, he gets the results he’s looking for, because he looks up at Tommy with wide eyes. “I think it is,” he says, and he turns back to the monitor, eyes scanning over the lines of text. “It’s apparently a really rare recessive gene, only shows up in about...seven thousand people recorded worldwide. Holy shit, Tommy!”

“Well, guess that answers my question,” Tommy mumbles, blinking in surprise. “So I just, what, got lucky? I’d have lost my jaw like that guy if I hadn’t had that gene?!”

Tubbo puts his hands up. “Now, I’m not a biologist, and I’m definitely not a genealogist, but other than that, I don’t see any major differences,” he says, and Tommy runs a hand through his hair.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

Tommy stares down at himself for a moment.

“...I think I’m gonna name the drone Shroud.”

*****

Chapter Text

The Keeper is not a man of belief.

He is, however, a man of proof, and while there is very little scientific evidence he can rely on in his line of work, he can see it with his own two eyes, and that’s enough proof for him. Now, The Keeper hadn’t expected to be stuck working the case of this reality for so long, but he supposes it cannot be helped. The Keeper has watched this reality through many timelines, many names, many different pairs of eyes.

This form, though, is his most successful yet out of the lot of them. He’s gotten farther with this form than others, kept timelines going for far longer when he acts in this role. It doesn’t hurt that it’s a comfortable body to be in, either. In one attempt, he’d tried to take over one of the bodies closest to The Catalyst, but the spirit had proven to be far stronger than his own. So The Keeper had invented his own body, if only to avoid any future misunderstandings.

The Keeper’s current form also seems sufficient in terms of appearing properly unintimidating, someone easy to talk to and someone with few suspicions cast upon him. Nothing like his cosmic form, which would prove far too horrific to make any meaningful connections with human beings. He’s forged nearly every type of relationship in this form, all in different timelines. He’s made friends and lost them, fallen in and out of love. The only one he’s missing is a parental relationship, but The Keeper finds that particular one to be of no interest; he cannot create spawn irregardless, but to claim responsibility for another life and see it cast away on behalf of yet another failed timeline seems counterproductive. Inefficient, if you will.

And since The Keeper is rather fond of efficiency, he does tend to get frustrated when The Catalyst throws yet another wrench into the cogs.

Unfortunately, while The Keeper is keen and determined to preserve The Catalyst, to let him live his life fully, The Catalyst...is not. Four hundred and ninety-seven timelines ago, The Keeper would have told you that The Catalyst is a self-sacrificial moron with no regard for his own life. Now, though, The Keeper would just sigh and tell you that The Catalyst is a tired child who has taken on far too much responsibility.

There are multiple Keepers—he is not the only one, not the first, nor will he be the last. The Keeper tires easily now, but he knows that this reality is his duty alone to protect. There have been timelines within it that had collapsed in on themselves, timelines where he’d revealed too much and everything had come crashing down around him.

In all honesty, The Keeper could do without the complications of the timeline his focus is currently on. The Abominations are emerging much more quickly than they typically do when the course of events follows a similar path, and it’s clear that The Catalyst is struggling to keep up, particularly emotionally.

Vaguely, The Keeper wonders if he could still manually count how many Catalysts are in The In-Between now, or if his records are his only hope for keeping track of the amount.

The In-Between spans across an unending stretch of the seventh dimension. The Keeper only controls a portion of it, though the portion is large enough that the amount of Catalysts should not feel as suffocating as it does. He has modeled it after The Catalyst’s favorite place, at least according to The Keeper’s records.

It looks like a grand train platform—not one that you might find underground, but a beautiful station. The Catalyst had visited thrice as a child, and the image of it still serves to calm his nerves. The Keeper finds this fascinating; to think, a bustling station, normally full of overwhelming sensations, is where The Catalyst feels at ease.

Nevertheless, The Keeper will not deprive The Catalyst of comfort. It makes sense, honestly; if The Catalyst is at ease in a memory reminiscent of well-decorated chaos, The Keeper is not surprised. The Catalyst could probably make a home out of whatever The Keeper chooses to model The In-Between after, but no Catalyst has died in that station, so The Keeper thinks it wise to use a location that all Catalysts can be comfortable in.

This is to say, The Keeper is not a cruel being; he treasures human life, he wants to see it thrive and grow. The Keeper is human and not quite human, which makes this all a bit tricky. He’s felt every emotion on the spectrum, which is usually the criteria for judging the humanity of a being, but he knows that he’s not entirely a person. Unlike his more human counterparts, The Keeper has a set destiny, a set duty, something he has been inherently put in this reality to accomplish.

Humans, of course, forge their own purposes, and this has always been somewhat of an intriguing notion to The Keeper. To not know what you exist to accomplish must be both incredibly freeing and crushingly existential. The Keeper holds admiration for people in this sense; he could not see himself in their place, wandering around to find a way to be happy, to feel fulfilled. The Keeper can, however, sympathize with a lack of fulfillment.

After all, when The Keeper sleeps in the physical realm, he is faced with nothing but reminders of his own failures in the metaphysical realm. This is not meant, though, to imply that The Keeper experiences dreams. He does not dream, he does not have night terrors. He simply enters into The In-Between. The In-Between is, by all purposes, The Keeper’s point of origin, for lack of a better term.

Four hundred and ninety-seven timelines ago, The Keeper had been surprised at the presence of a Catalyst in The In-Between. He had approached The Keeper, wary and frightened, eyes wide and brows furrowed as he had pleaded to know where he was. Of course, The Keeper had not yet been equipped to answer his questions, and he had stood by helplessly as The Catalyst had broken down into terrified sobs.

Now, though, that Catalyst is used to The In-Between. He’d been the first to arrive, after all. In time, The Keeper had learned how to break the news to The Catalyst that yes, he has died, and no, he cannot leave. Each Catalyst has a different reaction; The Keeper tends to notice that the younger each Catalyst is at the time of death has a proportionate effect on how he reacts.

The Keeper had never encountered a Catalyst that had taken the news well.

Sometimes, Catalysts will appear in The In-Between while The Keeper is present, and it saddens The Keeper to be flooded with the memory that he has failed in another timeline yet again. He had expected this reality to be easy. The Catalyst has many loved ones he cherishes and who cherish him, and a spirit that never wavers in its persistence—and The Keeper would know, he’d once tried to inhabit The Catalyst out of frustration and was promptly ushered out by The Catalyst’s soul. This should have been The Keeper’s easiest reality to handle, and yet he finds himself perplexed.

Every time The Keeper sleeps in the physical world, he looks out into a sea of Catalysts in the metaphysical world. A sea of tired children, of scared children, ranging from the delicate age of seven to the rowdy age of seventeen. The Catalyst has never lived to see his eighteenth birthday, and the thought of this saddens The Keeper.

A boy so young, so full of promise and potential, continuously snuffed out by a universe that is nothing but cruel to him.

The Keeper is not technically allowed to become attached to The Catalyst in any capacity. It is hard, though, to avoid this when he looks into the eyes of the child he has failed over and over again. It is hard to avoid it when he holds each Catalyst as they mourn the loss of their timeline, their friends, their families. It is hard to avoid it when The Catalysts cannot see each other, and The Keeper is, therefore, their only company in The In-Between.

And cruelly, The Rules don’t allow The Keeper to get close enough to directly interfere; he is allowed indirect intervention, pleasantries, small talk. He cannot be there for the Catalyst, not in a real sense. The Keeper must maintain this timeline without letting anyone know it has been endangered, and that means he cannot get close to The Catalyst. The Rules state that he cannot offer emotional assistance, nor is he allowed to tell The Catalyst about the mistakes his predecessors had made and how to rectify them.

Yet, The Keeper finds himself continuously intrigued by The Catalyst—intrigued by a boy who continues to face the horrors of his reality with a brave smile and a strength only mirrored by the scope of his compassion. It’s his kindness that had caused his other timelines to end. The Keeper wishes that The Catalyst would be genuinely selfish for once, to not try to do the right thing, to put his own self-preservation above heroic ideals.

The Catalyst, without fail, never stops trying to do good. It’s as admirable as it is frustrating, and The Keeper wonders what gives The Catalyst hope. Each time he’s asked, he’s received a different answer. The Catalyst, after all is said and done, after his last breath is snuffed out by the cold, unfeeling corners of the universe collecting another soul and spitting it back out again like a cherry pit, still remains.

And The Catalyst always takes whatever the universe hands him with a wink and a grin, ready to twist his own fate around in his hands like it’s a convoluted sculpture, like he’s the artist weaving the threads of destiny—of purpose—into the tapestry of his life. And The Keeper has never known what to do with that; he’s never been able to understand the way The Catalyst laughs in the face of the devil, eases a smile out of whoever’s holding him as he dies, stand up against the reality that’s turned its back on him and tell it to go fuck itself. Does he not tire of being nice?

The Keeper finds this admirable. He can only hope to mirror The Catalyst’s kindness. The Keeper does not understand how to navigate human relationships, even if he himself is so similar to them that one could not name the difference by comparing the two with the naked eye. If The Keeper knows anything, it’s that The Catalyst, after everything, every timeline, every death...he is, simply put, a good person.

So, in spite of his better judgement, The Keeper had allowed himself to care for The Catalyst, to become affectionate towards the boy. This, of course, had made it heart-wrenching when The Keeper had fallen asleep and awoken to find himself face-to-face with a Catalyst who he knows, who he can tell had grown past his eighteenth birthday.

He had failed again.

This Catalyst makes four hundred and ninety-eight.

Of course, The Keeper remains calm in spite of the devastation he feels. “Hello,” he greets warmly, and The Catalyst nods, keeping his head down. This is unlike The Catalyst. He has come to know The Catalyst as a spritely child, always over-enthusiastic and confident, loud and never quiet. Never this quiet. The Keeper tilts his head, trying to look The Catalyst in the eyes. “Do you know what happened to you?”

He cannot seem to see any Death Markings on this Catalyst; this has happened in the past, of course, with Catalysts that have been impaled, shot, or stabbed in places not visible by their clothing. The Keeper is guiltily thankful for these instances. It is not pleasant to know how four hundred and ninety-eight Catalysts have died.

The Catalyst does not look The Keeper in the eyes. “Obviously I know what happened,” he murmurs, swallowing hard in spite of the lack of need; this Catalyst will never breathe again, never feel hunger, thirst, or pain. The Catalyst finally looks up, and The Keeper resists the urge to cry out. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

The Keeper does not answer. He is far too preoccupied with staring unabashedly at the ugly purple scarring that marrs The Catalyst’s neck. This has never happened before. “Yes, you…you died,” he stutters, and The Catalyst looks down again, the Markings vanishing from sight as he does. The Keeper’s hands tremble. “What happened?”

The Catalyst does not respond. The Keeper hesitates to reach out. He is not sure how The Catalyst will react to touch. There have been many Catalysts that accept it without question, and far too many that flinch away. The Keeper has learned to let each Catalyst initiate touch first.

At last, The Catalyst looks up at him again, eyes more grey than blue, and The Keeper sucks in a non-existent breath. The Death Markings are not any easier to look at the second time. “Is it not obvious?” he asks, and The Keeper averts his gaze. The Catalyst shudders. “This place is fuckin’ crowded, innit?”

The Keeper startles. “You can see them?” he demands in an astonished whisper, and The Catalyst’s brow furrows as he shakes his head. Ah. The Keeper lets his shoulders fall. “Why’d you say it’s crowded, then?”

“I can feel them,” The Catalyst answers with another shudder, and The Keeper tilts his head curiously. This has never happened before either, but this Catalyst seems to have gone down a path far different from the others. “They’re everywhere…”

The Keeper nods. “There are four hundred and ninety-seven other versions of you in The In-Between. It’s understandably a little packed,” he says, and The Catalyst glances out to what must be, for him, a completely empty white void. “You can ask me whatever questions you’d like, though I can’t promise I’ll answer all of them.”

At that, The Catalyst seems to emote somewhat. He’s been oddly stoic. Usually, Catalysts are expressive and bold, and this one seems like a shell of himself. The Keeper wonders what had happened to him. “Can you tell me who found my body?” he asks, and if The Keeper were currently physically capable of going pale, he would be.

The Keeper reaches out to The In-Between for the knowledge, and it provides. The Keeper feels a sensation akin to his stomach lurching. “Your mother,” he whispers, and The Catalyst’s eyes slide shut in silent agony. “I’m sorry.”

The Catalyst falls to his knees, and The Keeper starts to reach out, only to be startled back by relieved laughter. “It wasn’t him,” he says through a terrifying hybrid of relieved laughter and sobs, and The Keeper knows exactly who The Catalyst is talking about.

The Atrocity is the bane of The Keeper’s existence.

He’s a monster of terrifying proportion, a horror borne of science and delusion. The Atrocity plagues The Keeper constantly—he’s mainly the reason that The Keeper’s attempts at maintaining this reality have failed. The Atrocity is not stopped by anything but his own hubris, and even then, he has somehow managed to take The Catalyst down with him each and every time. The Keeper has never loathed a fellow being, but The Atrocity makes a fury as hot as a white iron run in The Keeper’s veins.

The Atrocity had refused help at every turn, had let himself fester into a monster beyond saving, and this is not to say that The Keeper hasn’t tried. He had once thought that the solution was to prevent The Atrocity from denying the help he so desperately needs, but he’d only returned to his home and choked The Catalyst until he’d died. The Keeper will never be able to describe the feeling that comes with looking a dead eight-year-old with hand marks around his neck in the eyes.

There isn’t much that The Keeper is frightened of, nothing he hasn’t experienced or seen in his travels across the paths of the universe, but The Atrocity is...a special case. No matter what The Keeper does, it’s as if The Atrocity is destined to defy him, to worm his way around The Keeper’s protections and enact this sick revenge fantasy of his on The Catalyst.

And, as it seems, this Catalyst had done the job himself before The Atrocity could. The Keeper gently puts a hand on The Catalyst’s shoulder, and The Catalyst flinches violently. “What happened to you, Tommy?” he asks, because he’s found that most Catalysts much prefer to be called by their given names and nicknames rather than by their destined role.

“Who the hell is Tommy?” The Catalyst asks him, brows furrowed in earnest, and The Keeper stumbles back. No, this can’t be, this is The Catalyst, is it not? The Keeper reaches out to The In-Between for confirmation, and it tells him that yes, this is The Catalyst. Perhaps his name had simply been different in this timeline. “Are—sir, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” The Keeper says. The Catalyst smiles uncertainly, and The Keeper offers him a hand up. “I’ll have to wake up in a bit. I hate to leave you so soon, but another Keeper should be here once he falls asleep. I’ll remember what he remembers, so don’t worry. And—if you’re alright with it, can you tell me...can you tell me why?”

The Catalyst smiles sadly. “I didn’t want him to win,” he says, and The Keeper feels nauseous.

Four hundred and ninety-eight.

The In-Between slips away, and Karl Jacobs wakes up.

*****

The break room is Karl’s favorite place in the entire school.

He’s particularly fond of the courtyard as well, but he gets to talk with people in the break room, connect with them. Of course, his non-American colleagues call it a staff room, and Karl feels a little out of place still—growing pains, adjustment pains, whatever you want to call them. So he tends to take his breaks with the rest of the administrative staff.

He and Charlie had even managed to convince Quackity to join them today rather than him eating alone in his office. “My next game plan is to start getting city funds to upgrade the utilities,” Quackity says, feet kicked up onto a table, and Karl swats at his ankles fondly. In all of his time in this reality, he has to admit, the moments he spends with Quackity are some of his favorites. Charlie nods eagerly, and Quackity grins. “By the way, Karl, have you thought about my offer yet?”

Karl chuckles nervously and swirls his coffee around his mug. “I just dunno if the club scene’s for me, man,” he says, and Quackity pouts, stealing one of Charlie’s fries. Charlie doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Besides, I don’t wanna be the odd one out while you’re off running things and Charlie’s presumably following you around.”

“What am I, dead meat?” Fundy scoffs, and as Karl goes to apologize, Quackity affixes Fundy with a withering glare.

“Don’t be an ass,” he says, and Fundy picks at his lunch. Karl just sips on his coffee. Quackity turns his million dollar smile towards Karl—something that’s happened quite a lot in every timeline where he’s met Quackity. “Anyways, I would love to have you at Las Nevadas on Friday, and if that’s what you’re worried about, you don’t have to be! I’m offering the rest of the staff a discount for that night, everybody’ll be there. Plus, I’ve got someone I’ve been meaning to introduce you to.”

Karl tilts his head with an amused smile. “Oh? Do tell,” he says, and he nods in greeting as Sally comes in, presumably to grab a coffee before her next class starts. Quackity grins, swinging his feet off of the table and leaning so far forward that his nose touches Karl’s. Karl chuckles.

“Well, my lovely little administrator, it’s someone I’ve gotten to know very well recently,” he says, and Karl raises an eyebrow. Quackity scrunches up his nose and then leans back, swatting idly at Charlie’s hand as he goes to take one of Quackity’s chips. “His name’s Sapnap. Stand-up dude, you’d love him.”

Fundy’s brows furrow, and Karl glances at him. “Uh, Big Q, are you sure you want to bring Karl to meet him?” he asks, and Karl’s learned not to take offense at that. He appears rather unassuming, after all, but he can handle it. “No offense, Karl, I just...think you should stick with the rest of the faculty that night.”

Sally leans against the counter as her coffee brews, one of those delightful little pods that Karl had been rather fascinated with at the start of his attempt to keep this reality in check. She crosses her arms. “We’re doing a faculty thing?” she asks, and Charlie nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah! Quackity from the front office is having all of us at the Las Nevadas club for a discounted price,” he recites, and Quackity rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Charlie perks up. “Oh! Quackity from the front office, you should invite Mamacita from the hea—”

Quackity cuts him off with an elbow to the side, which Karl considers a little harsh, but he’s seen him do far worse. “Sally, you oughta come, I think Wilbur’s gonna be there,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and Karl shakes his head fondly. Always the meddler, his Quackity is. “I heard he might bring along the receptionist—what’s her name again? Ah, right, I think it’s Fran! You know her, don’t you? The one with the curly blue hair?”

Sally’s posture stiffens, and Karl resists the urge to laugh. He’s been to far too many of Sally and Wilbur’s weddings to be remotely surprised at this point. “You don’t know for sure though?” she asks, and Quackity shrugs mock-innocently. Sally grabs her coffee and nods. “Thanks, Big Q. I’ve got a moron to go ask out, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says, and she marches out. Karl wonders if this timeline will be one of the good ones for her, or if it’ll end in heartbreak. He hopes for the former. Quackity turns back to him, chin perched on his hand. “And that, gentlemen, is how you put Wilbur Soot even further into your debt.”

Fundy snickers and munches idly on his salad, and Charlie nods, as if he’s taking this advice to heart. Karl thinks he probably is. “What’s the deal with you and Wilbur anyway?” Karl asks, slightly curious. If it’s at all possible for this to—in some way—affect the timeline, he should know about it. “I have no idea why, but it’s like he can’t stand you.”

Quackity hums, suddenly not so playful anymore. “He knows what he did,” is his vague answer, and Karl’s not in the mood to weasel an answer out of him. Quackity’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it, frowning after a moment. Quackity hums and snaps his fingers a few times. “I have to go off campus to take care of something. Charlie, you’re in charge. Fundy, don’t misbehave.”

Glaring at the ground, Fundy nods. As Quackity starts to leave, Karl packs up his things and follows him out. “Um, Quackity, could I talk to you for a minute? I’ll make it quick, I promise,” he says, and Quackity nods, glancing around the hallway. They’re alone. Karl clears his throat, brows furrowed. “Right, I was...I think we should recommend counseling for one of our students. His name’s Tommy, you know him, he’s Wilbur’s brother.”

The impatience on Quackity’s face melts away. “What’s going on? Is everything okay with the kid?” he asks, and Karl had almost forgotten how fond of Tommy that Quackity is in nearly every timeline. “Has he said something to you?”

“No, he hasn’t. Not directly, anyway, but...he got startled the other day and squeezed a soda can so hard that it broke as a stress response or something, and when I told that to Wilbur, he’d gotten really upset and said that Tommy’s been having a lot of panic attacks lately,” he says, and Quackity frowns in concern, crossing his arms. “And you know Wilbur, when he starts talking he...doesn’t stop. Tommy’s grades were slipping a little while ago, and he’s been super overwhelmed when it comes to getting results back.”

“Well, shit,” Quackity mumbles, gnawing at his bottom lip. Karl wants to reach out and comfort him, but he doesn’t know whether or not they’re close enough in this timeline yet. In any case, he’s not breaking any of The Rules, he’s not interfering directly, and if he can avoid a repeat of four hundred and ninety-eight, he’s going to. Quackity sighs. “I’ll see what I can do after I take care of what I’ve got to take care of. Thanks for telling me, Karl.”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Karl says easily, and Quackity gives his shoulder a pat before he heads down the hallway and out of sight. Well, that’s that out of the way, he supposes.

It’s not that he’s exactly eager to use his knowledge of the various timelines to his advantage, but Karl’s a little tired of playing fair, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s not as though The Atrocity has played by The Rules, and Karl will be damned if he has to sit through the initial stages all over again.

He isn’t exactly proud that he views each new timeline as a chance to start over, because it isn’t, not really. He’s reminded of that fact every time he looks out at the sea of the faces of his failures. But each timeline is an opportunity for him to try and shield Tommy from unnecessary pain and hardship.

Karl is only supposed to fix this reality so that it follows the proper path the universe has set for it, but he’s not not allowed to make the things he can change as harmless as possible. After all, this could technically be considered an attempt at fixing whatever had been wrong with timeline four hundred and ninety-eight.

Maybe if that Tommy had gotten help…

Well, it’s too late to fix that timeline now, and Karl can still fix this one.

There’s no use in mourning for the timelines at this point. Sure, Karl had done his fair share of grieving for the first dozen or so failures, and he had always felt unsettled and upset when Tommy had arrived in The In-Between any younger than sixteen—because in some versions of the timelines, Tommy gets his powers even younger, because The Atrocity starts experimenting sooner. It never works out.

Besides, Karl has been through enough realities and far too many timelines to get snagged on little things like these now. He’s determined to get it right this time around; Karl is tired of playing the same roles, the same games. He enjoys himself when he can, really, he does, but those moments come far and few when things actually begin to kick off.

Karl is just laying in wait for The Atrocity.

He never wins, of course, because in this reality—in every reality—Atrocities have no place in their worlds. There’s no reason for The Atrocity to have continued to choose the same form throughout each of these timelines, though, which is what Karl is mainly concerned with. It could have chosen a far more powerful form, but it has remained in the same body since this reality had initially been endangered.

Will that make him easier to defeat this time around?

It’s not as if Karl is at liberty to share any of the gathered information he has. If he does, he’ll have to face the consequences of breaking The Rules, and the last time one of his kind had, it was said that the screams hadn’t ceased for a millennia.

So sue him if Karl’s a little paranoid about breaking The Rules.

But this progress, it’s good. He can continue to nudge support towards Tommy, to allow him to grow and improve. He’s seen far too many Tommys that had died alone and terrified. As of right now, that doesn’t seem to be a possibility; Karl’s been keeping a careful watch, and he’s fairly certain that at least one person knows about Tommy’s powers. Karl has to hope that his interference will be enough.

He has no choice left but to hope.

*****

Chapter Text

There’s a ridiculous amount of food in Tommy’s lunch today.

He suspects it’s probably the work of both Techno and Wilbur, considering there’s a bunch of stuff he actually likes in addition to a ton of sweets from Wilbur’s secret stash. “Fellas, help yourselves,” Tommy says, pushing the majority of the sweets towards Tubbo and Ranboo, who immediately start to sort through them. Tommy shakes his head. “They’re such dickheads.”

“Who, your brothers?” Ranboo asks, opening up a package of chocolate candies, and Tommy nods. Tubbo rips the plastic away from a pack of cookies with his teeth ferociously, and both Ranboo and Tommy give him a wary look. Ranboo nudges Tubbo and, probably thinking he’s being subtle and quiet enough that Tommy won’t hear, starts to ask about Spider-Man. “You’re still being safe with...that whole thing, right?”

Tubbo makes eye contact with Tommy, and Tommy bites down on his tongue to keep himself from bursting out into laughter. “Yeah, bossman, my Spider-Man business is all good,” Tubbo says, and Ranboo’s eyes go wide at his casual tone, whipping his head around, presumably to make sure that nobody had been paying attention.

“Wh—! You can’t just say that!” Ranboo hisses, and Tubbo and Tommy both burst into laughter, leaving Ranboo completely confused. Tommy buries his head in his arms on the table and tries to compose himself, but then Ranboo starts talking again. “Tubbo, what—are you—does Tommy know?! What are you laughing at?!”

Choking on his laughter, Tubbo slaps the table with an open palm, and Tommy straightens up as he tries to quell his own guffawing. “Oh, Tommy knows alright,” Tubbo says through his cackles, and Tommy kicks his ankles. “He’s the one who convinced Spider-Man!”

Ranboo’s jaw drops, and Tommy holds back a laugh at how utterly shocked he looks. “Are you kidding me?!” he whisper-yells, and Tommy nods. Tubbo’s cackling is not helping him take this remotely seriously. “Tommy, what the hell?!”

“I was just doing a very nice thing for my friend, Ranboo. His dreams have come true,” Tommy says, and he finally breaks, slapping the table as Tubbo practically folds in half laughing. Ranboo is rather unamused, as it seems. Tommy clears his throat and sobers up. “No, no, seriously, I’ve practically nothing to do with it, Ranboo, I swear.”

Tubbo laughs harder at that, and Tommy kicks at his ankles again. They’re really not doing great at the whole secret identity thing. “Oh, you had nothing to do with it, did you?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy so wants to laugh, but Ranboo is currently still glaring at him, and Tommy kinda feels like if he does laugh, Ranboo will throttle him. Tubbo calms himself down and waves dismissively. “We’re just joking around, Tommy just got saved by Spider-Man one time and told him about me, that was just the thing that made Spider-Man decide to talk to me about it.”

Tommy silently commends Tubbo’s quick thinking.

Still not pleased, but seemingly less pissed, Ranboo nods. “Alright. But I’m only letting it go because you brought us snacks,” he says, pointing a threatening finger in Tommy’s direction, and Tommy puts his hands up in surrender. “Anyways, what are you guys doing after school? I got the day off from Puffy, so—”

“Tommy Watson to the front office,” the PA interrupts, and the trio abruptly freezes, staring at each other with wide eyes. Tommy’s got no fucking clue what that’s about. “Tommy Watson to the front office, please.”

Well that isn’t ominous at all.

“D’you’ve any idea what’s going on?” Tubbo asks as Tommy starts to pack up his stuff, and Tommy shrugs helplessly. His grades have gone up, he’s not gotten in trouble—though that’s mostly because he’s learned how to work around Fundy’s weirdly vigilant habits—and he honestly can’t think of anything. “Well, shit, bossman, are you gonna be sent home?”

“I fuckin’ hope not, we’ve got that project in Sam’s class to work on,” Tommy grumbles, and he gives them both a half-hearted wave as he starts to head out of the lunchroom.

The hallways are quiet; he passes by a couple of teachers on his way, but there’s no one he’s familiar enough with to stop and have a chat. Tommy’s only been in the front office a handful of times, and only once was he there because he’d gotten in trouble. The front office itself is always a relatively nice place—the receptionist is a really nice lady, but Tommy can never remember her name for the life of him.

As he ducks into the front office, one hand in his pocket, the receptionist—her nametag reads Fran D., that’s right—gives him a polite little wave. She must’ve redyed her hair; it’s a much brighter blue than Tommy remembers. “Hey there, Tommy! You can head on back to Big Q’s office, he and your mum are waiting in there already,” Fran says, and Tommy blinks in surprise, but he nods and starts walking towards Quackity’s office.

Kristin’s here? Why the fuck would she take off work to come here? Does this mean Tommy’s actually in deep shit? He can’t even remember if he’s done anything wrong! Damn, his hands are shaking again. Tommy takes a deep breath and knocks before he opens the door. He can’t hear any conversation, but it can’t hurt to be polite, especially if he’s somehow gotten in trouble.

When he steps into the room, he’s only a little taken aback at Karl’s presence. Had he somehow pissed Karl off? Is that why he’s here? “Tommy, come on in and take a seat,” Quackity says, and Tommy settles into the chair next to Kristin, who looks really worried. Quackity leans forward a little and folds his hands on the desk. “Do you know why we called you in here today?”

Glancing back and forth between Kristin and Karl, hoping for some kind of hint, Tommy shakes his head. “Am I in trouble or some shit, Big Q?” he asks with a nervous laugh, and the sad smile he receives in turn makes him about six thousand times more anxious. “Sorry, I don’t—if I did do something, I can’t remember, that’s my bad—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Kristin reassures him, a hand on his arm, and Tommy relaxes minutely. At least Kristin’s not pissed at him. She exchanges a look with Quackity and gives his arm a squeeze. “Your headteacher is just...some concerning things have been brought to his attention, and he called us both in to discuss the possibility of you…”

She trails off and looks to Quackity again. “Tommy, we want to offer you counseling sessions on campus,” he says, and Tommy’s brow furrows. Counseling sessions? Where the hell is this coming from? Karl nods solemnly, and Quackity clears his throat. “There are a few worrying things and some concerns that I’ve been told about by multiple people—and I’d offer this same thing to any other students struggling—and I think it’s best to make sure you’re getting the help you need.”

Tommy huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Wh—I don’t need counseling, I’m...I’m fine,” he says, curling back slightly into his chair. Kristin frowns, and Tommy laughs again. It sounds nervous, so he clears his throat. “Seriously, guys, I don’t—I really am fine, it’s not...I don’t need a counselor, I’m not…”

“Buddy, you’ve been having panic attacks,” Quackity says gently, and Tommy gets a little defensive at that, because everyone’s been saying that, and he hasn’t been, nobody listens to him when he says he doesn’t have them. “We just want to make sure you’re getting whatever help might be necessary, Tommy.”

“It’s just once a week, and if you’d prefer to meet with someone off campus, Phil and I are more than happy to take you,” Kristin says, equally as soft, like everyone’s afraid Tommy’s going to break or some shit, and Tommy’s starting to think he doesn’t actually have a say in this. “You won’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, but this’ll be good for you.”

“Wh—Kristin, you can’t possibly think that I—I don’t need a therapist, I’m fine,” Tommy emphasizes, and they just keep looking at him sadly, like he’s an idiot and can’t recognize when he needs help and when he doesn’t. “No, I mean it, I haven’t even gotten anxious in the past few days, I don’t need counseling sessions!”

Quackity sighs. “I figured you might say that, if what I discussed with Wilbur was any indication,” he says, and Tommy scoffs. Wilbur hates Quackity, for whatever reason, there’s no way he’d be open to talking about anything, let alone about Tommy. Quackity’s brows furrow, and he looks right into Tommy’s eyes. “We’re all worried about you, Tommy. I can’t make the counseling mandatory, nor can I force you to attend on campus without your consent, but your parents can make the decision to have you attend therapy sessions off campus.”

Tommy turns to Kristin, who stares right back at him with determined eyes. No, there’s no way she’s going to make him go, he doesn’t need to go, she knows that— “I’ll drive you after school on Wednesdays,” she says, and Tommy’s heart drops to his stomach. You’ve got to be fucking kidding him. “Quackity recommended a great therapist, his name’s Bad, he specializes in anxiety disorders—”

“I’m not—! I’ve not got an anxiety problem!” Tommy protests, and in spite of his best wishes, his hands have started to shake again. Quackity and Kristin are just looking at him like he’s someone to be pitied, like he’s in denial or some shit. “I don’t! I’m fucking fine!”

Kristin and Quackity exchange another look. “We’ll be accommodating your appointments, you’ll receive no absence penalties for leaving a little early on Wednesdays,” Quackity says gently, and Tommy slumps back in the chair, disbelieving.

Kristin brushes a lock of Tommy’s hair behind his ear. “It’ll be alright, bubs. This is gonna be good for you,” she says, and Tommy crosses his arms.

He doubts it, but it seems like nobody really wants to hear his thoughts on the matter.

*****

Tommy is perched on a rooftop, and he’s still fucking fuming.

“What’s got you so pissed for, bossman?” Tubbo asks, clearly amused, and Tommy clicks his tongue, eyes still narrowed as he scans the streets. He could really use fighting a few crimes as a way to channel his frustrated energy into something productive, but as it seems, every common criminal in London is currently in hiding. “Alright, don’t answer then, I guess. But you should know, I’ve got a listing for a hitman, supposedly set up in an abandoned building in that district that they’re re-doing down by the warehouse.”

Thank fucking God. “Right, I’m on it,” Tommy says, swinging towards the address that Tubbo sends him. Maybe he’s going a little faster than he’d normally go, but that’s his business, nobody else’s. Tubbo hums something—Tommy’s not entirely sure if it’s an actual song, but it’s kind of nice—and Tommy swings past a park, shooting a thumbs-up to the pedestrians. He’s pretty close to the building now, but he’s still really pissed off, and he’s been trying his best not to keep things from Tubbo anymore. “…I’m mad because Kristin’s forcing me to go to a therapist.”

Tubbo snorts. “Good,” he says, and Tommy scoffs, a bit offended at that. He knows Tubbo thinks he’s been having panic attacks, despite the fact that Tommy very much doesn’t have them. “You are in desperate need of some therapy, Tommy.”

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Tommy mutters under his breath as he lands on the roof of the abandoned building. Tubbo doesn’t answer. “Right, what exactly are we dealing with here, Big T?”

“The hit isn’t specified, but it looks like the listing’s between the usual suspects,” Tubbo tells him, the telltale noise of his typing sounding off in the background. How lovely, which one is Tommy dealing with today? A bioweapons terrorist, or a monstrous symbiote? Maybe God would love to spite him and throw the arsonist in the mix too. “Blaze ordered a hit under his main alias for today at four in the afternoon, which means the sniper—oh, fun, we get specificity this time—is gonna be setting up just about now.”

Tommy nods and slips through the unlocked door, careful to keep his footsteps silent as he descends the stairs. He hops onto the ceiling as he gets to the top floor, creeping steadily through each of the empty rooms. There are a few shabby pieces of furniture here and there, but other than the walls, there’s nothing in his way.

The building’s really fucking eerie, though. It’s cold—though Tommy could probably just attribute that to weather typical of London in November—and there’s this weird, heavy atmosphere that’s lingering in the air. The Sense is on edge; something’s clearly wrong here, and Tommy feels like he’s about to find out just what it is.

He crawls towards the last of the rooms and peeks his head in through the doorway. There’s someone in there with a lot of equipment. “Hive, what am I looking at?” Tommy whispers, and the person stiffens, then goes back to their work.

“That’s our guy. I still haven’t managed to find out who the hit’s been ordered on, but apparently this guy’s got a reputation as the best in the business. I know he’s tied to Boss, probably one of the fuckers you saw during the trade-off,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy narrows his eyes. This guy seems like a normal motherfucker, he’s not dressed in any crazy outfits or anything.

The guy is in tactical gear, sure, and there’s something sticking off of his face that looks vaguely like a mask, but that makes sense to have when you’re apparently a notorious criminal. Tommy’s fairly certain that it’s not Boss, given the absence of the gauntlet, and it’s definitely not Slime, so it’s gotta be Vos, right?

There are some metallic clicks, a few sounds of the sliding and click clack of parts being put on and taken off. Tommy wonders who the hell would warrant this kind of setup. Presumably-Vos starts to put things back in the black bag on the ground next to him, and Tommy creeps ever closer, taking great care not to make a sound. Presumably-Vos stiffens every fucking time he moves, though, which is incredibly inconvenient.

“I suggest you run, spider,” Vos—it’s definitely him—says coolly as Tommy drops down silently from the ceiling, and that’s just fucking unfair, innit? He’s still putting equipment away, which, in Tommy’s opinion, is a stupid thing to do when you’ve got your back turned to a superhero. He fires a web out at Vos, who fucking disappears in a plume of smoke. “How irritating.”

The voice had come from behind him. Ah, shit.

Tommy barely ducks out of the way as the ass end of a pistol jabs towards where his head had just been, and he glances over at the rifle perched pristinely in the window. “Would be a right shame for your gun to fall out the window,” he says, grinning as he dodges another—really precise, holy shit—swing from Vos. He leaps backwards and starts to grab the rifle when Vos disappears and reappears in two separate plumes of smoke, and then Tommy is across the room again. “Okay, seriously, you have got to tell me how you do that, it’s really fuckin’ cool!”

He finally gets a good look at Vos, who, aside from the sleek fox mask hiding his face, just looks like an ordinary guy in an all-black outfit. Nothing identifying like a tattoo or scar, sadly. “I am once again suggesting you run,” Vos says, “or you might not make it in time.”

“Make it to what?” Tommy asks, and he gets into a fighting stance, right foot back and fists up. If this Vos guy thinks he’s gonna give up, he’s got another thing coming. He dashes forward and aims a kick for Vos’s side, jumping out of the way as Vos swings a fist towards his face. “What’s with the fox mask, pal? Going for the Nick Wilde aesthetic? Can’t say I fully understand, but that was a pretty good movie.”

Vos’s stance falters slightly, and Tommy gets in a decent hit. “My motif has nothing to do with a children’s movie, you—!” Vos cuts himself off, clearly trying to maintain the whole mysterious schtick, but if it’s this easy to get under his skin, this fight’s gonna be a piece of cake. Vos’s head lowers minutely, and he aims his pistol at Tommy. “I’ve had enough of this.”

Tommy dives to the right as Vos fires, and the bullet whizzes by his shoulder. “Uh, Tommy? I think I found out who the target is,” Tubbo says, sounding rather panicked, and Tommy can’t exactly tell him that now isn’t a good time, considering he’s trying to keep the supervillains from knowing that someone’s on comms with him.

“Very unoriginal there, mate, I’ve been shot at before. At least put a little pizazz in it, shoot me with exploding bullets or some shit,” Tommy says, landing a punch on Vos’s jaw, and Vos stumbles back, the gun spinning around his finger before it fires again, and Tommy just barely ducks out of the way. “See, that was cool! Do more of that!”

“You sound like a child,” Vos snarls, holstering his gun and pulling out a knife that—oh, great, it’s not a knife, it’s a fucking staff with blades on either end, a ribbon of orange light that matches the fox mask spiraling around the black pole. Vos slashes it once through the air, stance defensive, and the two of them steadily circle each other. Tommy’s not got any shielding; if the blade hits him, he’ll be cut, unless it ricochets off of the exoskeletal boning. Heh. Boning. That never gets old. Vos flips the staff between his fingers. “Are you afraid to approach me, spider?”

Tommy gestures towards his mask. “I mean, not really, you’re kind of a furry, aren’t you?” he quips, and Vos makes an offended squawk of a noise. Tommy stifles a laugh. “Yeah, got the fox thing going on, you’re a right furry, you are.”

“I am not a—!” Vos cuts himself off again—Tommy makes a mental note that he’s done it twice now—and shakes his head, squaring his shoulders. He dashes towards Tommy and sweeps the staff down, and Tommy throws up his arm to block it, kicking out at Vos’s legs. He misses, unfortunately, which means the cut in his arm was for nothing. Vos shifts into a defensive position as Tommy kicks at the staff again. It doesn’t budge.

Tommy jumps back as Vos slashes the blades towards him. “Really got me on the defensive here, fox boy,” he says, laughing as Vos gets visibly annoyed and makes a stupid decision to swing towards him again without steadying himself. Tommy kicks at his shin, and Vos tenses up. “Ah, it’s alright, nobody does too well in their first fight against me! No worries, though, I’ll wrap it up quick and you can walk home with your tail between your legs like a good little furry.”

“You little shit,” Vos growls, and there’s a plume of smoke. Tommy immediately goes on guard, hopping up towards the ceiling just in time to avoid being impaled by the staff. He drops down, heel aimed at Vos’s wrist, and it connects. The staff clatters to the ground, and Tommy kicks it away. Vos lifts a hand to his ear and presses a finger to it. “I need backup, the spider’s here, and he’s giving me trouble!”

“You and your colleagues have either got to come up with some creative nicknames or learn my actual name,” Tommy says, slightly annoyed, and he throws a punch towards Vos, only for it to be caught. This, however, leaves Vos open, considering he’s grabbed Tommy’s arm with both hands, and Tommy grabs his face with his free hand and shoves the both of them towards the wall. The mask slips slightly, and Tommy gets a glimpse at a few freckles on Vos’s cheek. At least that’s semi-identifying. “C’mon, Fantastic Mr. Fox, just give it up! No murder for you today.”

Vos jams a knee into Tommy’s stomach, and Tommy stumbles back, clutching at his side with one hand. The Sense screeches in the back of his head for him to turn around, and Tommy does, eyes widening as he’s met with the whirring body of a drone. “Send my sincerest thanks to our kind friend Blaze,” Vos says behind him, and Tommy grabs the drone, chucking it towards Vos, who disappears in a plume of smoke again, though when he reappears, he looks rather winded.

Tommy ducks out of the way as the drone starts to fire at him, and he webs it, spinning it off its course and taking the opportunity while it rights itself to aim another few hits at Vos, who struggles to block them. “Getting a bit tired, are we?” Tommy jeers, and Vos shoves at him hard, sending him stumbling back a little. Tommy fires off another web at the drone, and he and Vos dance around the bullets that are fired at their feet. “C’mon, pal, I don’t think you can do this all day.”

“Try me,” Vos says, though he’s even starting to sound out of breath, and Tommy watches as his hand twitches towards his belt.

Smoke fills the room, and Tommy barely has time to react before he’s launched backwards by something far too strong to be Vos. It must be the strength of more drones, because it takes Tommy a good ten seconds to stand up fully again. “Tommy,” Tubbo starts, and Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t know whether or not the drones are recording, he doesn’t want to risk anything. He doesn’t want to risk Tubbo’s safety even more.

He staggers towards what he hopes is the direction of the room Vos is still in. The smoke is ridiculously thick, suffocating almost, and Tommy coughs as he sweeps it out of the way. He can make out Vos’s form at the far end of the room. “Hey! Dickhead! You think a little smog’s gonna fuckin’ stop me?!” Tommy shouts, and while Vos stiffens, he doesn’t move.

Tommy’s eyes widen.

The gun goes off.

There’s screaming in the distance, and Tommy dashes forward, making a mad grab for Vos, only to be met with more fucking smoke. Vos is gone, but the drones aren’t. The Sense screams at the back of his mind, and Tommy dives out of the window as the smoke ripples with the force of a massive explosion.

Well, fuck. Tommy starts to swing around the nearby buildings, trying to keep an eye out for Vos, but there’s no sign of him. And, as he comes full-circle, the rifle and the bag of equipment are gone as well. Tubbo has gone silent, but Tommy’s paying no mind to that, instead swinging towards the source of the distant screams.

He can’t believe he’d let another wrong’un get away. This is such bullshit! He’d had Vos on the ropes before Blaze’s stupid drones had come in. That furry fuck had been about to give in, and if it hadn’t been for them teaming up out of goddamned nowhere, Tommy would’ve been able to capture Vos and turn him over to the proper authorities! It would’ve been one less shithead villain for him to be dealing with, but nothing can ever be that easy for him, can it?

Of course, Tommy expects that his next encounter with Vos will be much more difficult, all things considered. It had been really obvious that with whatever tech Vos is using for those smoke bombs, he’s not used to the side effects. Now that he knows his limits, he’ll probably be more strategic with their usage, meaning Tommy will have to put up with even more bullshit the next time they fight.

Then again, he’s also got an advantage now that he knows that Vos is working with both Boss and Blaze—and presumably Slime and 404 by extension. He can plan for the next time, make sure he has some kind of cover or tactics for the drones. Tubbo’s already given him the gas mask, so Tommy’s not entirely worried about 404 being an issue so much as a distraction. The electricity that Boss uses is annoying, but Tommy’s pretty sure he could convince Tubbo to line his suit with some kind of secret rubber insulation so the shocks aren’t as bad as they’d been in the hall of mirrors.

At this point, Tommy’s got a decent idea of the weaponry he can come to expect from the usual suspects. Blaze prefers to use knives up close and resorts to drones or guns if he’s in a bind or if he’s long range, and 404’s only got that stupid spore gun. Both of them are fairly easy to take down, but there’s always a backup plan that they can fall back on in order to slip away from him, which is incredibly irritating. Boss’s electrical gauntlet is the only weapon of his that Tommy knows of, but it’s strong enough that he’s fairly certain Boss won’t be using any others. Then, obviously, Slime doesn’t need weapons, and Tommy’s webs don’t work on him, so he’ll have to find some way around that.

Vos has arguably the most versatile weapons he’s seen thus far, and Tommy hadn’t even gotten a good look at the equipment he’d had with him before he’d stashed it. That staff is annoyingly cool, and it’s got a ton of potential uses in both melee and long range combat. Tommy huffs out a laugh to himself at that thought; spending so much time with Techno has turned him into a weapons nerd.

It’s also clear to him that Vos is heavily trained with firearms. That sniper rifle, while an incredibly deadly and horrifying weapon, had been seriously tricked out. Vos had looked the most comfortable holding a gun, which is why Tommy finds it so weird that his pistol had been holstered so soon into their fight. After all, he’s pretty sure Vos wants him dead, and the furry comments certainly hadn’t helped convince him Tommy should be living.

Tommy realizes he’s been alone with his thoughts for an odd amount of time, and he wonders if Tubbo’s okay. He’s probably just gotten up to take a piss or grab a glass of water or something, but he usually says he’ll be right back if he’s leaving the room. Maybe he’s just waiting for Tommy to get to the scene of the hit so that he can assist from there.

It’s probably fine. Tommy should really stop overthinking things.

As he swings by a massive crowd, Tommy lands atop a nearby building and looks out over the sea of people. He can’t really tell what’s going on, but the crowd is being corralled back by a bunch of security officers, and there are a ton of people surrounding something by a podium, and Tommy blinks in surprise as an ambulance rushes in.

Tommy lands near the stage, hands going up as soon as several guns immediately train on him. “Woah, woah, fellas, I’m here to help,” he says, but they don’t lower their guns. “Seriously, I’m trying to help you, what’s going on?!”

The security officers abruptly turn away from him, offering no explanation, and Tommy tries to take a look at the thing that’s being surrounded, but nobody will let him by. He backs up and starts to offer help with crowd control, only to be glared at by the commanding officer. “You’re too late, Spider-Man,” he says, and Tommy blinks at him. “Get out of here, you’re just causing more of a scene.”

“I swear, I won’t cause you any trouble, I just want to help, is there anything I can do? I’m great with crowds, and if anyone needs medical assistance, my webs can be used to stop bleeding in cases of emergency,” Tommy offers, and the commanding officer scoffs at him. Fucking prick. Tommy’s literally just trying to help him out here.

“Get the hell out of here before I tell my men you’re a threat that needs to be neutralized,” he says, and Tommy blinks in surprise. “You’ve got five minutes to get your stupid mask out of my sight.”

“Alright, geez, no need for death threats, asshole,” Tommy mutters, and he swings up and over the crowd, landing on that same rooftop as before. He sighs and crosses his arms. “What’s going on down there, man?”

Tubbo’s still eerily silent, but he clears his throat after a moment. “I figured out who the hit was on,” he says, really shakily, and Tommy’s brows furrow in concern.

There’s more sirens. “Tubbo? Who was it? Who got shot?” Tommy asks, suddenly fearing for the worst at Tubbo’s shaky breathing.

“The mayor of London was just assassinated.”

*****

Chapter Text

Tommy has been sitting in his room for the past three days.

Three days, of course, being the amount of time that they've had off from school. Techno's been bringing him meals, which is rather nice. He's hardly got an appetite, though; how's he meant to eat when this has happened? Everything's just...royally fucked up. So, Tommy's brain has, naturally, decided to take a nice long break from reality, which is why he's been sitting in bed for three days.

Apparently, this has greatly concerned Tubbo, who is now pounding on his bedroom door and demanding to be let in. “C’mon, bossman, don’t make me kick the door down!” he shouts, and Tommy just keeps staring down at his hands. There’s some muffled conversation out in the hall for a moment—Tommy’s ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton—and then the lock in his door clicks. Of course Tubbo’s gone and picked the lock. “Tommy, I swear to god—”

“Hey,” Techno says gently, and Tommy looks up at him. Surely, surely, Techno will tell him what to do, where to go from here. Techno sits next to him, and Tubbo shuts the door quietly, which Tommy appreciates. Techno puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault, and I know you’re blamin’ yourself, but there’s nothin’ more you could’ve done.”

“I could’ve listened to Vos when he said I might not make it in time,” Tommy says, hollow, and Tubbo’s eyes slide shut. Tommy looks to Techno, grief and guilt bubbling in his gut. “I was too late, Tech. I should’ve left when I had the chance, I shouldn’t have dragged the fight out, I…or maybe I should’ve dragged it out more, maybe the mayor would’ve finished his speech, I should’ve done more, I…”

He trails off, burying his face in his hands. Techno’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “You did good, you did all that you could do, kid,” he says, and Tommy wants to believe that, really, he does, but...that’s just untrue. If he’d gotten up faster after the drones had pushed him back, if he’d dodged a few more hits, maybe the mayor wouldn’t have died. Techno sighs. “Tommy, you couldn’t have known.”

Tommy shakes his head and looks up from his hands again. Tubbo steps forward and flicks the center of his forehead. “Stop being an idiot, we couldn’t have predicted he’d use so many smoke bombs at once. And I need you focused if we’re gonna look into that tip about another potential deal that’s going down on Friday,” he says, though there’s underlying worry in the scolding, and Tommy looks away. “It’s not your fucking fault, Tommy, not any more than it’s mine for not finding out who the target was sooner.”

“That’s not your fault, though, that shit’s encrypted to hell and back, don’t blame yourself,” he says automatically, and both Techno and Tubbo give him a flat look. Tommy groans and stands, starting to pace along the length of his room. “No, you don’t get it, I could have done more, I should’ve just pushed ahead through the smoke instead of trying to see through it, I—”

“You could’ve gotten shot by a drone or stabbed by Vos if you had,” Tubbo cuts in, and Tommy shakes his head. He would have healed from that, and it had been clear that Vos hadn’t wanted him dead, he probably would just have been shot or stabbed in a non-lethal place, there isn’t an excuse. Tubbo interrupts his pacing by grabbing him by the shoulders. “Stop being a self-flagellating moron and blaming yourself, it’s not your fucking fault!”

Techno runs a hand through his hair. “Alright, let’s not be so harsh, but Tubbo’s right, you gotta stop blamin’ yourself,” he says, and Tubbo steps back, crossing his arms. Tommy just huffs out a disbelieving scoff and turns away. Techno gently puts an arm around his shoulders. “I’m serious, kid, you did the best you could. There’s some people you just can’t save no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, and that’s because you’re human, just like everyone else.”

Nodding eagerly, Tubbo gestures towards Techno. “See? Neither of us blame you, the public likely doesn’t blame you, and if they do, they’re morons,” he says, and Tommy stays silent. He doesn’t want to argue about this anymore. They’re probably just saying this to make him feel better about it. Tubbo seems to sense this train of thought, and he smacks Tommy upside the head. “Enough with the pity party already! Do you or do you not trust what me and Techno have to say?”

Tommy crosses his arms, shoulders up by his ears. “Of course I do,” he says, because he does, he really values their opinions, no matter what he might say otherwise, “but that doesn’t mean—”

“So trust us,” Tubbo says, steamrolling over Tommy’s continuous attempts to explain that this is, in fact, his fault, “when we tell you that it’s not your fault. If it’s your fault, then it must be mine as well since I was in charge of finding out who was going to be killed. And you don’t think any part of this was my fault, do you?”

Tommy shakes his head, because of course it’s not Tubbo’s fault. “Then listen to us,” Techno tells him, and Tommy nods. He supposes they’ve got a point; if he’d left to try and save the mayor, Vos would have just taken the shot, and if he’d tried to drag it out, Blaze just would’ve sent more drones to stop him. Techno gives him a soft grin. “There you go, I can hear those gears turnin’ in your head now.”

“A truly rare occurrence,” Tubbo jokes, and Tommy flips him off with a weak smile. Tubbo claps a hand on his shoulder and nods towards the door. “Let’s go grab food, I’m fuckin’ starving and you probably are too.”

Techno takes his arm off of Tommy’s shoulders, and the three of them make their way downstairs. Tubbo and Tommy sit down at the kitchen table, and Tommy tenses up at the sound of the news playing in the living room, his nervousness only worsened at Wilbur scoffing from that same room. “Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable,” he says as he joins them in the kitchen, and Tommy pointedly keeps his gaze on the table as Techno starts to grab the two of them something to eat. Wilbur shakes his head and sits down next to him. “Have you three heard the news yet?”

Tommy doesn’t answer, and Tubbo hums. “The thing with the mayor?” he asks, feigning ignorance, and Wilbur nods, still looking rather annoyed. Tommy sinks lower in his seat. Tubbo gives him a wary look. “Yeah, it’s a real tragic accident. Don’t know where the city's gonna go from here, I hope they say something soon, though.”

Carding his fingers through his hair, Wilbur tuts. “You know, Spider-Man was on the scene, and he left after two fucking minutes. Some hero that guy is, can’t even lend a hand to the cops being overwhelmed with a panicked crowd,” he says, and Tommy would love it if the universe could drag him down into the center of the earth right about now. Techno stiffens, and Wilbur sighs at him. “I know you’re a fan of the guy, Tech, but seriously, he’s fallen off.”

“Actually,” Tubbo says, positively venomous, and Tommy momentarily fears for Wilbur’s general safety, “I heard the cops wouldn’t let him help. He offered, but they told him to get away from the scene.”

At that, Wilbur actually gives pause, and Techno hands Tommy and Tubbo a plate of sandwiches each. “I hadn’t known that,” Wilbur admits, and Tommy briefly hopes that this discussion won’t end in another argument, but he is woefully proven wrong almost immediately. “That makes sense, though, all things considered. Now that I think about it, he clearly doesn’t give a shit about police protocol, and he hadn’t done anything to protect the mayor.”

Techno looks pissed, and Tommy slumps down further in his seat. Techno crosses his arms, and Wilbur seems almost amused. This doesn’t bode well. “You know, maybe you shouldn’t give the guy so much flak, Wil,” Techno says, surprisingly measured, and Tommy’s a little relieved that he’s at least trying to keep the peace.

“I mean, yeah, he makes mistakes, sure, he’s allowed that, but letting the mayor get assassinated? And they’re saying in the autopsy that they’re specialized bullets from no weapon we’ve seen before, and Tubbo, you did that interview with the guy where he said he’d been investigating some black market weapons deals, I’m surprised you’re still on his side about this, considering, logically, he should have been on top of things,” Wilbur says, and Tommy’s leg starts to bounce. Tubbo glares at Wilbur, but he continues on as though he’s got no clue half the people in the room have somewhat murderous intent at the moment. “I like what he does for the community, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not magically above criticism just because he’s gone viral as an illegal vigilante.”

“He’s my age, did you know that?” Tubbo says, and Wilbur goes a little pale. Tommy feels a little bad for finding vindication in it. Tubbo stands from his seat and towers over the kitchen table—it’s intimidating. “If you’d ever had one conversation with the guy, he goes from talking seriously about how much he wants to keep his community safe to joking about his maths work being due tomorrow. He’s a good person and he’s doing his best, why the hell should all the fault of an unavoidable tragedy be on him?!”

“I’m not saying it’s all his fault, Tubbo, I’m wondering why he hadn’t done more,” Wilbur says, and Techno slams the fridge shut a little harder than he’d normally close it. “You’re both Spider-Man fanboys, of course you’re not open to admitting he’s made a mistake. But Tommy gets it, right, Tommy?”

“Oh, I don’t…” Tommy trails off, hands up in surrender by his chest. The three of them are staring at him. “I want no part of this, Wil.”

Wilbur clicks his tongue and turns back to Techno. “You’re such a practical guy, I just don’t understand why you won’t admit it when Spider-Man fucks up,” he says, and Tommy really wants this conversation to stop. Wilbur gives Techno a placating look, which is not good, because Techno clearly hates it. “I’m not saying he doesn’t do good work! Again, I’ve got nothing against the kid personally, I’m sure he’s doing his best, but the mayor—”

“It wasn’t his fault! How the hell was he supposed to have predicted an assassination, let alone handle either the shooter or the mayor in time?!” Techno demands, and Wilbur just sighs. This fucking sucks. Tommy chews on his sandwich. It tastes like nothing. “I don’t see you getting off your ass and doing something half as brave as what Spider-Man does!”

“He can’t be expected to handle every single fucking problem in London while also being expected to leave things to the police to handle,” Tubbo says, equally as heated, and Wilbur actually starts to look a little sheepish. Tommy eats more of his sandwich. “You and anyone else criticising him have no idea just how many good things he does, and he doesn’t do it for some kind of reward, he just genuinely wants to help people!”

Techno nods. “He’s doing more for the community than anyone else, and somehow the cops think he deserves to be crucified for things he can’t control,” he says, and Wilbur looks away. “If you want to keep criticising him when he messes up, go ahead, we can’t stop you. But the kid is doing good work, and if the only thing he gets in return for that is a whole bunch of complaints, how the hell do you think that’d make him feel?”

Wilbur stays quiet for a moment, then he looks up at Techno. “I understand what you mean,” he says, and that seems to be the end of it. Tommy sits up properly, and Wilbur gives him a concerned look. “Fuck, Toms, I’m sorry. We keep getting into fights in front of you, I-I shouldn’t...I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy mutters. He’s used to Wilbur and Techno arguing by now. Tubbo slips back into his seat next to Tommy and puts a hand on his arm. Tommy shrugs him off. “I’m alright, Tubs, it’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” Techno says, suddenly looking ten times more uncomfortable. “Wilbur’s right. We haven’t been goin’ about this the right way. I...I got defensive and wanted to prove you wrong, Wil. I lashed out, and I’m...I feel like that wasn’t the right thing to do. My...faults...aren’t your responsibility, they’re my own, and I should’ve been more mature about it.”

Wilbur shifts in unease. “I was...also lashing out. I got in my own head about things and I started overthinking, and I took it out on you. That...wasn’t right,” Wilbur says, and Techno just shrugs. Tommy glances between the two of them skeptically. “Regardless, we shouldn’t have dragged you into the middle of it, Tommy. We’re sorry.”

“Yeah, we are,” Techno says, which is an odd thing to hear coming from him. Tommy’s only ever heard Techno admit he was wrong a handful of times.

Tubbo’s frowning down at his phone, and Tommy’s glad to have something to ask about other than this really uncomfortable topic. “Everything alright, Big T?” he asks, and Tubbo just scowls, putting his phone up on the table and tapping on a video that’s popped up on his Twitter feed. By the looks of it, it's one of the politicians campaigning for the emergency election.

“And I will build my main policies,” the man in the video says, standing at a podium, “around the fact that Spider-Man cannot continue his childish antics unchecked. I mean, take the tragedy that’s just happened. He refused to comply with the police, and according to a survey that my campaign has done, people are starting to lose faith in our hardworking police force because Spider-Man has prevented them from effectively doing their jobs. And trust me, I will be singlehandedly funding a full, thorough investigation into the assassination. I mean—it’s just unacceptable for a maniac in a mask to run around calling himself a hero, getting in the way of our men in uniform and claiming all the glory for himself.”

Techno’s eyes narrow, and The Sense twinges at the back of Tommy’s head. There’s something off about this guy. “What the hell is his deal?” Techno asks, and Tommy glances at Wilbur, who’s pretending as though he’s not listening.

“You know, as much admiration as he feels entitled to, people have an actual issue with this guy. I mean, he leaves webs everywhere, our infrastructure folks are constantly overwhelmed with cleaning up after him,” the politician says, dark eyes flashing menacingly. Okay, maybe Tommy’s embellishing a bit, but seriously, The Sense is really unsettled by this guy. “This just can’t continue. My policies will hopefully ensure a relatively friendly relationship between our local government and Spider-Man, but my focus is on the people. A lot of them are unhappy with how their neighborhoods have been endangered by domestic terrorists—and who are these criminals always after? It’s Spider-Man!”

There’s a round of applause after that, and Tommy feels his stomach drop.

Well, fuck.

This can’t be good.

*****

This is a stupid idea.

He’s currently sitting in an otherwise empty waiting room, and he’s still stewing in the embarrassment of having been picked up early during Sam’s class. Tommy wishes Kristin had just texted him instead of having him called up by the PA. In any case, this is still absolute bullshit, and Tommy would rather be fighting Slime, Blaze, 404, Boss, and Vos all at once than be sitting here right now.

A door opens, and Tommy looks up from his phone. “Tommy?” a man asks, and Tommy thinks he looks rather dorky, but he gives the guy a little wave anyway. He receives an almost blinding smile in return. “Oh, great! You can follow me back here to my office.”

Wonderful. Tommy stands and, with a sigh, follows the guy to a decently-sized office. It’s nicely decorated—almost homey, but too professional-looking to truly be comfortable. The therapist gestures to a cozy-looking armchair, and Tommy takes a seat, shifting a little. This is really fucking weird. He’s not a fan. But he’d promised Kristin in the car on the way that he’d give it a chance, and it’s not as though he can get away with sitting through one awkward hour and calling it quits, because Kristin had also said something about finding the ‘right’ therapist and how it might take a while to do that, so he might as well try to cooperate.

“Right, so, uh, I’m Tommy, but you knew that,” he says, and the therapist smiles and nods as he sits down on the couch across from Tommy. “Fuck am I supposed to call you, then?”

“Language,” the therapist chides lightly, and Tommy scoffs. “And I’m Dr. Halo, but you can just call me Bad. This first session is sort of a way for you and me to get to know each other. If you don’t want to share something with me, you don’t have to, and that goes for every session we might have together. There’s no pressure.”

Tommy nods, his leg starting to bounce with nervous energy. “Cool,” he says, and he goes silent, looking around the room again. There’s a picture of a dog on the desk in the corner. It’s rather ugly, at least in Tommy’s opinion.

Bad looks down at Tommy’s knee, and Tommy forces his leg to stop bouncing. “You seem a little nervous,” Bad notes, and Tommy wants to tell him that no shit he’s nervous, he doesn’t need therapy and he’s being forced to talk to some fucking guy about his nonexistent panic attacks. “I can imagine it’s a little jarring to be in your first ever therapy session.”

“I’m not nervous,” Tommy says, nibbling at his nails. Bad just hums. This guy is weird; he’s not saying Tommy’s lying about not feeling nervous, but he doesn’t seem to believe Tommy either. “I’m not.”

“Okay, you’re not nervous,” Bad says easily. He just taps his pen idly on his little clipboard, and Tommy resumes bouncing his leg. It’s just an hour, isn’t it? He just has to wait out this guy for an hour, and then he can go back home and get to patrol. Bad clears his throat. “So, how was your day?”

Tommy blinks at him, brows furrowed. “You...want to know how my day was?” he asks. Bad nods, and Tommy slumps a little in his seat. This has to be a trap, right? Like, if he answers wrong, he’s gonna be told it’s because he has some weird anxiety thing, and then Bad’s going to try and pry more information out of him. Tommy decides to go with something simple. “It was fine.”

“I’m glad your day was fine. What did you do at school?” Bad asks, and Tommy narrows his eyes. This guy isn’t subtle; Puffy asks the same kind of ‘easy’ questions whenever she wants to know something. When Tommy doesn’t answer right away, Bad smiles. “Did you talk to your friends? How were your classes?”

“They were fine,” Tommy says, because they were. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. This is the worst. At least with Puffy, Tommy knows where it’ll lead if he answers honestly. “Everything was fine.”

“Not good? Just fine?” Bad asks, and Tommy curses under his breath. There’s the fucking catch, of course there’s a gotcha. Tommy just shrugs. Bad writes something down. Tommy frowns at the scratching of the pen on the clipboard. The fuck is he writing down? Tommy hasn’t even said anything—nothing of substance, anyway. “What was your morning like? Did you eat breakfast?”

Tommy picks at a stray thread on the armchair. “Yeah. I had bacon and toast,” he answers. He’ll keep his answers short, and then Bad won’t have anything to go off of. “My morning was fine.”

“You have brothers, right? What are they like?” Bad asks, and of course Kristin had talked to the guy beforehand. Tommy really should’ve seen this coming. He just shrugs again, eye twitching when Bad writes something else down. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to talk about it?”

This is annoying.

Tommy doesn’t have anything against therapy in theory, really, it’s something that helps a lot of people and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He just...doesn’t need it. This is stupid, it’s pointless, and it’s taking up time that someone who actually does need therapy could use. Kristin and Phil are just wasting their money. Tommy is fine, everything is fine, and he doesn’t need some guy to tell him there’s something wrong with his brain or his coping mechanisms or whatever.

“Of course I know what they’re like, I live with them,” he snaps, arms crossed, and Bad looks at his leg bouncing again. Tommy forces himself to sit still. Bad writes something else down, and Tommy feels immensely judged. “Okay, what the fuck are you writing?!”

“Language,” Bad says airily, and Tommy grumbles a few unintelligible swears. This fucking guy. “These are just my session notes. Right now, I’m writing about how you try to suppress your nervous movement whenever I happen to notice it.”

Tommy blinks in surprise at the honesty. “I told you, I’m not nervous,” he says through gritted teeth, and Bad peers up from his notes, locking eyes with Tommy. Tommy looks away. “I just think this whole thing is a waste of everybody’s time and money.”

Humming, Bad scribbles down the last of his notes and looks up again. “And why do you think it’s a waste of time and money?” he asks, and Tommy fucking hates this. It’s so annoying. It’s not as if Bad actually cares what he thinks, he’s just being paid to ask a couple of questions.

“Because I don’t have a problem,” Tommy answers easily, arms still crossed as he slouches down further in the armchair. Bad tilts his head, and Tommy huffs. “Everybody thinks I’ve got these panic attacks, but I fuckin’ don’t, so this is pointless.”

Folding his hands on his knee, Bad raises a brow. “Language,” he says, and Tommy kind of wants to throttle him. “Why does everyone think you have panic attacks?” This time he sounds genuinely curious, so Tommy looks at him again.

“Apparently getting a little anxious now and again is considered a ‘panic attack’ by their standards,” Tommy says, and Bad chuckles lightly. “I mean, seriously, I get nervous about a grade and Ranboo’s all concerned and shit, it’s so stupid.”

“Language,” Bad says again, though it’s becoming clear he’s getting tired of trying to keep Tommy from swearing. “Who’s Ranboo?”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, he’s one of my friends, super nice dude, he just worries too much,” he says, and Bad nods for him to go on. “We met when he moved here, me and him and Tubbo—that’s my best friend, I’ve basically known him since we were both born, we practically live together half the time, mi casa es su casa and all that—we’re all super close.”

Bad writes something else down, and Tommy freezes up. He’d forgotten they’re in a therapy appointment for a second there. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got some good friends,” he says, and Tommy goes back to pointedly staring at his shoes. “Why was Ranboo so concerned about you being nervous about a grade?”

“I dunno, I guess...I guess I was kinda overreacting. Only a little bit, though,” Tommy clarifies, and Bad smiles, eyes glinting playfully.

“Only a little,” he agrees, “of course.”

Tommy stifles a laugh. Sarcastic bastard. “Seriously, it’s not that bad, I’m just kinda...I just get a little anxious sometimes, I don’t have, like, a problem,” Tommy says, and Bad tilts his head again. “I don’t, not really, I mean—sometimes my hands get shaky, but that’s just a normal reaction to being nervous! Sure, I get really nauseous, and yeah, it gets hard to breathe when I’m really overwhelmed, and I start thinking about the worst case scenarios, but that’s just normal sh—stuff! Everybody feels like that when they’re anxious!”

Bad smiles sadly at him. Tommy groans. Not this fucker as well. “Tommy, what exactly makes you anxious?” he asks, and Tommy blinks at him. Well, he hadn’t expected that. “When you’re anxious, is there usually something that sets it off? Like is there a specific sound, or maybe a sensation you don’t like?”

“Uh...I mean, I usually get anxious when there’s, like...rumbling? I don’t know if that makes any sense,” Tommy mutters, and Bad nods encouragingly. “Yeah, like—it’s sorta like the same feeling as an earthquake, like if someone’s coming up the stairs too loudly, if it shakes the floor, my hands get all shaky and—and I get anxious.”

“Is that the main thing? Anything else?” Bad asks, writing something down, and Tommy’s trying to think of what else it could be. At least Bad hasn’t been telling him he’s having panic attacks, because he’s not, some things just make him a little nervous.

Tommy hums. “There’s, um...if someone sneaks up on me, it makes me kind of paranoid and my heart beats super fast,” he says, leaving out the main bit of it; if The Sense notices someone coming, it warns him, and Tommy’s brain jumps right to thinking it’s gotta be a criminal, regardless of where he happens to be in the moment. “And if—sometimes when there’s a really loud bang, it’ll make me start hyperventilating n’ sh—stuff, and I’ll go all...weird. Like, I’ll feel like I’m out of my body for a second.”

Bad nods again, and he keeps writing. “And you said that these aren’t panic attacks,” he says, more like a statement than a question, and Tommy nods. They’re not. Bad hums. “Well, I’m not going to lie to you, Tommy, they sure sound a lot like panic attacks triggered by memories of and sensations similar to traumatic experiences.”

“They’re not,” Tommy insists, and Bad crosses his arms. “They’re not even that bad! I mean, yeah, sometimes it takes me, like, three hours to fully get over the anxiety, but it’s not—! I’m telling you, they’re not panic attacks!”

“Would you like to hear what the symptoms of a panic attack are?” Bad asks, and Tommy nods in defiance. He’ll point out that his anxiety isn’t nearly as bad, and then they’ll let him stop wasting all this time and money on therapy. “A racing heartbeat. Trembling. Nausea. Shortness of breath. Feelings of dread. A sensation akin to feeling disconnected from your body. Those are only some of them, granted, but that all sounds to me like what you’ve been describing.”

Ah.

So it would seem.

“No, they’re not, they can’t be, other people have actual panic attacks, those are worse, they have to have, like, days to come down from that shit, whatever I’m feeling isn’t—they’re not—I’m telling you, I…” Tommy trails off, swallowing hard. Bad just waits patiently, which Tommy appreciates. Normally, someone would’ve cut him off and told him he’s wrong by now. “They’re not panic attacks, I—they can’t be.”

“Well, other people might have a different experience with panic attacks, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that what you’re feeling is valid and real. You can think of it sort of like…if you’re sad that your favorite restaurant closed, and your friend is sad about failing a test, both of you are sad, just in different ways, right? So why can’t they be panic attacks?” Bad asks, and Tommy starts to feel like his throat’s gonna close up. Bad smiles gently at him. “You don’t have to answer right away, or at all if you don’t want to. Take your time, take a few deep breaths.”

Tommy does, because he’s not exactly in a position to argue about it right now. “They can’t be panic attacks,” Tommy says firmly, and Bad waits for him to elaborate. “If they’re panic attacks, that means...I just—I can’t take another thing happening to me, another thing that’s different about me, what do I do if I’m not me anymore?!”

Clutching at his jeans, Tommy tenses his shoulders up. Bad leans forward a little in his seat, brows furrowed. “You don’t feel like yourself?” he asks, and Tommy tries to stop his hands from shaking by gripping his knees harder.

“I know I’m me, I do, I just...I don’t want even more to change,” he chokes out, and Bad reaches into a mini-fridge to hand him a bottle of water. Tommy takes it gratefully and downs about half of it. As he screws the top back on, he glances up at Bad and smiles shakily. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be all...I shouldn’t dump all that out.”

“Tommy, it’s my job to listen to you, you’re allowed to talk about whatever you want, and we can work through it,” Bad says, a little confused tilt to his head as he smiles at Tommy. “There’s nothing to apologize for. This is a safe place to talk about how you feel. Nothing leaves this room unless you want it to, or unless I’m concerned about your safety or the safety of other people.”

Tommy hums. “Yeah, mandatory reporting, right?” he asks, and Bad looks slightly surprised as he nods. Tommy shrugs and takes another swig of water. “Tubbo’s aunt is a therapist—or, she’s about to be one, I guess, she’s still doing, like, the hours thing. She’s got all the same tricks you use.”

“Tricks?” Bad asks curiously, and Tommy just shrugs again. “I’m not trying to trick you into sharing anything  you don’t want to, Tommy. You don’t have to answer any questions you’re uncomfortable with, and if there’s ever a topic you don’t want to talk about just yet, you can let me know, and we’ll move on to something different. I’ll always do my best to respect any boundaries you put in place.”

Tommy blinks. Well, that’s odd. He’s not used to someone being so...thorough about talking to him and making sure he’s comfortable with it. Sure, his family’s great, but Techno hardly ever wants to talk about feelings, and Wilbur can be super pushy. Phil’s pretty easy to talk to, but he gives up the conversation as a whole pretty quickly if he senses Tommy doesn’t want to talk about one thing in particular. Kristin’s pretty good about it, but Tommy never wants to burden her, and that gets in the way a lot. Tubbo’s easiest to talk to, but sometimes he’s more focused on calling out Tommy’s bullshit than actually listening to him. Ranboo is really easily worried, as is Puffy, and Tommy always hates making them anxious.

So this...is nice.

It’s a good change of pace.

Maybe therapy’s not that bad.

*****

Chapter Text

Wilbur had been utterly shocked when Sally had offered to be his date to Quackity’s club.

She had confronted him after one of his classes, and he’d been a total mess as she’d smiled that pretty smile of hers and told him to pick her up at seven on Friday. It had made him so nervous for today that he’d smoked an entire pack and taken three showers to be rid completely of the smell. Now, here he is, driving his beloved car, with her in the passenger seat. Wilbur drums his fingers on the steering wheel anxiously and glances over at Sally; she gives him a soft smile, and his heart fucking leaps. He feels like a goddamned kid again when he’s with her.

“So...have you been to Quackity’s club before?” he asks as he pulls into a parking garage, and she nods, flipping down the mirror to adjust her lipstick. It’s a dusty pink color, and it makes her lips look really soft; Wilbur wonders what kind of gloss she’s wearing over it, it’s shiny but not sticky, and he should probably stop staring at her mouth now.

“Ready to go when you are, Soot,” she says, dark eyes twinkling, and Wilbur’s stomach flips as he hurries out to get her door for her. Grinning, Sally trails a hand over his shoulder—such a small touch shouldn’t make his skin feel this electric, but logic seems to evade him whenever Sally’s around. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?”

Wilbur’s grin is a bit more nervous than playful, but as Sally gently loops her arm into his, his shoulders lose a bit of their tension. “Well, of course! It’s only proper when one is enjoying the company of such a lovely lady,” he says, and she giggles, actually giggles! As he leads her down the street towards Las Nevadas—a stupid name for a club in Wilbur’s opinion, but he’s not going to voice that—Wilbur starts to ramble. “This is nice, y’know, the lights are really cool, even if the color scheme is a little typical, I mean—blue and gold? They’re such club colors , aren't they? Reminds me of the time Dad was rooting for this football team back when I was, like, eight, and Techno painted Tommy’s face with blue and gold, he had to sit in the bath for hours to scrub it all off. Not that that has anything to do with tonight, that’s, uh—I don’t know why I’m bringing this up, let’s go into the club, then—”

“Wilbur, relax,” Sally says softly, mirth lacing her voice, and Wilbur fucking melts at the way his name leaves her lips. She reaches up to brush a curl away from his eyes, and Wilbur feels positively divine. She then taps a finger to his nose and slips from his grasp, handing her cover charge over to the bouncer. Wilbur does the same, the hairs on his arm standing on end as she takes his hand and leads him inside.

“Have I told you that you look lovely, by the way? Because you do, you really look just…so fantastic,” Wilbur says, leaning close to her as the music gets too loud for normal conversation. And she does; Sally has on this beautiful, form-fitting pink dress—it’s got all these frills, they fall around her hips like she’s some kind of mermaid, it’s a perfect dress for dancing. Her hair’s different as well, now she’s got these really gorgeous golden cuffs in her braids that cast glittering spots of light like freckles on her face when the club lights hit them just right. “You look so lovely, Sally.”

Sally bites her bottom lip, her eyes dance across his face, and Wilbur starts to lean towards her, their fingers still intertwined. “Sally!” someone calls out, and the two of them turn to see Niki and Sam. Niki’s still waving, and she seems to notice Wilbur’s there too. “Oh! Hey, Wil! Come dance with us, y’know you want to!”

Sally’s hand lingers in his for a moment, but she gestures towards the bar, and Wilbur glances back at it. “Um, would you mind...would you grab us some drinks? I’m just gonna go and say hi,” she says, and Wilbur nods easily.

“Yeah, ’course, I’ve got it covered,” Wilbur says easily, and she gives arm a squeeze before moving through the crowd to get to Niki and Sam. Wilbur takes a few deep breaths—he’s really got to get this under control—and he heads over to the bar, handing his card over to the bartender and ordering two martinis. He sees a rather familiar head of pink hair, and he taps his brother on the shoulder. “Tech! What’re you doing here, man?!”

Techno lifts his beer bottle in acknowledgement, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else right now. Wilbur’s kind of surprised he’s here at all; Techno hates parties and he hates crowds, and he especially hates clubs, mostly because they’re a mixture of the two. “A friend recommended it,” he says, and Wilbur scoffs. “That, and Domino’s fired me.”

“That makes more sense. You’ve not got any friends,” Wilbur snorts, and Techno rolls his eyes, ordering the two of them some shots. Wilbur glances over to where Sally’s still happily chatting and swaying with Sam and Niki. “D’you think she’s into me? Like properly, I mean.”

“She asked you out, didn’t she? Congrats on that, by the way,” Techno says, and Wilbur clinks their shotglasses together as they both take a shot. Techno doesn’t react, the bastard, but Wilbur winces. This shit straight up tastes like arsenic. Techno smacks Wilbur’s chest with the back of his hand. “Fix your shirt collar, it’s sticking up.”

Wilbur hurries to adjust it. He doesn’t want to look like a moron in front of Sally, even though he’s semi-certain that ship has already sailed. “I look good, yeah?” he asks, gesturing to his outfit, and Techno raises a brow. Wilbur’s pretty sure he looks alright, can’t exactly go wrong with a button-down under a nice knit jumper and some slacks.

Shaking his head fondly, Techno tugs on Wilbur’s jumper. “Lose this, you look like you’re about to go to your eighth grade formal,” he says, and Wilbur whips it off, shoving it towards Techno as he desperately attempts to smooth his hair down. “You could do with undoin’ a couple of buttons, too. Don’t look so uptight.”

“I do not look uptight,” Wilbur protests, because he doesn’t. He’s not fucking uptight, he’s just the proper amount of nervous for this. This technically counts as a date, which means he’s got to play this right, or he risks totally fucking up his one chance with Sally.

Techno raises a brow at him.

Okay, so maybe he’s a little uptight about this.

“She’s gonna like you regardless, but it’d help if you didn’t look like a Sunday school teacher,” Techno says, and Wilbur scowls at him. After another sip of beer, Techno stares at him flatly and jerks his head towards Wilbur’s shirt. “Seriously, man. Lose some buttons.”

He hurriedly undoes a few, then does one back up when Techno gestures for him to. He takes another shot and rolls his shoulders. “Right. Right. I got this, I’m cool, I’m fuckin’ amazing, I’m gonna be so smooth, I’m—hey! Sally, you’re back!” Wilbur says, a hand behind his neck, and Sally grins at him. Their fingers brush ever-so-slightly as he goes to pass over her martini, and it feels like lightning. “So, did you want to—”

“Hey, miss, fancy a dance?” someone asks from behind them, and Sally turns, signature take-no-shit look on her face. There’s a guy there, and Wilbur thinks that the red and blue glasses are a...bold fashion choice, for lack of a better word. “Detective Jack Manifold, at your service, miss. A dance?”

“Oh, I don’t think…” Sally trails off, glancing at Wilbur, and he blinks. He doesn’t want to stop her from having fun, and it’s not as though he would mind her dancing with one of their friends, and it’s also not as though she’s going to suddenly ditch him for this guy.

He takes her martini. “You can go dance, if you’d like, I-I don’t mind,” he says, and Sally’s brows furrow. Wilbur looks over at the guy—the detective, he supposes—and grins. “Long as she’s okay with it, yeah?”

Sally gives him a small smile before taking the detective’s hand and following him out to the dance floor. Wilbur turns heel back to the bar and slips into the barstool next to Techno with a sigh. “Nice one, Casanova,” Techno snorts, and Wilbur flips him off. Techno leans away and mumbles something, but Wilbur’s too embarrassed to pry. “Why didn’t you just go dance with her, man?”

“I just need a little liquid courage, that’s all,” Wilbur says, ordering another shot and downing the rest of both his and Sally’s margaritas. Techno gives him a wary look, but Wilbur just ignores him. He’ll just have a few before he goes out there, it’ll be alright. Wilbur glances out at the dance floor, where Sally’s dancing with that Manifold guy. His hands are in her’s. “D’you think she likes him more than she likes me?”

Techno smacks him upside the head. “She just met him, dumbass. Don’t get jealous, she’ll be back any minute now,” Techno assures him, and Wilbur makes a face. “No more shots for you, alright? You’re being an idiot—yeah.”

Frowning, Wilbur shrugs him off. Sally’s still dancing with that guy, it’s been another song already, shouldn’t she be back? Well, in any case, Charlie’s just offered to dance with her, and she’s said yes, and now Wilbur’s pouting over his new cocktail. He looks over the crowd, wondering just how many of his coworkers are here.

There’s Sam and Niki, of course, who he’s already seen, and they’re dancing together by Fundy, who’s currently stepping stiffly side-to-side on his own. Wilbur thinks that guy’s a prick, mostly because he’d given Tommy a scolding in the staff room that one time. Then there’s Fran, dancing with Karl and...someone vaguely familiar that Wilbur can’t quite place. And there are other teachers, sure, but Wilbur’s not really close with many of them, despite having worked at the school for a good few years.

In any case, Wilbur’s still keeping an eye on Sally and Charlie. Not like he thinks Charlie’s interested in Sally, per se, but the guy’s an enigma. He can hardly tell what Charlie’s thinking half the time, and he addresses everyone so weirdly. Wilbur sighs again as Sally turns to Niki and says something that makes both her and Sam laugh uproariously.

Sam swaps places with Sally, and Wilbur frowns as Sally’s hands find their way to Niki’s waist, Niki’s arms around her shoulders. They’re all friends, really, and of course Sally’s more comfortable dancing with Niki than that Manifold guy. Wilbur doesn’t care that Sally’s forehead is touching Niki’s, really, he doesn’t. He couldn’t care less that they’re both grinning with their bodies pressed close together in the crowd.

Wilbur doesn’t have any claim or anything over Sally, she’s her own person, he knows that, he’s not going to get possessive for no reason because she’s dancing with their friends before she’s even had a single dance with him. And she’d even looked to him to make sure it’s alright, even though she’s not at all obligated to extend him that courtesy! This is just stupid. Wilbur takes another sip of his cocktail.

“You’re pouting,” Techno says, poking him in the cheek, and Wilbur smacks his hand away. He glares at him, and Techno gives him an easy grin. “You’re tryin’ to stare a hole in Niki’s head, man, chill out a little, and stop drinking. You don’t get confident when you drink past, like, three shots, you get stupid, sappy, and jealous.”

“I do not! Oh, you fuckin’ prick, I’ll—!” Wilbur cuts himself off as he sees Quackity approaching with a tall blonde woman on his arm, looking rather harried. Wilbur’s brow furrows, and he stands from the barstool, arms crossed. “Hello, Quackity.”

“Wilbur Soot! My good friend! I see your date’s with someone else at the moment,” Quackity says, and Wilbur glares at him. Quackity nudges the woman beside him forward, and she looks at Wilbur—looks into his fucking soul, Jesus—nose and mouth covered by a white mask. With a smile, Quackity ushers her forward towards Wilbur. “This is my other good friend, Mamacita. I think you two oughta spend a little time together. You’re gonna get along great, I just know it!”

The woman—Mamacita—remains stoic. Wilbur thinks she seems nice enough, but he doesn’t really want to dance with anyone other than Sally, who has apparently moved on to dancing with someone Wilbur vaguely remembers meeting before. “Uh, actually, I think I’m good staying by the bar,” he says, clapping a hand on Techno’s shoulder. “Just...chilling with my brother.”

Quackity smiles tensely, one hand still on the small of Mamacita’s back. “Right,” he says, dragging out the ‘i’ and giving Techno a short nod. “I think I saw you at the fundraiser. Great to meet you properly, man. Anyways, Wil, you really oughta dance! It’ll be fun!”

“I’m waiting for Sally, actually,” Wilbur says, giving Mamacita a polite smile. She just continues to stare at him stoically. It’s rather unnerving.

Tilting his head, Quackity’s smile turns a little malicious. “Well, she doesn’t really seem to be waiting for you, hm?” he says, eyes narrowed, and Wilbur’s jaw clenches. Quackity looks up at Mamacita and nods. “Right, well, I think Mamacita’s gonna stick around here for a bit, just in case you change your mind. Buy her a drink, be a gentleman, yeah?”

Wilbur gives Quackity a sardonic smile and scowls at his back as he leaves. Mamacita isn’t even sitting in a seat, just standing there with her arms crossed. In Wilbur’s opinion, she looks more like one of the bouncers than a patron. He wonders where the hell Quackity had managed to meet her.

Not one to be challenged, Wilbur turns to Mamacita and smiles. “Right, might as well, what’s your drink?” he asks, and Mamacita turns to the bartender and holds up three fingers. The bartender nods and pours three fingers of whiskey. She takes it, pulls down her mask, and downs it in one easy gulp. Christ, that’s intimidating.

Techno’s slipping off to some corner, and Sally is still dancing—now with another guy that’s weirdly familiar, and Wilbur pushes his empty cocktail glass away. “We should go and have a dance,” Mamacita says, her voice heavily accented with something similar to Russian, if Wilbur’s correct. She offers a hand to Wilbur, and he’s still trying to be polite, but he doesn’t want to dance. “Have a dance with me.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Wilbur says, turning back to look at Sally. She looks as though she’s having the time of her life, and she probably is—he knows she loves dancing. She’s damn good at it, too, and Wilbur feels invigorated just watching her. Sally’s hips move in ways Wilbur hadn’t even known was possible, and her arms are positively mesmerizing. Unfortunately, they’re around that detective guy again. Wilbur watches as she whispers something to him that makes him laugh, and he abruptly turns back to Mamacita. “Actually, I think I’ll take that dance.”

She nods once firmly and takes his hand, and he leads her out to the dance floor. Mamacita presses close to him—a little uncomfortably so, but Wilbur’s too busy watching Sally and the detective laughing and dancing together. Mamacita yanks at his hands and settles them on her hips, and Wilbur blinks.

“You are not very good at this,” Mamacita tells him, and Wilbur sighs, standing up straight and adjusting his posture so that he can actually try. He’s not a total dickhead, he’s not going to ruin Mamacita’s night just because he’s bitter that she’s not Sally. He gets into step with her, and Mamacita grabs him by the waist and pulls him close. “If you are trying to make her jealous in a weak attempt at peacocking, you are doing poorly.”

Wilbur blinks, eyes wide. “How did you…?” he trails off, but Mamacita doesn’t answer. Instead, she keeps dancing with him, and Wilbur struggles to keep up. The rhythm is a little difficult to get into, but he’s starting to get the hang of things.

He keeps looking over at Sally, but she isn’t even looking at him. Not that he blames her, of course, she’s having fun and there’s nothing wrong with that. “You move us closer. Show her you are having a good time without her,” Mamacita says, and Wilbur’s starting to find her nickname a little ill-fitting the more her Russian accent is on display.

But he has to admit, she’s kind of got a point, so he moves the two of them a fair bit closer to where Sally has changed dance partners to Fran. “You’re a really good dancer!” Wilbur says, loud enough to be heard above the blasting music, and Mamacita’s eyes narrow slightly. He can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it does make Sally glance at them.

Then, Wilbur spots a blur of pink out of the corner of his eye, and he looks over to see Techno being ushered onto the dancefloor by Quackity. His brother stumbles his way right into Sally’s arms, and she promptly lights up, taking hold of his hands and pulling him into a dance. Wilbur’s eyes narrow. Techno hates dancing.

It’s very obvious that Techno’s uncomfortable as Sally leads, and Wilbur scowls at him. As if Techno can sense that Wilbur’s looking at him, his shoulders go up by his ears. Sally dips him, tilting her head back as she laughs, and Wilbur looks down at Techno’s upside-down face, glaring. Techno gives him an apologetic smile and is promptly yanked back up by Sally, who gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. Techno deals with a few more minutes of dancing before he’s shying away, apologizing to Sally and disappearing into the crowd again.

Sally just shrugs and turns back to Niki. “Are you enjoying dancing with me?” Mamacita asks, and Wilbur nods, grinning nervously as Sally looks towards them again, and he wraps his arms around Mamacita’s shoulders. She looks vaguely surprised, but she rolls with it, at least until her phone buzzes; they’re so close together that Wilbur can feel it himself. She abruptly drops her hold on him and turns to leave. “I must go. Goodbye.”

And thus, Wilbur is stranded in the middle of the dance floor, alone.

Charlie and Fundy seem to have disappeared from the floor as well, and Wilbur slinks back over to the bar in hopes of downing a few more shots. To his surprise, he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. “Wilbur? Is that you?” someone asks, and Wilbur’s slightly surprised to find himself face-to-face with one of the guys that Sally had been dancing with.

“Sorry, do I...do I know you?” Wilbur asks, and the guy nods, looking at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind, which Wilbur finds a little rude, actually. He’s perfectly sane, thank you very much. “You look familiar, I’m sorry, I’m a little—just a wee bit tipsy, y’know?”

The guy chuckles. “Yeah, man, I know, it’s really easy to tell. I’m Sapnap. Your dad works for me, remember?” he says, and Wilbur’s eyes widen in recognition as he nods. Sapnap claps him on the back and leads him towards the dancefloor again. “Yeah, there he is, buddy! Hey, c’mon, I wanna get back to hangin’ with Karl, come join us!”

Well, Wilbur doesn’t exactly have any other plans, so he shrugs and walks over with Sapnap to where Karl and Sam are. “Oh, Wilbur’s here!” Sam cheers, louder than normal, and Wilbur laughs, leaning on his shoulder. “You should've seen us, man! Sally showed me and Niki how to dance! Where were you?”

“Mostly over at the bar, but Big Q introduced me to his friend, she’s really weird, we danced for a while,” Wilbur says, and Sapnap moves over to stand next to Karl, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Wilbur pokes Karl in the chest. “Get this, Techno was at the bar.”

Sapnap’s brows furrow. “Your brother was here? Why the hell was he here?” he asks, and Wilbur thinks that that’s a rather interrogative tone for such a casual conversation. And he doesn’t know why Techno had been here, so he shrugs.

“Anyways, where’s Sally?” Wilbur asks, and Sam gestures to the dance floor, where Sally, Niki, and that detective from earlier are all dancing together. “Christ, that woman can dance. Not with me, apparently, but I guess that doesn’t matter.”

Snorting, Sapnap shoves at his shoulder. “Damn, dude, why’ve you got a stick up your ass?” he jokes, and Wilbur makes a face at him. Sapnap leans closer to Karl, who is very focused on his drink. “Tonight is about fun, man! Everyone’s just having a good time.”

“You certainly seem to be having fun,” Sam says, winking at Karl, who swats at his arm and rolls his eyes. Sam downs a shot from a tray that’s just passed them, and he gives them all a brief wave. “Okay, well, I’m going to go have fun and dance. Bye!”

They all chorus some farewells, and Wilbur nods his head to the beat of the music. “So, you came here with Sally?” Karl asks, and Wilbur nods again, scowling. Karl’s easy grin falters slightly, but he’s still smiling nonetheless. “Why aren’t you dancing with her? Go on! Go!”

Karl breaks away from Sapnaps hold and practically ushers Wilbur towards the dance floor, and Wilbur groans. He bumps into a few people, apologizing along the way, until he finally finds himself in front of Sally, who blinks at him, pleasantly surprised.

God, she’s so ethereal.

Her hair, her nails, her makeup, all elaborately done up. Everything about her is just incredible. Wilbur finds himself entranced in her eyes, reflective of the multicolored lights being cycled through, and he gently reaches out to take her hand. “May I...have this dance, my fair lady?” he asks, and Sally looks amused. Well, now he’s a little embarrassed. “Look, I’m drunk out my arse, Sals, you’re gonna have to work with me here.”

Sally’s face falls a little at that. “You’re proper wasted, aren’t you?” she asks, and Wilbur wonders why she sounds so crestfallen. She steps back, and her hand falls from Wilbur’s grasp. He misses the contact dreadfully, and he goes back to reach for her again, only to fall short as Sally steps back once more. “Wil, I thought you agreed to be my date because you wanted to spend time with me, not because you wanted an excuse to drink yourself through yet another fucking party.”

At that, Wilbur’s brain short-circuits slightly. “Wh—Sally, what are you on about? Of course I want to spend time with you,” he says, and she sighs, waving off Niki’s concern when she comes over to make sure everything’s alright. Wilbur gives her an uneasy smile. “Please, just give me one dance, I promise I’m here for you, okay?”

She hesitates, but Sally’s hand finds its way into Wilbur’s again, and he lights up at the positively electric touch. The song is fairly upbeat, and Sally seems reluctant to even be dancing with him, which just won’t do at all. Wilbur tries to loosen himself up a bit, because he’s admittedly really nervous, and he gives up on trying to look cool entirely.

He can see Sally trying to fight off a smile, so he just keeps dancing as badly as he possibly can, and she’s full on laughing pretty soon. Wilbur’s arms are practically noodles, and he bites his bottom lip in concentration as he shifts his shoulders up and down alternatively, stepping side to side in what’s very likely not the actual rhythm of the song.

“You look ridiculous,” Sally says, and Wilbur swears her smile is more radiant than any of the shitty lights in this godforsaken club. As Wilbur continues his antics, if only to draw more laughs from her, Sally grabs his wrists and pulls him close, trapping his arms between the two of them. “Let me show you how to properly dance.”

She takes his hands gently—so fucking gently, Wilbur might die—and guides him to where his back is pressed against her front, and Wilbur makes a silent prayer that his legs will not, in fact, turn to jelly, as they tend to do when he’s around her. Sally puts her hands on his hips and sways her own slowly, though still in line with the beat, and Wilbur can feel his heart pounding in his chest as she puts the slightest of pressure on his hips to guide him to follow her own.

Sally is his favorite melody, Wilbur thinks. Her hands are like a crescendo, building up the energy in his body until he finally feels loud, until he feels like he could do anything. That sparkle ever-present in her eyes makes him feel as soft as the whisper of a flute. She's bright and upbeat, a perfect counter to his bittersweet melancholy. Wilbur wants to be her perfect harmony, wants to be the one to compliment her very being. Being with her gives him the same feeling as strumming a guitar once you’ve finally got it in tune, or when the resonance of a piano hits just right.

And she’s absolutely delightful. Sally’s always the life of the party; even in a shitty staffroom, she can make the entire place light up with her smile. She’s incredibly intelligent and fucking witty, she can make Wilbur struggle to keep up and make him laugh in the same breath. The stories she tells are captivating, and her way of speaking is so genuinely enjoyable that Wilbur thinks he could listen to her forever and never tire of it. Everything about her is goddamn diaphanous, and Wilbur is Orpheus chasing after Eurydice.

God, he is so fucking screwed.

“Like this?” he asks, praying he’s not as red in the face as he feels, and he tries his hardest to copy her movements, though that’s incredibly difficult with what little drunken coordination he has left. Sally giggles.

“No, it’s more like...this,” she murmurs, and Wilbur’s going to die a happy man. Sally’s heels make her just taller than him, and Wilbur tilts his head back slightly so that his curls brush against her neck. He can feel her breath hitch slightly behind him, and it sends his tipsy brain through a loop to realize that he might have the same effect on her as she does on him. “You’ve almost got it, love, just keep with the rhythm.”

At that, Wilbur huffs out a laugh, flipping off Niki as she raises her brows at the two of them, but he quickly puts his hands back over Sally’s. “I’ve got no rhythm, not when it comes to dancing, might have to guide me a little more,” he says, tilting his head back far enough that his breath ghosts over Sally’s jawline.

She pulls away abruptly, hands still on his hips but a sudden distance between them. “You smell like booze,” she says, almost too quiet for him to hear, and Wilbur turns around in her hold, brows furrowed. “Wil...I don’t care if you drink, but I do care if you have to be completely wasted in order for us to have a goddamn conversation, let alone a good time.”

“Wh—Sally, of course I don’t have to—I’m just...I get nervous around you,” Wilbur says, and Sally sighs. Wilbur takes her hands properly, stepping closer. “I’m sorry, I just...I got nervous and I wanted to be more—I dunno, I wanted to feel more confident! You’re so strong and smart, and so, so pretty, I feel like...I feel like if I’m too boring o-or too quiet, you’re not gonna like me.”

“Wilbur, I like you,” Sally says, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. Holy shit, that’s the best fucking feeling in the entire world. He leans into the touch, and she smiles gently, then it shifts to something sad. “I really like you. You’re a good guy, you just...you have to get your head out of your ass, mate.”

Completely taken aback, Wilbur scoffs. “Pardon?” he asks, and Sally gives him a flat look. He doesn’t know whether to find it irritating or hot that she’s looking down at him. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t quite...I don’t know what you mean.”

Sally looks away. “Nevermind,” she mumbles, and Wilbur’s got half a mind to tell her to explain herself, but another song comes on, and she lights up. “Oh, this is my favorite! Come dance with me, we’ll talk about this another time!”

While Wilbur is rather tempted to pursue the topic, this song is, in fact, an absolute fucking banger.

So he follows Sally out into the middle of the floor and follows her lead, happily letting Niki, Sam, Karl, and Sapnap form a bit of a circle with them. Wilbur’s chest feels as though it’s glowing, and he takes Niki by the hand, twirling her around. Sapnap cheers, and Karl pulls Sam into a mock-waltz.

Everything is absolutely incredible, and while Wilbur can’t stand the guy, he’s got to hand it to Quackity. He’d put together this night, after all, and it’s been ridiculously good, other than the momentary spat with Sally. Wilbur’s honestly quite surprised the club is as nice as it is; when Quackity had invited the lot of them, Wilbur had assumed that Las Nevadas wouldn’t be as big a deal of it is. Then again, he hardly knows anything about the London club scene.

As he watches Sally pull Sapnap into an awkward imitation of a Charleston, Wilbur laughs and leans half on Sam, who’s trying to bring Niki into his and Karl’s weird dance that Wilbur is ninety-nine percent sure he’s seen on Tik Tok before. This is absolutely amazing, it’s so much fucking fun, way more fun than their usual bowling nights and board game fiascos. Wilbur wonders why they haven’t done this sooner.

And then everything cuts out, and they’re all shrouded in darkness. Several people start screaming, Wilbur included.

*****

Chapter Text

Tommy still doesn’t know how Tubbo had gotten Techno to agree to this harebrained scheme of cataclysmically stupid proportions. He’s fairly certain it has something to do with blackmail, but he can’t be bothered to ask. Tubbo had sat the both of them down to debrief, saying something about a weapons deal going down in the basement of Big Q’s club, and that they couldn’t let these fuckers ruin Quackity’s business, which Tommy completely agrees with.

So, here he is, crawling through a dusty ass vent and listening to Techno mumble his complaints about having to sit at a crowded bar. “You’re our eyes on the ground, quit whining!” Tubbo tells him firmly, and Tommy rolls his eyes, making a face when the vent gets a little narrower and he has to pinch his shoulders together to shimmy through it. “Right, Techno, have you seen anything unusual yet? Any shady fucks roamin’ around?”

“Obviously not,” Techno snorts quietly, and Tommy narrows his eyes and strains to listen to the room below him. There’s some noise, but it’s definitely not the place they’re looking for, so he keeps moving. “This earpiece is so uncomfortable—shoot, Wil’s here. I’m gonna have to talk to him, mute me.”

“On it!” Tubbo chirps, and Techno’s end of things goes silent. The comms are a lot less loud now, thankfully. Tommy keeps moving forward, stopping to check each vent as he goes along, just in case they’d moved the deal location at the last second. “So, I’m seeing a few people down in the basement on the cameras, but I don’t think it’s any of our guys.”

Tommy hums and takes a right, squinting down into the room below him. Damn, another supply closet. “God, is there a fucking night vision setting or something?” Tommy mutters, and Tubbo scoffs at him.

“Of course there’s a night vision setting, but it’s for emergencies only. It takes up a whole lot of battery power, and I can only afford so much,” Tubbo tells him, and Tommy huffs. Fair enough, he supposes. These vents are still annoying, though. “Techno, everything good up on the surface?”

“—being an idiot—yeah,” Techno says, and his end goes silent again. Tommy keeps looking down into basement rooms, and Tubbo keeps clicking rhythmically, presumably looking at different security cameras. Tommy’s still vaguely impressed that he had managed to hack into the system. After a couple more minutes, Techno unmutes himself—Tommy stifles a laugh at the mental image of his brother tapping twice on his earpiece like he’s in a spy movie. “Alright, Quackity’s actin’ weird. He brought some lady over to Wilbur and tried really hard to convince them to dance, I think he doesn’t want anybody by the bar.”

Tubbo makes a vaguely confused sound, and Tommy nods in agreement. That doesn’t really make any sense. “Why wouldn’t he want to make money? You’re not making any sense here, Blade,” Tubbo says, and Techno sighs in frustration. Tommy would chime in with a similar argument to back him up, but he’s got to keep quiet.

“I don’t know, I’m just tellin’ you what I’m seeing,” Techno says through gritted teeth, and Tommy peers into the room below him, vaguely surprised to see a ton of storage that definitely doesn’t look like a place you’d store drinks or food in. “Dammit, Quackity’s comin’ my way, mute me again.”

Tubbo does not, in fact, mute Techno. “Now you’ve got me doubting Big Q, so we’re gonna listen in,” he grumbles, and Techno makes a short noise of protest, but he quickly quiets himself as there are footsteps approaching him.

Tommy tries his hardest not to laugh as Techno greets Quackity with a hello so strained it sounds like he’s gonna explode. “Ay, Techno, right? You oughta dance! At least try to have a good time, man,” Quackity says, and Tommy finds it really odd to hear a conversation happening over the comms. He’s only ever talked to Tubbo, and the most he’s heard is Tubbo yelling in response to Puffy calling for him.

“Oh, uh, I don’t—yeah, I don’t dance, man,” Techno says, and Tommy snickers. He carefully starts to take the vent out from under him, carefully wrenching it from its place with his superstrength; he doesn’t exactly have a screwdriver on him, he just hopes Quackity doesn’t mind replacing a grate.

“C’mon, everybody’s dancing! You oughta go keep your brother company,” Quackity says, with a little more urgency this time, and The Sense goes off a little as Tommy drops quietly into the storage room. Techno starts to stutter, and there are footsteps, and Tommy’s eyes go wide. Is Quackity fucking frog-marching Techno to the dance floor or some shit?! “There you go, have a dance! I’m sure Sally won’t mind.”

“Help me,” Techno hisses under his breath, and Tubbo bursts out laughing. Tommy tries his damn hardest not to laugh, lest he alert anyone potentially guarding the door. “Hey, Sally. I’m, uh...I’m Wilbur’s brother. Techno.”

Thankfully, Tubbo has the mercy to mute Techno, and Tommy is not forced to sit through his brother’s stilted attempts at small talk while dancing. “Right, I can see you on the cameras, but I’m wiping over the footage as we speak so don’t worry. What’s in those boxes?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy pries one of the tops off, eyes widening at the sheer amount of firearms in it. “Oh, shit.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?!” Tommy whispers frantically, putting the lid back on the box and scrambling back into the vent as The Sense starts to push at the back of his mind, and there are footsteps approaching not even thirty seconds after he’s hidden himself back in the vents. “What the fuck, why the fuck are there so many guns?!”

“I don’t fucking know, I didn’t think there’d be that many!” Tubbo tells him, equally as frazzled, and his typing starts up. Techno is still muted, and Tommy watches with wide eyes as a few figures make their way into the rooms.

It’s a tall, muscular woman he’s never seen before, accompanied by Vos and someone else that Tommy hasn’t seen before. The woman has a mask, as does the person Tommy’s not seen before, and, of course, Vos has his stupid fox mask on. “Top two boxes. We will take them down to the power room, Boss will meet us there,” the woman says, voice thick with a Russian accent, and Tommy watches as Vos picks up the box on the left, the other guy heading for the box on the right. “Good. Follow me.”

She leads them out, and Tommy can hear Tubbo’s rhythmic clicking start up again. “The power room should be three to your left and straight down, the vent is directly above the generator,” he says, and Tommy heads straight there as fast as he can. “It’ll take them much longer to get down there, you’ve got time to take Boss out.”

Tommy nods firmly and creeps out of the vent above the generator, sticking to the ceiling and glancing out over the array of panels and fuse boxes. This place is fucking eerie. Why the hell does he always fight Boss in scary-ass places?! In any case, Boss is right fucking below him, which is objectively terrifying.

He’s gotten an upgrade from the—presumably stolen—volunteer outfit and mask from the carnival. He’s dressed like a goddamned mob boss straight out of a cheesy American movie, and his mask has LED’s where his mouth should be. Tommy wonders if he can actually talk out of that thing, and if the expression on it, a creepy ass pixelated smile, matches Boss’s face.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Boss mutters, tapping his foot impatiently, and Tommy goes pale at the sight of some powerful-looking boots. They’ve got to at least be steel-toed, and that shit’s gonna hurt. “C’mon, c’mon...I haven’t got all damn day, just get the shit from the bar down here.”

Oh, so they’re taking things from the bar as well? That gives Tommy loads more time. “What are you waiting for?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy closes his eyes in frustration as Boss straightens up at the slight noise.

Tommy flips himself down, firing a web off at Boss’s mask and tugging, but it doesn’t move. Boss grabs the web with his gauntlet and rips it off of his face. So Tommy’s webs don’t stick on Boss’s gauntlet. Good to know. “I should’ve known you’d come to ruin the fun,” Boss says, and the LED mask flashes to a menacing-looking grin, at least by pixelated standards. “Let’s dance, Spidey.”

“Gotta say, not really a fan of supervillains giving me nicknames,” Tommy says, dodging Boss’s first punch and using two webs to propel himself forward and kick Boss into one of the fuse panels. Yikes. At least that doesn’t seem to have done any terrible damage.

Boss recovers quickly and reaches out to grab him; Tommy just barely dodges, and he throws a jab of his own, connecting with Boss’s jaw. He shudders— ‘his jaw just fucking unhinged’ —and stumbles back as Boss sends a shock of indigo lightning his way. Thankfully, he and Tubbo had planned for this, and Tommy only feels a minimal amount of static due to the rubber lining between the layers of his suit.

That same manic pixel grin on his mask, Boss sends an even bigger shock towards him, but The Sense warns Tommy in time, and he dives out of the way. The electricity hits another fuse panel, and the lights flicker briefly. “I’d really love it if you’d stay out of my way,” Boss growls, and Tommy dodges another couple of punches. Fighting Boss tends to keep him on the defensive; it isn’t really an option to throw punches when he’s constantly dodging lightning. “You and I want the same thing, Spider-Man! I’m helping the community!”

“Huh? Really, now! All the guns and stolen goods sure do give off the wrong impression!” Tommy says as he jumps back, narrowly avoiding an electrically-charged punch, and Boss laughs. God, this guy is fucking weird.

They exchange a good few blows, and Tommy feels vaguely dazed from all the electricity. He’s quickly being pushed towards the wall with the generator again, and as he skids to a stop right in front of it, Boss rolls his shoulders. “C’mon, kid, give it up. You can’t win against lightning,” Boss says, and the grin gets somehow more menacing.

“Oh, really? Because it seems like your shocks aren’t really doing much,” Tommy lies through his teeth, and the LED grin twitches. There it is. Tommy can provoke him—Boss is almost as temperamental as Blaze, and that’s saying something—and hopefully let him knock himself out with the force of his electricity paired with the generator. “Yeah, that’s right, your shocks are fuckin’ weaksauce, man! Turn it up a few notches, give me a real challenge!”

Boss laughs mirthlessly and the gauntlet fucking whirs, a whirlwind of indigo lightning swirling around Boss’s arm. He charges forward, and Tommy faux-braces himself as the hairs on his body stand on end with the force of the static in the air, dodging out of the way just as he can see the individual pixels of Boss’s mask.

The gauntlet connects with the generator, and everything goes pitch fucking black.

Thank fuck for Tubbo’s emergency night vision feature.

“What the fuck happened?! What the hell is happening?!” Boss shouts, and something crackles, then there’s quiet mumbling. Telltale sign of comms. Tommy backs away from Boss slowly as the villain attempts to wrench his arm out of the wreckage. “A blackout?! What the fuck do you mean a blackout?!”

Tommy takes that as his cue to leave. He dashes up the stairs and finds himself immediately jostled in a crowd. Presumably, this is the dance floor. Tommy leaps onto the ceiling; he highly suspects he’s the only one that can see as of right now, and the crowd is pushing against each other in a terrified attempt to get to the doors. It's pretty intense; Tommy should probably try to pry the doors open before a stampede starts. He doesn't want anybody to get trampled.

“Help me get these doors open!” he hears Techno shout from the front, and sure enough, his brother is trying to pry them open himself. God, this must be hell for Techno, being pushed up against a bunch of strangers in a crowded club.

“Yeah, somebody open the fuckin’ doors already, screw the security protocol!” someone else shouts, and Tommy quickly makes his way to the front, hanging down from the ceiling and bracing himself. He shoulders the door open, and the crowd starts to pour out onto the street, panicked yells for dates and friends, shrieks of terror because—oh shit, the power’s out.

The power is out everywhere.

Tommy swings past, huffing in annoyance as Boss, Vos, that other guy, and the woman from earlier pile into a car and start driving off. “Hive, are you still on?” he asks, glancing down at the crowd for Techno, who’s currently walking towards where he’d presumably parked his car.

There’s no answer. Shit, had the power been taken out that far away? Tommy frowns. “Sapnap? Are you there?” Karl calls out, and Tommy blinks in surprise.

“Sally!” Wilbur shouts from down the street, and Tommy glances at the crowd, only to see Sally calling Wilbur’s name from the opposite direction. “Sally, I can’t find you!”

Niki glances around worriedly near the entrance. “Sam? Jack? Where the hell did you go?!” she asks, raising her voice.

Sally’s still calling out for Wilbur. “Wil, are you safe?!” she cries out. “Where are you?!”

“Karl, are you there?!” someone—Sapnap, to be precise—yells, and Tommy sighs. He’ll have to trust that the crowd sorts themselves out, he has a bad guy to chase.

He swings in the direction of Tubbo’s street, because he wants to see if they can get the generator working, but his night vision is quickly flickering in and out of focus. Shit, the battery must really be drained by it. He can see better than most people in the dark, but it’s as if the entirety of London has gone completely dark. Tommy swings to an alley nearby, and there’s a click from his comms. “Tommy! I’ve got my phone charged, thank fuck, is your night vision still activated?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy groans. There’s the sound of a front door opening, and Tubbo makes a startled kind of sound. “Ranboo! Are you alright?”

“Yeah, are you?” Ranboo asks, and Tommy really doesn’t have time for this. He gets closer to Tubbo’s house; it’s embarrassing to be going on foot, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice at the moment. “Oh, shoot, are you on with—you’re on call with him?”

“I am, I’m gonna see if I can send up some flares and fireworks so he can see properly,” Tubbo says, and Tommy curses under his breath. Until the emergency lights come on, that is technically their best option, but that doesn’t stop Ranboo from frantically questioning Tubbo on where he’s acquired military-grade flares. “They’re from Puffy’s navy days, don’t worry about it, let’s go—oh, fuck, what the hell are you doing here?!”

Tommy peeks around the edge of a house, and Tubbo’s standing in the middle of the street with a nondescript box, Ranboo at his side and Purpled in front of them. “Let me help,” Purpled says flatly, and Tubbo visibly struggles with himself for a moment before putting the box down and handing Ranboo and Purpled a bundle of flares and fireworks each.

Tubbo glances over to where Tommy is, giving him a discreet thumbs-up before setting off the first couple, pushing Ranboo and Purpled back. The fireworks and flares explode in the sky, and Tommy can fucking see, and he dashes off as Tubbo sends a flare bundle in the direction of the club, lighting up the area.

Tommy takes off and looks for the car Boss had taken off in, spotting it as it weaves through other cars on the street. “Well, somebody’s in a fuckin’ hurry,” he grumbles, and Tubbo laughs, startling him. He’d forgotten Tubbo can hear him now. “Hive, any chance you can track him down?”

“Not without my PC, and our emergency generator is ridiculously hard to turn on, it’s gonna take me a while if I don’t have someone strong to get it working,” Tubbo says, and Tommy swears under his breath, following the car down another street. “Oh, fuck, hang on guys, I’m gonna take this back to mine, keep setting off the bundles!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then the sound of another person patching in. “What the hell just happened?!” Techno demands, and Tommy barks out a laugh. Tubbo’s still going up the stairs, evidently, and Tommy just keeps following the car under the light of the flares and fireworks, though they’re growing distant by the minute.

He really hopes the emergency lights get turned on soon.

“Techno, can you make it to mine? I need our generator to help Tommy track down Boss and the others,” Tubbo says, and there’s the screeching of wheels from Techno’s end. Tommy supposes that’s a yes. “Okay, Tommy, where are they right now?”

“They’re turning down fourth, I can barely fuckin’ see them, though,” he says, and Tubbo groans as Techno’s engine fucking roars. “How far are you from Tubbo’s, Tech?”

Huffing, Techno turns, and the wheels screech again. “A minute, tops,” he says, and both Tubbo and Tommy let out a sigh of relief at that. There’s an abrupt squeak again, then a click. Techno’s parked. “Your generator’s in the garage, yeah?”

Tommy perches atop a building as the car comes to a stop in front of one of the abandoned buildings. Boss gets out, and then the car speeds the hell off again. “Yeah, it is,” Tubbo answers, and there’s the telltale groaning of metal as Techno forces the garage door open, and then a sound akin to revving up a lawnmower. “Fuck yeah! It’s working! Tommy, I’m gonna try to tune into their comms!”

“Sounds good to me,” Tommy says, swinging over to the building Boss is currently in, and there’s a few scrambled-static noises mixed with a panicked call from a girl to, presumably, her mother, someone yelling in Spanish, and then Russian. “That’s the one! The big lady, she was Russian! That’s gotta be it!”

“Right, I’m on the translation,” Tubbo says, and Tommy hears his bedroom door bang open through the receiver. “Oh, hey, come sit, see if you can get—aha! They turned the emergency lights on, that means security cameras throughout the city are working, cycle through those, Techno.”

There’s a light laugh—Techno is evidently sitting with Tubbo. “On it. Lemme see if I can find those idiots,” he mumbles, and Tommy squints at the door, only slightly surprised when Shroud starts to whir and form beside him. “You...gave a drone headlights?”

Sure enough, Shroud’s little red eyes are glowing, enough to light up the door as Boss bursts through, and Tommy barely has time to jump back to the edge of the roof as he throws an electric punch. Shroud starts to fire—thanks, Tubbo—and Boss jumps back, blocking the rubber bullets with his gauntlet.

Tommy takes the initiative to charge at Boss while he’s preoccupied, and he grabs Boss by the shoulders, shoving the both of them hard, right through the door to the roof. Boss grabs right back and shoves the two of them through the drywall, and they start to fall, exchanging blows as they start to hurtle towards the ground.

Boss grabs him by the wrist and fucking throws Tommy into the air, and he pushes off another abandoned building. Ah, so that’s the point of the boots. He propels forward, and he and Tommy are grappling in midair again, lit up by the fireworks and flares continuing to go off on the horizon. Tommy gets a good hit in on Boss’s face, and Boss elbows his stomach, sending him flying backwards.

Tommy’s back slams into the side of another building, and he just barely catches himself, stuck to the side of the wall. Boss digs his boots into the brick of an adjacent one, and he’s launching himself towards Tommy almost before he can react. Tommy swings out of the way, then propels forward with the two-web trick, his foot connecting with Boss’s chest and sending him through the already-shattered window of one of the buildings.

Steadying himself on the roof of the neighboring building, Tommy shakes out his limbs. God, Boss really isn’t holding back on the electricity front. “Tommy, are you alright?!” Tubbo asks, and Tommy nods. “Okay, I’m still running that Russian through translators, but I think they’re talking about taking the weapons to a secondary location!”

There’s the noise of a helicopter, and Tommy groans as Boss appears in the window again. He doesn’t mind doing interviews, but if the news could fuck off for a little, especially considering they’re probably running off emergency electricity, that’d be great. “Oi, Boss!” Tommy calls, hands cupped around his mouth, and Boss brushes some debris from his shoulder. “You gonna come fight me or what?!”

“Just you wait, Spider-Man!” Boss shouts, and his boots press into the brick with the force of the jump, and Tommy meets him in the sky, blocking the punches as fast as Boss throws them. If he can subdue Boss, he can go get those weapons. Boss snarls and grabs his face with the hand not equipped with the gauntlet, and Tommy knees him in the stomach as they topple into another building, breaking through the brick.

“If you could just give up, that would make my job so much easier,” Tommy huffs, getting into a defensive stance, and Boss laughs. He dashes forward, and Tommy grabs his fist with one hand, swinging his leg out at the back of Boss’s knees. Boss jumps back, and Tommy glares at him, chest heaving. “Fun fact! There are ways to help your community out without an illegal firearms ring, man!”

Boss chuckles sardonically, then dashes forward, grabbing Tommy around the middle and tackling the two of them through yet another fucking wall. Tommy grapples with him for a moment before freeing himself of Boss’s grasp, and he swings up onto the roof of the building they’d just been in.

He’s got company not even a moment later, Boss stalking towards him on the rooftop. “If there were another way, I’d take it, my friend,” he says, and his arm jerks as the gauntlet powers on, an enormous ripple of violet lightning emitting from it. The force of it makes Tommy throw his arms in front of him to block his face on instinct. “Last chance to mind your business, kid! I’d hate to see you on tomorrow morning’s news in a body bag!”

“If you come home in a body bag, I’ll kill you,” Techno says, and Tommy snorts. This, however, enrages Boss, and he starts walking towards Tommy, the static in the air pulsing with each step he takes. “No matter what happens, if you get knocked down, you get the hell back up again, you hear me? This guy’s nothin’ without his gadgets.”

Tommy squares his shoulders as Boss’s pace picks up, and as Boss reaches out to grab him, Tommy dives backwards off of the roof, grinning when Boss dives right down after him. “Fancy seeing you here! Take swan dives off of abandoned buildings often?” Tommy asks, and he thwips out a web towards the two adjacent buildings, waiting until they get tense—right as the hood of his sweatshirt grazes the ground—to slingshot himself towards Boss and send a kick right to his chest. That strategy really never fails.

Boss starts to be thrown back by the force of it, but he grabs Tommy’s ankle at the last second and throws him into yet another building. Tommy’s getting real sick and tired of being tossed around like a baseball. Tommy stands, sways, and dusts himself off. Boss dashes towards him, and Tommy jumps out and away to another building.

How the hell is he meant to outmaneuver Boss?! The guy’s absolutely insane! “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Boss shouts, and Tommy squares his shoulders. He’s really not sure if the rubber layer will be enough to counteract the sheer voltage of the still-building lightning, and he doesn’t exactly want to find out.

Again, Boss makes the first move, and Tommy dodges and weaves between punches, trying his hardest to ignore the way the flashing lights from the fireworks getting closer start to irritate his vision. Tommy tries to sweep Boss’s legs out from under him, but he misses, and Boss kicks him straight through another wall.

Christ, those boots pack a fucking punch. “C’mon, Tommy, c’mon...” Techno mutters, and Tommy’s pretty sure he hadn’t been meant to hear that, but it fuels him anyway.

He swings onto another roof and waits for Boss to follow, which, of course, the bastard does, thinking he’s going to win this. Tommy takes a few deep breaths before charging forward and leaping into the air, Boss doing the same.

As Boss throws his electrified gauntlet forward in a punch, Tommy catches it with both hands and holds it there. “What the hell are you doing?!” Tubbo shouts, and Tommy grimaces as the lightning surrounds his body, sending shockwaves up both his arms.

But he refuses to let go. If he manages to get Boss to expel enough power, the gauntlet might misfire on him and give Tommy the advantage. So Tommy keeps both hands firmly stuck to the gauntlet as Boss tries to get him off, the two of them tumbling through the air. The indigo light turns a violent white-purple, and Boss’s mask starts to glitch as the electricity around them pulses and crackles.

They’re going down in a hurtle of light, and while Tommy can fucking feel his nerves patching themselves back together with every slip of static that gets past the insulation, he’s still not letting go. The gauntlet starts to whir, and Boss’s attempts to free himself from Tommy’s grasp start to grow desperate, and Tommy pushes the two of them forward, towards the ground.

“Tommy, let it go, your vitals are goin’ crazy!” Techno says, sounding as panicked as Techno’s ever sounded, but Tommy just squeezes his eyes shut and braces for impact.

This’ll take Boss out, at the very least, and if Tommy manages to pull himself out and away in time, he can still go after the firearms. “What the fuck are you doing?!” Boss shouts, even more panicked than Techno and Tubbo’s frantic yelling going off on the comms. “Let go! You’re gonna get us both killed!”

Tommy hesitates, and for a brief moment, his hands slip from the gauntlet.

Unfortunately, this happens at the same moment the two of them hit the ground, and Tommy is immediately propelled back by the enormous shockwave that erupts on impact.

Coughing and sputtering as he attempts to stand, Tommy blinks. He can’t fucking see anything, and everything’s gone silent. Fuck, had he blinded himself?! Did the explosion deafen him?! Oh, Techno’s gonna throttle him if he had. Thankfully, though, there’s a click, and Tommy hears Tubbo’s voice.

“The wave knocked everything out again! I think the power’s down for good, Techno’s gone to check the generator! Are you alright?! Tommy! Can you hear me?!” Tubbo screeches, and Tommy groans. “Oh, thank fuck, thank fuck you’re alive!”

“It’s gonna take more than—ah—more than a f-fuckin’ zap to kill me,” Tommy wheezes out, and Tubbo makes a noise of protest. Tommy’s entire body won’t stop trembling—probably the electricity—and he falls to his knees, lifting the bottom of his mask to empty his guts on the pavement. Tommy coughs and tugs his mask back down. “I-I think you guys...you might have to come g-get me…?”

“I’ll tell Techno to pull the car around,” Tubbo agrees immediately, and Tommy slumps against a lamppost, eyes fluttering shut as he sighs in relief. “You keep fucking breathing, got it?! Don’t die on me, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

Tommy chuckles. “Yeah, I know, I’m...I-I’ll be alright,” he says, making an effort to keep his eyes open, even though Tubbo can’t see through his camera right now. “Want me to keep talking ’til you guys g-get here?”

Tubbo makes a distressed noise. “Yeah, bossman, just keep talking—Techno, he’s stuttering, the shockwave must’ve gotten him bad, c’mon, we gotta get over there,” he says, and Tommy takes a few deep breaths as his teeth start to chatter. It’s fucking freezing. “We’re getting there in ten minutes, you just—describe the fireworks, don’t stop fucking talking to me.”

“Okay,” Tommy says easily, and he watches a rather pretty red one go off. “Oh, that one’s...i-it’s red, and it’s really bright, s’quite beautiful, actually…”

He keeps describing fireworks until he sees a familiar set of headlights.

Tommy smiles weakly and falls asleep.

*****