Chapter Text
Due to circumstances that are half plot convenience and half the Goddess of Death wanting to indulge her sad, wet cat of a husband, Wilbur is revived.
And he likes to think that his return to, well, life, was a dignified thing. He’s lying to himself with that thought, though. It was less dignified, more desperate, if anything. Being alive once more gave him a frantic, feral sort of first week, where he took calm mornings to soak in the sunlight and the afternoons to dig through the fresh grass with bare hands like an animal. He ran around with dirt clinging to his skin, sweat and warmth and exhaustion (exhaustion. Air faltering within his lungs! :D ) rippling through him in the short intervals of energy that passed by.
He drank from the river with shaking, cupped hands. Watched the fish swim by, felt the cold current pass through his fingers. He would listen to the birds, the sweet song of the forest. He would follow the bugs on the trees, watch them crawl up to what must be the heavens, in their point of view. He ate berries from the bushes, giggled a little at the flavor of it, at the wonder of food again filling his stomach. He watched the sun retreat down into the earth, and stared up at the stars until fatigue caught up on his heels and made him drift off.
Everything was new. Everything was as it was before, really, but it was so vivid, so much against the dull memories of nothing and nothing and nothing, but a dim, cold train station.
Wilbur took his first week of life living no better than a creature within the wild, his aching, old wounds soothed by the sheer act of existing, living, breathing at last.
He avoids people for that first week. Not entirely on purpose, but it is probably a good thing to avoid them. Nature is kind, in the way that it is indifferent to his past mistakes, burnt up ambitions, burnt up relationships. People are complicated.
He doesn’t want to seek out conversation, or connection, because in his heart, he knows he’ll fuck that up before he can even try to mend it. It’s too much to bear, and he is too fragile in where he stands, newly made. There are scars of so many mistakes on his skin. He would be an idiot to ignore them all.
He stays in the forest, to the wild parts of the server that remind him heavily of when he was smaller, when home used to be that house upon the hill, the pine trees towering in every direction you’d look. He remembers those days the clearest, whenever he slows down enough to think. Sweet childhood, with naive ambitions still growing in his mind. A blurry image of his father, keeping him safe. Just the two of them, and a dream here and there from his mother in the stars.
It’s nostalgic to be here, in the trees. It’s peaceful. He’s happy where he is, happy to be undisturbed, happy to live entirely as some sort of odd, forest person for at least a few more long months.
Then Dream comes along.
He comes along as a visitor at Wilbur’s nonexistent door, Wil waking up in his usual sleeping spot of a small cave to the feeling of something nudging him in the side. He grumbles at the feeling, tries to turn over and ignore it. For that, he’s then promptly kicked in the spine, and he shrieks with a voice that cracks mid-way through leaving his throat, feeling shocks of pain run up his back. He hears a huff behind him, amused at the reaction.
“Morning.” His great visitor greets, Wilbur twisting around on the dirt floor to look up at him.
That smiling mask is still as eerie as ever, but it's a bit hard to connect the person behind it to the bad feeling it brings. Wil immediately misses the time before he had human interaction, because it meant he didn’t have to try too hard at remembering names. All he immediately knows is vague feelings, memories hard to grasp over the repeating echo of a train’s horn in his ears.
“How was the sleep?” The smiling-face-man asks, head tilting oddly to the side, his question pulled a little too high. He speaks too politely, so uncomfortably friendly that it’s like sugar rotting into your teeth. Wilbur scrunches his nose in a frown.
“Uhm.” He answers eloquently. Words don’t quite form the way they should in his mouth. Maybe, before his death, he would be one for the words. Maybe, before, he could twist together a witty, snarky reply at the man who has caused more headaches for him than any other. Maybe, in another life, he would smile, nod, and offer a polite greeting in return, like a normal, adjusted human being.
In this new given life, however, Wilbur hasn’t seen a single soul in probably a good couple decades or so, with all that time spent in limbo. So all he does is stare up at Dream like he’s a weird, deformed bug. He makes an inquisitive, unsure noise. Familiar, familiar, he thinks. What a familiar, horrid mask. But he can’t put his finger on the name. Gods, it’s been years. Years and years and years and-
Dream doesn’t falter at the lack of a decent response. He straightens up in where he stands, looking around the small cave that Wilbur’s claimed as a home.
“I’ll admit, this is a decent place to have a nap. Although, it looks like you’ve been here for quite some time.” He turns back to Wil, hand resting meaningfully on his hip, where a gleaming sharp sword sits. “Have you been hiding, Wilbur?” He asks, leaning forward in a way that’s meant to be intimidating, probably.
Wilbur just thinks it’s a bit weird. He twists his face into something that could be taken as disgust, making a half-attempt to scoot back. “From what?” He asks.
Dream pauses for a moment at the honest-to-god confusion in the reply.
“From- from me.” He tells Wil, and Wilbur frowns harder, trying and trying to remember why exactly he should be hiding from this guy upon coming to life once more. He knows that smiling mask is not something to trust. Knows he means trouble, knows he’s been wronged by him before, somehow. But exact events get a little….fuzzy. Everything in his head is still a bit fuzzy, when trying to recall the more recent, before-death events. He supposes he does know, instinctually, that Dream is a headache of a person. That’s a fact of life, probably, with how sure he feels about it.
Wilbur sits up further, hands pushing on the cool dirt underneath him. “I didn’t even know you were still around, why would I be hiding from you?” He questions honestly, and Dream’s hands fall limp in a way that feels vaguely defeated.
“You- because you aren’t meant to be here.” Dream explains bluntly, like Wil should just know this. It seems like he expected far more out of this encounter.
“Well, I am here.” Wilbur says helpfully. He waves a hand up, gesturing to himself. “It seems to be pretty on purpose, in my opinion, because I chose this cave to take a nap in-”
“No, you aren’t supposed to be here.” Dream repeats, and before Wil can react, he’s reaching forward and yanking Wilbur by the front of his shirt, holding him up in an odd, uncomfortable half-kneeling position. Wil’s hands lift up in surrender, shifting his legs to try and support his weight.
“Okay, okay, maybe don’t stretch out my shirt-” Wilbur tries to say, due to the fact this is the only pair of clothes he owns. Dream only holds on even more tightly, fist twisted up in the fabric.
“You were dead.” He whispers.
Wilbur takes a sudden, deep breath, feeling the air through his nose, his throat, pouring into his lungs. He breathes out through his mouth, hearing the noise of it, feeling the faint pounding of his heart in his chest. It’s relieving, even if it’s a reaction of slight panic. It’s him, and he’s alive.
He looks up at Dream, trying to meet his eyes past the mask.
“...I’m not dead anymore.”
“I know.” Dream answers, the words sounding gritted through teeth. Frustrated. That’s probably bad for Wilbur. Something uneasy curls in his gut. “Here I thought you actually knew something about that.”
“No, not really. Well.” Wilbur shakes his head. He’s not sure how to explain the process of nepotism in the process of Death and its effects. He has a hunch his mother might’ve played a hand, but he’s not someone who could call and confirm. He never got the hang of memorizing her calling rituals. “I was dead, and now I’m not. I’m quite appreciating the current not-dead feeling of-”
“Dream.”
Both Wilbur and Dream jump in place from the sudden addition of a new voice, yet another visitor to Wil’s humble abode. They turn, and there stands a warrior, a god in the making, a face that makes Wilbur’s head hurt with a sudden cry of memories trying to float back up. He knows that pink colored braid. Knows those red tinted eyes. Knows…
“...Technoblade?” Wilbur murmurs, the name automatically leaving his lips, and in the confusion of emotions trying to settle- (bitter anger, quiet fondness, crying distrust, envy, envy, envy-) Dream pushes Wil back onto the ground with a shove, Wil grunting as he hits the floor.
“Techno!” Dream calls, like a friend joyfully seeing another. He rests his hands on his hips, turning a little towards his direction. “Have you been on the search for this little oddity, too?”
Wilbur doesn’t care for the way he says oddity in reference to him, but he is someone who has come back from death, so he supposes it fits. He glances back and forth at his new company, his elbows holding him up. His breathing keeps stuttering in his lungs. He wants to rush to the corner of this cave and hide.
“There was word that he was back.” Technoblade gives vaguely as an answer, shoulders shrugging under the thick fur of his cape. He looks too warmly dressed for this forest. He looks prepared for war, his armor glimmering with magic. There’s something strapped to his back, a leather belt over his shoulder, keeping something secured behind him. Wilbur feels like he should know what it is, but he can’t see at this angle on the floor. “I came to get him.” Techno says, and Wilbur supposes that rolling over and falling back to sleep really isn’t an option now.
“Finders keepers.” Dream sings, waving his finger as if telling off a child. “I’ve got my own questions for him.” He turns his attention back on Wil, and underneath the gaze of that smile, Wilbur feels danger, feels a memory of being betrayed. It’s bitter in his mouth, sour up and through his nose. He scoots back, and Dream follows, with a slow little step. No. No.
“You can ask questions some other time. Phil wants him home.” Techno says, and Wilbur freezes at the name. Dad, he thinks, hope rising and falling and rising again, suddenly feeling desperate and furious and guilty and- Dad. He looks at Techno, eyes wide. From here on the ground, he’s intimidatingly tall, and his mind makes him think of that house in the woods again, comfortable and warm, Phil at his side, but Techno standing at the door.
He used to visit, didn’t he? He used to come over, when Wil was small. No wonder his name came so quickly to his head. His dad always used to invite him over. No wonder he’s familiar.
“Phil can wait.” Dream argues over his shoulder, not quite turning away from Wil, snapping him back into reality here and now. Wil lowers his head down, fingers touching at his face.
“He really can’t.” Techno deadpans, and then, in a more colder, stern tone, “I won’t.”
Wilbur bites back the hope that dared to crawl up. He leaves all his confusing feelings to the dirt under him. Fear is the only thing making itself known, and he lets it wash over, lets it control his limbs as he tries to move back again, Dream taking another step to follow.
“Leave him, Dream.” Technoblade insists.
“You know, I’m really very curious as to how you’re back.” Dream ignores him, leaning down towards Wilbur, taking another step closer. Wilbur peeks up through the bangs of his hair with his breathing hitching in his throat, shoulders jerking together in an urge to curl in on himself. “It’s not really something I would like to allow, in my lands-” He says, and there’s a crystal clear threat in the way he says that, a danger in the way he so very obviously lifts and rests a hand on the hilt of his sword, fingers closing around it like he’ll pull it free.
“Dream.” Techno warns, his figure behind moving closer, Dream shifting just an inch too close-
Wilbur kicks a leg out without thinking, knocking his heel right into the base of Dream’s knee. It makes the man’s balance sway, has him jolting a step back with a surprised, hissing swear, and for a split second, Wilbur thinks he should just run right then and there, escape out from their grasp and keep moving until his body gives out.
But then, in the end of that split second, Dream composes himself and returns back a kick of his own, his boot landing right into Wilbur’s side as he tries to dodge it. Wil cries out at the flash of pain, hands held up to try and protect himself from another kick coming, Dream pulling back his leg once more, surely stubborn and petty and angry -
Wilbur screws his eyes shut and turns his head away, hands held up, but nothing comes. He waits for the impact of it, stinging, aching flesh, but there’s nothing there.
He blinks his eyes open, and goes still at the sight of Dream still standing over him, only now with an axe held to his neck.
A battle axe.
Techno’s axe, Wilbur thinks, recognizing it now, hearing a young boy’s laugh in ravine walls, smelling the earthy scents of a farm hidden in stone. Techno’s always liked having axes as his main weapons. He’s not much of a swords person, even if he’s very good at it.
Dream’s mask seems to be looking off into the distance, head raised with one hand held into the air, and the other grasped onto his sword, too little, too late. Technoblade stares at him with narrowed eyes, lip curled in a scowl, his tusks only adding to the image of danger. They are at a standstill, kept like statues, Wilbur only being able to lift his head up and witness.
“If you kick my son again,” Technoblade tells Dream, voice low. “I'm going to cut your head off.”
There’s no hint of a false word in his threat. Wilbur finds the protection over him comforting for a moment, his worries relieved, his fear settling. Then he catches onto the wording, and he remembers very well that son is not the word for Techno to have.
“…your what.“ Wilbur repeats, a little choked. He thinks of being young, thinks of that house upon the hill, the pine trees, the starry nights, Phil. Dad. Nowhere was Techno ever there. Well. Sparingly, maybe. Occasionally, he did visit, he supposes. But he’s always just been a passing face. Passing.
Wilbur thinks of the ravine again, thinks of being unable to meet red eyes, thinks of fear and envy, desperate panic- No. Too much. Focus.
That is not a word he can use, that’s not who he is. That’s not right. Is it?
No, it’s not!
Is it?!
“Son. Oh.” Dream repeats mildly, like he’s realized something. He steps back, away from the blade on his neck, very casual, like having his life at risk is a daily occurance. He looks over Techno for a moment, then seems to come to his own conclusion. “Huh. Okay. When did I miss that?”
“Probably in between you trying to cause fights with every other person on the server, and-” Techno lowers his axe, waving a hand around like he’s trying to gather the words. “-wandering around like a stray?”
“Hey.” Dream says, an annoyed warning in the tone. Techno hardly blinks at it. He is the one holding the big dangerous battle axe. “Congrats? Belated congrats?” Dream offers, holding a hand out as if for a handshake.
“Wow, thanks.” Technoblade just stares at the hand. “You can leave now.”
Dream scoffs, putting his hand away, acting totally not offended or hurt at all. He hesitates and looks at Wil for a moment, Wilbur shrinking away, Techno lifting up his axe slightly, and he seems to accept that this isn’t a fight to pick. He shrugs, and turns to walk out.
“I’ll see you around, then, Techno.” He gives as a goodbye, and Wilbur very much hopes he does not ever appear again. They both stay still until the sound of his footsteps are quiet, and only then does Wil breathe a whole sigh of relief.
Technoblade moves to return his axe on his back, adjusting the straps, and Wilbur sits up fully, pushing himself to lean against a wall, not up for standing. He takes in the sight of Technoblade before him, tries to pull together the memories running wild in his head.
He knows Techno, because Phil knows Techno. That’s all that there is to their relationship, isn’t it? He tries to pull those memories of the ravine from before, but it’s uncomfortable to try, for it leaves him feeling scared, like a knee-jerk habit, a familiar need to stay on guard.
He’s confused about it. It’s not as if Techno’s ever been someone to fear. He’s only Phil's friend. He’s always been around, he’s always lingering.
But they’ve never been close.
So why did he…?
“Son.” Wil says, cutting the short silence between them. Techno looks at him questionly, and Wilbur frowns. “You called me your son.”
“Habit.” Techno simply replies, more focused on adjusting his axe, on glancing to the mouth of the cave to make sure Dream isn’t coming back. He doesn’t seem bothered by the mistaken word. His answer also explains nothing.
“What have I missed?” Wilbur mutters, mostly rhetorically. He thinks of Phil, wonders if Techno’s been hanging around him so often that such a word has rubbed off. That could be a reasonable explanation. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, though, knowing Techno’s been lingering so much. Resentment swims through his stomach, so subtle and yet enough to have him feel sick. He can’t explain the reason for it. It’s just there.
“You’ve been dead for a bit.” Technoblade starts, taking in a breath. “Well. A while.”
“Yes.” Wilbur answers distractedly. He assumed it’s been some time. He’s not sure how much, but limbo has apparently stretched on longer than it was meant to, because the timeline isn’t working in his head. “But last I remember-”
Burning debris, a sword in his gut, Phil, dad, dad, dad-?
“I’m not your kid.” Wil looks up at him, an accusing tone in his words. It all hurts too much to think. He focuses on the lesser ache, the envy wanting to pour out from his mouth.
“It's a habit.” Techno repeats, holding out his hands as if unable to be held accountable for his actions. “I don’t mean to do it, I don’t even think about it, but it’s what I call you at this point, so.”
Wil scoffs, leaning back and letting his head knock into the stone. “Well, you should think some more. You can’t just call me your son.” Wilbur huffs, needing to free up the weight pushing on his chest, making it hard to catch his breath. He tries going for a joke. “What, did you marry Phil or something? Because even then, I don’t think that counts, you can’t be my dad through marriage. I'm not going to give my blessing to that one.”
Techno levels him with a blank, slightly judging look, silence dragging on. The seconds ticking by without a response make Wilbur’s mind suddenly leap and land to conclusions.
“Oh god, don’t tell me you married my dad.” He blurts out, jolting and sitting up straight.
“I did not marry Phil.” Technoblade deadpans, closing his eyes as if Wil’s words are now actively burrowing a headache into his skull.
“Thank Prime.” Wilbur sighs, deflating against the wall. Techno clears his throat in a way that makes the tension crawl right back up.
“Well. I mean, not in the conventional sense, I guess?”
Wilbur stares in horror that is probably a bit dramatic for the situation. “...You’re kidding.”
“It wasn’t technically marriage if so much as-”
“You’re fucking kidding me-”
“-a mutually made oath to stay in each other’s lives-”
“You can’t just marry my dad!” Wil screams.
“It wasn’t marriage.” Technoblade insists, holding his palms out to placate him.
“It sounds a lot like marriage!” Wilbur says back, nearly shrieking in his panic.
“It’s not romantic in- any sense, if that helps.” Technoblade mutters, frowning a bit.
“That helps.” Wilbur shrugs, feeling a little hysterical. He’s not sure if he’s about to cry or laugh. “A little.”
“It’s like advanced friendship, if anything.”
“Oh my fucking god-” Wilbur breathes out, head in his hands, fingers sliding over his temples.
“Think of it like co-parenting. I agreed to co-parent with Phil- for the rest of our lives. Hence the son-calling habit. And I also live with him. And we also have matching friendship rings.” Techno holds out and turns his hand, wiggling his fingers in showing said ring to Wil. It’s a gleaming gold. Of course, Wil thinks.
“This cannot be happening to me.” Wilbur says, staring up to the ceiling like some higher being will come down to save him. His mother, perhaps. She’s done it once, why not again?
“He’s like a brother to me. Brother in arms. A brother in battle.” Techno goes on, brushing over Wilbur’s internal crisis, now focused on laying this out. “I’d die for him. I’ve killed for him. Maybe killed excessively, at some points-”
“I don’t want to hear this.” Wil stresses, hands to his face.
“The overall result here, though, is that in having Phil in my life, I also have you, and I’ve already been there for the majority of your childhood, anyway, so it’s basically adoption.” Technoblade nods, seeming satisfied with his thoughts here. Wilbur shakes his head, holding his hands up as a surrender to whatever terrible second limbo he’s been thrown into. “So I do occasionally call you my son, and it seems pretty justified.”
“I didn’t give my blessing. You can’t be my dad.” Wilbur denies, Techno looking slightly dejected at that response. “And no marrying my dad. No.”
“I didn’t marry Phil.” Technoblade sighs, already tired of this point.
“Liar!” Wilbur points aggressively at Techno’s hand. “You have a ring!”
“Friendship ring. We’ve established this, Wil.”
“You fucking married my dad!”
Techno throws his arms up in exasperation. “He is literally already married! I am not a homewrecker! I have standards!”
“My mom is going to kill you.” Wilbur threatens, trying to gather up some anger to make a decent glare. “She will- murder you, and send your soul to rot somewhere in the afterlife!”
“Doubt that. I had tea with her last Tuesday. She gave me a decorative knife.” Techno informs, sounding vaguely smug. Wilbur’s eye twitches.
“I hate everyone.” He announces, slumping into the stone behind him, defeated. Of course his mother invites Techno for tea. It takes the waiting of decades for her to come pull Wilbur from limbo, it takes a week to gossip with some guy who Phil’s dragged around for the entirety of Wil’s life.
“Okay, enough with the angst, Wilbur, we’re going home.” Techno decides, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not- You can turn around and fuck right off.” Wilbur says, feeling bitter, feeling a little lost in events. He pulls his knees up to his chest, looking away and seeing Techno approach in the corner of his eye. Whatever. He can’t make Wil go anywhere.
“Phil’s been looking for you.”
“Good for him.” Wilbur replies, trying to ignore the relief that aches in hearing that. “You know what, since you’re here, how about you pass along this message to him: I’m alive now, please get a divorce, I’ll visit at some point in the next year.”
“In the next year?” Techno repeats, before then processing the sentence a bit more. “Divorce? Are you-” He repeats as well, cutting himself off with a sigh. “Okay. Sure. C’mon.”
A hand then proceeds to grab at Wil’s arm. Wilbur snaps his head around at the action.
“What are you doing? Stop- Stop it- what- You motherfucker!” Wilbur screams, suddenly heaved up to his feet with a strength he honestly should’ve expected. He tries to drag himself back down, tries to put all his weight down, but Techno lifts him off the ground with not even a sign of struggle and before he knows it, Wil is hanging down over his shoulder, hands yanking at his cape. “I am not- put me down!”
“Phil’s been wondering non-stop as to where you’ve been. He’s worried. He’s stressed. Therefore, I am bringing the solution to the problem.” Techno says, heading for the exit of the cave to get back to the horse that hopefully hasn’t wandered too far away.
“You are a problem!” Wilbur yells, slamming his fists at Techno’s shoulder, at the side of his head. Techno seems only mildly bothered, which is reasonable, because Tommy’s form of love these days is through attacking like some sort of wild, feral raccoon whenever he sees Techno. His tiny fists have never really hurt him. It’s more endearing than anything, honestly, by this point. “You’re the problem right now, Technoblade!” Wilbur screams, terribly furious.
“Yeah, sure.” Techno agrees, happy to let him get it all out, and he continues on, taking his son-in-denial back to somewhere safe.
To home.