Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day Niki finally convinces him, it rains.

Quackity’s surprised that she ventured out here to look for him. It’s not just raining, it’s pouring, lightning flashing bright across the sky. He’s currently huddled under a tree, watching the horse pit fill up with water, arms curled around his legs.

The rain slides easily off his wings, but his hat and hair are soaked through. His feathers do nothing to stop the wind from biting into his limbs. Thunder rumbles threateningly in the background, sending a shiver down his spine - or maybe it’s how cold he is. Either way, he shudders.

Niki stumbles out of Pogtopia with a fist through the dirt wall. Quackity hazily watches her recover the entrance with discarded shrubbery as best she can, hillside turning to mud regardless of her efforts.

“Quackity,” she calls, looking around; once she spots him, she holds her shawl up against the rain and makes her way to his side.

“What’re you doing up?” Quackity asks, having to shout a little to be heard over the next peal of thunder. “It’s past midnight.”

Niki settles beside him. “We were worried for you.”

“We,” Quackity says, a challenge.

“I,” Niki concedes. “Tubbo too, I’m sure, but I didn’t want to ask. He doesn’t like the weather.”

Quackity laughs. “Can’t blame him.” Lightning cracks like a rocket launcher through the sky, through his chest. He fights back the urge to flinch.

“Why are you out here?” Niki asks.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“I just couldn’t,” Quackity grumbles.

Niki gets the hint, face pulling downwards to a more serious frown. “Quackity, are you alright?”

The simple answer is yes. The long, tiring, humiliating answer is no.

“Yeah,” Quackity says.

Niki purses her lips. He can tell she’s scrutinizing every inch of his demeanor. Her gaze lingers on the hacked up feathers of his lower wings, and he bristles under it.

“Don’t,” Quackity begins -

“I want to leave,” Niki interrupts.

The rain picks up in intensity.

“Huh?” Quackity whispers. “What?”

“I want to leave Pogtopia.”

“Niki, you can’t go back to Manberg. He -” it doesn’t matter who he means - “he’ll kill you.”

“I don’t want to go to Manberg,” Niki says brightly, “I want to leave everything. I want to go somewhere far, far away, from all this.”

Quackity stares at her. “You’re serious.”

Niki nods. Her jaw is set, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“Why are you telling me this?” Quackity asks, something hot rising through his chest.

“Because I’m offering for you to come with me,” Niki says.

“I’m not gonna run away,” Quackity snaps. “I’m not a coward. I’m -”

“You’re what?” Niki interrupts. “What? You’re going to get revenge? Power?”

“Something!” Quackity dares to be bold and spits out, “I deserve something.”

“Wilbur isn’t going to give you anything,” Niki scoffs. She says nothing about how deserving Quackity really is. “You know that, don’t you?”

Quackity opens his mouth. This time, nothing comes out.

“I want something, too,” Niki says, “and I know I won’t get it here. Am I a coward, Quackity? Does this make me a coward?”

“No,” Quackity says.

“He won’t give you anything,” Niki insists. “Come with me. Take control again.”

“I have to stay,” Quackity mutters, “I can’t -”

“You have nothing to prove,” Niki says. Her voice rises ever so slightly in pitch. “I know what you must think. But you don’t have to fight for them to earn their trust, their respect - whoever told you that you did was wrong.”

“If you know so much about me,” Quackity says, “then you know I - I want to fight, Manberg is my home as much as it is theirs!”

“Wilbur is going to blow it up!” Niki yells. It’s drowned out by the rain, but Quackity looks around for eavesdroppers anyway. “He’s going to destroy it, we can’t keep kidding ourselves -”

Quackity’s words burn in his throat. He can’t spit them out fast enough. “There’s time! He’s still uncertain, we can still change his mind!”

“He’s toying with us -”

“And even if he tries, we can - we can stop him, Techno can -”

“Wilbur isn’t the type to fail -”

“Maybe Schlatt will -”

“Schlatt would sooner die than help us!”

Quackity flinches.

Niki halts. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Quackity draws a breath in and back out, slowly, trying to force away the tension in his shoulders.

“It’s not pity,” Niki says, coming down, pulling her soaked shawl around her knees. “I’m hurt, too. You have to understand.”

He should be defending Wilbur. He should be loyal to the cause. He should be inside working his ass off until they’re safe, not outside in the pouring rain because - because -

“I want this to fix things,” Quackity mumbles instead of everything he should be saying. “I can’t imagine - I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“I know,” Niki says. “But maybe we can help each other. We can leave, Quackity. We can try.”

Thunder roars again, pitched low like a laugh echoing off marble. It’s really quite cold out here in the downpour, but Quackity stopped feeling it a while ago.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, thinking about it, letting the storm fill the empty space for him. He waits for Niki to tire of his silence, but she stays next to him, assaulted by the rain yet only moving to breathe.

Wordlessly, he stretches a wing over her shoulders and buries his head in his knees.

She’s right. He’s still enough of himself to understand that. He wanted to make things better, but this? Manberg and Pogtopia - Schlatt and Wilbur - his stupid causes; they’re nothing but collision courses anymore, and if he’s not careful, he’ll bring himself down right alongside them.

“Okay,” Quackity says quietly. It takes everything he has. “I’ll try.”

~

“You want me to what?” Tubbo yelps, voice echoing dangerously around the cavern.

“Not so loud,” Niki begs. “Please, Tubbo, I know -”

“Absolutely not, I can not do that, I won’t -”

“Shh!” Quackity steps forward, then, eyes wide and arms splayed out in a peace offering. “Tubbo, man, just listen to us, please.”

Tubbo clicks his teeth together hard at the strain in his tone. Quackity’s lips quirk downwards.

“Tubbo,” Niki starts again, breathing in shallow and deep. “We want to run away.”

“I heard you the first time,” Tubbo squeaks out. His scars itch across his face - he brings his arm up to scrub at them.

Niki reaches out and gently takes his hand before it can make contact. “Try not to touch.”

Tubbo jerks out of her grasp. “No, I can’t leave. Are you crazy?”

“I know it feels like that,” Niki says. “Believe me, I know.”

“You don’t,” Tubbo says. How could she? “Everything I - everything is here. I can’t - everything is here.”

Niki purses her lips. “Tommy can come, Tubbo. We want to ask him, too.”

Tubbo has half the mind to be embarrassed that she figured out his apprehension so quickly, but it’s drowned out by the other half, which is doubled over on itself laughing.

“He won’t,” Tubbo says. “He’d never.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Quackity grumbles. “Wilbur -”

“Exactly,” Tubbo hisses under his breath, feeling like saying the man’s name will cause him to materialize directly behind him. “Wilbur.”

“We wouldn’t tell him,” Niki says. “We’d be getting away from him, that’s the point.”

“That’s not the problem.” Tubbo fidgets with the buttons on his shirt. “Tommy won’t go anywhere without Wilbur. And I -”

-won’t go anywhere without Tommy.

...why?

“No,” Tubbo says; what he’s just thought catches up to him in pieces, little shards through his lungs, lead around his limbs. “No, no. I can’t. I’ve given up everything for this, for the war, and so have you! So has Tommy, and Wilbur, too, we can’t just up and leave because we’re, we’re -”

“Tubbo,” Quackity interrupts. “Tubbo, it’s dangerous here, with Wilbur and Techno, and you can’t - if you die, then…”

Prime. Something boils in Tubbo’s throat, and it comes out all broken and sharp, growling - “I fucking know.”

Quackity snaps his mouth shut for a beat. His hands come up to pull at his wings, the action seemingly giving him the willpower to keep talking. “Tommy, too. We want both of you to be safe, we’re not asking you to leave him behind.”

But they are, is the thing. Tommy won’t go anywhere without Wilbur, and Tubbo won’t - and Tubbo -

Tubbo -

“Why?” Tubbo says, and if it sounds as pathetic as he feels, neither Niki nor Quackity point it out.

Here’s the awful truth - these days, Tubbo finds himself wishing Dream weren’t so self-professedly kind as to give them second chance upon second chance. Tubbo thinks everyone would be a lot less scarred if death was just normal, here.

Chances make you careless. This is what Tubbo has learned over these last few months. Like agreeing to a duel against the Admin, careless. Like going to war against Manberg, careless.

Like following your family to the death, careless.

“We care about you,” Niki says. It should sound simpering, like it does when Wilbur says it. It should sound borderline possessive, or patronizing, like it does whenever Tubbo wakes up screaming and Tommy has to hold his hand over Tubbo’s mouth until it’s over.

It doesn’t. It just sounds like her.

“Tommy won’t agree to it,” Tubbo says. “He won’t.”

Quackity screws up his face and starts to say something else, but Tubbo interrupts him with a sigh.

“I’ll ask, though,” he mumbles. “I’ll let you know.”

Niki breaks into what could be a smile, some of the tension dropping from her shoulders. “Thank you. Thank you, Tubbo.”

Quackity reaches forward and pulls him into the shortest, most awkward hug Tubbo’s ever experienced. “Good luck.”

Tubbo shakes out of his arms and straightens his collar and ducks out of the alcove before he can start thinking about how close the walls and ceiling are. The ravine is cold, as it always is, but Tubbo barely notices as he scurries up the stairs to his sleeping mat.

Once he’s alone, Tubbo sits down, holds his head in his hands, and wishes someone would tell him what to do.

Tommy won’t agree to it. This isn’t a lie or some desperate attempt to use Tommy as an excuse to stay. It’s the truth, formed by weeks upon weeks of pain and loneliness and too many lives. Tubbo is Tommy’s best friend, his right hand man; he knows Tommy better than anyone.

Almost anyone.

Because as much as Tubbo is Tommy’s right hand man, Tommy is Wilbur’s even more. Tommy won’t go anywhere without Wilbur. And Tubbo?

Well.

Tubbo has a choice to make.

~

In the end, it all goes as badly as it possibly could.

Tubbo, Niki, and Quackity corner Tommy by the stairwell that leads outside, right after he’s woken up, which is totally unfair because he doesn’t realize what’s happening until they’ve formed a menacing semi-circle around him and his back is all but pressed into the wall. Niki and Quackity have a bag each, straps slung over their shoulders. They’re dressed for a long walk.

Tommy rubs his eyes, clears his throat, and croaks, “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

Quackity is the first one to speak. “Tommy, we have a proposition for you.”

Tommy cocks an eyebrow. “Hm? Why’re you - what have you got in those? Why’re you dressed like that?”

“We -” Tubbo says, then pauses, looking anywhere but up at Tommy. “We’ve - we’re going away.”

“What?” Tommy asks. “Like, for resources?”

Tubbo shakes his head. “No. Like, for good. And we’re not coming back.”

It takes a few seconds of awkward silence and shuffling for that to settle in.

“What?” Tommy explodes, incredulous, ignoring the wince Niki throws in his direction. “You’re - you’re leaving? Really? Just like that?”

“But that’s the proposition,” Tubbo says, blinking rapidly like he’s afraid, or something. “We want you to come with us.”

Tommy laughs, everything pressing down all at once. Deep inside him, something is tearing his lungs to pieces. “You - you, you -”

“I want you to come with us,” Tubbo says, “and I should have asked sooner - I meant to ask sooner, but…”

“Me, run away,” Tommy says. “With you.”

“Please, Tommy, just think about it! Wilbur’s - he’s not good for you, man, he’s - he’s not good for any of us -”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy says, breathless, “for Prime’s sake, holy shit. You’re leaving.”

And there’s no doubt about it. The longer Tommy stares at his best friend, the more he recognizes the fighting stance, the stubborn set of his shoulders - and the more he doesn’t recognize, like how Tubbo wears a shirt with a taller collar, how his hands drift to his neck every five seconds only to be uselessly shoved away. The firework scars paint a jagged spiderweb over everything.

There’s no doubt about it. This conversation is a formality. Tubbo is leaving, with or without him, and he is not coming back.

The look in Tubbo’s eyes is a good attempt at desperate. Tommy would believe it if he didn’t know better. “Tommy, please. Please. Just do this, just this, just this once, please…”

Everything whirls around in Tommy’s head. He splutters out a breath, barely registering it when Tubbo grabs both of his hands in his own like that could ever be enough. “Are you crazy? This is - you’re talking about treason, Tubbo! I can’t possibly -”

Then, suddenly, gravel cracks like the striking of a match from behind him. Tommy snaps his jaw shut and it all goes deathly silent.

Niki’s eyes widen, focused on a point just over his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, Tommy turns around.

“What,” Wilbur Soot intones, stepping out of the shadows and into the sickly yellow light he holds, “the fuck are you talking about?”

The reaction is immediate. Niki’s whole body goes rigid and she snatches her pack to her chest. Quackity’s expression shifts from surprised to confused to terrified in an impressive two seconds. Tubbo sucks in a breath.

“You’re traitors,” Wilbur realizes, then he laughs once and holds his lantern up even higher and repeats himself - “Traitors, traitors! All of you!”

Niki and Quackity need no further incentive and take off for the stairwell in a burst of adrenaline. Tubbo makes to follow them, but hesitates, palms clammy, brown eyes frantically meeting blue one last time.

“Techno!” Wilbur yells. It bounces around the ravine, slamming into Tommy’s head and settling in his legs. “Techno, come see, you’ll never guess. We’ve got deserters!”

“Let’s go,” Quackity gasps, lurching back; his hand clamps around Tubbo’s arm and pulls.

Tommy’s fingers slip out of Tubbo’s before he can register what’s happening.

“No, Tommy,” Tubbo shouts, halfway to the stairwell, craning his neck back. Orpheus and Euridice, comes Technoblade’s voice in his head, but it’s nothing like the myth - it never is - because Tommy doesn’t vanish, doesn’t move, can’t move, even when Tubbo hovers dangerously in the doorway, eyes begging him to follow.

Wilbur’s hands come out of nowhere.

Tommy flinches at the sudden contact on his shoulders. Niki cries out something from the third stair. Quackity gives up and makes a final break for it, scampering out of sight.

They don’t force Tubbo to come with them. They don’t threaten him or call for him incessantly. Tubbo is alone, wracked with indecision on the stairway to freedom, and Tommy is somehow both seven feet and light years away, and -

Oh.

Tubbo’s crying.

“Should’ve known,” comes a growl from somewhere new. There’s a flash of red and cold steel.

Technoblade stalks forward, breaking the moment into too many pieces. Tubbo’s gaze snaps from Tommy to Technoblade’s drawn sword, and that’s the last straw.

Well. Tommy knows that’s not true. Tubbo’s choice was made long before Tommy was even given one.

“I’ll gladly kill you,” Techno promises leisurely, shoulders rolling back to lift his weapon higher.

Tommy blinks. Tubbo’s gone pale with fear. Tommy hates seeing him like that.

“Run,” Wilbur says to Tubbo, voice wavering just above Tommy’s ear. “I’ll gladly watch.”

Tommy blinks. Tubbo disappears up the staircase, with only some displaced gravel to prove he was ever there.

“Well, then,” Wilbur says in the silence that follows, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder tight. “Well, then.”

Tommy blinks, staring straight ahead at the rough hewn stone. Nothing changes.

They’re gone.

“Techno, no use following,” Wilbur calls. “Let them go. What did I say, right?”

The Blood God heels like a fucking dog at Wilbur’s simple order, prancing back down the stairwell and sheathing his sword.

“I told you,” Wilbur says simply. “Didn't I tell you?”

Tommy hates Wilbur. Fuck, he hates Wilbur so fucking much. “Yeah.”

“I knew Tubbo wouldn’t stick around much longer. You didn’t listen.”

Tubbo’s gone. Prime, Tubbo -

“Never took Niki for a coward,” Wilbur muses. His other hand comes to pull Tommy’s bangs away from his eyes, catching harshly on a few strands. “Quackity, of course. He’s never been anything else. But Niki? I’m surprised. No, no - I’m not. I’m not surprised. I’m disappointed.”

Tommy grabs at his words, desperate to find any sort of anger, or disbelief, or - or - something. Anything.

“Just like I thought. Cowards, the lot of them.”

Wilbur just sounds like he always does, these days. Bright, a little bit manic, always saying something that he wants to believe. His hands are cold on Tommy’s burning skin.

“You know that, right?” Wilbur asks. His breath smells horrid. “Cowards, deserters.” A pause. Tommy can practically hear the way Wilbur’s lips peel back around his teeth. “Just another few traitors.”

Tommy shivers. “Tubbo wouldn’t -”

“Oh,” Wilbur snarls, sudden, “don’t be an idiot, Tommy, I know you’re hurt right now, but you have to see things for what they are. Tubbo would, and Tubbo did.”

Tommy squirms, tries to turn around to face Wilbur. The hands on his arms only strengthen their vice.

“Yes, he’s your best friend,” Wilbur says. “I know. I know! I understand, yeah? Tommy and Tubbo, that’s how it’s always been, but listen, Tommy - maybe you haven’t been Tubbo’s best friend for quite a while.”

“No,” Tommy tries, but it comes out staggeringly pathetic. “He’s just - he’s just -”

He’s just what? Scared? So is Tommy, he’s fucking terrified, but he hadn’t left, he hadn’t -

“He left you behind,” Wilbur says.

There’s nothing Tommy can say to that.

“I know it’s hard,” Wilbur says. He tugs Tommy into his chest, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s like restraints. “But you’re stronger than that.”

Tommy swallows. Wilbur’s touch burns along his neck, claws into his throat, threatens to spill out his eyes.

Tubbo isn’t coming back. He’d said so. They’re not coming back.

Tubbo’s gone.

“I know you’d never betray me,” Wilbur says. It’s supposed to be comforting; all it does is start Tommy’s hands shaking. “You’re my right hand man.”

“Yeah, Will,” Tommy whispers. He feels numb already.

Wilbur holds him tight for hours, after that, keeping him solidly in place. Even if he hadn’t, Tommy knows he wouldn’t have moved.

~

with tears in my eyes, I begged you to stay/you said, hey man, I love you, but no fucking way

Chapter Text

Niki’s whole chest burns.

She’s not sure if it’s her lungs or her heart or her fucking diaphragm or all of it at once - the pain blurs together and rasps out her throat, fire through her muscles, a dagger through her ribs.

Quackity, somehow, is keeping pace with her, barely breaking a sweat. He’s light on his feet, weaving easily through the trees. In stark contrast, Tubbo stumbles along behind them, always just out of sight, a staggering cadence of cracking sticks and heavy breathing. Niki thinks about stopping to make sure he’s alright.

She’s terrified. She is clawing up a cliffside for every breath. She keeps running, and does not once look back.

The first leg of their flight is spent zig-zagging over rough terrain and through forests to lose any pursuants. Techno seems to have followed them no further than the stairwell, but it takes more than assumptions for any of them to feel safe enough to slow down.

They finally stop after what feels like hours, and Quackity nearly throws up with exhaustion. Tubbo’s pale as a sheet and his eyes are shot red, but otherwise physically unharmed. Niki still can’t really breathe, no matter how hard she tries, so she pushes them to their feet sooner than she probably should and begins searching for a water source.

Thankfully, they find one just after the sun hits its peak. A clear, slow-moving river meanders through an opening in the trees. The ground is flat enough to build on, and the swamp the river spills into should have good enough soil to start a farm. The clearing they’ve found also borders a birch forest, which Tubbo acknowledges with a numb, near-reverent touch to the white bark.

After making sure the area is suitable, the three of them sit down in the grass and all but collapse, gazing around their new home, taking it all in. None of them have any idea where they are, but it’s wholly unfamiliar and that’s good enough. It’s silent except for the faint sound of running water and the occasional bird call.

“We need a house,” Niki eventually says, after her heart has either settled in her chest or frozen completely solid. “Something small, for now. But something.”

Quackity and Tubbo stare silently at her. She isn’t sure they’ve understood.

“A house,” she says again, louder.

They keep staring. Quackity places one hand on the ground like he’s preparing to stand up, but makes no move to actually do so.

Tubbo clears his throat in her heavy silence. “What, uh...do you want us to do?”

They’re waiting for orders, Niki realizes.

She doesn’t have any to give, not really. All she knows is that she’s never built a house by herself before and she isn’t quite sure she can be trusted with an axe right now. Her arms feel shaky with the afterburn of adrenaline.

“Um,” she says. “What would you like to do?”

That’s a foreign question to them. She can tell by the way Quackity raises an eyebrow and Tubbo’s suddenly very interested in the grass under his hands.

“Fine,” she says, too overwhelmed, too exhausted, too - too something to bother trying to explain herself. “I’ll build the house, then.”

They nod at her. She stands, pulls out her axe, and heads into the forest.

It’s hard work, but at least it’s a distraction. Not long after Niki leaves, Tubbo takes the initiative to begin a farm. And after a few minutes of pacing and shaking his wings loose from his jacket, Quackity, too, jumps into action, beginning to round up the few stray cows around the area and coaxing them into a paddock.

Niki cuts down trees. She slams the axe into trunk after trunk of young, pure birch, and wonders why everything feels so wrong.

~

After the sun sets and the house has been stabilized, the three of them pile inside the living room, close the door, and lock it.

This is their new home. They’ve made it. They’ve done what they said they would.

Tubbo doesn’t know what to do from here.

He sees it in the other two, too. He’s not alone in his confusion. He wonders for the thousandth time if they’ve made a mistake, then remembers the cold set to Tommy’s jaw and Technoblade’s fangs behind an explosion of patriotism and shakes the thought from his head.

Or tries to, anyway. All it does is make his head scream louder.

It’s not had time to really settle in, probably. He’d been running all day and then he was working all day, and now that he’s finally staying still, he can feel the sword hanging over his head drop another few inches. His hands twitch at his sides. His face feels uncomfortably hot and he wonders if scars can get sunburnt.

Rubbing at his eyes, Tubbo breaks from his stupor and joins Niki and Quackity in sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, just kind of - existing, at the end of it all.

Nobody’s hungry. They’d eaten hastily cooked bread while they worked, and besides, Tubbo isn’t sure he could stomach anything right now even if he tried. It’s all so fresh. It’s a raw, open wound in his head. Almost on instinct, Tubbo wonders how he’s going to sleep tonight without Tommy.

He wonders if insomnia is the least he deserves.

“I think,” Niki begins slowly, “we all miss something.”

Quackity pulls his knees closer to him. Tubbo slouches a little further downwards.

“Anyone want to start?” she asks. It’s a condemning statement, but Tubbo thinks she knows it. She’s far from smiling.

Tubbo doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to. Quackity clears his throat awkwardly and starts to pick at his feathers.

“Then I’ll go first,” Niki says like she’s tearing her voice apart. “I miss my old farm.”

Quackity looks up. “Your old farm?”

“Before I came here, I had a farm. It was in a small town, but the people were lovely. There was a beach. A pier.” Her sentences are stilted. Tubbo’s not sure what precedent she’s trying to set; not sure what point she’s trying to prove.

“That sounds nice,” Quackity says. “What happened to it?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Wilbur asked me to join L’Manberg. So I did. I sold the house and the land to my neighbor, he assured me he would take care of it.”

Niki looks sad. Tubbo supposes he can’t fault her for that. He knows what it is to leave behind something you love.

“I’m,” Quackity begins, face scrunched up as he tries to piece the right words together. “I’m sorry you had to leave.”

“It’s alright,” Niki says. “I made peace with it long ago. I was leaving to help Will, so I didn’t mind.”

And that’s the difference between Niki’s sadness and Tubbo’s, he realizes. Her sacrifice was selfless. His sacrifice - his betrayal - was nothing but selfish.

“But now, he doesn’t want your help,” Quackity says. “You left your farm for L’Manberg, but now he’s - he’s -”

Niki grimaces, eyes cast down. “I suppose. Maybe that’s what I’m really missing.”

“Maybe,” Quackity says.

“Maybe I’m missing Wilbur,” she says. It digs into Tubbo’s skin like water over a burn. “Or at least, the person he showed me.”

“Maybe,” Quackity says again, staring through the floor.

“What about you, Tubbo?” Niki asks.

She’s expecting a similar story, he knows, and really there’s a thousand words he could say. Excuses, explanations, epiphanies - it all swirls in the back of his head, slowly but surely picking rocks off the storm wall. His stomach lurches into his throat at the thought of voicing what he’s thinking.

Tubbo shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Niki says. Tubbo can’t tell if she’s lying or not. “Quackity?”

Quackity opens his mouth, doesn’t say anything, and stays that way for at least thirty seconds. They let him. Niki pulls her blanket tighter around her. Tubbo picks at the dirt floor of their hut and thinks he should go logging tomorrow. His mental list of chores grows one task longer - take that, Damocles.

“No,” Quackity finally says. “I don’t miss anything.”

“If you’re sure,” Niki says.

“Completely,” Quackity says, knuckles clenched white around his wrist.

“Okay,” Niki says. She looks out their singular window at the setting sun. “We should get some rest, now.”

“I’ll take first watch.” Tubbo shoots to his feet so fast he almost blacks out.

Niki stands like her bones are made of lead. “You don’t have to. There’s no one around for miles.”

“No, he’s right,” Quackity frowns, brushing dirt off his legs. “What if they send Techno looking for us?”

“They wouldn’t,” Niki says. The uncertainty in her tone betrays her.

“Please,” Tubbo says, begging like a child, because he knows if he shuts his eyes tonight he won’t like what he sees. “I want to do this.”

Niki stares, and then sighs, and then nods. “Wake me up when you get tired,” she orders.

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, flashing her his most secure smile. “Thanks.”

She gives him one last look, but shuffles to her makeshift wool mat in the corner without further complaint.

Quackity puts a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, startling him. “You good, Tubbo?”

His voice warps on the vowels, familiar. Tubbo takes it in from seven miles away.

“Yeah,” he says, practiced and foolproof, with the same lying confidence that got him encased in concrete. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

~

Quackity doesn’t know if Tubbo’s stopped moving since the day they left.

To be fair, it had been a hectic few first days for all of them. Surviving this far outside of a community was never Quackity’s specialty - he’d much rather rely on other people and couch-surf than build himself a mansion and be completely alone.

Of course, he knows the value of being self-sustainable. Accidents happen. People leave. Not everyone takes kindly to thieves, either, though he’s careful to leave no trace. So it’s not exactly revolutionary, the work he does on their cottage, but it’s unfamiliar enough that it leaves him exhausted and so caught up in his duties that he can barely force his eyes shut.

At least he’s not alone. That, Quackity thinks, would be unbearable. He can take the sweat and sore muscles and stepping in cow shit and mining until he develops callouses; he’s not alone, he is not, and this is what he tells himself when regret flashes behind his eyelids and turns his feathers towards the sky.

Niki helps, too. She’s clearly making an attempt to be there for them, and Quackity responds in kind. It’s easy, for now. All her questions are about little meaningless things - complaints, tasks, surface level feelings. Quackity does his best to offer her the same, though his words still catch in his throat most times or come out sounding much more stupid than he plans.

Regardless, Quackity likes to imagine that there’s improvement. That they’re building up more than just walls and farms. That the reason they left is coming to fruition.

And then there’s Tubbo.

First it was flooring for the cabin. Then it was a new pen for the animals. Then it was new crops, then it was storing up firewood, then it was more animals and mining enough diamonds to bathe in and by now, Quackity’s lost count of every stupid menial task that Tubbo’s submerged himself in.

Tubbo looks tired, refuses any help, and just keeps fucking working. It’s not new. In fact, it’s too reminiscent of the way he acted in Manberg. He’s just exchanged paperwork for hammering at fences and cleaning the house.

Quackity tries to talk to him, sometimes, but the moment Tubbo senses any intervening intention he finds a way to cover his exit with some excuse. And Quackity gets that, he does - it’s just - things were supposed to get better. They’re supposed to be getting better.

And some things are better, he’ll give it that. The fresh air is nice. Never having to check behind him at all times is nice, though he finds himself reflexively doing it anyway. Having someone around to chat shit with when he wakes up in the middle of the night is nice.

Still, though. His hands haven't stopped shaking at the sound of a slamming door. The guilty pit in his gut still refuses to leave. Niki barely sleeps anymore, and if he hears her pacing the floors too often, he doesn’t bother her with it. Her business is her business.

And Tubbo, with his tangled hair and scarred cheeks and two-thirds dead eyes and his refusal to fucking stop. Quackity supposes that after everything the kid’s been through, it’s no wonder healing would take time - Tubbo just has to sit down for once and let his body catch up to his mind.

It’s a good thing Quackity has nothing to heal from. Good thing he left that all behind, and it can’t follow him anymore. Good thing that he’s finally taken control of his life.

Things are different. They are.

Things are different, and everything is going to get better.

~

“Niki! Come quick!”

“I’m here, what is it? What’s wrong?” Niki asks, trying to keep the alarm from her voice as she rounds the corner.

“It’s Sam,” Quackity calls to her in a strangled tone, and sure enough - the man himself stands just out of range, hands held up in surrender. He faces the business end of Quackity’s weapon.

Niki doesn’t miss the way Quackity’s hands twitch around the hilt of his axe like he wants nothing more than to drop it. She maneuvers her way ever so slightly in front of him and stares Sam down through his shaded goggles.

“Sam,” Niki greets warily, still slightly breathless due to her hurried run from the farms. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. He’s not reaching for a weapon, and his helmet is held under one arm in a gesture of peace. “I just came to talk, I swear.”

“Talk,” Quackity scoffs, but Sam’s soft promise gets him to lower his weapon.

“What are you guys doing out here?” Sam asks.

“We’re starting over,” Niki says. She clutches the bundle of wheat in her arms tight to her chest and makes sure she’s positioned in front of Tubbo, too, as the boy finally stumbles into their conversation. “What do you want to talk about?”

Sam frowns. “Right. Well, uh, Wilbur’s declared war.”

“He’s what?” Quackity splutters. “Against Schlatt?”

“And Dream,” Sam affirms.

“He’s crazy,” Quackity says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, wincing. “I think he is, too.”

“Did you come to bring us back?” Tubbo pipes up, carefully neutral.

“No,” Sam says. “I came to ask - we’re going to need all the help we can get. I’m sure Tommy would -”

“We won’t be helping, Sam,” Niki interrupts, but Tubbo’s already flinching at the mention of his friend. “We’re sorry, but we’ve had enough.”

She looks around to the others to make sure she’s not putting words in their mouths. Quackity’s biting his lip again and Tubbo’s staring at the ground.

She’ll take that as confirmation enough.

“Okay, well, let the record show I tried,” Sam says. Their group of three breathes a collective sigh of relief. “It’s good to know you’re okay, by the way. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Niki says, watching him turn to walk away, back towards Pogtopia, towards Wilbur. “And, Sam.”

“Yeah?”

She smiles as best as she can around the guilty ball in her throat. “Good luck.”

~

The noise, when it finally comes, is awful.

Quackity freezes in the silence before it, arms tensed like he wants to take flight. Tubbo follows his gaze towards Manberg just in time to see the sky light up with an ungodly bright, black light, awfully contrasted by the cool of the evening.

It starts with a rumble, then a bang, then a roar, and then smoke rockets into the sky like so many birds; cinders and ashes swirl condemnations into the sky and the trees are on fire, set to burn long after the explosion has died.

There’s a scar on the face of the earth. There is nobody screaming. There is everything, and then there is nothing, and all Tubbo can think is, I should have been there.

Niki drops to her knees in the grass.

“I didn’t think we’d be able to hear it,” Tubbo says, unhelpful but true.

Quackity makes a noise, then, a scream he’s trying to swallow; when Tubbo looks over, he looks like he could die any minute.

“Oh,” Niki says, still kneeling.

The horizon is burning.

Quackity takes an audible breath and lets it out harshly, his turn to fall - he lowers himself to the ground, hand clapped over his mouth. He’s trying not to cry, Tubbo thinks. It’s okay to cry, he should probably say.

He opens his mouth to do so but all that comes out is, “I didn’t think we would hear it.”

Quackity can’t hold it in anymore. He whimpers, the mushroom cloud reflected in his glassy eyes.

“Will,” Niki says, simple and clear. “Oh. Will.”

~

Schlatt’s dead.

Sam comes back after a day or so, looking haggard and dirty and tired. He tells them that Wilbur’s gone, too, about the Withers and the war; tells them that Fundy’s working to create a new administration and that Technoblade and Dream have vanished but are very much still a threat.

Tubbo thinks he should probably be a bit more concerned about all this, but it’s just so fucking much. Schlatt’s dead, and Wilbur’s dead, and everything he took a firework for has been reduced to a crater in the ground.

Okay. Sure.

Sure, Tubbo thinks, and takes a shuddering breath. I can work with that.

“Will they come after us?” Niki murmurs into Sam’s shoulder, arms wrapped around him. He’s bent double, seeming to lean his whole weight on her.

“No. They shouldn’t. Tommy might - Tommy might come visit, but there’s a lot on his plate right now, if you couldn’t guess.”

Tommy. Tommy’s alive. Prime, Tommy’s alive.

Oh.

Tommy’s alive.

“Schlatt’s dead?” Quackity asks. It’s the first thing he’s said since Sam’s arrival.

Sam just nods. The papers in Niki’s hand crinkle weakly under her grip.

“Okay,” Quackity says. Without another word, he turns tail into the cottage, slamming the door behind him.

“What happened to Wilbur?” Tubbo asks, voice cracking embarrassingly over the name.

“Philza killed him.”

Nobody speaks in the weighted silence that statement carries. Tubbo feels vaguely faint. Philza? Here?

“You know, Sam,” Niki finally says, “you could stay with us.”

Sam’s eyes open again. He stares at the grass like he wishes he could melt into it. “I can’t. I promised I’d - uh, help, you know?”

Tubbo does know. Sam’s the most powerful person on the server, save maybe Technoblade or Dream himself - the fledgling New L’Manberg will need all the help he can give them.

“Okay,” Niki says, letting go and taking a few steps backwards. “Thank you for the update.”

“If anything happens,” Sam says, digging in his pocket. He pulls out a small comm, throwing it to Tubbo, who almost fumbles it. “Call me. I - just let me know.”

“Thank you,” Niki says. “You’re a good man, Sam. Thank you.”

Sam’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. Thanks.”

And then he’s gone with a whirl of his trident. Niki watches him go, hands on her hips, gaze slightly unfocused.

“We could go back,” Tubbo blurts out for some unknown, terrible reason. “Wilbur’s - gone. So is Schlatt, and Manberg, and - we could go back, now.”

Niki turns to him, narrowing her eyes. “We could,” she says.

“We could,” Tubbo repeats dumbly.

“Do you want to?” she asks.

Tubbo opens his mouth, then hesitates, then feels something come up from deep in his chest to choke him.

“No,” he croaks around it. His mouth tastes like blood. “I don’t.”

“Then we won’t,” Niki says.

So.

They don’t.

Chapter Text

For a few days after that, it’s just Niki and Tubbo.

Quackity eats what they make for him when they leave it outside his door, but he says nothing to them. He barely shows his face, either. He just sits in his room so quietly Niki sometimes wonders if he’s thrown himself out the window and ran.

She checks, once, for some desperate reason she can’t place. The window is locked, just like his door. She feels even worse after that.

She also thinks about demanding he talk to them, but that feels wrong, intrusive. And he doesn’t appear to be dangerously spiraling, but then again she can’t tell because he’s closed himself off, but then again -

She will give him time. Time, after all, is something they now have.

“I think it’s Schlatt,” Tubbo tells her once, curled into her side as the fire dies out. “Think he’s grieving.”

Niki frowns. She twists a lock of Tubbo’s hair around her fingers and adds a potential haircut to her list of tasks. “That doesn’t make sense. He hated Schlatt.”

Tubbo squirms a little. She drops his hair and goes back to rubbing his shoulder. “No. I mean, yeah - but - not always. Not at the start.”

Niki remembers that. Her own campaign with Fundy had put her face to face with Quackity in his prime. He’d been attached to Schlatt at the hip, and when they’d announced their coalition, it had come as no surprise to her.

But then in Pogtopia, he’d spit at the very mention of the President’s name, and the look in his eyes was nothing kind. She wonders what happened in the middle.

She doesn’t have to wait much longer to find out.

One day, she and Tubbo come back from the farms to find Quackity curled up in the armchair. His wings are wrapped around his arms in lieu of a blanket. He looks up when they enter. Niki thinks: he looks tired.

Tubbo says, “You look tired.”

Quackity’s lips quirk up ever so slightly. “Yeah. Maybe a little.” His voice is rough.

Niki treads lightly, setting down the bundle of wheat on the kitchen table. “I have some sewing I could do if you’d like the room to yourself.”

Quackity shakes his head. His hair is getting longer again - it falls into his eyes. He swipes it away on impulse. “Stay. I - if you want.”

Niki does. Moving to her regular seat on the couch, she stops by the side table to pick up the wood carving she’s started.

She isn’t quite sure what she wants it to be yet, but it’s looking a little too much like a person for her liking. She sits down, stares at her pocket knife, and thinks about chucking the carving into the fire until Quackity breaks the silence with a sigh.

“He was an asshole,” Quackity says. “I know that.”

Tubbo finally moves, slotting himself in the space between Quackity’s side and the arm of the chair. He must pull a few feathers in the process, but Quackity doesn’t even wince.

“Mhm,” he says, encouraging. Thank Prime for Tubbo, Niki thinks - she has no idea what to say.

“He used to tell me we were the best thing to happen to that place,” Quackity continues. “I don’t know. I wanted to believe it. That’s all I wanted,” he says, looking at Niki with a barely veiled desperation. “I just wanted - I thought I was making things better.”

Niki nods, slowly, and begins to whittle away at her carving again. “I understand.”

“I didn’t realize what he wanted,” Quackity murmurs. “Not until it was too late.”

Niki frowns. “What did he want?”

“He used to say justice. He said he was making things right.” Quackity’s jaw tenses, and he grabs for Tubbo’s hand almost subconsciously. “But nothing’s right about what he did.”

“I don’t fault you,” Niki says, “if that helps.”

“Me neither,” Tubbo says, quiet. “Never did.”

Quackity closes his eyes. “After you - after the festival.”

Niki digs her knife into the wood a little too deep.

“Things got worse. He got worse. He was dying.”

Of course. Sam had shown them a copy of Ponk’s autopsy for proof. The heart attack may have been sudden, but the liver failure was certainly not.

“We fought. More than we did before.”

“More?” Tubbo asks incredulously.

“Yeah.”

Niki looks at him. “When you say fought -”

“I never won,” Quackity says. It feels like deflection.

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says. “Sorry.”

“Wasn’t you. Nothing to do with you. Actually, I’m - I’m glad you weren’t there.”

Tubbo seems to want to say more, but before he can do so, Quackity clears his throat and keeps talking.

“Well, I - the point is, it got too much, eventually, when he tore down the White House.”

Tubbo makes a noise in the back of his throat. “He tore down the White House?”

“Yeah,” Quackity says. “I must have missed the order. He called me out one morning and told me to get fucking mining.”

A vague image of watching Quackity helping to build the original White House with Wilbur comes to Niki’s mind. The sun was high. There was a cloud shaped like a horse behind Wilbur’s head. Wilbur was smiling, and Niki cannot remember what he looked like.

“Prime,” Tubbo says. “That was - that was your building, he - he had no right.”

Niki thinks, it’s all gone now, anyway, but keeps her mouth shut.

Quackity picks at his nails. “Yeah. I, uh, didn’t want to tear it down. He was mad. He yelled, uh - pushed me around. I didn’t want to.”

Tubbo wraps an arm around his stomach and looks like he’s a thousand miles away. Niki does the only thing she knows how to do, and waits.

“So I killed him,” Quackity says, finally. “I took an arrow and I shot him in the back. And then I resigned.”

When Tommy had first brought Quackity back to Pogtopia, Niki had assumed Schlatt had kicked him out in the same vein as Tubbo. Something to the tune of suspicion and misinterpreted actions. But no, that was wrong - Quackity had killed him.

“Good for you,” Niki says, firm.

Quackity stares at her. “I -”

“He was awful to you. He hurt you. Right?”

Quackity nods.

“Then you gave him what he deserved,” she says.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Quackity says miserably. “And then he fucking died again. And he didn’t come back. I took that life, I - I killed him.”

“You don’t have to feel bad,” Niki says.

Quackity winces. “No, I mean - you’re right. Fucker deserved it.” His voice shakes. He’s telling himself something he doesn’t believe yet.

“You think that if you hadn’t killed him, maybe he’d get better,” Niki says. “You think you took away that chance. Right?”

Quackity’s silent.

“He wouldn’t have gotten better,” Niki says. The carving in her hands has grown hair. It’s curly, falling over half the face, and she swears she can smell gunpowder. “Sometimes, people just rot.”

“Yeah,” Quackity whispers, and that’s the end of that.

~

Later, though, when Tubbo’s gone to bed, Niki and Quackity wash dishes.

Quackity dries a plate with a towel and doesn’t meet her eyes. “Niki?”

She hums a response. The water is warm against her hands.

“Sometimes, he, uh. He’d hurt me.”

She tries not to react too obviously. Shame already creeps red over his cheeks, up to his ears. “I’m -”

I’m sorry feels too little. I’m so sorry is too pitying. I thought so, too dismissive, I should have noticed sooner, too guilty -

“You don’t have to say anything,” Quackity says. “I don’t know why - I don’t know why I’m, uh. Telling you. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “I want to hear. I mean, I don’t want - I mean -” she looks at him, sheepish. “I’m happy to listen, is what I mean.”

He just grins tiredly at her and brushes the dish towel against her arm. “Sicko.”

“Hey,” she protests. “You know what I -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quackity sighs and takes another plate from the sink. “I do. And thanks.”

Niki smiles back. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Quackity shrugs. “It is what it is.”

Niki plunges a glass into the water. “Does Tubbo know?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t really - it wasn’t that bad before he, uh. Left. And I don’t want him to know.”

“He’s a smart kid,” Niki says. “He may have put the pieces together.”

Quackity grimaces. “It’s really that obvious?”

“No,” Niki says. “But he - he’s good at seeing things, you know.”

“Yeah,” Quackity says. “He is.”

Nothing else about Schlatt is said that night, but it becomes something of a routine. Tubbo leaves the room. Niki and Quackity engage in a mundane household chore. Quackity tells her something new, she nods and takes it in, and life goes on.

Sometimes the facts are nice things. Sometimes they’re horrible. Sometimes there’s not much else to say to them besides, oh.

For example, she learns that Schlatt liked Quackity’s hair. He liked it long, so he could tangle it through his fingers when they were both stressed, so he could try and fail to braid it, having never learned how. And later, he refused to let Quackity cut it, because it was easier to grab and pull like a fucking leash.

She learns that Schlatt begrudgingly loved cats. She learns that he picked his alcohol based on how easily the bottle would break if you hit it against something. She learns that he was surprisingly funny, able to make anyone laugh so hard they could barely breathe. She learns that he forced Quackity to hide his wings. She learns that they went out once a week, all the way up to their last argument.

Quackity’s tale is not linear. It’s not a tear-jerker, really, either; sometimes it’s so sweet it hurts her, sometimes it’s full of hope, sometimes it’s laden with the pain of heavy hands and Schlatt’s terrible, terrible voice.

It is always quiet.

She feels like she’s seeing something forbidden when Quackity talks to her. Like an outsider, watching something long and forever gone, a shadow of the sunrise and an eclipse all at once. Quackity whispers things he never thought he’d say to her; she listens with the unspoken promise that she will never say them back.

Sometimes he cries. Sometimes she feels like she might. Sometimes they laugh. It’s more connection than she’s had in so fucking long, and she comes to look forward to the relieved gleam in his eyes after it’s all said and done.

Still, though, it’s not for her. Maybe this is healing, but she is stuck watching from outside - she’s stuck with her jaw clenched tight and her eyes wide open most nights, and despite the complete upheaval she’s helped create, every day it feels like nothing’s fucking changed.

Things go on. Life goes on. Tubbo starts to hit a growth spurt. Together, they make him new clothes. Nothing changes, not really - not for anyone, and especially not for her. Something is still missing.

Day after day, Niki goes through the motions and thinks, I was supposed to feel better.

~

Jack Manifold shows up nineteen days after the explosion.

This is how they mark time, now, it seems. Quackity finds himself thinking of things in two very separate categories. There’s Before, and then there’s After, time ticking by in both directions. None of it feels very real, if Quackity’s being honest.

He’s happy. That’s weird, isn’t it? He hasn’t been consistently happy since week one in this fucking server, and even that’s a stretch.

Something is bound to go wrong. If he’s learned anything, it’s that nothing’s forever. Something is going to happen, and because they’re all fucked up in the head or whatever, it’s going to catch them off guard.

Quackity knows he should be doing something. Preparing weapons, or building a nice big set of walls so no one feels brave enough to find and kill them.

He doesn’t. He sits on his ass in a log cabin with two people he’s getting dangerously comfortable around and learns how to sew, instead.

But of course, he was right, because it had been Schlatt who taught him how the world works and Schlatt’s prophecies have never failed to come true.

This is what Quackity knows: Nothing lasts forever.

So.

Nineteen days, three hours, and twenty-one minutes After, their little domestic facade is shattered into pieces by one Jack fucking Manifold.

Tubbo spots him first.

Quackity hears him from the garden; Tubbo yells, then he laughs, then he pauses and calls for Niki accompanied by the shink of an unsheathed sword.

Quackity runs up to the front of the house just in time to see Jack snarl something nasty at Tubbo, trying to shoo him further away with a pale, bony hand. The man stumbles as he walks, looking dead on his feet, and he’s wearing the remnants of a uniform no one’s donned for a very long time.

Niki emerges from the house, looking worried; she gasps when she sees him. Jack hears it and looks away from Tubbo, one hand still outstretched as though that could stop a swing of Tubbo’s weapon.

“You’re okay,” Niki says, blunt - it’s not a question. Quackity thinks maybe it should be. Jack looks like shit.

“Niki,” Jack says, relieved. “I wondered.”

“How did you find us?” Quackity asks, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. Nothing happens.

Jack’s narrowed eyes snap onto him. “It wasn’t on purpose. I came alone, too, you can stop fucking squinting like that.”

“Why -” Niki starts forward, reaching out as though to fix his coat collar. He flinches. She stops. “Why did you come here?”

Jack shrugs. “I wasn’t planning to stay. I just saw your chimney, and - I just thought, uh. Maybe.”

“Oh,” Niki says. She sounds disappointed.

Jack turns so he’s facing her, fully ignoring Tubbo and Quackity. “I thought you were dead,” Jack tells her plainly, hands clenching at his sides. “Tommy didn’t mention you. Thought Will had killed you.”

Niki’s jaw twitches. “He didn’t. We - we left before the war.”

“I hoped,” Jack murmurs. Now that no one’s weapon is drawn, he seems to droop, almost swaying where he stands. “I’m glad. Glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too,” Niki says. This time, Jack allows her hands to steady his shoulders. “Jack. You look tired. I’d love for you to spend the night.”

Quackity feels like he shouldn’t be here. This is something he shouldn’t see. Tubbo appears to feel the same, shifting his weight while staring down at the grass.

Jack laughs, low and short. “I don’t know.”

“If you have to get back -”

“Oh, no,” Jack says, biting. “I’m never going back there. I’m just - I’m just going. Away.”

That’s a familiar song. And a concerning one. Things were supposed to be better - what’s happened in their absence?

“Why?” Quackity asks.

Jack seems to remember Tubbo and Quackity’s existence. “Fundy’s no better a president than his predecessors,” he says, staring pointedly at Tubbo like it’s all somehow his fault.

Quackity feels his feathers ruffle. “What?”

“Oh. Right. Fundy’s the president,” Jack says. “Wilbur’s last act before he died. Why we all honored it, I’ve no fucking clue.”

“Fundy,” Quackity repeats. “Huh.”

“What’s happened, Jack?” Niki asks. “Is everything okay?”

Jack hums a bitter note, turning to grin at Quackity in a way that sets his nerves running. “Tommy’s been exiled. Cabinet’s gone to shit, Fundy doesn’t listen to us anymore. Foreign policy is…” Jack winces. “Far too intimate. I’m done.”

“You were in the cabinet?” Quackity asks, vaguely surprised.

“Might as well have been dead,” Jack says, “for how much good I did.”

“What’d you say?” Tubbo cuts in, sharp. “Wait, what? What’d you say?”

“I’m done,” Jack says, squinting bitterly at Tubbo. “Don’t act so surprised, you don’t know, you weren’t there -”

“Stop,” Tubbo interrupts, shaking his head so hard Quackity thinks he might give himself whiplash. “Stop, I - what did you say about Tommy?”

Jack blinks. “I said, Tommy’s been exiled. From L’Manberg, along with some other guy. For arson, if you’ll believe it.”

“Exiled,” Tubbo whispers, and he drops his sword to the ground.

Chapter Text

Sapnap, despite what everyone thinks, is not a big fan of the Nether.

It’s dark, for one. The dark has never been his friend, and the Nether’s hot, faint glow does very little to drive it away. The cavern gapes above him, echoing and groaning with a thousand things he can’t see that could strike at any time - Prime, Sapnap hates the fucking dark.

The heat is more bearable. He’s always been happier when warm. But something about the Nether’s brand of hot makes him miserable, like he’s roasting, like everything in him is clawing to get out of his skin. It’s uncomfortable in armor, even for him, and the climate is dry as all hell.

It is hell. There’s a joke to be made there.

“What’s funny?” cuts Dream’s voice.

Sapnap blinks the warm haze out of his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Um, sorry,” pants the taller of their two escortees, raising one hand in the air. He looks to be just as disgruntled as Sapnap is - eager to be out of this place, but dreading the other side just a little bit more. “Are we almost there?

“Patience,” Dream hums, and pokes him in the shoulder. Sapnap raises an eyebrow at the kid’s barely controlled flinch.

“Fuck you,” croaks Tommy, the first thing he’s said since the start of their journey. “Fuck off. Don’t touch him, don’t - don’t touch Ranboo, prick.”

Dream stays smugly silent in response. Tommy’s expression twists. Ranboo’s shoulders shift under his too-large suit jacket, fingers clutching at something hidden in the cloth.

Sapnap thinks impulsively that he should reach out and demand to see it. Then he swallows a mouthful of ash, frowns, and directs his focus back to putting one foot in front of the other.

He should have been doing that already, really. They’re walking across a narrow bridge, and they have been for a while. So far, the ghasts have left them alone, but Sapnap keeps an eye on the skies anyway.

Walking in front of him, Tommy and Ranboo look miserable, which, of course they do. Sapnap may not necessarily understand the impact of exile, but boiled down to the basics, it’s losing the people you love, right?

Yeah. Sapnap can get that, at least.

This is necessary, Dream says. L’Manberg is on the upswing now, this is what has to happen, and Sapnap thinks at least some of that has to be true.

Speak of the devil. Dream’s the only one out of their group who looks content; even that’s hidden in the set of his shoulders and the way he almost springs when he walks. Sapnap eyes Dream’s fingers where they’re ghosting over the handle of his axe and wonders why Dream’s so happy about escorting two kids into the wilderness.

“Tommy, careful,” Ranboo mutters, pulling gently on his companion’s sleeve. Tommy grumbles and slaps his hand away, but he stops veering dangerously to the side. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead.

They’ll be okay. Their survival skills aren’t in question. Though Sapnap doesn’t know anything about Ranboo, he trusts that Tommy can definitely hold his own and then some. No, it’s not the act of abandonment that’s digging uncertain into his stomach - it’s the way Dream’s jaw is tensing, just barely visible in the crease of his mask.

“Watch your step,” Dream chirps, hopping up the small uneven ridge where the bridge meets solid cliff face. Ranboo nods obediently and joins Dream on the ledge, and Tommy -

Sapnap jerks his hands out before he can think, catching Tommy by the shoulders as his foot slams almost deliberately into the rock. He teeters - Sapnap squares his own balance and focuses on ensuring neither of them trip down to a fiery grave.

“Tommy,” Dream snaps. Sapnap awkwardly half-shoves the boy up to safety before he can stumble any further. “You could have fallen!”

“Oops,” Tommy deadpans, and doesn’t look anyone in the eye.

Sapnap thinks, oh.

Dream’s hand clamps around Tommy’s upper arm, met by much spluttering and scraping of gravel as Dream drags him further into the Nether’s mainland. Ranboo gives Sapnap a side-eye before hurriedly following after them.

Sapnap thinks about turning around and going back home.

“Sapnap,” Dream yells. “Come on.”

Sapnap starts walking.

~

Suffice it to say, Ranboo is not having a very good day.

Not having a very good few days, actually. Not having a very good week. And who can say what the past month has looked like? He can’t remember, but if the scars on his face are any indication, he’s been submerged in this bad streak for a pretty long time.

Regardless. Retrospect does nothing but redundantly tell him joining this server had not been a good decision. And it’s all capped off by this moment, right now, sweltering his way through the most depressing Nether hike he’s ever taken.

He’s itching to write things down before they slip away, but they’re walking at an unrelenting pace. Ranboo doesn’t think Dream would take very kindly to a request for a break.

His legs hurt. His chest hurts. Ranboo wipes blood red grit off his forehead with his sleeve and keeps trying to silently make sense of it all.

His feelings are all over the place, at the moment. He’s not exactly mad, except at himself for lacking the common sense to say “no” to the kid who asks him to literally commit arson - for Prime’s sake, how did you even get here?

Whatever the case, for whatever reason, Ranboo has now become a criminal, been prosecuted in court, and sentenced to exile from a nation he barely remembers the name of all at the ripe old age of - of -

Anyway. He supposes at the end of it all, he’s feeling a little numb. The only thought he can really make out clearly is: If I have to be exiled, at least I’m not alone.

Ahead of him, TommyInnit splutters in Dream’s vice grip, just as guilty, just as charged. Partners in crime, Ranboo thinks, and then, I can’t go much longer.

They have to be almost to...wherever they’re going. They have to be, unless Dream was planning all along to have them die of exhaustion on the way. Which isn’t likely, but from what Ranboo’s observed of the guy so far, not out of the question.

Like his thoughts had summoned it, Dream leads them around a sharp corner, and there it is - a lone Nether portal, waiting to be lit in the middle of nowhere.

Ranboo skitters to the side as Dream motions the armored man with the dark hair forward. Bodyguard, maybe? Brother? Mercenary?

The portal goes up in flames. Dream’s friend steps back and blows dust off his fingertips. Ranboo blinks, and then blinks again, but doesn’t see a flint and steel anywhere.

“Through,” Dream says simply, hauling Tommy up and into the fire. “Sapnap, bring him.”

They vanish. Now’s Ranboo’s chance - turn and run, or grab the nearest rock and -

Sapnap clears his throat. “You, uh. Go.”

Ranboo sighs and claws his fingers into his arms. “Yeah. Coming.”

The Nether portal stings, as it always does, but the rain on the other side of it is much, much worse.

Ranboo barely stifles his cry, water sizzling against his cheeks and dripping painfully down his neck. For a few seconds, nothing else exists except his struggle out of his suit jacket to use as an poor umbrella.

When he’s finally got most of his skin shrouded, he looks up to see Tommy and Sapnap walking slowly up the hill and Dream staring him down from far too close.

Ranboo goes to take a step around him, teeth still gritted from the pain. “Um. I’ll just -”

Dream plants his hand on Ranboo’s chest and pushes. It’s not a hard shove, but it’s surprising enough to send him tripping a good few feet backwards.

“No,” Dream says.

Ranboo swallows. “No?”

Dream nods and tilts his head, as if to say, you got it!

“Uh. What, uh, do I do, then?”

“Start walking,” Dream says.

“I was going to,” Ranboo says.

Dream shakes his head. “Away, Ranboo.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says, a little confused, and then -

“Walk away,” Dream says genially, “and if I ever see you again, I’ll make sure you lose a life.”

“But,” Ranboo says - he’s sure he sounds pathetic but it’s all that he can do, “I don’t have - I don’t have anything -”

Dream’s mask is just a smile, yet somehow Ranboo can see his grin through the plastic. “Like I said.”

Something cold is running down his back, burning his spine, and it isn’t the rain.

“Oh.” It’s cold. It’s so cold. The wind hurts, it tears through his face, and it’s hard to breathe.

On the hill, the speck that is Tommy has his back turned, his shoulders hunched. Ranboo thinks about calling to him.

“Move,” Dream says, then exhales a little breath. “Don’t make me start counting.”

Dimly, Ranboo registers that that’s a joke. Dream is making a joke. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Dream echoes. “Better get going.”

“Okay,” Ranboo says again, and turns away, somehow.

Dread pools in his gut. His face burns. He shivers, alone at the edge of the plains, and tries to convince himself to keep going.

One foot in front of the other. Again, and again, and again. He sucks in a breath, nearly sprains his ankle on a tree root, and the first drop of rain soaks through his jacket; it hits his hair and sticks there, but Ranboo can’t feel it anymore.

~

“Where is he?” Tommy asks.

Dream sighs and doesn’t answer, moving instead to inspect the tent Sapnap had helped him put up. “Good job. This’ll hold.”

Sapnap rolls his shoulders back at the praise. Tommy feels like snarling like the wild fucking animal they’re treating him as. “Where the fuck is Ranboo?”

Dream looks at Sapnap, like he knows, either. Tommy can tell they’re making eye contact even though Dream’s face is covered. Practice makes perfect.

Sapnap shrugs his shoulders, vaguely disinterested.

“Tommy,” Dream starts, “Ranboo left.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy’s throat is lined with cotton. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dream says. “He said he didn’t want to stay here.”

“Why,” Tommy says, “would he say that? You - you’re just - what did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dream repeats. The hair on the back of Tommy’s neck raises like he’s been struck by lightning. “I made him promise not to go back to L’Manberg, but I wasn’t going to -”

“Force him to stay out here?” Tommy spits sarcastically. “Keep him somewhere he doesn’t wanna be? Fucking right, you green bastard, you coward, you’ve -”

“Tommy, come on.” Dream cuts him off with a threatening step forward, and Tommy scrambles backwards so fast he almost runs into Sapnap. “He said he didn’t have anything here. He - I’m sorry, Tommy, but he didn’t want to be with you, and I don’t care where he’s exiled so long as he stays out of L’Manberg.”

Tommy’s hair is plastered to his forehead by the rain. It’s threatening to block his vision, and he wants to push it out of his eyes, but he’s stuck gaping at Dream like a fucking fish.

“Can you blame him?” Dream keeps talking. Tommy wants to punch him in the mouth. “You’re the real reason he had to leave in the first place, remember? Can you blame him for being uncomfortable around you?”

Tommy shakes his head. His fingers are numb from the cold. “He didn’t -”

“He did,” Dream says. “Look around you! Where is he?”

“You let him leave,” Tommy argues back, but it’s a last ditch attempt and everyone here knows it. “How can you trust him?”

“He won’t go back,” Dream insists. “And - hey. I’ll be honest with you, you’re the one I really care about.”

“Why,” Tommy says. It’s not a question.

“Because,” Dream shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re important to me.”

“I’m important to you,” Tommy echoes. Behind him, Sapnap breathes out a little too heavily to be natural.

Dream nods. “Listen. I’m sorry about Ranboo, okay? But I’ll come and visit you sometimes, and Sapnap can come and visit, and we’ll - we’ll make it work, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Tommy says. “I’m tired, Dream.”

“Sure.” Dream almost sounds sympathetic. “We’ll see you.”

“We’ll see you,” Sapnap mumbles, miles more uncomfortable under Tommy’s leaden stare.

Tommy stays silent until they’re both out of sight.

He’s tired.

He’s so fucking tired.

~

“Tubbo.”

“Hm.”

“Tubbo. I need your attention.”

“I am paying attention, Niki.”

“Yeah? You are?”

“Yeah…”

“Tubbo. Eyes on me.”

That does it. Tubbo jerks his head up so fast there’s an audible crack.

“Oh, shit,” Quackity stutters, half amused and half deeply pained, “are you okay? I didn’t mean -”

“Big Q,” Tubbo mumbles, rubbing at his neck. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were Niki.”

“Fine. It’s fine.” The kid looks exhausted. Quackity waves a hand, leaning on the doorway. “Thought you might like to help me with dinner.”

Tubbo nods. “Okay. I’m almost, uh, almost done with this.”

“You know, Jack didn’t say he was staying more than one night. You don’t have to build this for him.”

“I want to,” Tubbo says. He sits back on his knees to survey the room. “Besides, it would be nice to have a guest room. Just - just in case.”

Ah. Quackity pulls a face before he can stop himself. “You’re hoping he’ll find us.”

“What do you mean?” Tubbo hums, and goes back to rubbing a rough patch of the wood floor with sandpaper.

“Please don’t play dumb, Tubbo,” Quackity sighs. “Don’t do that, man.”

“I’m not playing dumb,” Tubbo says. It’s short. He doesn’t look up. “This is the guest room for Jack. Then we have it for anything that comes up. That’s it.”

“It’s okay to want -”

“I’ll be out in time to help with dinner, don’t -”

“Tubbo, you -”

“Thank you!” Tubbo says, loud and unnaturally strained. “That’s - thanks, thank you, but I want - I want to be left alone -”

“Tubbo, just shut up,” Quackity shouts, and immediately regrets it.

Tubbo’s head is bowed, hands relaxed on the floor.

“Fuck.” It’s deafeningly silent. “I - I’m, just trying to -”

“Get out,” Tubbo says. He straightens, looks Quackity straight in the eyes. “Please get out.”

There’s a guilty lump in Quackity’s throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

There’s no door to shut, so he just slinks awkwardly back through the hallway and resists the urge to slam his head into the wall.

Jack’s sitting on a stool at their kitchen counter when Quackity enters, nursing a glass of something transparently orange. “Yeesh.”

Quackity scowls. “Shut up.”

“He doesn’t like being yelled at, you know.”

“What would you know about Tubbo?” Quackity grumbles, pulling out the stool across from him.

“Plenty.” Jack picks at the dirt under his fingernails. “We fought in the war together.”

“The war?” Quackity asks, raising an eyebrow.

Jack nods. “Hard to believe, I know. Nobody fucking remembers me. But I was there.”

“Well,” Quackity says. “I remember you. But I wasn’t -”

“There for the war,” Jack interrupts, and Quackity grinds his teeth together. “Yeah, yeah. I remember you, too, Mr. Vice President. I hope my egregious taxes put a nice pillow under your head.”

Fury lights somewhere deep in Quackity’s chest. All that comes out is a sharp, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Jack scoffs, then mumbles something under his breath that Quackity can’t decipher but is most definitely an insult.

Niki slams open the door, eyes wide and jaw tensed.

Quackity and Jack turn to look at her.

She stares back at them. “I heard yelling.”

Quackity looks away. “Everything’s fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes are stuck on Jack’s pale hands.

“Niki?” Quackity tries.

She shakes her head. “Let’s - let’s eat. Let’s - yeah.”

“You alright?” Jack offers, taking a drink from the glass in front of him.

She nods. There’s a profound silence.

“Right,” Jack says, and his laugh leaves a bitter taste in the back of Quackity’s throat. “Right. Everyone’s fucking peachy.”

Niki drops her head into her hands.

Well, Quackity thinks. So much for getting better.

Chapter Text

Jack Manifold is not staying here another night.

He’s not. It wouldn’t be right, or something - something like that. This little group of three has a good thing going here, and Jack knows when he’s overstayed his welcome.

He shouldn’t have spent even one night in the cottage, but Tubbo had gone to all that work to build him a room and Niki insisted she’d missed him. Plus, he was so fucking tired that a roof and a bed sounded like nothing short of heaven, at that point.

So. He stayed.

Now it’s the next morning and he’s still here, going against every logical sense he has by taking food out of the cupboard he doesn’t have express permission to access.

New L’Manberg had been far from rich with resources. Everything that hadn’t been reduced to ashes was carelessly and desperately used, and when that ran out, it was every man for themself. In their pity, Eret’s kingdom had donated various crops and assistance; that at least kept them from starving before they had a chance to rebuild.

Not that it mattered, in the long run. Charity only landed them further in debt. Jack wonders if Fundy’s bothered to check up on the large sums of money and time they owe Eret, or if he’s too busy refusing to listen to anyone besides the very people who’ve screwed him over countless times.

“Hello.”

Jack whirls, one hand grasping a container of cereal.

It’s Niki, eyes squinted in the kitchen’s light. Her hair is matted to one side. She must have just woken up.

“Ayup,” Jack says, quickly retracting his hand from the cupboard. “Sorry. I didn’t know when - I just thought I’d help myself.”

Niki nods, then yawns. “No, no. Go ahead. Our casa es su casa.”

Jack blinks.

“Make yourself at home,” Niki says.

“Oh. Okay.” Back to the cereal. He’s hungrier than he thought - even the smell of it makes his stomach growl.

“Our bowls are up in that one.” Niki points.

Jack shakes his head, scooping up a handful. “I’ll just eat it dry.”

Niki looks pained. “Jack.”

“What?” Into his mouth it goes. He chews it and swallows and barely restrains himself from dumping the whole damn container into his mouth at once.

“Well.” Niki pads to him, nudging him aside to grab a spoon out of the drawer. “I will be using a bowl.”

“Coward,” Jack says, muffled. “You’ve changed.”

Niki laughs, then braces herself against the counter like it hurts.

Jack chews more cereal and doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ve missed you,” Niki says, her hair blocking his view of her eyes.

Jack swallows. “Yeah. Mutual.”

“Remember when,” Niki says, “you used to stay at my bakery sometimes? Because they were looking for you? And I had to tell Quackity the noise you made hiding was a rat that I couldn’t manage to find?”

Jack frowns. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

She turns. “It’s a little funny, isn’t it? Looking back on it, now. Everything we did.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” Jack says, maybe a little too loud.

Niki clicks her jaw shut and leans back against the counter. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were dead,” is all that Jack can say to that. “Do you have any idea what you left me in? Do you have any idea what Will did to us?”

“Of course I do,” Niki says.

“No! You don’t! Because you ran, again and again, and you can pretend all you want but you don’t give a shit about me! Nobody -”

Jack chokes on his own air. Niki is staring at him with wide, electric eyes.

“Nobody,” Jack says. “Nobody gives a shit about me.”

“That’s not true,” Niki says. “It’s not, Jack, and I’m - I’m sorry, but they were going to kill me, I had to leave, and you don’t know what happened in Pogtopia, either -”

“Pogtopia,” Jack scoffs. “No, for Prime’s sake, I don’t know what happened there, and I don’t think I want to! Clearly it wasn’t great, but at least you had a fucking roof over your head.”

“Don’t,” Niki scowls, “tell me how fortunate I was. Do not tell me I had it better.”

Jack throws up his hands. “Did you? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t know, I wasn’t invited.”

“Let’s not fight. Please. Let’s just -”

“Forgive and forget, right? Is that why you’re out here? So you can forget about everything Quackity did to you? So you can forget what he did to Tubbo?”

“He didn’t kill him,” Niki says. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“I think it does,” Jack says, short. “I think it does.”

“He suffered under Schlatt, too,” Niki snaps. “You have no idea what - you have no right to be speaking like this, Jack, and -”

“Like you’re any better!”

“Nobody made you stay!”

“Nobody made you leave, either!”

“Excuse me.”

Niki and Jack freeze.

Tubbo stands by the island in his sleep clothes, fists clenched at his sides. “I’d like a bowl, please.”

Niki is the first to move, pointedly not looking in Jack’s direction. “Of course. Did we wake you?”

Tubbo shrugs. “It’s okay.”

Jack breaks and rubs a hand over his face. “I should be going.”

“No,” Niki says, surprisingly worried, handing a bowl to Tubbo. “Wait, Jack.”

Jack just looks at her.

“You said nobody cares.” She meets his gaze. “It’s not true. I - I don’t want to fight, Jack, I want to work this out. I -”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “I just - I just don’t know.”

Tubbo’s by his side, then. “Hey, Jack.”

“Hi, Tubbo.”

“It’s nice to see you,” he says, focusing on pouring cereal into his bowl. “By the way.”

“Yeah, thanks. How’s it?” Jack asks, studying the kid’s star-pattered scars.

“Better,” Tubbo says. It’s impossible to tell whether or not he believes it. “You should stay.”

Jack winces then tries to pass it off as a frown. “I don’t think I belong here.”

Tubbo exhales a little laugh so only Jack can hear. “Me neither, Jack Manifold.”

And then he turns, walks out of the kitchen, and says nothing else.

“Wilbur and Schlatt,” Niki says, “hurt me, too.”

Jack bites at his lip. There’s something stuck in his throat and he thinks about what dying felt like.

“I’m trying,” she continues, “to forgive. I think I want to. But I haven’t - I haven’t gotten anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“I think I’d like some company again,” she says, sounding much like he feels.

Realistically, Jack knows she has company, but there’s a glint in her eyes only he could understand. Realistically, Jack knows Quackity and Tubbo are sincere, but it’s hard to forgive - it’s hard to forget.

But most realistically, Jack knows he would give anything to stop feeling so lonely.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he says.

She smiles ruefully. “Me neither.”

“I wanna stay,” Jack says. “I’ve missed you.”

“We’ll work it out,” Niki says. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Jack’s laugh is wet, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Yeah, okay, yeah - how hard can it be?”

~

Turns out, it’s fucking hard, actually.

Niki isn’t quite sure how or when all this degraded between her and Jack, but she supposes if you bond through necessity and then take the necessity out of the bond, all you have left is a sad little lump of things that used to be.

If she’s learned anything from these past few weeks, it’s that good things take work. Good things take exhaustion and awkward arguments and words that you don’t want to say; it takes burdens on more than just you. It’s hard.

She is tired of difficult things. She is more tired of feeling alone.

For twenty-four hours, Jack Manifold is the priority problem on her list. There are a few stilted interactions between him and Quackity, but at least no more fights break out. Tubbo takes to Jack like she hasn’t seen in weeks, and she can tell Jack appreciates the familiar face. Tubbo only talks about safe things, so she is content to leave them curled up by her woodworking in the living room for most of the day.

She deals with Quackity while they make dinner, and he tells her he feels so fucking sorry but he thinks he’d choke on any apology he tried to spit out.

“It’s, like,” he says, stirring the pasta, “I don’t know. I’m still hanging onto, like - I don’t have to apologize because - ‘cause no one apologized to me.”

Niki nods. “I understand.”

“I’m not really upset with him. He’s not a bad guy,” Quackity says.

“Neither are you,” Niki says.

Quackity scoffs. “We’re all saints, huh?”

“Yeah,” Niki says. “We all try.”

“How long do we have to try for?” Quackity mumbles.

“As long as it takes,” she says, and prays to Prime she can learn to be less of a hypocrite.

For twenty four hours, they try, and for twenty four hours it sort-of-kind-of works as they figure out the right balance of ignorance and tolerance and survival.

And then, twenty four hours later, Ranboo shows up.

~

Tubbo wishes he would stop being the one to discover new people.

It’s a new day, and Tubbo’s out in the garden, weeding. He wants to get out more, to try to dispel some of the pallor in his skin. The wind feels nice through his hair, too, and he’s far away from any arguments that may break out inside.

Perfectly poised to catch the shadowy figure stumbling between the bitch trees just in his periphery.

He’s on his feet before he can blink, snapping onto the dark of the woods with rapt attention.

It moves again, making too much noise to be hidden. It’s tall, maybe a zombie? There’s a coat draped over its shoulders, maybe it’s -

Tubbo shakes his head and drops his hand to his sword. “Hey!”

Best to catch it by surprise. Overwhelm it, if it’s smart. He stalks forward, puffing up his chest to look bigger than he is.

The shape sluggishly turns. It becomes increasingly human the closer Tubbo gets.

“Hello?”

Tubbo screeches to a halt when the voice sounds, echoing through the trees. It’s raspy, pitched low with exhaustion, and there’s a thin thread of - something - that makes Tubbo pause in his warpath.

“Who are you?” he calls back.

The figure moves closer, breaking out of the treeline.

It’s a boy - at least, Tubbo thinks so. He looks otherworldly enough to be some sort of mob creature. He’s unnaturally tall, and half of his face and neck look dyed pitch black. The other half plus the hand he presses against the birch tree match the white of its bark.

But what really catches Tubbo’s attention are the stripes of red splattered across every patch of his bare skin. Scars.

Tubbo’s own face itches. “Who are you?” he repeats.

The boy looks at him through half-lidded eyes. “I’m…Ranboo.”

“Ranboo?” Tubbo asks. He’s never heard of him. Come to think of it, he’s never seen the kid before either, and Tubbo thinks he would recognize just about anyone who lives here.

Ranboo nods. “I think. I’m - not sure. It seems right.”

“You’re not sure,” Tubbo says. “It’s your name.”

“I have -” Ranboo physically stumbles, pausing to breathe heavily for a few seconds. Tubbo narrows his eyes. Is he injured? “- have memory issues, I - I can’t remember much.”

“Are you okay?” Tubbo asks. He probably should have lead with what are you doing here or where did you come from - but Ranboo looks like he’s about to pass out where he stands.

Ranboo nods, and then very convincingly staggers another step forwards. “I’m - just tired,” he says, though it’s quite the understatement.

Tubbo knows. He sees that kind of tired every time he catches his reflection in a window.

“What are you doing out here?” Tubbo asks; to be sure he gets an honest answer, he unsheathes an inch of his weapon.

Ranboo’s eyes draw to it, but he doesn’t react at all. “Um. Walking.”

“Walking.”

“Away,” Ranboo says, nodding seriously as though that clarifies anything. “I’m walking away.”

“Away from where?” Tubbo asks.

Ranboo doesn’t answer.

“Okay,” Tubbo says. “Uh…come inside, then?”

Ranboo frowns. “I’m not supposed to go back.”

“Go back where?”

“Um.” Silence again.

“Well,” Tubbo offers, “you’ve never been here. You can’t go back to a place you’ve never been.”

“True,” Ranboo mutters.

“And Niki would kill me if I let you die,” Tubbo says. “So I think it’s in both of our best interests to get you help.”

“I don’t need help,” Ranboo wheezes.

“Okay, boss man,” Tubbo says, sheathing his sword. He’s sure if Ranboo had more of his wits about him, he would have backed away, but he just tiredly lets Tubbo come up and tug gently on his arm. “Let’s go. Just a few more steps.”

Ranboo nods and does as ordered. He towers over Tubbo from this close, two-toned skin rough under Tubbo’s fingers. His clothes are nice but worn, and his hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in two days too many.

The scars are more prominent from up close. Tubbo wonders what they’re from.

He doesn’t get the privacy to ask, because as soon as he pulls the kid in the front door, Jack Manifold shoots to his feet with a scowl on his lips.

“What’s he doing here?” Jack asks, eyes drilling into Ranboo’s skull with a familiarity that is not reciprocated.

“He’s new, I think,” Tubbo says. He puts one foot in front of Ranboo, keeping a grip on his arm in case he gets startled and tries to run. “You know him?”

“Yeah, I do,” Jack says. “He was exiled with Tommy.”

“Oh,” Tubbo says.

“Oh,” Ranboo whispers, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack echoes. “Still playing the memory card, I see. Listen, Tubbo, I dunno what he told you -”

“Is he with you?” Tubbo interrupts, whirling to look up into Ranboo’s eyes. “Tommy, is he with you?”

Ranboo winces like he’s been shot and turns his head to the side. “I - I don’t - I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Tubbo splutters. “What do you mean? Is he - is he out there, too? Is he hurt?”

“I left alone,” Ranboo gasps, pressing one hand to his head. “I left alone, I’m sorry, please stop - stop looking at me -”

Tubbo exhales a frustrated breath. He diverts his attention back to Ranboo’s hands. “Where is he, then?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. My - my journal doesn’t say anything, I don’t know.”

Jack is still standing. “So Dream just let you off the hook, then? Right. This doesn’t make sense.”

Quackity finally makes himself known, jerking around to peer over the couch. “Dream could be here?”

“Just, wait,” Tubbo says, everything pushing down on him all at once. “Ranboo - what journal?”

“You can’t have it,” Ranboo blurts, arms curling around his chest. “You can’t see it. You can’t have it.”

Quackity clicks his tongue and eyes the notebook-shaped lump in Ranboo’s suit jacket pocket. “If it tells us who the fuck you are -”

Footsteps patter down the hall, and then the door is thrown open to reveal a concerned looking Niki.

“What is going on?” Niki says, eyes wide, quickly narrowing down on Ranboo. “Oh, shit.”

“He’s from New L’Manberg,” Jack explains, still giving Ranboo a suspicious glare. “He showed up after the war, got exiled for arson and obstruction of justice, and now he shows up here claiming to be alone and that he can’t remember shit -”

“Are you okay?” Niki interrupts, worry blatant in her tone. “Kid, hey -”

“Fine,” Ranboo says. It cracks.

Tubbo turns around just in time to see Ranboo pale a shade, breathe in sharply, and then collapse to the floor without another word.

Chapter Text

New L’Manberg is beautiful.

The valley it sits in is untouched - on the edges, at least. Right in the middle there’s a big, jagged hole, pockmarked and dirtied with rubble and mud. Remnants of walls and the occasional crepe paper lay discarded in the crater. The sewer systems below are exposed, gaping manmade tunnels bleached by a sky they weren’t supposed to see.

But all that is abandoned, shrouded in shadow. The real country turns its eyes away from the dark and up to the crested hills and the sun.

The mountains still rise. The lake freely flows down and through the crater, a mash of crashing waterfalls and rivers forming the occasional small pond in the rubble below. Flora is starting to regrow, even in the dead of winter, dotting spots of color around the otherwise grey, rocky expanse. Things are getting better, things are healing - it’s a new landscape, just as beautiful as the last.

They’ve begun rebuilding, too. Walkways wind around the sheer rocks, held up by recycled marble and granite pillars. The buildings themselves are carved deep into the cliff face, all wooden frames and lantern lights; it’s in the largest cavern that Fundy Soot stands, hands behind his back, staring out over the landscape.

It’s getting cold, but Fundy doesn’t mind. The wind feels good on his fur after a long day of walking back and forth from Pride Castle to his home. He’s done for the day, finally, and it’s good to just stand and breathe.

There’s a faint mist rising from the waterfalls below. The moon makes a silver sheen out of it, like a scene from a dream. Fundy stares at it and thinks about rainbows and how he doesn’t know if it works with the light of the moon, too, or if it’s just the sun.

“Hello, Fundy!”

The wind blows colder. Fundy’s ears drop to his head. “Hi, Dad.”

Ghostbur grins in his periphery. He wavers in and out with the mist and the moonlight. “How was your day?”

“Fine. I had a lot of meetings.”

“Ooo, meetings…who with?”

“Eret,” Fundy says, then hurriedly follows it up with, “and Dream. Talking about our borders.”

Ghostbur nods, like he understood any of that. “You’re so very important.”

Fundy sighs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I remember when you were just a baby,” Ghostbur says fondly, sidling closer to lean his head on Fundy’s shoulder.

Fundy looks down. Ghostbur’s phased through the floor up to his shins. “Mhm.”

“You were so cute. You always hated being left out of the war rooms, and I kept telling you, I said, ‘Fundy, you’re not old enough, they’ll be boring,’ but you would just cry and cry and -”

“I’m tired,” Fundy interrupts, feeling like his suit weighs fifty pounds, all of a sudden. “I think I’m going to bed, Dad.”

“Oh.” Ghostbur picks himself up to his full height, feet solidly on the floor again. “Okay! Goodnight, um…I’ll come over tomorrow, too, okay?”

Fundy nods. Prime, he’s exhausted. “Okay, Dad,” he tries to say, but it comes out all whispery and weird.

“Oh, Fundy,” Ghostbur murmurs. “Get some sleep! You’re working all the time, now.”

“Gotta,” Fundy says. “Sorry.”

“You still find time for me,” Ghostbur smiles. It looks wrong. “That’s all I need.”

There’s something hard in Fundy’s throat and he really just - just needs to go to bed. “Sure. Yeah, um. Thanks for coming around.”

“Of course,” Ghostbur coos. “Any chance to see my little president!”

“Goodnight,” Fundy chokes. “Prime, uh - goodnight,” and he’s stumbling away from the dead apparition of a father he may as well have killed himself, and he is alone, and he is alone, and he is alone -

His bed is uncomfortable. His blanket is thin. He falls down onto the mattress anyway and squeezes his eyes shut.

New L’Manberg is beautiful. Fundy works hard to keep it that way. He’s made decision after decision, from disownment to exile and everything in between, and it’s paid off - New L’Manberg is beautiful, and it’s thriving; it’s still standing with Fundy proudly in the middle of it.

New L’Manberg is beautiful.

New L’Manberg is also empty.

Tommy was the first to go. Ranboo, too. Jack Manifold is either dead or gone, and no matter how hard he wants to, Fundy can’t blame him.

It’s a ghost town now, in more ways than one. There is nobody left in this crater except Fundy and a remnant who couldn’t give him closure even if he wanted to.

But, hey. He’s the president. He’s important, and his dad loves him again.

Isn’t that all he ever wanted?

~

According to Jack Manifold, the events were as such.

Tommy, on Ranboo’s first day in the land, took him to George’s (here Quackity makes a noise much like a dying chicken) house and burned it down, stealing some of his belongings in the process. Puffy (Niki pipes up, who? and Jack has to tangent and explain that there’s a few new people but they’re boring and I don’t know them so they’re not important to which Niki raises an eyebrow but simply says, go on) testified as a witness once the crime was reported and said she saw them walking back from the direction of George’s house, ashy and carrying a suspicious bag. The judge, Karl Jacobs for some unholy reason (here Quackity reprises the chicken noise but much more amused than last time) ruled both of them complicit in the crime after hearing their statements (Tubbo asks, and Ranboo admitted to it? and Jack says, he claimed memory loss but Tommy insisted he was there, to which Tubbo blinks and says, cool, in the most uncool way possible) and they were sentenced to permanent exile and escorted out by Dream.

“Okay,” Tubbo says. “So Tommy committed crime and Ranboo helped.”

“That’s - yeah,” Jack says.

“Okay,” Tubbo says. “And that was - worthy of - permanent exile.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, I guess. I didn’t fucking agree,” Jack says. “It was Fundy’s choice.”

Quackity sighs, gazing at the couch. “Poor kid. He looks like shit.”

“I can’t figure out what would leave marks like this,” Niki says, gesturing to Ranboo’s sleeping form. “Malnutrition, sure, if he’s been wandering from L’Manberg this whole time, and the exhaustion too, but.”

“Do you think Dream killed -” Tubbo starts, and then just kind of can’t talk anymore.

“What?” Niki asks.

Tubbo shakes his head, completely fucking useless.

“Oh,” Jack says softly, understanding dawning on him. “I don’t - I don’t know, Tubbo.”

“Last one,” Tubbo croaks. “Tommy’s not - yeah.”

“Oh,” Niki says. “Oh.”

“What,” Quackity says, “are you -”

“Even if, you know, he could - he could come back. Like Wilbur,” Jack says, and it’s supposed to make Tubbo feel better, probably, but it cracks something cold into his veins.

“Wilbur?” Niki asks, concerned. “What?”

Jack gestures meaninglessly. “You know. Ghosts. Ghostbur, whatever.”

“What the fuck’s a Ghostbur?” Quackity asks.

Jack seems to have his second epiphany in under five minutes, and says, “shit. Right.”

Niki’s not giving up. “What about Wilbur?” she demands.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Jack says.

“You’re not making any sense,” Quackity says. “Spit it straight out.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “Wilbur came back as a ghost after he died. We call him Ghostbur, and he lives in L’Manberg. New L’Manberg.”

“You’re right,” Niki says. “I don’t believe you.”

“Swear on my third, he’s real.” Jack holds his hands up in surrender. “He only remembers good things, though. Far cry from the real Wilbur.”

“Huh,” Tubbo says.

Quackity looks rather ill. “So the - so - does everyone become a ghost?”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t fucking know, who else has died? Schlatt?”

Tubbo thinks, I’m going to learn to exorcise.

“He needs to be - someone should watch him,” Niki says fervently, arms crossed tight over her chest.

“He’s like a toddler,” Jack says. “He’s not planning anything.”

Niki laughs. “Oh, yes. That’s what he said when he started the elections.”

“He’s dead,” Jack snaps. The way he squares his shoulders echoes something Tubbo doesn’t know about. “Trust me. If he - if he was like he was, I’d know.”

“What do you know about Wilbur?” Niki accuses. “What do any of us know?”

“You’re sure he’s the only ghost?” Tubbo asks.

“He’s the only one,” Jack says. “No sign of Schlatt or nothing.”

“Or Tommy,” Tubbo says.

Jack hesitates. “I left right after the exile, I don’t know. He’d - I’m sure he’d be in L’Manberg, yeah, if Dream did kill him, so we could go look -”

“No!” Tubbo yelps. His mouth tastes like blood. “I’m sure he’s - it’s fine. I don’t want to go back.”

Niki lets out a sigh, sinking down to sit on the edge of Ranboo’s bed. “I can’t believe it. I thought Wilbur was gone.”

“I think he is,” Jack says quietly. “It’s really just a shadow. He won’t talk about anything but things that don’t matter, says he doesn’t remember them. He’s not the same.”

“Shit,” Quackity says.

“Shit,” Tubbo echoes shakily.

“Ghosts are real,” Quackity mumbles. “Okay. Sure. Ghosts are real.”

Ranboo stirs in his sleep, then, eyebrows furrowing as he clutches at the blankets. Niki clicks her tongue and smooths back his hair.

“Will he be okay?” Jack asks. If Tubbo didn’t know better, he’d say there was a little bit of guilt in his tone.

Niki bows her head, sighs, and says, “I hope so.”

~

Sapnap visits Tommy a couple days into exile.

He makes the walk alone, bearing only his weapon, some food and water, and a set of rules from Dream he has to keep going over in his head so he doesn’t fuck up by accident.

The other side of the Nether portal is not very well kept, even after so short a time. There’s a better path now, at least, leading up and over to a small camp on the hillside. To his left, the noise of the ocean permeates the cool breeze, waves slapping against the grainy shore.

Sapnap picks his way to the largest tent carefully, keeping an eye on his surroundings in case Tommy heard him coming and decided to try something. Nothing springs upon him, and soon he’s standing in front of the entrance to the saddest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

The tent’s just barely stable, already worn by the storms rolling in off the ocean. The fabric is spotted with mud on the outside, and inside, the wood paneling is scuffed to all hell. The bed is a simple mat on the ground. The only other features of the place include a chest and a photo of an old woman hastily pinned to the wall.

The crown jewel of this depressing scene is TommyInnit himself; clothes marked with holes and burns, hair matted in clumps over dull, blue-grey eyes, and completely soaked through with salty-smelling ocean water.

“The fuck,” Tommy says lowly, staring at Sapnap. “You’re the wrong guy.”

Sapnap clears his throat. “I’m, uh…Dream said he’s busy, so I came today.”

Tommy’s face twists into a scowl. “You - you turn right back around and tell him I didn’t mean what I said, yesterday - tell him to come, I’ll fuckin’ - I’ve dug the hole already, I -”

“I’m not going back. And you should put something warmer on. You’ll freeze,” Sapnap interrupts, not knowing what any of that means and not really wanting to find out. “Let me -”

He reaches around for his pack. Tommy scrambles backwards and shoves forward the pickaxe that had been strapped to his belt.

Sapnap watches it hit the ground. It lays there, just as confused as he is.

Tommy is looking at him.

“Thank you,” Sapnap says, and picks up the tool. It’s a shitty iron one, but - it’s a…gift? “I didn’t bring you anything, but - here - you can have one of my cloaks until I leave.”

Sapnap rifles through his bag and successfully trades the pickaxe for a wad of fabric. He tosses it to Tommy, who fumbles it and then holds it outstretched like it’s a time bomb.

“Dream wouldn’t like this,” he says. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”

Sapnap frowns. Don’t empathize. He’s an enemy, not your friend.

“It’s not empathy,” he rationalizes out loud, and Tommy cocks an eyebrow. “It’s - he wouldn’t want you to die of a cold, either. And I’m not giving it to you. And he literally told me to come, and I’m -”

“Alright, alright,” Tommy grumbles, pulling the cloak over his soggy shoulders. “Whatever. Just shut up.”

“Some thanks,” Sapnap says.

“Thanks,” Tommy says instantly. “Sorry.”

Since when does Tommy apologize? Furthermore, since when does Tommy take fully clothed swims in the earliest hours of the morning?

Don’t ask questions. Go see him, tell him I’ll come back tomorrow, and leave.

Sapnap swallows. “He, uh - Dream said he’ll come back tomorrow.”

Tommy perks up at that. “Really? I was - I thought I’d fucked up, really.”

Sapnap is uncomfortable. “Yeah. Just what he said, I dunno.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “He - he’s - I mean, I don’t like him, but he - he’s my friend.”

Sapnap is really uncomfortable.

“Nobody’s come to see me,” Tommy says. He’s not looking at Sapnap anymore, gaze fixed on the pale veins in his hands. “He’s it. He’s all I’ve got.”

“I should go,” Sapnap says.

Tommy’s mouth twists in an awfully familiar kind of anger. He rips the cloak off his shoulders, shoving it towards Sapnap. “Yeah. Take your fucking pity blanket, and don’t come back.”

Sapnap takes the blanket. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Tommy says. “You’re evil, and I hate you. You’re evil, and you killed my - and I hate you.”

There are bruises lining Tommy’s arms and he claws his fingers into them as he talks. Sapnap, all of a sudden, wishes to be violently ill.

“Maybe I’ll come back,” Sapnap says. “So you can hate me more.”

“Don’t bother,” Tommy says. “I wanna leave things the way they are.”

Out of everything Tommy’s said so far, that is the clearest of them all.

And remember, he’s a kid. You know how they get, you were the same. Don’t listen to him, alright?

So without any more words, Sapnap turns and walks away, but the chill of Logstedshire stays with him through the night, no matter how hard he tries to burn it away.

~

Niki is cold.

December is here, and with it the chilly rainstorms and occasional snowfall birch biomes are treated to. Their cabin is holding up alright, but it’s getting harder to sleep at night without waking up freezing, be it from kicked off blankets or just general maladaptation to the cold.

Jack and Tubbo are doing well, accustomed to layering and surviving in harsh climates. Niki, too, spends most of her time by the fire or drinking hot liquids; the way her hands freeze up when it rains has never bothered her before and she won’t let it start now.

Last but not least, Quackity is miserable, and makes sure everyone knows it. His loud and repetitive complaining can be heard from any point on their land, so Niki has decided to make him the most grandmother-like sweater she can. It’ll be the warmest thing he owns, and she is going to seize control of the community blanket source so he has no choice but to wear the sweater or freeze, and that will - that’ll - show him. Or something. She’s not that invested in it, really.

What she is invested in is Ranboo.

He’d come back to consciousness after about twenty solid hours of sleep, and even then he wasn’t quite operating at full capacity. They got some food in him and didn’t try to ask him questions, despite how much Jack and Quackity rolled their eyes. Stressing him out again could lead to a worse outcome, and criminal or no, he’s clearly a child. Thankfully, he had accepted their offer of hospitality with exhausted gratitude, and told them he would do whatever he needed to repay them.

Now he’s sleeping again for the night, curled up in Tubbo’s bed while Tubbo takes the couch. It was all Niki could do to stop Tubbo from going out and building another room right then and there, but the chill of the night backed her up and Tubbo agreed to wait until morning.

At this point, their cottage is looking like more of a fully realized house. Niki finds she doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Hey,” Quackity says, padding into the kitchen with a shawl around his shoulders. “Dish time?”

Niki nods, holding out a sponge to him. “Dish time.”

He takes it from her. “So, listen.”

“Tubbo’s on the couch, by the way,” Niki says. “Keep it down?”

“Ah, shit. Yeah, okay.” Quackity begins to fill the sink with water. “Funny enough, I wanna talk about him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So, listen, his birthday’s in December, right?”

Niki puts down her drying towel and stares at Quackity. “Prime, is it?”

“I’m…pretty sure,” Quackity says. “Everyone’s birthdays were on their, um, files or whatever - I don’t remember the day, but I remember thinking I could save some of the festival decorations and, uh.”

Niki is silent.

“Anyway. It was this month, I know that much.”

“How old?” she asks.

“Seventeen,” Quackity says.

“Seventeen,” Niki says. “I didn’t know we were so close.”

“Right?” Quackity mumbles. “He’s, like, two years younger than me. Two and a half.”

That gives her pause. “You’re only twenty?”

“I’m turning twenty,” he corrects. “Late December.”

“You’re nineteen,” Niki says.

Quackity gives her a look. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Sorry,” she says. “Me, too, is all.”

He blinks. “Oh. Right, your party.”

Niki reaches across him and shuts off the faucet. “I’d rather not discuss that day.”

Quackity snorts and picks up a plate. “Yeah. Yeah, me neither.”

“Did you want to celebrate?” Niki asks. “Tubbo, I mean. And you.”

“Doesn’t have to be me,” Quackity says uncomfortably.

“It will be you,” Niki says. “You’ve given me ideas.”

“Well, fuck,” Quackity says, but he’s smiling. “Anyway. Thought we could, like, make him a cake. Or something. Give him a coupon for a chore-free day, or some cheesy shit like that.”

Niki considers it. “Yes. Cheesy shit is good.”

“I like cheesy,” Quackity grins. “Maybe I’ll get him a fuckin’ car, too.”

Niki laughs; it hurts her face, the way it stretches. “A new phone.”

“A dog,” Quackity says. “Or some socks.”

“Socks,” Niki gasps. “Oh, but that’s a good idea.”

“No!” Quackity spritzes her with a few water droplets. “Niki, no!”

“It’s cold!” Niki protests.

“It’s socks,” Quackity says. “He’ll hate you.”

Niki smacks him with the towel, and he chitters indignantly until she sighs and apologizes for the action.

“Birthday,” Quackity says decisively once her groveling is over. “Secret, and cheesy, and socks.”

Niki nods, and then picks up another dish, and says, “This is crazy.”

“Yeah?”

“We - I just found out that Wilbur - that Tommy - and all I want to do is figure out how to throw Tubbo a birthday party.”

“Oh.” Quackity scrubs at a particularly dirty plate. “Guilty?”

Niki shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t owe them anything.”

“Yeah. But they’re - you loved them.”

Niki doesn’t answer.

“I did, too,” Quackity says. “I do, I think. It’s a - what, character flaw? Ha,” he exhales, “feels like one.”

“Sure,” Niki says. “I don’t know. I - I think I miss loving people.”

Quackity nudges her with one wing. “You do. You love us, right?”

“Oh,” Niki says, pausing in her dish duty. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“Don’t feel bad about Tommy, or Wilbur,” Quackity says softly. “You can’t save everyone. And look what you’ve done for us, right?”

Niki nods. “Sure. Yes.”

“You’re - you did good, Niki,” Quackity says. “I don’t thank you enough.”

Niki rubs at her eyes. “Thank you.”

Quackity studies her for a second more, then dries his hands on the dish towel. “Want one?”

Niki blinks at him through her fingers. His arms are hesitantly open.

“Yes,” she says before she can think about it, and Quackity takes his cue, stepping forward.

She gets a hug. It’s the first one in a while. She hooks her arms around his shoulders, and he’s not quite relaxed but neither is she.

“You’re good,” Quackity mutters into her shoulder. “You’re really good, Niki.”

And then she cries. Silent, hot tears burn down her face and horribly obviously stain Quackity’s shirt. She doesn’t know why she’s crying. She is filled with everything, and she doesn’t know why.

“It’s cold,” she whispers out through her ragged breaths, trying not to hold him too tightly in her sudden, blindsiding emotion.

“I know,” Quackity says, solid against her trembling hands. “We’ll do better tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Niki says; somehow, she believes it.

Chapter Text

During the first full day of his recovery, Ranboo writes down everything he remembers from the past few days.

He doesn’t bother elaborating on some of the vaguer points like no food or rain. The scars and the weak feeling in his every limb do a good enough job reminding him. Instead, he writes down things like Sapnap, Tommy, beach? Dream. Can’t go back to L’Manberg, taken in by Niki, Jack, Tubbo, Quackity in a cottage in a birch forest and tops it off with a tiny-printed, ask about indentured servitude?

The thought of going back out into the wild anytime soon makes the hair on the back of his neck rear. Anything he has to do to stay, he’ll do, no questions asked.

If they force him out, he doesn’t think he’ll make it through another stretch on his own, not unless they let him prepare. At the very least, he can probably beg some armor and food out of them before he has to go. Niki had seemed kind enough to grant him that, but then again, she’ll probably be more concerned with keeping her own people alive than being charitable to a stranger.

Regardless of his housing situation, Ranboo manages to cobble together a short and comprehensive list in his notebook within five minutes, which in turn is slightly worrying. The thought of his already spotty memory getting even worse makes him shiver; he tries to shake it off and returns his pen to the paper. He marks down his surroundings, the property’s layout, notes that he’s far enough away from civilization to not have to worry about breaking exile, and then moves on to the people.

Jack Manifold is a good starting point. Ranboo remembers talking with him and Fundy in the White House, and thinks that Jack may have been the one to show him around the lands when he first woke up here. They weren’t friends during his cabinet days, but maybe there’s a little bit of hope for a future relationship. If he’s feeling optimistic, which - yeah, right.

Jack left L’Manberg after your exile, Ranboo writes. Thinks you’re weird but hasn’t tried to hurt you or make you leave yet. Don’t remember much about him but he was in the cabinet.

Ranboo curls his legs tighter to him and feels like slamming his head into the wall. Very aggressively. Just to make life harder on himself.

Tubbo, Niki, and Quackity are strangers. He’s stumbled across these three people he doesn’t know, who don’t know him, and who reside in a place he doesn’t recognize. He’s read through his journal maybe four times since he woke, checking and double checking everything; there is not a single mention of this place or these people. Ranboo doesn’t know where to start.

He’s saved from having to figure it out by a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, vaguely startled, quickly snapping his journal shut.

Tubbo pokes his head in. The door hinges creak like they’re fifty years old. “Hey. I need to get something out of here.”

“No problem. Sorry.” Ranboo scoots to the back wall, tail curling around his legs.

Tubbo beelines for a chest in the corner of the room, not sparing him a second glance. “Why are you sorry?”

Ranboo blinks. “It’s your room.”

“And I let you use it.”

“It’s - your room.”

Tubbo kneels and begins pawing through the chest. “Okay. Whatever.”

“Um.” Ranboo feels very out of place. “Should I leave?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Tubbo finds what he’s looking for and pockets it. “You,” he says, turning to squint at Ranboo, “are so weird.”

Ranboo sniffs at that, lips twisting into a wry smile. “Thanks.”

“Feeling any better?” Tubbo asks.

“Um.” Ranboo thinks about it. “A little.”

Tubbo nods. His expression shifts to something too determined to be nonchalance. “Listen, can I ask you some things?”

Oh boy. A discomfort creeps into Ranboo’s hands. “I’m not sure I’ll be helpful. I already told Niki everything I knew.”

Tubbo just keeps looking at him. “But, like - I can ask.”

It appears this is inevitable. Ranboo exhales. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, of course.”

It’s the least he can do. He shoves his hands under his thighs and straightens his back against the wall, preparing for what will undoubtedly be an awkward interrogation.

“Awesome.” Tubbo scrambles up to the bed, taking a seat opposite Ranboo, fixated so directly on him it makes his skin crawl.

“One,” Tubbo says. “Where did Dream take you and Tommy?”

“I don’t remember,” Ranboo says. “I’m sorry. I just know I wasn’t supposed to go back.”

“Nothing?” Tubbo tries. “Not even, like, vague - vague ideas?”

Ranboo hesitates, raising his shoulders helplessly. “There was a beach, maybe. I thought I could hear the ocean, but it…it was raining, so I can’t - I’m sorry.”

“Raining.” Tubbo nods seriously. “Okay. Two.”

“Two,” Ranboo says.

“How was Tommy when you left L’Manberg? Or before, I guess. Well, did you know him before - before the committing of the crime, or -”

“That’s two questions,” Ranboo says, then clears his throat. He hopes Tubbo’s not mad about getting interrupted.

“Oh,” is all Tubbo says. “Two and three, then.”

“Okay,” Ranboo says. “Okay. Yeah, I knew Tommy - he was the first person to really talk to me on the server. He found me a home in, um, New L’Manberg. Settled me in, and then, uh…”

Tubbo makes a face. “Crime.”

“Crime,” Ranboo agrees. “It was a mistake, though. I remember. We didn’t mean to burn anything, just steal.”

“Uh-huh. And question three?”

“What was -”

“How was he?” Tubbo asks.

“He seemed okay,” Ranboo says. “Before. He was a little angry a - a lot of the time, but other than that, fine. He made a lot of jokes.”

That doesn’t seem to reassure Tubbo much at all. “Four. Did he mention any of us at all?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “If he did, I don’t remember.”

“Fine.” Tubbo straightens up. “Five. What happened to you? Like, generally. To get you here.”

“Um,” Ranboo says, not really sure where to start. “It’s - since I got here?”

“Yeah.”

“I woke up in spawn right after the big explosion.” Ranboo furrows his brows, thinking. “Fundy invited me to L’Manberg, ‘cause they were short on members. Citizens. So, I met Jack and Tommy there, and Fundy asked me to help keep a record of the meetings since I was always writing things down.”

“Okay.”

“Then, uh, Tommy asked me to go with him. Go out with him. I didn’t really get what we were doing. I don’t know why I went along with it.”

That’s a little bit of a lie, though. Tommy was the only person to really talk to Ranboo. Jack didn’t trust him enough to kindle a friendship, plus he and Fundy were always too busy to really help him acclimate. Tommy was the one to give him a place to live, to tell him the tips and tricks for survival; the one to tell him who to look out for and who to beg. His first - not friend, either, not really, but when the loneliness pushed down and he wanted to talk to someone, Tommy was always there in the exact same boat.

Ranboo wanted a friend, badly enough to follow Tommy through a poor decision.

But he’s not gonna tell Tubbo that. “There were court hearings. We both were prosecuted and we, uh, lost. We didn’t have a lawyer or anything. Dream was really mad at us.”

“Dream,” Tubbo mutters. “He always had it out for Tommy.”

Ranboo got the idea. He remembers the glint in Dream’s eyes every time he looked at Tommy - something Ranboo might describe as obsessive, if he were braver. “Why?”

Tubbo shrugs. “Tommy didn’t do what he wanted. Dream doesn’t like people who don’t do what he wants.”

All of a sudden, Ranboo feels cold. “Oh.”

“Uh, six. What do you remember happening right before you left him?” Tubbo asks, continuing on like nothing had happened.

“Not a lot,” Ranboo says, curling his arms around his legs. “Dream told me to leave, and I did. Tommy was up on a hill, maybe? I walked through a birch forest…”

“Do you think it’s this one?” Tubbo asks. “Like, connected to the forest around us?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “No. It was a long walk, so.”

Tubbo looks disappointed at his gross understatement. “And you don’t know how to get back to him.”

“No. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tubbo says, in a way that makes Ranboo think nothing has been fine for a very long time.

“So, uh,” Ranboo starts, “can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, big man,” Tubbo says. He brings a hand up to rub tiredly at his eyes. “Go ahead.”

“You’re friends with Tommy, right? So - so why aren’t you in L’Manberg?”

Tubbo doesn’t react right away. Ranboo fears that he has made a mistake.

“I mean, Jack said something about you leaving? You left before I got there? Or before it exploded?”

“Yeah.” Tubbo pulls his knees to his chest. “Uh, yeah, we - me and Niki and Q left back before the war.”

“Tommy didn’t go with you?” Ranboo asks.

“He stayed with Wilbur.”

“Wilbur - the guy who blew -”

“Yes,” Tubbo says.

“Why?” Ranboo can’t imagine Tommy doing anything like that. From what he’d seen of the kid, L’Manberg had meant more to him than it did to the President.

“Wilbur was his family,” Tubbo says quietly. “Tommy loved him. More than - anything else.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says.

“I miss him,” Tubbo says like a revelation. “I wish I’d stayed, too.”

“Do you?” Ranboo asks.

Tubbo stares at him. “You have no idea what this means. What living out here means. What it means I’ve done.”

Ranboo dares to keep speaking. “No. I don’t. What - what does it mean?”

Another pause.

“Seven,” Tubbo says. “What makes you think I trust you?”

“Oh.” Ranboo looks away. “Yeah, sorry. Nothing.”

“Right,” Tubbo says. He leans his chin on his knees. “I have no idea who you are. You could be a spy.”

Ranboo exhales, amused at the very notion. “I’m not a spy. I’d be a very bad spy.”

“That’s what a good spy would say.”

“Okay, well,” Ranboo says. “So would a bad spy.”

“So you are a spy?”

“No, that’s not what I - who would I even be spying for?”

“You tell me!”

“I literally -”

Tubbo laughs, interrupting his flustered excuses. Light, giggling, directly into his legs but audible all the same. “Alright, alright. You’re not a spy.”

Ranboo doesn’t know what just happened. “Uh. Okay.”

“I’m a bad person, Ranboo,” Tubbo says out of nowhere. He looks up, smiling ruefully. “I’m a bad person. I’ve done shitty things.”

Ranboo resists the urge to look away, instead studying the boy in front of him.

Tubbo’s a bit of an intimidating presence at first. His hair looks wild, thick and hard to control in the humidity of their biome. His face is scarred over from something Ranboo doesn’t understand, and might never; on closer inspection, his right wrist is speckled with the same burned splotches, trailing all the way down beneath his sleeve.

Beneath all the callouses and chipped fingernails, though, he has small hands. His cheeks aren’t quite filled out yet, his shoulders thin and drawn close. He’s young.

“It’s okay,” Ranboo mumbles. “We all have.”

“Not like this,” Tubbo says. “Not like me.”

“I’ve committed arson,” Ranboo offers.

“And what if I told you that was my fault, too?” Tubbo whispers. “If I told you -”

“How could that be your fault?”

“I left Tommy behind,” Tubbo says. “I left him when he really needed help. I know him, I know what - what he was trying to do with you, and it’s...”

“What’s that?” Ranboo asks. A silence hangs after it, crystal pulled taut over their lungs.

Tubbo clenches his jaw and it shatters. “Never mind. It’s fine. One more question.”

“Okay,” Ranboo says quietly. The mood has dropped through the floor.

“Was he alive, the last time you saw him?”

“Yes,” Ranboo says. Somewhere in the back of his head, a memory of stumbling up red-hot cliffs and Dream’s voice snapping Tommy’s name bubbles to the surface. “Definitely.”

“Thanks,” Tubbo says. He stands, adjusting the wrinkles in his pants. “That’s all.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” Ranboo says.

“Stay in my room as long as you like. You might have to help with my chores, but that’s fair, I think.”

“Absolutely.” Ranboo nods emphatically.

Tubbo is staring at his face.

“Any-anything else?” Ranboo asks. His neck pricks with uncomfortable self-awareness.

Tubbo reaches up and runs his fingernails over his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way for the first time; with a cold shock to his spine, it’s Ranboo’s turn to stare. His left eye is a milky kind of brown, pupil bleeding into his iris. “No. Thanks. See ya.”

He leaves the room faster than Ranboo can blink, shutting the door solidly behind him like he’s afraid Ranboo will get up and follow.

For a second, Ranboo’s tempted. Instead, he grabs the pen in his claws and opens his journal.

Tubbo. Friends with Tommy before the explosion. Ask about the scars someday. Seems like he could use a friend.

So could you, Ranboo. So could you.

~

Eret’s most recent meeting with Fundy goes the same as they all have; short, awkward, and with little to no actual discussion of the issues they should be talking about.

This week’s premise was gardening. Eret knows better by now than to have hope they’d actually work on ways to landscape New L’Manberg, but she still pours herself a goblet in mourning for the topic anyway as Fundy takes a seat across from her and crashes his elbows down on her desk.

“Prime, it’s like,” Fundy tugs despondently at his ears, “like he’s just forgotten about me!”

“And who are you talking about?” Eret kicks her feet up, leaning back in her chair. Call her unprofessional - it’s her castle, her etiquette rules. No one’s around to judge, anyway.

Fundy knocks his head into her boot accidentally. He jerks back with an apologetic grimace. “Phil. Sorry.”

“Ah.” Eret says. “I see.”

“I don’t know. I know he’s with Techno, but surely. Surely, he’s - I mean - for Prime’s sake, he promised he’d do what he could, Eret.”

“I’m sorry.” Eret raises her glass to her lips, taking a slow swallow, feeling the wine stain her teeth. “Have you contacted him?”

“I don’t have his contact,” Fundy mumbles. “I don’t even know where he went.”

“I can get you his contact,” Eret says. “I think you should talk to him.”

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” Fundy asks. He peers at her through his fingers, and Eret feels something pang through her ribcage.

Memories flash by of a much younger Fundy doing the same thing across from her on a table laden with war maps and two glasses of sweet berry juice; a time when their enemies were common, when Fundy’s fur was bright, when Eret’s neck didn’t hurt more often than not.

There’s a guardedness to Fundy’s shoulders, these days. A sheen to his eyes and fur that was never there before. Eret is reminded heavily of the advantage she holds over him, both now and buried not-so-deeply in the past.

Eret takes another drink. The wine is sour. “He will,” she says slowly. “Phil is a respectable man.”

“Phil,” Fundy says brightly, “killed my father.”

“So did I,” says Eret. “And I killed you as well. We still speak.”

Fundy’s jaw twitches. His gaze snaps to the northern wall, just over Eret’s shoulder. “It’s different. Don’t - don’t.”

“Apologies.” Eret winces into the rim of her glass. “I won’t.”

Fundy slams his hands down on the wood and breathes out, heavy. “Prime’s sake, I’m so tired.”

Eret says nothing.

“I just - I just want to know. I just wanna know why.”

“Why what?” Eret asks.

Fundy shrugs, eyes flickering from her to his own hands to the crown on Eret’s head and the lamps lining the walls. “Everything. Just - everything, Eret, it’s all so much.”

“I understand,” Eret says.

“No,” Fundy says, “nobody does, I’m alone. I’m - nobody’s even fucking around, man! Look at me!”

“Nobody’s around?” Eret echoes.

“Everyone left,” Fundy spits. He picks at his ears again, pinching the fur between his fingers and pulling. “I’m alone. President of a crater and a fucking ghost.”

Eret blinks. “Everyone?”

She hasn’t visited New L’Manberg since its inception. Hell, she hasn’t stepped foot into the very area since her final days there - she’s pretty sure her restraining order is entrenched into the constitution itself. She gets her information from Fundy himself, and she trusts him to be honest with her, but the idea of the country being completely empty, especially with how hard Fundy and Tommy had worked to bring it back?

“Tommy’s exiled. Ranboo’s exiled. Jack Manifold vanished a few - a week? I don’t know. I don’t know, but there’s just nobody left. Just me and my -” here Fundy laughs, except it sounds like somebody gasping for air halfway through the worst cry of their life - “my dead dad, who can’t even look me in the eyes. And my grandfather, who took - he’s gone, too. Like he never was there to begin with.”

“I’m sorry,” Eret says.

“Stop,” Fundy says, meeting her eyes. He’s desperate. He looks at her with his heart on his sleeve. He always has. “I don’t need your pity.”

She can’t help the expression she feels crossing her face. She doesn’t know what she looks like, and she doesn’t care to introspect to find out - she takes her last drink and sets the glass down with pale, barely steady hands.

“What can I do?” Eret asks.

Fundy’s ears are slightly tilted down. “Jack Manifold said I was relying on you too much.”

Eret smiles wryly. “You never did listen to Mr. Manifold.”

“Because he was always - he was so antagonistic! Blaming you for everything just because of something he never saw? I didn’t like it,” Fundy grumbles.

“You shouldn’t divide your cabinet just by defending me,” Eret says.

Fundy sits back in his chair, hard. “It was more than that, obviously. It had nothing to do with you.”

Eret inclines her head, feeling the metal perched over her hair shift with the motion. “Alright.”

“Guess he got sick of me never listening,” Fundy says. He scuffs his shoes on the floor. “Guess I fucked up again, huh?”

“Leadership is hard,” Eret says. “You didn’t ask for this.”

“I did,” Fundy says tightly. “I wanted it so bad.”

“Wanted?”

“Want,” Fundy says. “It’s my birthright. I want it.”

“Are you sure?” Eret dares to ask.

Fundy’s silent. Eret takes the opportunity to study the fraying threads on his suit.

“Dream says I’m doing well,” Fundy starts. “He says I’m doing what’s best for my country.”

Eret’s hands twitch. “Does he.”

“But it doesn’t feel very good,” Fundy says.

For a moment, he’s a child again, and she is teaching him how to tie his shoes and load a gun. For a moment, Eret feels herself dangerously close to burning her castle down, storming up to Dream, and telling him where exactly he can stick his gold and his jewels.

“I feel bad,” Fundy says. He won’t look her in the eyes - couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Her sunglasses cut into the bridge of her nose.

The moment passes. Eret’s head hurts.

“I think,” she says, “that you have given up very much for L’Manberg.”

Fundy crosses his arms.

“And you tried. You did what you thought was best.”

“I lost my father,” Fundy says. “I lost my friends. Everything.”

Eret breathes in deep. The clothes she wears cinch tight around her ribs. “Not everything.”

Fundy raises an eyebrow. “What, you? Dream?”

“Me,” Eret says. She does not acknowledge the tremor in her voice - she says it confidently, with no room for doubt. Anything less, and she might have no choice but to see what Fundy really thinks of her after all this time. “And as for Dream? Remember this.”

Fundy rolls his eyes, but she can see him swallow hard.

“He knows what you want and how to get it. No matter what he tells you, it isn’t always the best way.”

“Sure,” Fundy says. His ears twitch defensively. “Yeah. Prime, Jack Manifold was right - I’m taking counsel from the two worst enemies my country’s ever had.”

Eret picks up her feet from the desk. She plants them solidly on the floor, straightening up like a proper monarch. “Well,” she says.

There is supposed to be something after that. Something powerful, something that would make everything make sense, or make Fundy laugh, or make it easy to brush off the creeping shame she feels every time Fundy looks at her.

It falls silent. Eret finds that she can think of nothing to say.

“Sorry,” Fundy says, pursing his lips. “I’m just tired. And not very good at diplomacy.”

Eret nods. “You are forgiven.”

Fundy’s mouth quirks. “Sorry.”

“Let’s make a deal, Mr. President,” Eret says, lifting her chin in a mockery of regality. “I won’t give you any more unsanctioned advice if, when I get you Phil’s contact, you ask to meet for the Holiday.”

Fundy jerks a little, incredulous. “You’re insane. We never celebrated Holiday.”

“Legend says Philza is a religious man,” Eret shrugs. “He believes deeply in the significance of the Holiday.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Life,” Eret says. “Hope, for those just beginning and for those who have ended.”

“That sounds like something you just made up,” Fundy says.

“I read a lot of books,” Eret grimaces. “Call Phil. He’ll answer.”

“You want me to call the man who killed my dad and who’s best friends with the guy who attacked my country and ask for a nice family dinner?”

“Sure,” Eret says. “You can bring Ghostbur while you’re at it.”

“He’ll never agree to it,” Fundy says. “He wants to pretend I don’t exist. I don’t think he even knows about Ghostbur.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to,” Fundy says. His shoulders are tight. “If he wanted to help, he’d be here! If he doesn’t want to help, then he doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know you need it,” Eret tries.

“How,” Fundy shouts, “could I not need help?”

It echoes around the stone walls. Eret closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Fundy says, comically quieter. “I think I should go. I have to get back before sundown.”

“Alright,” Eret says.

Fundy stands, a flurry of scraping chair legs and straightening wrinkles. “I’ll let you know if I need to meet again.”

“I’ll be here,” Eret says, nodding. She watches him push his hair out of his eyes, ears twitching, tail curled around one ankle like he used to do as a child when presented with a choice between sour apples or stale bread for lunch.

“Thank you.” Fundy hesitates. “Your Majesty.” A reminder to himself.

And then he’s gone.

Eret sits at her desk for a little bit longer before getting up, cloak swirling around her legs and almost tripping her up.

It doesn’t. She walks to her room, pulls out her communicator, and in less than an hour she’s composing a message to Fundy.

You whisper to Fundy: 1 profile
You whisper to Fundy: Here’s his contact. Please consider my advice.

She pauses.

You whisper to Fundy: It’ll be a nice break. You deserve one.

She hits send before she can think too hard about it. The ping sounds, a small little whoosh, and then the silence is back, devouring her ears and settling into her lungs.

It’s six in the evening. Nothing else is scheduled for the day.

So Eret throws her crown on the floor, kicks off her boots, and goes to bed in her dress.

Chapter Text

“This,” Quackity announces, “is a violation of my constitutional rights.”

“This,” Niki grumbles in return, “is mandatory.”

“Criminal,” Quackity says, batting at her arms. “I’m going to have you arrested.”

“Suck it,” Tubbo says as he breezes past the both of them.

“What he said.” Niki pushes lightly at Quackity’s shoulders. “Mandatory.”

“No,” Quackity says, “this is a violation of my rights as a human being. The constitution -”

“What constitution?” Tubbo’s voice echoes down the hallway. He’s made his home in the living room; Niki can hear Jack and Ranboo talking quietly to each other in the background.

“Lawless land, lawless land,” Quackity whines, then turns and stares her in the eyes, facade dropped. “Niki, really?”

“Really,” Niki confirms. “It’ll be fun. Or something.”

“This is not what I think is fun.”

“I was thinking we could play Go Fish,” she says.

“I don’t like that,” Quackity says.

Niki frowns. “Oh. Well. We can…”

“Whatever. I’ll do it, whatever,” Quackity says. “So long as everyone else has to.” He pulls his shawl tighter, wings twitching underneath it, and heads for the living room.

Niki watches until Quackity disappears around the corner and wonders, not for the first time, if this is a bad idea.

“You coming, Niki?” Jack calls.

Niki thumps the deck of cards against her palm. The sting brings her back into focus. Taking a deep breath, she steels her resolve and walks, one foot in front of the other, just like it’s always been.

She can do this. She’s done worse.

She can do this.

When she enters the room, she sees Jack and Tubbo on the floor, backs pressed straight against the couch. Ranboo sits cross-legged and hunched over just to the right of them. Quackity has settled down across from Jack in a flurry of feathers and sprawled legs, taking up most of the open space in front of him.

Niki’s footsteps are the only sound as she approaches the group. They look up at her, expressions ranging from determined to vaguely concerned.

She holds up the deck of cards. “Before we begin, is everybody ready?”

Jack nods solemnly. “Yes.”

“Is there anyone here who wishes to dissent?” Niki asks.

Tubbo gives her a thumbs up. “We’re all in.”

“Good,” Niki says. She points at the floor. “Please clear the arena.”

Rolling his eyes, Quackity complies and pulls his legs out of the way.

“Um,” Ranboo says, raising his hand. “What’s going on?”

Niki breathes in and out, then does it again, slower. She makes her way to Jack’s side and sits down, facing across from Ranboo.

“We are having a game night,” she says.

Ranboo processes that. He seems underwhelmed. “Game night.”

“Our first, actually,” Niki says. “I’m excited.”

“I’m not,” Quackity says.

“We know,” Jack says.

“Okay,” Niki says. “Let’s vote on a game, first of all.”

“What can you play with a deck of cards?” Ranboo asks.

“Very many things,” Quackity says.

“Such as?” Jack asks.

“Many things,” Quackity says.

“You have no idea what games you can play with a deck of cards,” Jack mutters.

Quackity gives him a dirty glare. “I know games that would kill you in three minutes.”

“Please,” Niki sighs. “I thought we could start with Go Fish.”

“That’s one of them,” Quackity says.

Jack scowls. “Funny, you are.”

“How do you play Go Fish?” Ranboo asks. He’s alternating giving Jack and Quackity worried looks, like at any moment either one of them will pull out a knife and commit violent murder.

“You said we were voting,” Tubbo says. “We have to vote first.”

“I did. All in favor?” Niki raises her hand.

“There’s literally only one option,” Quackity says.

“We can still vote,” Jack says, “and if we don’t agree, we pick another game.”

“This is very poorly structured,” Tubbo says.

“Go Fish is a child’s game,” Quackity says, “why not something like poker?”

Jack sniffs. “You would say that.”

“I’m a child,” Ranboo offers.

“Okay. Order in the court,” Niki says, knocking twice on the leg of the couch. “All in favor of Go Fish, raise your hand.”

Tubbo’s hand shoots up. Ranboo hesitantly follows, and Niki raises her own hand. Jack and Quackity scowl at the floor, unmoving.

“Majority rules,” Jack mumbles.

“Wonderful,” Niki says, internally relieved. Poker would be a bold game to start off with, and also, she does not know how to play. Being subjected to the terrible fear of learning seems like a bit too much to handle right now.

“Cool,” Ranboo says. “I still don’t know what Go Fish is.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Jack says.

Tubbo leans over to mutter into Ranboo’s ear, presumably helping, although who’s to say. Niki shuffles the cards, spreading them out on the floor and swirling them around a few times.

“What,” Quackity says, affronted, “are you doing?”

“Shuffling,” Niki says.

Quackity stares. “Niki. No.”

“What?” Niki asks. She’s slightly miffed by the look on his face. “I’m not -”

“Gimme, give,” Quackity insists, and then he’s scooping the cards up from the floor and back into a pile.

“Why,” Niki says. She is not graced with an answer.

“So we’re not actually going fishing,” Ranboo says.

“No,” Tubbo affirms. “It’s like - a metaphor.”

Ranboo nods solemnly. “A metaphor. I got it.”

“Like this,” Quackity tells Niki. “See?”

He splits the deck into two piles and flips them together, bracing his hands on the ground.

Niki blinks. “That seems complicated.”

“It’s efficient,” Quackity argues.

“Holy shit, just shuffle them somehow,” Jack says, “stop going on about it.”

“I’ve said one sentence,” Quackity snarks back.

“Niki,” Tubbo says, suspiciously neutral, “why are we doing this, again?”

Niki takes the cards back from Quackity and begins dealing them out. “To bond. Get to know each other.”

“We already know each other,” Tubbo says.

Niki points at Ranboo, setting down the rest of the cards in the middle of the floor. “Not all of us, Tubbo, and besides. This will be a good opportunity to catch up. A lot has changed.”

Jack hums a weird sort of tritone. “Sure has.”

Quackity scowls, picking up his cards. “No need to get pissy, Manifold.”

“Oh, says you.” Jack swipes up his own pile.

“So, uh, Ranboo,” Niki interjects. “You’re gonna want to -”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Quackity says, “you’re the one who’s being weird.”

“The goal is to get all of your cards organized into sets,” Niki says.

“Mhm,” Ranboo says, very quietly.

“I’m not - being weird.” Jack smacks his cards back down on the floor. “I’m acting exactly how I think a normal person would, being thrown into this -”

“What, being a dick to the people giving you a house and food?” Quackity asks.

“Sure, and you’re all saints for it,” Jack spits.

“Please,” Niki tries. “Can you just -”

“No!” Jack says. He sits up a little straighter. “I’ve been fuckin’ cordial to you both since I got here, I’ve - the shit I want to say to you -”

“Well, don’t let me stop you!” Quackity matches his stance, puffing up his chest. His wings instinctively flare behind him. Ranboo’s eyes widen, and he scoots slightly closer to Tubbo.

“Me?” Niki asks, surprised, a little bit of her chest curling in on itself indignantly.

“You,” Jack seethes.

He’s - he’s angry, Niki can see it, and it feels sudden. She can’t get her feet under herself in time. “Jack, I’ve - I’ll -”

“You have no fucking idea what happened to me,” Jack says.

“Then tell me,” Niki says -

“Hypocrite!” Quackity explodes over her, pushing to his feet. “You think you’re the only one who suffered, you think you’re the judge and the jury, you can just decide whether or not we’re good people because -”

Jack sucks in a breath. “How can you -”

“- because of how you feel -”

“- don’t fucking tell me what I feel!” Jack shouts. He’s standing, now, fists clenched, burning eyes stuck on Quackity’s twitching jaw.

“Stop,” Niki says, getting to her feet too, “just stop -”

“You,” Jack says. He holds out a finger at her; doesn’t even turn to look. “Left me.”

“Okay, and I’m sorry, is that what you want?” Niki asks, frustration clogging up her throat. “We’re going in circles, Jack.”

“I don’t mean after! I mean before, I mean all the way!”

“Don’t fucking blame her,” Quackity says. “She had nothing to do with -”

“Shut up,” Jack snarls, and then with an awful certainty turns to stare her down. “Niki, where the fuck were you when I didn’t leave my house for a week? When I lost my fucking land?”

“I didn’t,” Niki stumbles, “I wasn’t -”

“You were busy telling everyone who could hear that Wilbur was a good guy,” Jack shouts, “that he deserved to come back, that he wasn’t holed up somewhere planning a war that would fucking kill me and ruin everything I ever had!”

“What?” Niki whispers.

“You were too busy to notice that I wasn’t even there,” Jack says, throwing up a hand.

“What killed you?” Quackity interrupts, eyes squinted. “What did you say?”

That gets the first pause out of Jack since his tirade began. Niki takes advantage of it, jumping in worriedly.

“You said - you said the war killed you, what - Jack, what does that mean?” Niki asks. Her heart feels like it’s trying to freeze.

“What do you think? It means I’ve died,” Jack says shortly. “Dead. Not breathing anymore, dead.”

The living room rings with silence.

“It means I’ve died,” Jack repeats numbly. “My first. Wilbur did it.”

Niki can’t - she can’t think. She stares at her old friend, stares at the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders. She stares and stares and sees his skeletal cheekbones and wonders how she hadn’t noticed there was something this wrong.

“The stupid part is, I believed you, Nick, I really did,” Jack says, fingers digging into his arm. “I fought with them. I was ready to die for them. And all I got was a sword through my back from the man who was supposed to save me.”

“Oh,” Quackity says.

“You know what they say,” Jack chuckles morbidly, “lose one, you’ve lost them all. Maybe I am crazy, huh? Maybe that’s how they all go. Maybe I’m next in line to blow something up.”

“Jack,” Tubbo says, finally, the only thing to come out of his mouth in the past five minutes. His voice breaks something behind Niki’s ribs.

Jack snaps his gaze away from Quackity and rubs at his eyes with one hand. His fingernails are dirty. His palms are scarred. “I’m done.”

“Jack.”It’s Niki’s turn to call for him - she watches him shake his head and back away with a low panic building in her stomach. “Jack -”

“I’ve got nothing else to say.” Jack scowls. “I’m done.”

Niki doesn’t know what to do. “Please don’t - don’t -”

He looks at her, dark brown to her own flickering blue, and she tries to say everything she never could. She fails.

“Don’t worry, I’m staying,” he says, sharp enough to make her squeeze her eyes shut. “Wouldn’t want to repeat history, would we?”

He stops, stares at the wall, picking at his bottom lip.“We’re all trying to be better, ay?” he says, soft and sarcastic. Then he’s gone, tattered revolutionary jacket whirling behind him.

For the first time, Niki notices the blood that stains the back.

Tubbo stands, making his way after Jack. He pauses in the hallway entrance until he hears a door slam, then turns and gives Niki a small smile, disappearing around the corner.

“Fuck,” Niki says.

Quackity laughs. It startles her. She looks at him to find he’s slid down the wall, fingers picking at his feathers in an agitated fashion. “Prime, you can say that again.”

Niki obeys. “Fuck.”

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” Quackity asks.

She gives him a long stare.

“Sure,” Quackity mumbles, staring at the floor. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You,” she says. “But me, too.”

“I didn’t know he’d, uh, y’know.” Quackity makes a jerky stabbing motion. “Shit, man.”

“I didn’t either,” Niki says. “I didn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” Quackity says. “He might blame you, but you - you did your best.”

“I don’t know,” Niki murmurs. “Did I?”

“It was just a shitty time,” Quackity says. “Shitty time all over. Can’t go back and fix it. Just gotta - push through it now. He’ll come around.”

Shakily, Quackity gets to his feet, a determined glaze over his eyes. “Yeah. He’ll come around.”

Niki watches as he, too, leaves. The room falls silent. She runs a hand through her hair, catching her fingers painfully on the tangles near her roots.

“Um,” says Ranboo. Niki startles so hard she knocks her knee into the couch.

“Shit!” Niki claps a hand over her mouth. “Ranboo, I’m so sorry you had to hear that -”

“It’s fine,” Ranboo says awkwardly. “I didn’t, uh, I don’t have enough context to really get it, so.”

“Still.” Niki exhales, trying to get her blood pressure back to normal. “It’s - sorry, Ranboo.”

“Really, it’s fine.” Ranboo stands, brushing off his pants. “What should we do now? Since I’m pretty sure we’re not finishing.”

Niki exhales. “No. Yeah, um, I’ll clean this up. You can go wind down for the evening, or - whatever you like.”

Ranboo nods. “Cool, cool.”

Niki bends down and begins to pick up the despondent cards.

Ranboo clicks his tongue. “Can - can I ask you a question, Miss?”

That earns him a small laugh. “Just Niki.”

“Oh. Just Niki, sorry, can I ask you a question?”

She nods and takes a seat on the couch, absently flipping through the cards in her hands. “Of course.”

“What am I, like, supposed to do here?”

Niki raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you’d like to do.”

“I mean, to stay,” Ranboo explains. “To earn my keep. I can do pretty much anything.”

Niki tries to make her voice soft, but there’s something stuck in her windpipe, still. “You don’t have to earn your keep. You can just stay here.”

Ranboo shuffles. “Really?”

“Really,” Niki affirms. “I promise. Just help out when we need you, or when you see something that needs to be done, and you can stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you. I - thank you, so much.” Ranboo looks like he can barely believe it.

“This is a safe place,” Niki says, the hypocrisy tasting coppery on her tongue. “I want it to be a safe place for anyone who needs it. You can get better, and you can stay after that. However long you need.”

“How do I know how long I need?” Ranboo asks after a beat.

“I don’t know,” Niki answers. She smiles ruefully at her hands. “I’m still trying to get there.”

“That’s okay,” Ranboo says. “I think that’s normal.”

The sun is setting over their farm. Their cottage is more of a house. Jack Manifold is one-thirds dead.

“Sure,” Niki says, and doesn’t know how to tell him that she feels the furthest from normal she thinks she’s ever been.

~

“Jack? It’s Tubbo, can I come in?”

Jack does not want to talk to Tubbo.

Knock.

“Hey, boss man, it’s awkward standing out here.”

Jack does not want to talk to anyone. Jack wants to pour himself a drink and go to bed.

“Ja-ack.”

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-

“Fine!” Jack barks, lunging up from his bed and yanking open the door. “Prime’s sake, Tubbo.”

“Awesome,” Tubbo says casually. “Thanks.”

“Come in, why don’t you,” Jack grumbles, collapsing back down with a heavy sigh.

Tubbo does so, pulling at the door behind him. Jack watches him pointedly leave a sliver of the hallway visible, not shutting it all the way. “Can I sit?”

Jack hums noncommittally and waves a vague hand in Tubbo’s direction. With the other, he digs around in his sparse pack until his fingers collide with hard metal. He pulls out the thermos, knuckles white around the neck.

Tubbo sits down at the head of the bed, legs crossed. “What’s that?”

Jack shrugs. He unscrews the cap. “It helps me sleep,” he says dryly.

Tubbo narrows his eyes. “It’s, like, seven.”

“I’m tired,” Jack says, and takes a drink. The alcohol doesn’t burn like it should, anymore.

“Sure. Okay. Be old.” Tubbo grabs at Jack’s pillow, arms wrapping it tight to his chest.

“You’re not much younger,” Jack rasps, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. Back on the lid goes - he can deal with Tubbo first. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I dunno,” Tubbo says.

“You don’t know,” Jack says.

Tubbo squints at him. Jack finds himself staring back, tiredly mesmerized by the way the light reflects around his broken pupil.

“You alright?” Tubbo finally asks, sincere albeit a little awkward. “I mean - obviously. If you don’t want to talk anymore, I get it.”

Jack doesn’t have much fight left in him at this point. “I’m fine, just tired. You heard.”

“Yeah, I did. Which is why I’m asking.”

Jack sighs. He falls back against the mattress, Niki’s handmade quilt scratching against his skin. There’s a numb, slow pounding in the back of his head, threatening to explode if he breathes too hard. “Well. Thanks, I guess.”

“Yep, no problem.”

Silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. The ceiling doesn’t spin. His heart beats in his chest, frantically, like it can’t forget what it felt like to stop.

Tubbo ventures out again. “Niki tells me that, uh, talking helps. You don’t even have to talk about the things you’re thinking about. Just being with people.”

“Yeah? Is she right?” Jack asks, trying not to let bitterness creep into his tone. There isn’t much left after his little outburst, so it’s easy.

How would Niki know, anyway? Better yet, how would any of them? L’Manberg was built on common connection, but it was isolation that brought it to the ground, and Jack doesn’t think he can remember what it felt like to be part of something, anymore.

Niki and Quackity can pretend all they want. Their domestic facade is just that - faking it until the world ends, or whatever. No matter how much they try to pretend, Jack’s not blind. He never has been. He can see that they’re still just as fucked up as he is.

“I don’t know,” Tubbo says. “We’re still trying. It’s like an experiment.”

“An experiment,” Jack echoes.

“Yeah. We’re doing something new.”

“What, being friends? Good people?”

“No,” Tubbo says hesitantly. “Trying. For us.”

“Who’s us?” Jack asks. “The others? Niki and him?”

“Me, too,” Tubbo mumbles. “At least, that’s what Niki says. I don’t know what to do, really, but I keep busy. That seems to help.”

Jack snorts. “Only you, Tubbo.”

“What?” Tubbo kicks at Jack’s thigh.

“Come on,” Jack says. “Don’t you ever take a break?”

Tubbo kicks him again. “This is my break.”

“I see you haven’t changed.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tubbo says.

“It is good to see you again,” Jack admits. “I guess.”

“Yeah.” Tubbo leans back against the headboard with a thud. “Been a while.”

“Yep. Are you, uh, healed up okay?” Jack asks. “From the festival?”

“Doesn’t hurt anymore,” Tubbo says. “I look funky, though.”

Jack nods vehemently and scrabbles at his jacket, pushing it open, grabbing the hem of his shirt. “True shit, Tub, look -”

He rolls it up. Cold air hits his stomach. He doesn’t bother sitting up to gauge Tubbo’s reaction to the mark he knows is there.

He’s looked at it more times than he can count. White, twisting skin streaks down the right of his midsection, with a parallel one on his back, cutting just under his shoulderblades. Entry and exit wounds from a sword he hadn’t even seen coming, that had left him choking on the ground, staring up at the sky and waiting to die.

Tubbo doesn’t say anything for a little. Once Jack’s done poking aimlessly at his skin, he pulls his shirt back down and gives his stomach a hollow pat. “Funky,” he says.

“You said it was Wilbur?” Tubbo asks quietly.

“Yup.”

“Did he know it was you he was attacking?”

Jack hesitates. His first instinct is to say yes, but he had been wearing a helmet - and sure, he’d been a little skinnier and a little older since the last time Wilbur had seen him. Maybe Jack wouldn’t have recognized himself, either.

“Dunno.” Jack says. “Didn’t stick around to give me a monologue. He seemed in kind of a hurry.”

“By the way, I wanted to visit you,” Tubbo mumbles. “Before everything. I just didn’t - it was, uh, hard to get out more than I had to.”

“I know.” Jack turns his head to look at Tubbo. “I’m not - I don’t blame you. You had your hands full.”

“Still,” Tubbo says.

“I guess I didn’t exactly make an effort, either,” Jack says, though he knows how impossible the concept of going outside had seemed back then.

“Still,” Tubbo says again. “I wish I’d done things differently.”

“Hey, whatever you’ve done,” Jack says, “I think you’ve paid for it twice over, yeah?”

“By that logic, we all have,” Tubbo says.

Jack clicks his teeth together and goes back to staring at the ceiling.

“It doesn’t feel like that,” he says. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person who hurts. Like nobody else - people are just pretending and I’m the only one.”

“People like Quackity?” Tubbo asks softly. “Like Ranboo?”

Jack is half tempted to ignore Tubbo completely, but the other half keeps words spilling out of his mouth. Maybe it’s the alcohol. “No, I mean, Ranboo’s fine. I dunno. It’s hard to convince myself.”

It was easy to hate. To exclude, to shove aside like everyone else had done to him. It was hard, so fucking hard, to shake some stranger’s hand like they were somehow more important than Jack had ever been, and watch everyone do the same.

“I know,” Tubbo agrees. “But he’s just confused, too. He doesn’t seem like he could hurt anyone even if he tried.”

“Yeah.” Jack thinks back to the first time they met, Ranboo all long limbs and stuttering sentences, Jack all skeletal and still remembering how to breathe. Similar in every way except for the things that mattered. “He - he was a good listener, at least.”

“And Quackity?” Tubbo asks, picking at his nails.

Jack laughs. “Do I even need to -”

“He’s trying to fix his mistakes, you know,” Tubbo interrupts. “He knows he fucked up.”

“He doesn’t seem very apologetic to me,” Jack says.

Tubbo goes quiet. “If you knew, you’d - you could see. He’s better. Little by little, I think.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “I don’t need to, either.”

“Sure,” Tubbo says. “Are you mad at him?”

“No,” Jack says. “Yes. No, I’m - well, yeah.”

“That’s not a good answer, Jack.”

“Fuck off,” Jack says. “Where’s my -” he scrabbles in the blankets for his thermos, fingers closing around the cap.

And then, Tubbo rolls his shoulders back and says, “can I ask what happened to Tommy?”

Jack stills. “Uh…I mean, it - it’s complicated.”

“Things involving Tommy tend to be,” Tubbo says.

“He was different after Will,” Jack says, thinking back as best as he can through his tired haze. “Angrier. He didn’t really take it seriously, the whole governing and laws - he and Fundy kind of clashed, I think. Fundy wanted a different Vice President, but it was Wilbur’s last will kind of thing, you know?”

Tubbo nods. “Yeah. I can - yeah.”

“He didn’t seem to get that we were a real nation now. We needed to be - we needed to act like one.” Jack sighs. “He was the Vice, you know, and for a bit, he and Fundy really seemed like they were gonna make things better. He had some ideas and he - you know - tried, in his own way. But he wasn’t really all there.”

“Mhm.”

“He started doing more and more shit, messing with Fundy, arguing. You know. And next thing we knew, Dream was dragging him into the courthouse and demanding we exile him.”

Tubbo’s quiet. He’s weirdly quiet. Jack doesn’t know what to do for him except keep talking.

“I tried to keep him here, but Fundy didn’t listen. He never listened to any of us, it’s like we’d tell him something and he’d actively choose to do the opposite.”

More silence. It’s heavy, full of things that neither of them could ever verbalize.

“I really tried, Tubbo,” Jack mumbles. “And when it didn’t work, I left. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Was it?” Tubbo asks.

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “What was it? We’re still trying? I’m still trying, dipshit.”

Tubbo snorts. “Okay, yeah.”

“And look where it’s got me,” Jack says. “Look. I’m thriving, huh?”

Tubbo hums. His arms are wrapped around his legs. Jack can’t tell what he’s thinking, and it’s that, for some reason, that makes his throat start to burn.

What happened to him? What’s happened to everything? It’s miserable, he’s miserable - how does he make it stop?

He can’t tell what Tubbo’s thinking anymore.

Who’s fault is that?

“I can’t imagine,” Tubbo begins, “why Wilbur didn’t put Tommy in charge. I mean - I get it, I know how he is, but...L’Manberg was everything to Tommy. Wilbur was -”

Break.

“Is that why he got so mad?” Tubbo whispers. Jack half thinks Tubbo is talking to himself. “Or was it - or, was it…”

“If it helps,” Jack offers, “the whole affair was kinda complicated. Wilbur did give it to Tommy, after Schlatt died. There was a ceremony for it. Wilbur gave it to Tommy, but then Tommy went up and started talking about how he was never gonna be a leader, and gave it back to Wilbur.”

“He gave it back to Wilbur,” Tubbo repeats dully.

“Wilbur obviously didn’t want it either, cause - you know. Who would want to be the President of a crater, yeah? So he gave it to Fundy. And of course Fundy took it. There was a whole - whole awkward moment where Fundy tried to thank him and Wilbur just kind of, uh, looked at him. I don’t think they were on the best of terms.”

“No,” Tubbo says. “Wilbur kind of hated Fundy, I think. ‘Cause Fundy hated him.”

“Fundy didn’t hate him,” Jack says, but then he runs out of words to say because that’s all he knows. He didn’t stop to ask Fundy about what happened with Wilbur; Wilbur was dead, and that was in the past. They had to move on. They had to move on, or they’d open up a second sinkhole and take everything with them.

No second chances. No room for people like Tommy, who wanted to isolate and do everything and nothing all at once, and no room for Presidents who trusted everyone and no one, and no room for Jack Manifold, who feels like he never quite came back to life the way he was supposed to.

That’s it, isn’t it? No room. There’s never any room for him and his too-small clothes, his pack full of bottles, the weapon he’s held since he got here, hilt stained with his own blood.

“What about Philza?” Tubbo asks suddenly. “Sam said something about Philza, when he told us what had happened.”

“Philza,” Jack snorts, “showed up after the war was over and killed Wilbur, then took Technoblade and fucked off into the North. I’ve no clue where he is.”

“Huh,” Tubbo mumbles. “Why’d he kill - kill Wilbur?”

Jack shrugs. “I dunno. I wasn’t paying attention.”

In truth, Jack had stumbled back outside from his house just in time to see Technoblade drag up the rotting Withers from the ground. He’d missed the whole event, too busy sobbing in his room as his chest rent reverse with the pain of stitching itself back together.

Tommy told him, later, what Wilbur had done. What Phil had done. What Techno had done. He’d listed off the members of the people Jack knew he called his family once, their crimes making Jack’s stomach turn. The crater shone in the nighttime light. Nobody was cleaning up rubble - nobody was there but them.

Tubbo moves, sliding to the edge of the bed. His shoulders are hunched over. Jack wonders just how far down his back the firework scars go.

“You gonna be okay?” Tubbo asks, peering at him through his too-long bangs.

Jack nods slowly. “Sure. Tired.”

“Yeah.” Tubbo stands, robotic, every move planned in advance. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Thanks for - thanks for the chat.”

“No problem,” Jack says. “Hey, I’m - I’m sorry.”

Tubbo doesn’t move. “It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Jack says again. “Really.”

“Okay,” Tubbo says. “It’s okay.”

Then he’s out the door, closing it for real this time. Jack’s alone, lying the wrong way on a bed that doesn’t belong to him, in a house that’s held up by toothpicks and desperation, and he wonders for a horrid, impulsive second if Niki will kick him out for the scene he’s just caused.

He’d seen the look in her eyes, though. She’s like him, he knows it. She won’t hurt him again; at least, that’s what Jack is doing his best to believe.

Quackity is another hurdle, but Jack refuses to let the former Vice President kick him while he’s down like that. He can’t just let it lie. He’s hurt.

He’s tired.

Jack reaches for his flask, rips the lid off, and drains it all in one.

Chapter Text

Ranboo isn’t a stranger to waking up early.

This, though, is just really unnecessary.

The sun isn’t up yet - Tubbo’s room is dark, the sky a navy blue, a thin sheen of light covering everything in Ranboo’s sleep-blurred vision. He’s standing up, one hand reaching out and grasping the curtain, halfway through pulling it open.

He stares with dry eyes at the shadowy treeline. There’s nothing outside. There is nothing outside, so Ranboo lets the fabric drop. He walks back to the bed, rubs at his prickling eyes, and thinks, it’s far too early for this.

He sprawls out on his back, eyes squeezed shut. As such, he is completely caught off guard when Niki makes her move.

She cracks open the door with no warning, ignoring his startled gasp; with one decisive yank, Ranboo finds himself stumbling out of bed. A few dazed seconds later and he’s in the kitchen, somehow, blinking painfully against the bright lamps.

Maybe he’s not actually awake. Maybe this is another one of those nights where he wakes up cold, then wakes up again, then wakes up wet and burning, then wakes up-

Regardless. Niki gently coaxes him to a barstool against the kitchen island, hands solid against his shoulders. Jack Manifold is already seated there, an overcoat thrown on over a set of awkwardly sewn pajamas. Ranboo recognizes the patterned fabric as the same blanket Tubbo had accidentally set on fire the other day. Recycling.

Sudden movement in his peripheral - Ranboo startles back into the present.

Niki slaps down a notebook and a pencil between them. “Planning,” she announces.

Ranboo stares blankly at the paper. “Niki, what time is it?”

“Planning time, apparently.” Jack lifts his head up from his arms.

“Five-thirty in the morning,” Niki says.

“Five-fucking-thirty!” Jack says loudly. He looks miserable, the dark crescents under his eyes contrasting with how bloodshot his sclera are. There’s a sickly kind of tinge to his skin. Ranboo wonders if it’s the lighting or if he just hasn’t really looked at Jack before now - if he just hasn’t noticed.

“Shh!” Niki hisses. “Quackity’s still asleep.”

“Why does he get to rest?” Jack complains.

“Because we’re planning his birthday party,” Niki says.

Jack blinks slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Birthday party,” Niki says.

“Oh-kay.”

Ranboo looks around. “And, uh…Tubbo?”

Niki gives him a smug grin. “He’s working in the metal shed,” she says. “I’ve watched them for a week, see - Tubbo doesn’t go to bed until nine. Quackity does his chores at four, goes back to bed, and doesn’t get back up until noon. We have around three hours, which should be plenty.”

“We couldn’t just ask them to leave?” Jack grumbles.

“I mean, that’s a little suspicious,” Ranboo supplies. Niki looks grateful for the support. “They might ask questions.”

“So? Lie,” Jack says.

Niki looks affronted. “We can’t lie to them. Even if our intentions are good.”

Jack drops his head back into his hands. “You’re all insane.”

Niki clicks the pencil against the counter. “Probably. Please wake up, Jack.”

“I am awake,” Jack snaps, but he sits up straighter anyway. “Fine.”

“Thank you. So, first, we need gifts,” Niki says. “I expect both of you to get them something.”

Jack pulls a metal thermos from a side pocket. “I’m terrible with gifts, you know that.”

“Admittedly, I’m a little rusty, too. But that’s why we’re here,” Niki says. “We can brainstorm together.”

“What do they like?” Ranboo asks hesitantly. “I don’t really, uh, remember.”

“We can help you with that.” Niki smiles at him. “I’m sure anything you get will be very much appreciated.”

Jack tips the contents of his glass into his mouth. He makes a face as he swallows, then says, “You’re going easy on Ranboo, but not me?”

“Yes,” Niki says.

“Awful,” Jack says. “You realize I know even less about Quackity than he does?”

“But you know more about Tubbo,” Niki counters. “So it balances.”

“That isn’t how it works,” Jack says.

Niki waves a hand at him. “We can discuss specifics later. Just be prepared. I’ve already made plans for what I’m getting, so I can help you.”

Jack mutters something under his breath, going to take another drink. His elbow almost catches Ranboo in the shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters into the thermos.

It echoes all funny in Ranboo’s ears. “All good,” he says to Jack, because it is.

“Next, uh…” Niki checks her list. “Food.”

“No potatoes,” Jack says immediately.

Niki winces. “No potatoes,” she echoes, scribbling something in the margins. “Well, I know Tubbo likes soup. How does he feel about beets?”

“Neutral,” Jack says, at the same time Ranboo cuts in with, “Oh, I know!”

Jack gives him a side-eye. It’s not annoyed, not quite - anything, really, just a look. Ranboo would look back, to be polite, but his skin is crawling in an uncomfortable fashion just thinking about it.

“What was that, Ranboo?” Niki asks.

“I, uh, there’s this stew you can make with beets,” Ranboo says. Jack’s still looking at him. “You cook some beef, carrots, onions, and some lettuce, or - or wait, is it cabbage? Is it - I think either would work, but, um…”

Niki gives him an encouraging smile. “That sounds good, Ranboo.”

“Bread,” Ranboo blurts. “You eat it with bread. And some spices. I don’t - I could pick them out of the garden if I saw them.”

Jack shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

“Quackity likes lettuce,” Niki mutters, scribbling down the various ingredients. “And who doesn’t like bread?”

“Me,” Jack says. “Though maybe I’ve just never had good quality.”

Niki glares at him. “I’m offended.”

Ranboo thinks, strangely, that she doesn’t sound very offended at all.

Jack smiles. “Sorry.”

“Desserts,” Niki says, “I can take care of that. Do you two have any requests?”

“‘s not my birthday,” Jack says, while Ranboo shakes his head no.

Niki peers at Jack over her - glasses, Ranboo notices with a start - yeah, she’s wearing glasses, the right lens slightly cracked down the side. Has she always worn those? Has he just not noticed? “Still,” she shrugs. “That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the party.”

There’s a beat where silence presses down, enigmatic to Ranboo only. Before too long, Jack pokes at a smudge on the countertop and mumbles, “Chocolate cookies, I guess, but there’s no jungle around for miles.”

Niki puts pen to paper anyway. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Jack frowns.

“A baker never reveals her secrets,” Niki says lightly. “You want chocolate cookies, I’ll make them for you. That, and some brownies for Tubbo, and, hm…”

“Quackity likes pie,” Jack says. “He used to come in every week while you were gone and take one. Said it was part of your extra taxes.”

Niki raises an eyebrow. “Did he, now.”

Jack nods. “Cross my heart, swear to die.”

Ranboo does not think that’s how the saying goes.

“Well.” Niki breathes deep. “Well. What kind did he go for, then?”

Jack sniffs, glaring at the wall to his right. “Apple. The kind where you made designs on the top with the dough.”

“Sure,” Niki says. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Ranboo still can’t quite wrap his head around the dynamics between everyone.

Jack and Niki are friends, though there are still rough patches neither of them know how to smooth. Niki and Quackity care for each other fiercely, and will fire at anyone who threatens that. Jack and Quackity despise each other, for reasons that Ranboo has trouble sorting through, but they were both hurt, at some point, and blame is easy to feel. Forgiveness is not. And last, well - Tubbo. Everybody loves Tubbo. Ranboo has that one down, at least.

It’s a lot of history to keep straight, but at the very least Ranboo thinks they’ve ended up in a weird sort of peacetime. At the end of the day, though, Ranboo is still the outsider of the outsiders, and that’s - that’s okay. He understands. He’s used to it.

But the way Niki’s hand reaches out and takes Jack’s thermos from him, the way she sets it aside and replaces the hole in his hand with her own fingers, that… makes him burn, somewhere inside. Somewhere he doesn’t like to look.

Niki and Jack hold hands across the counter, mumbling something to each other that he can’t hear. Ranboo clasps his own together in his lap, trying to pretend that the different skin is someone else. Their hands would be warm, not cold like he is, not swept up in a rainstorm and deposited somewhere new, not turned upside down just as he’d started to carve out a niche for himself.

“Hey, uh, Ranboo? You awake?”

Ranboo blinks. Jack’s speaking.

“Yeah.” Ranboo clears his throat. “Yeah?”

Jack won’t meet his eyes, staring instead at a spot right above his head. “I’m sorry for how I… how I treated you in L’Manberg.”

“It’s okay,” Ranboo says. “I don’t -”

“No, shut up,” Jack interrupts, face scrunching awkwardly. “It’s not. Okay.”

Ranboo shuts up.

“You needed someone to be there for you,” Jack says. “And I - I didn’t step up. I may have been a jerk in a few cabinet meetings. That was shitty of me.”

He sighs. One hand runs over his hair. “I’m not gonna do that anymore, I think,” Jack says quietly.

Ranboo nods. “Thank you,” he says. It feels genuine. “I don’t - I don’t hold it against you, I mean, I got by. What’s happened’s happened.”

Jack works that last bit out for a few seconds, then quirks his lips ever so slightly. “Sure, kid. Just, uh, I’m willing to be your friend.”

Niki breathes out rather loudly. Both Jack and Ranboo turn to look at her.

“Sorry,” she says. She’s smiling. “Good job.”

“Niki, that was the worst thing I’ve ever said in my life,” Jack says. “‘I’m willing to be your friend,’ what is this, are we - are we in school? Ranboo, ignore that.”

A giggle builds up in Ranboo’s throat. It scares him when it bursts, ringing in the kitchen, blending with Niki’s own snicker. “It’s okay,” Ranboo gets out, “I - it got the job done. I’ll be your friend.”

I’ll be your friend.

It’s stupid how euphoric that feels.

“One at a time,” Niki says. “This is - this is good. Progress.”

Jack groans. “Niki, give me back my thermos.”

“No,” Niki says. “It’s not even six in the morning.”

“It’s just water,” Jack tries, poorly. Even Ranboo can tell it’s a lie.

“No,” Niki repeats. “Later. You can make yourself coffee to wake up.”

“Well, then, I want to go back to bed,” Jack declares. “You are stripping me of my rights, slowly but surely.”

“Yes,” Niki says, turning her back to him and beginning to rifle through a cabinet. “That’s it.”

“Are we done?” Jack asks. “I’ve had enough sentimentality for a lifetime, thank you.”

“Sure,” Niki relents. She turns around with a relatively large bowl in her hands. “You’re free, Jack.”

Jack pauses only to give Ranboo a hesitant, “See ya,” and then he books it back to his room, shutting the door behind him.

“And, uh, Ranboo,” Niki starts, setting the bowl down on the counter.

Ranboo stands, smoothing out his pants. Since they’re Tubbo’s, they only come down to the middle of his calves. “Yeah?”

“Later, obviously,” Niki gestures at the darkness behind the front door, “do you think you could go pick some tomatoes? And don’t tell him about the party, but tell Tubbo to pick out a gift for Quackity for his birthday. I don’t want him to feel left out.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ranboo says, nodding. “Thanks.”

Niki narrows her eyes curiously. “For what?”

Surprisingly, it’s easy not to hesitate. “For listening,” Ranboo says.

“Oh, Ranboo,” Niki says.

He waits for her to finish. She never does. Instead, she loops around the counter, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and tucks his head into the crook of her neck.

Ranboo doesn’t move. Neither does she.

“Thank you,” he says again, far too quiet.

Niki nods and holds him tighter. “Of course,” she says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Finally, Ranboo finds it in himself to reach up and hug her back.

~

The sun is just starting to lighten the sky when Tommy finishes dragging himself out of the ocean.

He’s never been a good swimmer. This is becoming a problem. Every day he’s getting further and further away from the shore, and every day it’s harder to find the strength to get back. Every day he ends up panting on the beach, arms burning, coughing up seawater.

The ocean tries to kill him. It drags down his legs, sprays water in his eyes and freezes his limbs. Tommy burns, so fucking bad it hurts, and it’s still not enough to quench the feeling that he’s dying a little more with each sunrise.

Tommy’s drowned once before. Nobody knows, except maybe Tubbo, because there used to be a time when Tubbo knew everything without Tommy having to say anything.

Maybe Tubbo knew, once, that it wasn’t Dream’s arrow to the chest that killed him, it was the fall into the pond afterwards. Maybe Tubbo knew, once, how Tommy’s breath left him when he hit the water, how his eyes stayed wide open, how he felt like he was weightless and everything was crushing him. Maybe Tubbo knew, once, how he breathed in lungfuls of bloodied water without really thinking about it, pain flaring through his ribs and leaching deeper, choking him from the inside.

Drowning feels like nothing. Drowning feels like fear. Drowning feels like suicide feels like this.

Once, Tommy knew what it felt like to breathe. Now, he sits cross-legged in the sand with waterlogged clothes, and it begins to rain.

“Fu-uck,” he groans. “Fuck. Fucking fuck, shit, uh…”

He doesn’t feel like doing that anymore. The wind blows in, chilling him to the bone.

“I should build a fire,” Tommy says out loud, talking to nobody. “That’s a good idea. I should do that.”

Slowly, he gets to his feet. He can barely feel anything. The weather is miserable, rain sprinkling down in a misty haze, December breeze latching its teeth into his skin and digging into his eyes.

“Fire,” he repeats, just to make himself laugh. “Yeah.”

It’s a long walk back up to Tnret. Tommy takes it step by trembling step, fingers clawed uselessly into his arms. When he ducks through the tent flap, he’s fully numb.

Inside the paper-thin walls, he crumbles down to the floor, back pressed against the frame. It digs into his spine. Clumsy and slow, he reaches behind him and pulls over his blanket, wrapping it around his arms.

It helps. Kinda. It’s itchy against his skin.

Tommy wonders what Tubbo’s doing right now.

“Enough,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing’s mattered since - since Wilbur. Maybe even earlier, now that he thinks about it.

Thunder rattles the sky. Tommy flinches into his knees and, on instinct, opens his mouth. “Prime -”

Click. His teeth chatter even as he grinds them together.

He hasn’t prayed in weeks. Months? Is it worth it to start again now?

“Fuck it,” he says. No one chides him. “I’m going - I’m going to build a church.” No one stops him.

And so he stumbles out in the rain again, blanket discarded.

Stone by miserable stone, Tommy builds a shrine with nothing but dirt and his muddy memory. It looks rather like a pile of rocks someone left behind because they didn’t need them, or an epitaph for someone whose name never mattered. By the time Tommy’s finished, his fingers are bleeding.

He kneels at the altar, shaky, knees bruised. Something needs to go on it.

You are given what you give, Technoblade rumbles in his ears, more thunder following on his heels. You are given what you are, Wilbur soothes, rain drenching Tommy’s hair and stinging his eyes.

That’s wrong. Both of them were wrong. Prime, Channel - whatever the fuck’s looking down on Tommy - it doesn’t care. Tommy doesn’t have anything to give. He doesn’t have anything. He isn’t anything.

His fingers are bleeding.

“Dear,” he starts anyway, almost going unheard. The storm is no quieter than it was when he woke. “Dear. Dear Prime.”

He hesitates, unsteady, hunger gnawing at his stomach in a way it hasn’t since the war was at its peak. This used to be easy. He had the Terms memorized. He believed, wholeheartedly, that rhetoric could save him - how could he not?

Why is he doing this? He’s insane, it’s - why is he doing this? Wilbur never liked the Terms much, anyway. No sense in begging to a sky full of gods that only watch you.

He guesses Wilbur was right. He guesses Wilbur was right about a lot of things.

Tommy misses him. And even though it makes his blood boil, he misses Tubbo, too. He misses Ranboo. Jack fucking Manifold. Anyone who isn’t Dream or Sapnap, with their stupid eyes and their stupid hands and Dream’s explosions and Sapnap’s endless fucking pity. He wishes they were dead.

He wishes Dream -

He wants Wilbur.

No.

He wishes -

Lightning flashes; with it comes an idea, stark against the swirling clouds in his head.

“I’m going to throw a party,” Tommy tells the altar. “Everyone’s invited. They’ll get to see me, and it won’t rain, and - I’ll see everyone.”

Thunder. Tommy’s throat hurts so fucking much he can barely talk.

“I’ll see everyone,” Tommy repeats, insistent. “They’ll see. It’ll be a great party.”

No response.

“One last time,” Tommy says. “I’ll see them all one -”

Nothing.

Tommy curls his arms around himself. “Fuck you, Prime,” he spits suddenly, “fuck you. Screw you, for - for this, for doing this - fuck you, just get me out of here, I’ll -”

He chokes, coughing, doubled over on the shrine as his body screams at him to give up and go back inside, to give up and let his airways clog, to give up, give up, he’s tired.

He makes a miserable sacrifice. But maybe that’s always been the case. Maybe this is what he deserves.

Maybe Tubbo knew that, too.

“Prime,” Tommy whispers one last time, eyes and lungs filling with saltwater. “Prime. Dear - fuck,” he says, and then he doesn’t say anything more.

~

“Karl?”

The house looks very empty. Sapnap doesn’t let this bother him, because Karl’s gone a lot, and that’s fine - Sapnap doesn’t need to know where he’s going all the time. That would be weird. It’s fine.

Something clatters down the hallway. “Yeah?” Karl calls, distant. “One minute!”

“Sure,” Sapnap yells back, wincing as his voice cracks.

So Karl is home, despite all the lights being off and the curtains drawn.

He was probably just taking a nap. Sapnap wanders into the kitchen to set down his bag, sore shoulders pulling painfully at the action.

Fighting back a yawn, he settles onto one of the counter stools, relishing the opportunity to sit down.

“Hey!” Startlingly, Karl bounds into the kitchen. He barely stops in time, bracing his hands on the counter, ribs slamming into the granite regardless. “Ouch.”

“I’m back,” Sapnap says.

Karl looks him up and down. “Nice. Where’d you go?”

Sapnap squints blearily at him. “Thought you knew. I went to help Sam with some mining. He’s building something new, and Dream said I should help.”

“Right,” Karl says. “Where - what’s he building, I mean?”

“Dunno yet. Sam’s being cryptic.”

Karl hums, and with no warning, crumples himself over Sapnap’s back. Sapnap’s breath wheezes out of him with an oof.

“You’re bony,” Sapnap complains. “Off.”

“No,” Karl says. There’s an odd strained note in it. “I missed you.”

“I was gone for, like, four hours.”

Karl breathes out. “Feels like longer, I guess.”

“Nasty,” Sapnap says. “Stop being - stop being -”

He can’t think of the right word. Karl doesn’t seem eager to help him out, either, instead settling more weight onto Sapnap’s shoulder. The kitchen stays quiet, save for their breathing.

It’s peaceful. Sapnap hasn’t felt this kind of silence in a long, long time. He almost doesn’t want to break it. He’d be happier if everything just made sense.

It doesn’t, though. The past few weeks nag at his head, uncomfortable, like it has been for too long. He can’t let this sit any longer.

Sapnap takes a breath in and squares himself up for the question. “Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”

Karl’s throat rumbles against his shoulder. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“You judged the trial, right? Tommy’s?”

Karl nods. “Mhm.”

“Do you think,” Sapnap says slowly, “you did the right thing, exiling him?”

When Karl doesn’t answer right away, Sapnap’s stomach starts to turn.

“Um,” Karl says.

“I don’t,” Sapnap blurts. “I think we’ve fucked up.”

Karl pulls back, staring at him in concern. “Why?”

“I see him, sometimes,” Sapnap says. “Dream -”makes me visit “- asks me to check on him.”

Karl frowns. “And you - you think he’s not doing well.”

Sapnap thinks about the look in Tommy’s eyes. It’s not something he could ever explain to Karl, not even if he were someone like Wilbur Soot or Quackity who can turn tides with just their voices. He can’t pick up the pain buried deep in Tommy’s irises and hold it out to Karl - can’t dig it out of the depth of his own, either, can’t do anything except fail to explain anything and shrug his shoulders.

“Sure,” Sapnap mumbles. “Something like that.”

“You just have to trust me, okay?” Karl gives him a sad half-smile. “It was the right thing to do.”

“He’s miserable,” Sapnap protests, unable to shake the feeling. He avoids Karl’s violet eyes. “If you think this is teaching him a lesson, you’re - I mean -”

“It’ll all be okay,” Karl promises.

“You can’t say that,” Sapnap says. “You just can’t know that.”

“I can’t,” Karl says. He ghosts his fingers over Sapnap’s, unsure, asking; in turn, Sapnap reaches for him. Karl’s hands are cold. He’s always cold. “But I guess I’m optimistic.”

Sapnap snorts. “Must be nice.”

“I mean it,” Karl says. That weird tone is back. “It’s - we’re going to be okay, okay?”

Looking up, Sapnap can’t fathom everything swirling behind Karl’s expression. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah.”

The odd thing, Sapnap thinks, is that when Karl pulls him back into a hug, anything is believable.

~

Right before sunset, Ranboo finally remembers to go outside.

Their garden is a little thing, but it’s thriving. Small plots of the more sturdy crops grow in rows by the animal pens, a creek diverted through it for irrigation, but ip closer to the house sit some other varieties that Niki must have brought with her from L’Manberg; tomatoes, lettuce, various herbs, and other plants that Ranboo probably should recognize, but couldn’t even if you put a crossbow to his head.

Walking down to the gardens, Ranboo squints at the setting sun - he should hurry. It gets cold at night. The darkness of the treeline beyond sends a shiver up his spine.

“Hey,” Tubbo calls, startling him. He’s walking up from the workshed, which is a relatively new addition, but one that Tubbo has been spending copious amounts of time in. He’s got a sheet of hammered metal under one arm. It’s almost as big as him.

“Hello,” Ranboo says back. “What’s up?”

Tubbo looks at the sheet. “Taking this to the house. I’m going to plate the sinks.”

Ranboo stares. “That’s Netherite.”

Tubbo scowls. “Niki won’t let me make another armor set. What are you doing?”

“Picking tomatoes,” Ranboo says. He holds up the bowl for good measure. “I was supposed to do it earlier, but - uh.”

“You forgot,” Tubbo supplies.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well.” Tubbo hoists the metal up again. “Have fun, I’m going inside.”

“Okay, see you,” Ranboo says - Tubbo’s gone before he can blink again.

Some bird yowls in the distance.

“Okay,” Ranboo mumbles to himself. “Time to pick tomatoes, I guess.”

So he does. He gets on his knees in the grass and pulls the fruit from the vines, careful not to break any. There’s more than he thought there would be. It’s therapeutic, in a way.

Or it would be, if he didn’t feel like someone was watching him from just through the trees.

It’s hard to ignore, today. It prickles at the hairs on his neck, his very blood screaming at the thought of eyes digging into his back, someone staring just out of sight, just looking at him.

Noises filter through the clearing. Animals in the distance, running water. A stick snaps. Somewhere, someone is breathing, too close, too much. A smile.

Ranboo turns, stands in a flurry, clutching the bowl to his chest. He - he’s being watched. There is -

Stumbling steps towards the front door. The sun is going down.

There -

He looks to the treeline, one hand on the knob. No one is there. It’s just waving branches and a gentle breeze, shadows falling through the dead wood. No one -

No one is there. Nothing is there.

Nothing is there.

And it’s easy, in the end; Ranboo just closes his eyes, opens the door, and forgets.

Chapter Text

Quackity is staring at himself in the mirror when Jack Manifold knocks on his door.

It’s not exactly a mirror. Really, it’s a shiny sheet of iron hammered to the wall, but it does its job well enough. Quackity’s not invested enough to make a real mirror, nor does he feel like anyone else would want to do it for him.

Quackity’s not much of anything, these days. Ever since coming out here to the cabin where he gets a decent amount of sleep and actually has time to eat, he’s noticed that, at the very least, he doesn’t look so dead. In fact, he almost looks younger. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

In the mirror, he can barely make out his eyes. They’re a weird, blurry shade of brown. His face is rounder than it was before. He frowns at his reflection - that only makes it worse.

He doesn’t try smiling.

Knock.

Quackity startles at the noise, pushing his hat further down over his hair, turning to fix his eyes on the doorknob. It doesn’t move.

“Who is it?” Quackity calls.

“Jack,” is the muffled response. “Can I come in?”

“Hangon,” Quackity mumbles. He moves on autopilot, padding to the door, hand fumbling on the knob. He steels his nerves and pulls it open, peering up at Jack.

“Ayup,” Jack greets strangely. “Got a minute?”

Before he can second-guess himself, Quackity swallows down the anxious ball forming in his throat and pulls the door open all the way.

Despite what everyone thinks, Jack Manifold is a dangerous man. He carries war scarred over on his hands. Death follows him, waiting for its chance - Quackity can see it in the way Jack holds his shoulders, and he can smell it on his breath.

But the height difference isn’t as stark as it used to be, now that Quackity holds his back straighter and Jack’s stopped wearing boots. No longer does Jack have the fire of rebellion in him like he used to. Now, Quackity thinks he might actually have a fighting chance against him. This new version of Jack looks like one punch would shatter his jaw.

“I’m supposed to tell you that Tubbo’s birthday’s coming up.” Jack steps into the doorway, oblivious to Quackity’s scrutiny. “Niki wants us to get presents for him.”

“Yeah,” Quackity says, raising an eyebrow. “Sure. I’m already working on it.”

“He’s turning seventeen,” Jack says, like Quackity didn’t know that.

“I know that,” Quackity says.

“Alright.” Jack grimaces.

“Is she holding a party?” Quackity asks.

Jack hesitates. “Uh, you’ll have to ask her. I was just supposed to pass this along.”

“Well, you’ve done it.” Quackity regrets the tone as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Jack brings something out in him that he hates - something he thought he’d left behind a long time ago. And he doesn’t think it’s Jack’s fault, necessarily, but it’s enough that a few weeks’ exposure to the guy has left Quackity floundering in a sea he didn’t know was still there.

It’s not fair. To either of them, really, and Quackity knows it - especially after his outburst and Jack’s subsequent death reveal.

Jack’s expression sours. “Sure. I’ll leave you alone, then.”

No, it’s not fair. They came out here to be better.

“Wait,” Quackity blurts. Jack stops turning away and raises an eyebrow.

Fuck. No going back, now.

“Wanna…” Quackity clears his throat. Tries again. “Wanna come in?”

For a moment, Quackity is sure Jack’s going to laugh.

Instead, he sighs, deflating infinitesimally. “Sure, Quackity. Why not?”

“Okay,” Quackity says. He hates how small he sounds.

He steps away from the door to let Jack by. Jack takes a few uncertain steps into the room, settling down on the edge of Quackity’s bed.

“Nice, uh, decoration,” Jack says, eyes raking the mostly bare walls.

“Thank you. Um, it’s just a mirror,” Quackity says. “I’m not really one for paintings and shit.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, me neither, anymore.”

Quackity stands awkwardly on the other side of the room, arms crossed, wings tucked as small as he can make them. He leans one shoulder against the wall. “Anymore?”

“Had some posters, back in the house.” Jack says the last two words with a weird accent. “Flyers, mostly. From the election. Taped ‘em up because my walls were driving me crazy.”

Quackity sniffs. “Weird choice for decoration.”

“All I had,” Jack says. “Not like I was going to go out and commission something.”

“Uh-huh.” Quackity picks at his face, pointedly not looking at Jack.

“But I got sick of those, too,” Jack says. “There’s only so long you can stare at those chops, y’know?”

Oh. Quackity frowns, arms pulling tighter over his chest. “You had Schlatt’s flyers taped up on your wall.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, “Yeah, well - I voted for him, so.”

“What,” Quackity says.

Jack snorts, glaring at him from his periphery. “You’re gonna give me shit for that?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Quackity says, having only half the mind to be embarrassed how quick he snapped. “I just didn’t -”

“Whatever.” Jack cuts him off. “I figured out my mistake soon enough, which is more than I can say for -”

“Oh,” Quackity grumbles, “for what? Huh?”

“Stop it,” Jack says bluntly. “You - just stop it, okay?”

You first!

Beat. Quackity draws a slow breath in through parted lips.

Shame burns in his stomach, melting and roiling like he’s going to be sick. It never goes away - it’s never going to go away. There’s nothing he could ever do to stamp it out, save taking a metaphorical lighter to everything - everyone he has and throwing himself in afterwards.

Anger is easy. Anger’s kept him alive for longer than he can remember. But while anger may be familiar, it’s doing him no favors now, in this new world of cow shit and peace and smoke rising up from far away.

Shame is going to follow him forever. Niki doesn’t know everything. Nobody can know, not really - there’s just Quackity, in the end, and his red cheeks and white knuckles. Just him and the mirror. What’s he going to do about it?

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Quackity says.

There. It’s only half an apology, but something cracks when he says it.

Jack straightens up, squinting. For a moment, he looks the part of the child he’s supposed to be. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quackity says. His back hits the wall, wings protesting uselessly. “It’s a - I’m working on it.”

Jack takes him in, eyes pointed and sharp. Schlatt would have liked him, Quackity thinks miserably; Jack’s all angles, strong hands, a good listener. A soldier. They have the same crooked nose and the same bad breath.

“Me too,” Jack says. “Working on it, I mean.”

“Cool,” Quackity mumbles.

“I know I’m an asshole,” Jack says tiredly, and Quackity actually laughs.

“You’re not,” Quackity says.

Jack looks like he wants to argue. “I’ve been rude to you ever since I got here.”

“Sure,” Quackity says slowly, checking himself so he doesn’t bite back with something he’ll regret. “But that doesn’t make you an asshole. Being an asshole would be, like, if you tried to kill me in my sleep or something. Just yelling at me is common jerk behavior.”

“Right,” Jack says dumbly. “So you’re telling me if I want to upgrade from jerk to asshole, I have to beat you over the back of the head with a blunt object?”

“Yeah,” Quackity says.

Jack’s looking at him weird. “That’s - thanks, I guess.”

“Besides. I dunno.” Quackity looks up and catches his own stare in the mirror again. “Maybe I needed it.”

There’s another silence, but it doesn’t feel like the end.

“Niki seems to think being out here is helping,” Jack says, all quiet-like. “I thought maybe I’d ruined something for you.”

Quackity swallows. “Oh.”

“I think I’m - I was so mad sometimes that I was kinda hoping I had.”

Quackity thinks about it. “You didn’t,” he says, and finds it to be true.

“Okay,” Jack says. “And I wasn’t - wasn’t really mad at you, y’know?”

“Not really,” Quackity says, careful.

Jack frowns at his hands. “Well, I wasn’t. You’re not the one who, uh. It wasn’t you.”

That’s the kicker, isn’t it? The awful, grey mist that wakes him up at night sometimes and hangs over the gold band tucked into his shirt - it was him. It was his stupid blindness, his greed, his refusal to see what was going on around him. His desperate clinging to the ship even as it slipped underwater, dragging so many people down with him.

“I dunno,” Quackity mutters. “Could’ve been me.”

Jack leans back ever so slightly. “No,” he says, like that’s the end of that.

A sudden, unbidden thought pops into Quackity’s head, then. It nearly makes his head hurt.

“Jack,” he starts.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“You were there, right? When - Schlatt died?”

Jack’s face twists into a half-amused, half-repulsed grimace. “Everyone was.”

“Tell me about it,” Quackity says.

Jack looks at the wall for a bit. “Well, uh, it was during the war. He had a heart attack. Was drunk as shit when he died.”

“A heart attack,” Quackity repeats. “Yeah. Did he say anything?”

Jack shrugs. “It was a while ago. I wasn’t - sorry.”

Quackity reaches up and picks at the dry skin on his lip. “Sure. Yeah, no.”

“It was humiliating,” Jack says. “If that helps. He was really pathetic.”

Quackity’s not sure if that does help. “Thanks.”

A moment, and then he can’t help but speak up again - “He always told me that if I wanted him gone, I’d have to kill him.”

Jack laughs. “Right. Now look at him. They had a funeral, right, and no one there cared one bit. Even BadBoyHalo was struggling to be nice. They broke open the coffin, eventually - just fucked with his corpse. Tommy kept some of his bones, I think.”

“I’d’ve set the coffin on fire,” Quackity says decisively, picturing the pyre in his mind’s eye, seeing himself reaching into the silk tomb and squeezing his hand down around something soft. “Or worse. Just to fuck with his ghost.”

“I thought about framing his eyes,” Jack says.

“Should’ve,” Quackity says, distracted by the phantom gore. “They were nice.”

The brief atmosphere cools down, then, both Jack and Quackity taking it in from their opposite sides of the room. It feels weird to be standing here after everything. It almost feels…better.

Hah.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Jack says suddenly.

“Uh. Um,” Quackity says.

“You don’t have to.” Jack stands, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I’d kinda like the company.”

Quackity takes one more look at himself in the mirror, and says, “Sure, Manifold. Why the fuck not?”

~

Outline :) hopefully you can piece together what I was going for from this I'm so sorry

Chapter 10/11
(Tommy POV)
Tommy Gives Sapnap Invitations
Dream Takes Said Invitations From Sapnap
Dream Tells Tommy He Knows Where Tubbo is and Also About Ranboo Living There (he WAS spying on them. gasp)
Tommy Is Further Betrayed. Do Not Deliver Invitations To The Cottage Angry Face
The List Of Transgressions Against TommyInnit as Told By TommyInnit:
Ranboo
Abandonment
Enabling
Tubbo
Abandonment
The Audacity To Replace Him With Ranboo
Moving On
Shirking the “Responsibility” of L’Manberg That Traumatized Tommy
Tommy “Can I Really Be Mad At Tubbo For Looking Out For Himself for Once” Innit
Tommy is Briefly Proud of Tubbo for Doing What Tommy Never Could
Moment Over. Back To Being Suicidal

(Tubbo POV)
Tubbo Workin’ On Armor In Their Anvil Shed
Quackity Getting Things Off His Chest; He Feels Bad About the Festival
Tells Tubbo He’s Proud of Him For Being So Strong Cause He Knows How Hard It Was To. Yknow. Manberg. Leave. Feels Like Giving Up But Look At Them
It Will Be Worth It. Just Being Here Together is Already Worth It
Quackity Says Sorry For Thinking You Were Trying to Steal My Job and then Killing You Secondhandedly
Tubbo Says It’s Alright Man Sorry For. Not Getting Abused..?
Quackity Says Arguably You Were
Tubbo Says Okay
Tubbo Is Gonna Blow Soon.

(Niki POV)
Niki Goes Back to Pogtopia To Get Some Old Things. Jack Can Go With Her To Finally Clear That Air
Niki Reminisces
Jack Realizes Oh Huh. That Pit Thing is Kinda Fucked Up
Niki Misses the Old Old Days And Finds She Misses Fundy and Eret and Wilbur Especially
Jack Realizes He Also Misses the Old Days. The Glory Days.
Wilbur Hurt Them But He Lost Things Just Like Them
*Waves Hands Wildly* The Ravine Represents Wilbur
Niki Apologizes for Leaving Jack Behind
Jack Acknowledges Her Trauma and Says She Did The Right Thing
He Thanks Her For Being Here For Him Now and Apologizes for Not Being There For Her When She Needed It

(Techno POV??)
Fundy And Ghostbur Go To A Family Reunion. It’s Fuckign Christmas. “Holiday” Dinner Because Stupid Minecraft World Lore
Techno Says Are You Here To Kill Me and Fundy Says No That Would Be Such A Stupid Idea *Looks Into The Camera*
Phil Is Awkward. Hey Dead Son. Hey Grandson.
Fundy’s Like “Aren’t You Upset That I’m Here Cause I’m Government” and Techno’s Like “Fundy You Need People To Govern to Be a Government”
Fundy Has A Crisis Because He Realizes He Failed His Dad Again
Ghostbur Does NOT Help
Phil is Struggling to Empathize Because He Knows Fundy Was With Manberg and Half Blames Him for Wilbur’s Death (grumbles)
Techno is Like Lmao Yeah Dude You’re Just Pretending But Lemme Know When You Stop So I Can Come Kill You
Fundy Runs Away Again.
Ghostbur Does Not. Ghostbur Stays With Phil. For Now

Chapter 12
(Dream POV)
Tommy Hosts A Party
No One Shows Except Dream and Sapnap
Tommy Has Disc Not Tubbo (mellohi)
Sapnap Is Acting Awkward
Dream Has Begun to Cut Sapnap Off
Also Trying to Separate Him From Tommy. Confident He Has (He Hasn’t)
Trident Time. Falling Time.
Dream Leaves to Spy Further On the Cottage

(Niki POV)
TUBBO AND QUACKITY BIRTHDAY PARTY
Presents Rattles Rattles Rattles
Jack Gets Tubbo a baby SLIME and Quackity his hat slash jacket
Niki Gets Tubbo Socks and Quackity a,,,,item of clothing. Suspenders ..???????
Ranboo Gets Tubbo A Gold Bracelet and Quackity A Silver Bracelet (If Gift Cards Existed He Would Have Bought Them Those)
Quackity Gets Tubbo the Guitar (niki brought it back from pogtopia)
Tubbo Gets Quackity Nothing Because He Wasn’t Ready
Cake
Designated Driver Quackity Because I Said So
Drinks. They Let Tubbo Underage Drink Which Was Not a Good Idea But It Makes Him Cry And Scream About His Feelings So … Don’t Do This At Home Kids

(Sapnap POV)
Dream Leaves And Sapnap Helps Clean Up. He Takes Cake Home For Karl Also Because I Say So
Tommy “Traumadumping And Clinging Onto The Guy Who Killed A Lot Of Things I Love” Innit
Sapnap “Oh Shit That’s Me” BoyHalo
Tommy And Sapnap Bond Over Tubbo Because I Say So

(Tubbo POV)
A Day Or So Later
Talking to Niki and Quackity By Himself
You Left Tommy? No, Tubbo. We All Left Tommy <3
Tubbo Realizes “I Wish I’d Helped Tommy” and “I Am Glad I Finally Feel Safe and Stable” Can Coexist
Tubbo “I’m Making Us A Porch” Underscore
Cause His People Are Here :’) And The People Are His Home :’’’)

Chapter 13
(Sam POV)
Dream Checks On The Prison’s Completion
Punz is With Him
DREAM SAYS THE THINGS ABOUT RAW POTATOES AND NO STEAK AND NO COURTYARD SOMETHING SOMETHING NEW LORE NEW LORE
Punz Says Something About a Contract
Sam Is Suspicious And Starts To Feel Like Building The Prison Was A Mistake Cause Dream Is Being Sus

(Sapnap POV)
Sapnap Goes On A W-A-L-K With Dream
Dream “He Won’t Commit Die Lmao I’m Not Worried About It” WasTaken
Yeah I Got The Disc From Your…Dad…?’s House And Didn’t Invite You What Of It
Sapnap Realizes Dream is a Bitch

(Ranboo POV)
Ranboo and Tubbo Bonding Moment . Tommy time question mark?
If I Could Do It Again Thought Experiment
But We Can’t. Maybe We Can Just Do Things With What We Have

(Tommy POV)
Dream Asks For Disc/is Denied Disc/Threatens L’Manberg/is Denied Disc
Tommy Thinks About Dream’s Bluff
Dream Blows The Shit Out Of Logsted. Huh. Maybe Tommy Should Have Thought More About That Bluff

Chapter 14
(Tommy POV)
Sapnap Takes Tommy To Doomsday and Subsequently Cannot Bring Himself To Take Him Back
Fundy “Why The Fuck Did You Do This To My Country” vs Tommy “Why The Fuck Did You Do This To My Country”
Tommy Runs Away
Fundy Runs Away

(Eret POV)
Fundy Runs To Eret And Tells Them About L’Manberg
Fundy Hides in the Castle
Eret Reminisces About The Parallels Between Them

(Ghostbur POV)
Ghostbur Sees Tommy From The Ruins Of L’Manberg
Tommy is Distracted by Ghostbur. Rage Ensues
Ghostbur Redemption Arc????
They Attempt To Reach Techno But Run Into Dream
Dream “Sapnap is Dealt With” WasTaken
Ghostbur Reredemption Arc…
Dream Takes Tommy To The Vault

(Niki POV)
Cottage Gang Sees And Hears L’Manberg Go For the Second Time
Dream Goes To the Cottage
Tubbo Decides Finally To Go Help Tommy
Secretly Gives Niki Sam’s Comm From Way Back
Dream Takes a Willing Tubbo To The Vault
Niki “He Is Going To Die” vs Quackity “We Have Nothing To Fight With” vs Jack “We Swore Off Involvement” vs Ranboo “CAN WE MAYBE NOT LET THEM DIE EITHER OF THEM” *begrudging sighs*
They Call Sam

Chapter 15
(Fundy POV)
A Wounded Sapnap Asks Eret To Call a Meeting
Sapnap Tells People Tommy is in Trouble (Conditions: community house is fine, L’Manberg’s destruction was not on the fault of L’Manberg)
Fundy And Eret!!! Eret Convinces Fundy to Fight For Tommy
The Cottage Gang Shows Up and Sam Vouches For Them
Plans Are Made - Sam Prison, Punz Location

(Tommy? POV)
Meanwhile, Dream Insists Disc Or Tubbo
Tommy Is Pissed He’s Lost Everything
Tommy And Tubbo Make Up ….?
ft. Tubbo’s Desperate Attempts To Feel Emotions Publicly Damn He Should Have Practiced This At Home
Tubbo Says I Am Not Giving Up Anything This Time
Tommy Is So Sad And Angry And Scared And
Dream Gets Impatient
Here Come Sapnap And The Boyz™!
Sapnap “Let Go Of Tubbo Or I Will Put An Arrow Through Your Neck” BoyHalo
Dream “Punz Kill Them” vs Punz “Technically You Only Paid Me To Distract Them, Not Back You Up In Battle”
Sam “Whoopsies You Can’t Come Anywhere Near Tommy Here’s Another Death For Your Crimes” Awesamdude
If It Weren’t For Those Meddling Kids
Dream Goes Away.

Chapter 16
Um. Epilogue I Suppose
Q Moves Out Of The Cottage To Live In The Greater Territories
Sapnap “Shit I Helped Kill Dream” vs Quackity “Ur Boyfriend is Hot. Sorry What Was That About Manslaughter”
Jack and Niki Remain Out There in the Cottage and Fundy Tries His Hand At It After Eret Makes Him Socialize
Tommy Hisses At Ranboo And Ranboo Hisses Back Then They’re Better
Minor Rehab Arc (Rehab For the Minors)
Awesamdad but Good This Time
Jack Wants to Start A Business :D