Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy has a lot of trouble keeping track of himself in fights. His sight-throwing power— looking through other people’s eyes— keeps him aware of his physical location, but he ends up feeling disconnected from his body, watching someone else fight even from his own point of view. It always takes a second to return to his usual close-enough connection to his body. 

Today, that reconnection is coming with pain. He racks his brain, but he can’t recall quite when he got that gash on his side, or who gave it to him. 

Wilbur blinks into visibility next to Tommy. “Are you okay?” 

“Hmm? Yeah.” Tommy surveys the scene. It’d been a bank robbery, a bit nastier than the usual, but the police have the attackers now and the lobby is clear. 

“C’mon,” Wilbur says, taking Tommy’s arm to start leading him out past the police lines. “Let’s go. Are you sure you’re alright?” He casts a look at the hole in Tommy’s jacket where he was cut. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The older hero already worries enough about Tommy. Tommy will go home, bandage it, and it’ll clear up within the week. Or maybe the month. “Are you?” 

“Mostly.” Now that they’re off main streets, in the network of alleys and side roads most people can’t navigate, Wilbur slows and lets go of Tommy. “Might be off the job the next couple days. God, I think I’m getting too old for this.” Wilbur’s not that old, barely in his mid-twenties. Their job burns people out quickly. Tommy, at eighteen, probably only has a few more years in him, fewer with a bad injury. 

Like the gash on his side, which is burning more with each passing second. 

Tommy must be slowing down without realizing, because Wilbur stops and gives him a concerned look. “Can I walk you home? I think you used your power a lot back there, and I know how you get. I just… I’d feel better if I could be with you.” 

“I told you I’ll be alright,” Tommy says with as much force as he can manage. “I’m not a baby.” 

An emotion Tommy can’t read twists Wilbur’s face. “I know that.” 

“So don’t baby me.” Tommy doesn’t know where this anger is coming from. 

“I— I’m not trying to.” 

“Okay. That’s good.” Tommy feels a little lightheaded. He walks and Wilbur keeps up. 

“I just want to make sure you get home safe, okay? That cut doesn’t look good.”

“It’s— fine.” Tommy’s nerves are just being pussies about the pain. “And I can get home myself. I’m a fucking superhero, y’know?” 

“I—” Wilbur trails off for an endless second. “Okay. Just promise you’ll text me, alright? If you need anything. I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight anyway.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t ring true. 

“I will,” Tommy promises. 

They walk in silence until Wilbur turns off to go to his place. Tommy doesn’t bother trying to see how the wound looks through Wilbur’s eyes. He’s too tired, and doesn’t think it matters. 

“See you around, Tommy,” Wilbur offers with half a wave. 

“See you around,” Tommy echoes. Wilbur turns away, and Tommy resumes his walk.

Tommy blinks, looks up, and realizes he’s taken a wrong turn. He curses under his breath and turns around. He’s almost home, and when he gets there he’ll take a nap. He can feel his side slick with blood. 

He’s lucky that no one’s in the lobby or halls of his apartment building. Usually, looking like he knows where he’s going is enough that no one bothers him, and if they assume he’s a superhero they don’t cause a fuss about it. Hell, it’s not like he makes much of an effort to hide his profession. He suspects, though, that the bleeding gash in his side would draw some attention he doesn’t want. 

He drops his keys trying to get into his apartment. He crouches to get them, stands up, blinks, and finds himself kneeling on the floor again. He sighs, which hurts, stands up more slowly, and unlocks the door.

Inside, his apartment is the same as it always is. Tommy knows he should probably eat. Not eating after rough jobs, especially when he’s hurt, tends to lead to fainting later. Wilbur always pitches a fit when Tommy faints.

Instead of eating, Tommy lies down slowly on his couch for the nap he had promised himself. It feels pleasant to let the world slip away.

Tommy wakes up feeling groggy. His side doesn’t hurt, but it’s replaced by a general ache and a sharper pinch in his arm that he recognizes as an IV. He blinks up at a ceiling much cleaner than his own and wonders why the fuck he’s in a hospital.

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice comes from next to him, and Tommy turns his head to look. Wilbur’s sitting next to his bed in civilian clothes, the weird quasi-grunge style he favors, and he looks even more exhausted than usual. “Oh my god, Tommy, you’re awake.”

“Obviously,” Tommy answers, then adds, “Dickhead.”

Wilbur laughs wetly. “Never do that again.”

“Do what again?” Irritation tugs at Tommy’s chest.

Wilbur runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “Nearly bleed out, you little fucker. I didn’t feel good about leaving you alone, so I stopped by your apartment and you were half-dead on your fucking couch. I had to call an ambulance, Tommy.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tommy protests. “Where’d you get a key to my apartment?”

“Don’t worry about that. The doctors said you’ll be alright to go home in a few days, but it’ll take a while for you to be really back on your feet.”

“I coulda slept it off,” Tommy insists. He can hear his voice slurring, and can only assume he’s been given some sort of painkiller.

“I swear you are the cause of most of this,” Wilbur tells him with a gesture to the white streak through the front of his hair. “You’re so fucking stressful to keep track of.”

“That’s genetic, bitch,” Tommy replies. “You told me.”

“Well, you’re not helping. I stayed up with you all night, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” Tommy mutters.

Wilbur waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wilbur, you’re not listening,” Tommy says, louder. “I said you don’t have to ‘look out’ for me. I’m not a fucking baby, okay? Keep your worry to yourself.”

Wilbur sits back, blinking. “You would have died.”

“So? And what if I didn’t? You don’t have a key to my apartment, okay, or you shouldn’t have one. You’re always on my case about this shit. Let me live my own fucking life.”

“I— you need help. I can help you.”

“I don’t need help, you need to be helpful,” Tommy retorts. He tilts his head to look back up at the ceiling. “Go home, Wilbur. I’m going back to sleep.”

Wilbur makes no move to get up. “Sleep well, Tommy,” he whispers, his voice half-lost to the ambient hospital sounds.