Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tubbo isn’t sure if he got the time wrong or if everyone else is ten minutes late. 

Every part of his training for the Heroes’ Association emphasized the team, that his missions would involve a combination of experienced heroes, younger heroes, and behind-the-scenes people. So why is he still sitting in the ready room alone?

He fidgets with the loose outer shirt of his costume and surveys the equipment in the room, both for the heroes and the surveillance team. Everything’s still in order.

Maybe it’s just Firebird. He’s got a reputation for being a scofflaw, disruptive, so he might just show up to things late. 

Tubbo doesn’t know if he’s lucky or unlucky that his first mission is with Firebird. On the one hand, he won’t be in danger from criminals, whether supervillains or otherwise. On the other, there are fifty-fifty odds that he’ll be in danger from Firebird. It’s not exactly a kind of trade-off Tubbo wants to make.

Right on cue, Firebird slams through the door. 

Tubbo’s first thought is that he’s taller than he looks on TV. His short gray capelet twists around him as he flops into the office chair next to Tubbo, highlighting his black shirt and tall gray gloves under it. Through the bluish tint of Tubbo’s own goggles, it’s hard to pick out Firebird’s deep red goggles from the black mask on the upper half of his face from the shadow of his gray hood, but Tubbo knows Firebird’s appearance well enough to see it. 

“Hey, Oleander,” Firebird says, giving Tubbo a two-fingered salute. 

Holy shit, he knows my name. Or, the Voice knows my name. “Hey, Firebird.” Tubbo hesitates. “Where is everyone?”

Firebird laughs hoarsely. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone else is coming.” 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a crew? Like, cameras, surveillance, backup?” 

“You’re so new. I told you, no one’s gonna show up for Firebird and the rookie.” 

“So… we won’t have anyone watching the cameras?”

“No, you’re gonna watch the cameras.”

“What?” Tubbo can’t help bristling, his wings twitching in surprise as he sits forward. “I’m a full Heroes’ Association member, I passed my training. I’m meant to be in the field.”

“You think just training is enough? You’ll fall apart in the field without more experience first. Trust me, you’re on cameras today.”

Tubbo presses his lips into a line. It’s just the Voice. Firebird’s Voice—Tubbo doesn’t know if it should be capitalized, but it sounds right in his head—is his power. It’s not inherently magical, Tubbo’s pretty sure, but it’s… convincing. Firebird swears up and down that he doesn’t fully control it, that he never knows what’s going to come out of his mouth when he calls on it, although it certainly seems to listen to his wants. Tubbo’s been warned by a few people that you can’t trust Firebird because of his Voice. It lies, he lies, he’ll say whatever he needs to so you listen.

But Firebird’s much more experienced than Tubbo, and what if he’s not using the Voice? He must know something about how things work.

Firebird stands suddenly. “Great, glad you agree. C’mon, let’s get set up.”

Tubbo almost starts to protest again. After a second, though, he just joins Firebird at the desk in front of the row of monitors.

Firebird gears up confidently and quickly while Tubbo fumbles to get the headset on and the computers running. 

“On wire?” Firebird says, and his voice echoes through Tubbo’s headset.

“Wire on,” Tubbo confirms. The words are almost second nature after his training.

Firebird gives his bodycam a final tap and the grainy visual flashes to life on one screen. Tubbo takes the chair reluctantly, glancing at the available CCTV map of the neighborhood Firebird will be in. 

There’s another line of the check-in dialogue, but Firebird doesn’t start it.

Firebird already has his weapons ready, in violation of protocol, but Tubbo doesn’t feel like filing a report his first day in the Association. At this point, he doubts any number of infractions could bring Firebird down—as far as Tubbo can tell, the only one he hasn’t gotten is covering his bodycam.

With another lazy salute, Firebird disappears out the door and his GPS pops up on Tubbo’s map. After a second of fiddling with the headset, Tubbo still can’t get the mic not to brush against the respirator section of his mask. He glances around the empty room, tugs the respirator down, and immediately feels more comfortable. This is an infraction, technically, but who would watch the security footage in here to find out? He still has his goggles on. He could argue that the required at least half of his face is still covered.

“You hearing me, Oleander?” comes Firebird’s voice over the headset. 

“Loud and clear,” Tubbo answers.

“Good. I’m parking now, on my way to the disturbance. How’s CCTV?”

Tubbo clicks through the CCTV in question as Firebird’s bodycam footage, slightly delayed from his voice, shows him parking and getting out of the car. “Fine. The suspects are still in the bank, behind the counter. They’re just… standing there.” They are, and they aren’t even anyone Tubbo recognizes, just tall people in ski masks talking to each other behind the counters. 

“Any Syndicate presence?” 

“Not that I can see.” The camera angle is unusual, but each Syndicate member is also unmistakable. These people are too tall to be Hecate, too short to be Boreas, and aren’t wingfolk like Daedalus is. “The shortest one has their gun, but I don’t think anyone else has a weapon.”

“Got it. I’m going in.”

Now Tubbo’s watching the scene from Firebird’s bodycam and the security camera on the bank ceiling, and he struggles to keep the perspectives straight. 

“Hey boys,” Firebird says, but Tubbo’s sure he’s talking to the people in the bank. 

Tubbo had assumed they were robbing the bank, but now he notices they haven’t actually taken any money from anywhere. All three of the people turn toward Firebird, and one steps forward.

“Waiting for me?” Firebird says, and Tubbo realizes he can’t hear the other side of the conversation. “Well, isn’t that a nice surprise.” His voice is relaxed, almost amused. This is the Firebird Tubbo’s seen on TV—arrogant, sure of himself, but powerful enough to back it up.

“Listen, there’s no need for violence today—” Firebird stumbles over his words for a moment, and Tubbo wonders if the Voice surprised him “—so leave now and we can forget this happened.”

God, what Tubbo wouldn’t give to hear both sides of this conversation right now. In the security camera Firebird’s stance has changed, just slightly. He’s not quite so ready to spring forward now, his hand drifting to the holster on his hip. The other figure takes another step forward. 

“What would Sasha say if she could see you now? Hey, why don’t we tell Duke what happened to her, anyway?” There’s a shorter pause than usual. “Oh, I know everything .” All three figures are creeping forward, but Firebird’s back on his game now and walks towards them too. “I know what she did, and what you did to her. I know how desperately you hoped no one would ever find out. You can’t kill me because I know you.” 

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, because the lead figure immediately rushes Firebird. A rare failure of the Voice, something sure to get cribbed from the CCTV and posted to YouTube within the week. Tubbo tries to think he’s lucky to see this his first day.

But the skirmish quickly turns into something more like a beatdown, and when Tubbo wonders who’s going to call backup he realizes there’s no backup. Firebird’s the only person in the field, and Tubbo’s the only one in here, and Tubbo pushes his chair to a different part of the console to key in a call to emergency services as the only sound in his headset is Firebird’s loud, ragged breathing, seeming to crescendo by the moment. At least one of the suspects must have some kind of superstrength. Firebird isn’t fighting back, couldn’t even grab a weapon before they were on top of him.

“Firebird!” Tubbo calls into the headset. The timbre of his voice makes it obvious he took his respirator off and he doesn’t really care. “Firebird, can you hear me? I’m on the line with emergency dispatchers, just hang in there, okay? Firebird, answer me.” Firebird does not answer him. 

The bodycam’s lens cracks once, then further into a spiderweb of distortion, then abruptly cuts to darkness as the transmission ends.

Tubbo’s still muttering into his headset as he tries to give emergency services the location, his best guess at severity. After a moment, he can’t tell if the earpiece cuts out too or if Firebird stops breathing.

Tubbo never sees Firebird again. 

As far as he can tell, no one in the Association does, although no one knows if he’s dead either.

Life moves on. No one asks Tubbo why he was the only one in the room. No one asks why he wasn’t in the bank with Firebird. Two months later the name Firebird never passes anyone’s lips anymore, let alone in connection with Oleander. 

By the time Tubbo faces the Syndicate on the job, he’s almost relieved. For one thing, it’s Hecate alone, and while she’s powerful she doesn’t bring destruction on Daedalus’ scale. For another, by now Magpie looms larger in the public conscience, including for Tubbo.

Magpie’s new, and theorized to be young, and not part of the Syndicate, but he’s built a reputation quickly. It’s not hard to be feared and respected when no one can get a proper look at you or make contact with you, Tubbo supposes. He wonders if the Syndicate resents someone usurping some of their share of the playing field. 

Well it’s not like he can ask Hecate about it. One of the Syndicate’s signatures is staying silent, even when spoken to by a Heroes’ Association member.

“Oleander, she’s over here,” Replica calls, and Tubbo snaps back to reality.

“On my way!” Tubbo shakes off the last of his reverie and runs to meet Replica. He’s sure Replica’s fed up with him by now— Tubbo’s been tired lately, struggling to focus even when he should be sharp with the adrenaline of a mission. Replica’s been in the Association barely weeks longer than Tubbo and he still seems fine. 

Goddammit, Tubbo’s doing it again. Replica’s already taken off after Hecate, rightly not afraid of getting too close to her. Tubbo races after him, down a narrow alley.

Hecate turns briefly and throws a hand out, and a short lamppost crumbles at the base to collapse across their path. Replica nearly trips, but Tubbo catches him by the elbow and hauls them both over it.

“She’s fast ,” Replica mutters, brushing his dark brown hair away from the upper edges of his mask.

“C’mon,” Tubbo replies, continuing forward. Hecate’s already vanished down a corner, perhaps down some private street connecting people’s driveways. “This is a neighborhood, we can’t let her do any more damage.” He almost offers to take to the skies, but it’s a dumb idea. Separate from Replica and in the air, he’s even more vulnerable to Hecate’s abilities. 

“On it.” Replica starts after him and quickly overtakes him—he’s too fucking tall for Tubbo’s comfort, and it makes him fast. “If I get to the corner first, freeze me and I’ll send it at her.”

“I hate that bit,” Tubbo half jokes as Replica pulls away. Replica’s power mirror abilities are incredibly useful, but for him to redirect a powered attack, it has to hit him first. Tubbo knows it won’t hurt him, but he’s still not used to it.

Replica reaches the corner and Tubbo sends a spike of power toward him. At least that still comes easily, the thought of cold and shock of energy—or maybe the lack of energy—toward Replica. It’s cold enough to stiffen joints, even slow heartbeats, although to Tubbo it’s just a pinch of frost on his fingertips.

Replica’s ready and Tubbo can feel when he turns the spike away from himself, using his hands to direct the angle. 

Tubbo nearly catches up to the corner, trips over his own feet, and cuts off his power as he flares his wings to catch himself. By the time he recovers, Replica's defensively stanced up, focused on where Hecate must be.

He spills around the corner and, oh, Hecate’s much closer than he had imagined. No wonder Replica’s so ready to use his power.

Hecate pulls a painted rock off someone’s fence post as she approaches them. That’d be bad enough if she were anyone else, but in her bare hand the stone starts to crack and Tubbo knows it’s so much worse. 

Hecate’s power is touch-range. Things become fragile under her hands until even bones crack at the slightest tap, and when things don’t break they become aspects of her power that spread to the next things they touch.

This rock isn’t breaking. 

Tubbo zones back in to Replica shoving him sideways and the sound of stone on plastic—Replica’s mask, by the way he pulls a hand to his face and gasps. 

“Oh, jeez, oh shit,” Replica mutters frantically. His mask is visibly cracking and Tubbo looks away even though he’s still far from the minimum covering. 

“Did she get you or just the mask?”

“I can’t tell, I don’t know yet,” Replica tells him, clearly panicking. “I can’t tell.” 

“Okay. It’s okay.” Tubbo keeps his eyes focused on Hecate as Replica stumbles back and she stalks forward. Between her hood and mask, he can only see her eyes, but she’s clearly smiling. “You just get back to base, okay? You’re alright.” 

“I’m not, Oleander be careful,” Replica’s still muttering, although Tubbo doesn’t think it’s actually directed at him.

Hecate’s almost close enough to touch, and a thought occurs to Tubbo: Hecate’s strongest abilities need skin contact, but so do Tubbo’s.

He knows how he’s going to get Replica back to base safely. 

Tubbo doesn’t even take a bracing breath before he throws himself at Hecate, interrupting her path to Replica. She’s clearly startled, and that gives Tubbo the moment he needs as they make contact to bring his cold to bear against her hands.

There’s no way Replica isn’t sure whether or not Hecate got him—the pain radiating from her hands on his forearm becomes searing almost immediately.

He can only hope he’s bought them enough time.

The attendant in the Association infirmary was able to put a simple splint around his wrist and arm, but apparently not give him anything for the pain of the stress-fractured bones. After fifteen minutes of staring at his x-ray and trying to zone out, Tubbo’s starting to wonder if the attendant lied when they said a doctor would be in with a painkiller shortly.

Tubbo hears the door open and looks up. The chair he’s in isn’t modeled for wingfolk, with the arms and straight back, and he has to lean forward to see who’s coming in.

They’re definitely a hero, not a doctor, and it only takes a moment for Tubbo to recognize him. His costume stands out, even by Association standards: a jumpsuit and jacket meant as a mockery of a tuxedo, and a full-face smiling mask like something out of a theatre logo. Between that and the rounded brown wings, he’s unmistakable, even if Tubbo’s never seen him in person.

“Bishop?”

The man nods. “Oleander, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Management says you need to submit the incident report with Hecate by end of day.”

Tubbo purses his lips. “Right.” Less than half an hour ago Hecate broke his right arm. How is he supposed to type up a full report by today?

Bishop’s mask keeps its mockingly cheerful expression, but Tubbo imagines he can still see something sympathetic in the other man. “I know.” He pauses, then adds, “I can type it up for you.”

“I’ve got it,” Tubbo answers immediately. Bishop wasn’t there, and for all Tubbo knows he’s trying to make the rookie look foolish in front of management. 

Say what you will about the Heroes’ Association, but it trains dependency out of you fast.

Bishop’s quiet for a long moment. “Of course. I… didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.” He turns towards the door, then turns back. “There’s a door behind the storage cabinets in the farthest back equipment room. The space is about the size of a closet, but it’s quiet. No cameras. I’m not sure anybody else really knows it’s there.”

Tubbo, not for the first time, regrets picking a mask setup that leaves so much of his expression visible when some of his colleagues cover their entire faces. “Thank you.” He can’t yet be sure if Bishop’s offer is genuine or some kind of trap.

“Don’t worry about it. Good luck with the arm, Oleander.”

And Bishop’s gone. Tubbo slumps back in his chair so the dulling pain in his arm has to compete with the growing ache of his wings. 

It feels like Tubbo hasn’t been home in weeks, although he knows that isn’t true. He isn’t really home here at any rate—it’s just a place he lives. He was aware when he entered training, of course, how much time the Heroes’ Association demands, but it’s still shocking some days how lifeless his apartment feels. 

It’s a beautiful day outside. Sunset is just starting to touch the sky, and Tubbo flutters his wings and thinks that wind under his feathers could do him good.

He still needs to preen his wings before bed, and going flying would only make that more time-consuming. His arm is healed well enough to do most things, but it still aches when he leaves the brace off too long and bends his wrist like he needs to to preen.

He’s thought about it too long now, the sky is rapidly darkening. If he wants to fly he needs to leave his apartment now or never.

Tubbo turns from the window. He’s been having trouble waking up lately, so he may as well just get to bed.

“Oleander!”

Tubbo snaps around to look for the speaker. Almost subconsciously he realizes he responds to Oleander pretty much instantly now, without having to realize it means him.

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” Mantle says when he catches Tubbo’s eye. 

“I’ve been in the field with Replica all morning,” Tubbo apologizes.

“Really? Tuesday’s inventory report is overdue.”

“It is?” Tubbo could have sworn it was due at end of day today.

“Noon today,” Mantle explains. “Why haven’t you turned it in?”

“I’ve been in the field with Replica,” Tubbo repeats. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Mantle’s mask is a respirator similar to Tubbo’s, but it’s red rather than black and the thick straps fill the face-covering requirements without other parts. His expression is unreadable underneath it. “ Sorry doesn’t do maintenance. You need to learn responsibility.”

“I—I did it, I just haven’t filled the forms yet,” Tubbo protests. He really did the storage counts yesterday, even though he had to stay late, but moving everything from a list on his phone to the finicky Association portal is another beast entirely. “I’ve been out.”

Mantle raises one eyebrow and Tubbo practically shrinks.

“I’ll get it done now,” Tubbo murmurs, breaking eye contact. “I’m sorry.” He turns away before Mantle can scold him further.

It’s nearly one pm, but Tubbo can get the report done in half an hour if he doesn’t get interrupted. Maybe, somewhere genuinely quiet, he can do it in twenty minutes.

To Tubbo’s mild surprise, there really is a door where Bishop said it’d be. And behind it there really is a space the size of a large closet with at least no visible cameras. 

It takes longer than half an hour to file the report, but only because Tubbo keeps catching himself getting distracted by the sheer blissful quiet, the way his ears almost ring in the lack of bustle. 

Once he’s done it takes longer than it should to pull himself off the floor and listen carefully at the door for a moment to ensure no one’s in the equipment room. His muscles ache complainingly as he stretches. He isn’t sure if his training wasn’t enough for the level of activity in the Heroes’ Association or if he’s just tired, but he’s gotten used to the background noise of pain.

“Get on with it, then,” he mutters to no one as he slips out of the dim closet back into his real life. 

“Cameras still showing Magpie on the second floor,” Tom-from-surveillance says into Tubbo’s headset. “All civilians in the breakroom, I’ll let you know when you see it.”

Replica, next to Tubbo, nods once as they climb the news station’s stairs. 

“Copy,” Tubbo replies aloud, because it’s unlikely Tom-from-surveillance can see them clearly right now. “Any idea what he’s doing?”

“Magpie? I’m not sure—breaking something in a server room, maybe?”

“Sounds about right,” Replica comments as they reach the second floor and slow down, automatically guarding each other’s backs. 

Tubbo scoffs a laugh in return. “Move fast and break things, am I right?” As near as anyone can figure, that’s Magpie’s only guiding light for his actions. There’s a conference room in Association headquarters with an entire whiteboard dedicated to some poor soul’s attempt to map patterns in Magpie’s attacks.

“Okay,” Tom-from-surveillance tells them, “the server room is gonna be the third door on your left up there. Magpie’s near the… right wall.”

“Copy,” Replica says. “Same goal?”

“Same goal,” Tom-from-surveillance confirms. 

Capture, Tubbo recalls. The same goal everyone’s had, without success, against Magpie for as long as he’s been active. Tubbo wouldn’t be shocked to see it moved to disable or even kill soon, if Magpie finally fully caught up with the Syndicate.

Tubbo blinks and somehow they’re already at the door, Replica putting a hand against it in preparation to open. Tubbo readies the frost on his fingertips, even though he knows his chances of actually hitting Magpie are next to none.

“Go,” Tom-from-surveillance instructs, and Replica shoves the door open.

Tubbo pushes ahead of him and locates… well, mostly locates Magpie quickly. He’s a strange blur, hard to look at, near the right wall where Tom-from-surveillance said he’d be. Tubbo manages to look just to one side of him, like other heroes say to, and flings cold in his direction.

He doesn’t think he hits. Magpie’s only reaction is a series of sounds that Tubbo’s sure are words if only he could make sense of them. Did he always have that headache or are Magpie’s powers giving it to him?

“Oleander?” Replica asks next to him, coming to a stop a few feet into the room.

“I…” Tubbo tries to put his thoughts in order. God he hates Magpie. Who on Earth gave him the right to make reality so difficult?

There’s a moment where Tubbo feels like he’s about to fall over, and then things… clear. In the span of half a second he hears another loud distorted sound, glances over to see Replica’s arms held crossed in front of his chest, and hears the distortion resolve itself into a cry of distress and pain.

Magpie’s power, Tubbo realizes, seeing the frown of intense concentration on the visible sliver of Replica’s face. Replica’s reflecting it, and it’s hurting him.

With a strange mix of wonder and nerves, Tubbo looks back over to Magpie. 

He sees a boy. Just a boy. Maybe Tubbo’s age, blond, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and still gasping in fear or pain.

Tubbo hadn’t pictured Magpie like that. He almost feels sorry for him.

And then with a sharp, strangled gasp, Replica’s arms drop and everything goes weird again. Tubbo wraps his wings around himself through a wave of nausea and unreality and then, in a blink, it’s gone. And so is Magpie.

“Dammit,” Tubbo mutters, casting around the room. The door is open and the room is empty except for him and Replica, no sign of Magpie at all.

“I almost had him,” Replica says, sounding almost excited. “Tom, did you see that? We saw him.”

“Cameras were fucked from the moment you walked in,” Tom-from-surveillance replies apologetically. Then he laughs, and any friendly note is gone from his voice. “And almost doesn’t catch anybody, Replica.”

“I know,” Replica mutters, deflating. He rolls his eyes at Tubbo, just barely visible through the eyeholes of his mask.

Tubbo looks away.

Tubbo knows he’s playing with fire, but he keeps going back to the closet space Bishop pointed him to. It’s the only consistently quiet, isolated space in the entire Association building, and some days it’s the only place Tubbo can blink the spots from his vision long enough to fill out reports. 

The bubble bursts just when he’s gotten used to it, when he’s stopped opening the door quite so cautiously and looking around before entering. Of course that’s the first time he walks in to find Bishop already there.

Bishop seems like he was lying on his stomach with his wings splayed out around him, laptop open next to him, but he’s shoved himself to a hasty kneeling position as Tubbo freezes in the doorframe.

There’s a second of breathless silence. “Don’t just leave the door open,” Bishop scolds him finally.

Tubbo makes a choice and steps fully inside before letting the door close softly behind him. He feels his anxiety quiet, going inexplicably muted, and resents Bishop a little for using his power this blatantly. Then he wonders if it’s fully intentional or an accident and resents himself a little. 

“I’d been wondering if you’d actually found it,” Bishop comments, crossing his legs and pulling his laptop onto his lap.

Tubbo laughs awkwardly, sitting on the far side of the room. “Well, here I am.” He hesitates. “Thank you, by the way.”

Bishop shrugs. “Just don’t sell me out, okay?”

“I—I won’t.”

They see each other in that closet more often, after that. Bishop isn’t all that intimidating, Tubbo finds—he’s only barely taller than Tubbo and small-framed, he might be the only other wingfolk in the Association, and his usual dry, tired tone belies the mocking smile of his mask. He won’t meet Tubbo’s eyes outside of the closet, but Tubbo grows to not mind so much when he finds Bishop in there.

Tubbo wonders how concerned he should be that this has doubled the list of people he counts as allies in the Association.

“Does anybody else know about this?” Tubbo asks Bishop one day as they both pretend to work. He promises himself he’ll finish this form after Bishop answers the question. He’s just tired, like always. 

“This spot?” Bishop, judging by the movement of his head, gives Tubbo a glance. “Nah. It’s just us. Why?”

“Just… wondering,” Tubbo offers. “So why me, then?”

“Moment of weakness,” Bishop tells him. Tubbo can’t tell if he’s joking. “Can’t exactly take it back now, can I?”

“What about Replica?” Tubbo asks impulsively. He didn’t plan to say that. It’s just that he’s assigned out with Replica a lot, and he thinks Replica is tired like he is. Part of him wants his two tentative allies to know each other. Part of him wants proper friends.

“I… he’s just a kid, isn’t he?” Bishop asks. “Like you.”

Tubbo’s not a kid. “I think so,” he replies anyway.

Bishop sighs. “Don’t, alright? He… cares a lot, y’know? He might not like the Association having unmapped space, or he’d tell everybody and someone would sell it out.” 

Tubbo winces. “But…”

“Don’t push your luck, Oleander.” Bishop’s tone ends the discussion right there.

Tubbo can’t exactly help how much attention he pays to Replica and Bishop these days. They’re on missions together every so often and Tubbo keeps an eye out for injuries and does his best to help when they get back. He all but collects a first-aid kit in his Association locker and Bishop admits to his face he likes avoiding the writeup of going to the infirmary.

Tubbo desperately wishes he could see their faces. He wishes he could take his goggles off to see better in the dim light of the hidden closet. He wishes that moments pressed with Replica into whatever nook won’t get them caught made him feel like a person instead of one ghost patching up another. He wishes he could read that downward twist in the visible half of Replica’s mouth, match it to the inscrutable light in his gray eyes.

He notices right away when Replica vanishes. He manages to convince himself for an entire shift that they’ve just been away from each other, but by halfway through the day he’s certain Replica just isn’t at the Association headquarters.

That’s… fine. He must’ve convinced someone to let him take a sick day. Tubbo tries to be happy for him.

“Have you seen Replica around?” Bishop asks him two days later.

Tubbo lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping. “Not since Friday,” he admits, trying not to let relief color his voice. 

Bishop gives a more cautious exhale. “Okay. At least I’m not losing my mind.” He tries and fails to laugh.

“Has anyone said anything?” Tubbo asks, lowering the top of his laptop to look fully at Bishop. 

“What do you think? No one’s even spoken his name. Redacted on every record I could find.”

Part of Tubbo warms at the idea that Bishop was looking out for Replica. The much larger part of him feels nauseated. “Like Firebird,” he mumbles.

“What?”

Tubbo repeats himself louder and Bishop blinks.

“God, yeah, Firebird.” There’s… something in his voice. “I try not to think about that bastard.”

Tubbo laughs even though it feels like the sound might get stuck in his throat. “Yeah, me too.” Without much success, he doesn’t add. 

Bishop tilts his head to one side. “Didn’t he leave right before you joined up?”

This time the laugh sounds more like Tubbo’s choking. “My first mission was his last.”

Bishop makes a small, hurt sound. “Oh, Ollie, I’m sorry. That’s… I’m sorry.”

Tubbo takes a breath and makes an effort to square his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he assures Bishop. “I was just watching cameras. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t realize until much later what Bishop called him, and when he does he turns it over in his head, wondering at its beautiful simplicity. Ollie. It sounds like him.

“Bishop!” Tubbo calls, voice strained. “Bishop!” His hand shakes where it’s outstretched, trying to freeze this pylon solid before it can fully collapse.

“Oleander!” he hears distantly and redoubles his efforts.

It’s not doing much, honestly. There’s a reason ice isn’t actually a building material, and between Hecate’s destruction and Daedalus’ sense for architecture this bridge doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Bishop, are you—I—” Tubbo cuts himself off, gasping for breath. He can still hear the cars on the bridge, feel their vibrations fracturing his hasty frozen patches.

“What are you doing, Oleander?” asks the voice in his headset. Sandy, Tubbo thinks. Yes, Sandy-from-ops. “Syndicate’s thirty meters from you and retreating.”

“There are people up there,” Tubbo insists. He closes his hand into a fist and feels ice and concrete crunch, coming apart at the seams. “I can’t leave them.”

“Bishop’s chasing them,” Sandy points out sourly. 

“I can’t—Bishop,” Tubbo calls again, not even knowing if Bishop can still hear him. The bridge is quieter now and another pylon is cracking beyond repair. Casting his eyes over his shoulder he sees Bishop, but not Hecate or Daedalus. Bishop’s power comes with some awareness of people he can’t see, Tubbo’s pretty sure.  “I’m almost—” It’s not enough anymore. Tubbo raises his other hand in one last desperate grab but no matter how hard he pushes his ice the concrete can’t hold together. 

It takes Tubbo a shocked moment to realize he should get out. By then, the rubble is already falling.

He can’t see Bishop at all, and between the dust and the noise it feels like the whole world is falling past his ears. He doesn’t dare take off when as much of the destruction is above him as below him.

He trips, and hitting the ground burns, and then he blinks. 

Things aren’t falling anymore, he notices. Everything hurts, he notices.

“Sandy?” he manages to cough, hoping his earpiece picks it up. “What’s… did…” He isn’t sure what question he’s even trying to ask.

He hears nothing but ringing in return. 

He’s not pinned down, he realizes. He should get up. That sounds right. He pulls his arms and wings in with effort and shifts back towards his knees. Sharp bits of rock dig into him.

A hand lands on his shoulder, starts pulling him upward. Tubbo coughs.

“Ollie? Ollie, can you hear me?”

Tubbo starts to nod and his head spins. “Yeah,” he says, and swallows. He tastes like dust. “Bishop?”

“I’m right here.” Tubbo’s finally sitting and he can see Bishop crouching in front of him. 

Even breathing hurts. “Bishop, I… I didn’t…”

“You did fine, Ollie.” Bishop shouldn’t be calling him Ollie, he doesn’t think. Bishop never does that when they’re around other people. “C’mon, look at me. Is your earpiece still in?”

Tubbo raises a hand to his right ear and finds nothing, although the ringing is dying down. “Must’ve lost it,” he mutters. He feels exhausted.

Bishop nods once. “Good. What hurts?”

“Everything?” Tubbo guesses. One lens of his goggles is cracked, he notices. Not broken, though; he’s still in compliance with protocol. At Bishop’s silence, Tubbo figures he should elaborate. “Um—got scraped up. Hurts to breathe. Head’s… fuzzy?” That’s getting better, but not by much. “You?”

Bishop laughs, but Tubbo thinks it’s fond. “Cut my hand open getting to you,” he reports. “You can bandage it back at HQ, right?”

“I think so?”

Bishop shifts back on his heels. “Can you stand?”

“Mhm.” Bishop doesn’t offer a hand, and Tubbo doesn’t ask for one. He manages to get to his feet on his own, muscles screaming and head spinning. He takes a breath and feels it ache in his chest and head. Grit is digging into his wings between the feathers, but he thinks the front of his chest and head took most of the hit. That’s a bit of relief, at least—a broken wing could easily mean he’d never fly again. 

Bishop stands with him. “You said your ribs hurt. Like they’re broken?”

“I’m not sure,” Tubbo admits. “Maybe?”

“Show me where it hurts,” Bishop demands. Without a second thought, Tubbo lifts a hand to one of the epicenters of the pain. Before he can react, Bishop brings his hand to the same spot and presses down on Tubbo’s hand and rib.

Tubbo winces. “What the hell, man?”

“Not broken,” Bishop declares. “You’re good, then.” He pauses. “Right, Ollie?” he adds leadingly.

The sun’s far too bright, Tubbo thinks, and then, belatedly, pieces fall into place. He took a head blow, he thinks, and things are bright and fuzzy, and everything hurts, and, “Might have a concussion,” he tells Bishop with a touch of panic. He doesn’t want to deal with concussion protocol, being watched while his “judgment can’t be trusted,” unpaid sick leave and probation, it all—

“No, you don’t,” Bishop says, placing a hand on Tubbo’s elbow to help him down the rubble.

“What?”

“I said, no, you don’t. You can talk to me, yeah?”

Tubbo’s sure his confusion shows in his voice. “Yeah?”

“And you can see?”

“Mostly?”

“Then it’s nothing the Association needs to know about, right?”

Tubbo, finally getting it, laughs dryly. It hurts his head. “Of course not.”

By committing a bit of fraud on their incident report, Tubbo and Bishop manage to hide the extent of Tubbo’s injuries from the higher-ups in the Association. Tubbo’s aware, of course, that this isn’t at all allowed, that they’re risking much worse writeups by keeping up the charade, and now Tubbo is even more of a risk to Bishop than when they were just using the same hideaway.

So naturally when Bishop walks into the closet, sinks to the floor, and just says, “Ollie,” Tubbo assumes it’s come crashing down. It doesn’t help that Bishop’s power is over emotions, and his usually-tight handle on it is slipping enough that Tubbo tastes his fear in the air.

“Shit,” he says on reflex, then snaps his laptop closed. “I—I’m sorry, Bishop—”

“What?” Bishop raises his head to look at them. “What are you talking about? Ollie, I fucked up. Bad.”

It’s not his fault, then. Tubbo feels more relief than he wants to show. “How do you mean?” he asks cautiously. 

“I—I got assigned to a patrol yesterday,” Bishop begins, sounding more upset than Tubbo’s ever heard him before. “And I forgot. I didn’t show up, I—I was tired, Ollie, you know it is, how you can’t think sometimes.” Tubbo does know. He feels it more often than not these days. Frankly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t missed a shift yet. “I realized—the schedule, this morning—shit, I’m gonna get fired. I’m sorry, Ollie.”

“Bishop,” Tubbo interrupts. “Bishop, breathe. It’ll be okay.” He doesn’t quite go over to rest a hand on Bishop’s arm, too scared of breaking whatever sliver of professionalism remains between them. 

“It won’t,” Bishop insists.

He’d be right if Tubbo weren’t here.

“I can fix it,” Tubbo says, trying to keep his voice level and sounding mostly certain.

Bishop’s attention snaps back to Tubbo once again. “You what?”

“I can fix it. Maybe,” he allows. He pauses a moment to put his thoughts in order. “Mantle is… not careful. Or great with IT. I’ve helped him with shift schedules a couple times? I know his password and I know you can actually edit past schedules. So… you can’t miss a shift you were never assigned, right?”

Bishop lets out a shaky breath, staring at Tubbo as if Tubbo’s about to announce he’s joking. 

Tubbo just nods at him. It won’t be hard and it’s… only mildly illegal. It’ll keep Bishop safe, and that’s what matters. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Bishop says quietly, almost under his breath. 

Tubbo turns back briefly to where Bishop’s looking over his shoulder as he logs into Mantle’s admin account. “Aren’t you supposed to be on lookout?” he tries to joke. Without Bishop being able to see his mouth, he thinks it falls flat. 

“I am,” Bishop replies defensively. He doesn’t turn around. “I know. Just, thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” Tubbo tells him. “I like you anyway. I wouldn’t want you to lose your job, would I?”

Bishop’s quiet for a long second. “You don’t even know me.”

“I kind of know you,” Tubbo defends. “More than anybody else here.” Replica’s mask and jumpsuit flash briefly in his head. He tries to ignore it. 

“Sure, okay.”

“The patrol shift yesterday, right?” Tubbo clicks into the relevant folder and starts scanning down the list of codenames. In the corner of his eye, he sees Bishop nod. “So… have you got a favorite… thing to eat?”

“What?” Bishop laughs, voice going a bit squeaky with surprise. “A favorite thing to eat?”

“I dunno.” Tubbo lets his wings fluff out in amusement, almost brushing Bishop. “Trying to get to know you.”

“Right.” It feels good to hear Bishop laugh, such a break from the tense worried energy he’s had today. With Bishop’s power and all, Tubbo can really feel the air relax. “Um… there’s this coffee shop over on Gingko Street I probably spend too much money at. Las Nevadas Cafe, they make a killer empanada.”

“Empanadas at a coffee shop?”

“Yeah, it’s like a breakfast and lunch place. Their pastries are fine too, but the empanadas are the best.”

“Sick. Almost done here, by the way. So do I get to say I like you now?” Tubbo asks. He isn’t totally sure how Bishop’s power works in terms of sensing emotions, but he tries to signal his light tone in his emotions anyway. 

Bishop laughs, but still hesitates. “Sure. I mean, if you want.”

“Seeing anything, Oleander?” Tubbo and Bishop creep side-by-side down the dim side street, both of them on high alert for any sign of Boreas. 

Tubbo has to take a moment to process the sentence, then shakes his head. “Think you’re better for that than me,” he points out after a moment. Tubbo has to rely on his vision—which, frankly, has been blurry for days—and Bishop has another sense for people and their emotions. 

Bishop comes as close to laughing as he ever does on missions, and they continue to scan for Syndicate presence. Boreas alone isn’t particularly dangerous—he’s strong, and can certainly fight, but his power is just healing—but there might be more Syndicate in the shadows. 

“Lights are out,” Bishop comments. He’s right, the streetlights are out and the world is far too dim. Through the honey coating Tubbo’s brain he’d barely noticed. “Could be Hecate.”

Tubbo hums agreement. “Eyes open.”

He’s pretty sure he’s sick. He’s been trying to ignore it and it’s only gotten harder, but he won’t cave now. Sick leave is a process, and probably a writeup, and not very likely anyway, and it’s probably just a cold. Nothing to be worried over. 

He’s noticed Bishop staring at him for longer than usual some days. 

Bishop takes in a breath and Tubbo tunes back into the conversation. 

“Someone’s up there.” Bishop pauses briefly, presumably focusing. They continue their slow patrol. “At least two, I think. No idea whether they’re Syndicate.”

“Anything you can do about it?” Sandy asks over their earpieces. She’s irritated they’ve lost the trail, irritated to be called to a mission this late at night.

“No more than usual,” Bishop snaps back. “They’re either nervous or excited. Can’t do much about it without them noticing, anyway.”

“Stay on it, then.”

“Copy.” Tubbo flexes his fingers into stiff fists and Bishop points, presumably at the alcove where the people are.

Tubbo certainly hopes he’s walking quietly. He thinks he is—he certainly can’t hear himself making any noise—but, again, it’s been a strange few days and he can’t be sure. Things feel distant.

He wants to imagine that Bishop is worried. But Bishop doesn’t show whatever care he might feel for Tubbo even in the privacy of their closet, and outside of that barely gives Tubbo the time of day. Tubbo gets it. Really, he does. 

They’re already at the corner Bishop indicated, somehow. Tubbo blinks hard and tries to clear his head. 

Bishop makes eye contact for a brief moment. Tubbo manages to nod.

They round the corner, still moving as if they have a hope of not being seen by whoever’s there, and find themselves face-to-face with three unmistakable cloaked figures. 

Tubbo’s heart stutters. He’s faced each of them before, sure, but two-on-one, never outnumbered before. Shit.

“Focus Hecate,” Bishop mutters while the Syndicate watches them, a sharp smile just barely visible on Daedalus’ face. “We can take her in.”

Tubbo shakes his head minutely. Hecate’s the smallest and not as visibly strong, but they couldn’t catch her. Neither of them even wear gloves to grab her, and her whole outfit is designed to make skin-to-skin contact. 

But everybody’s moving now, Bishop towards Hecate and the Syndicate towards Bishop and Tubbo, and Tubbo’s frozen in place.

It’s so hard to see. The street is dark and Tubbo’s vision is shifting gently and he watches through falling water as the two groups meet. Wings, black and yellowish-brown, flare out and someone shouts.

“Oleander!” Bishop demands, voice cutting through Tubbo’s head.

Tubbo winces and tries to take a step, another, his feet not moving right, everything so far away. He just—

“Oleander!”

The Syndicate’s noticing, Tubbo thinks distantly. Noticing he’s falling behind.

Someone makes a sound of pain. Tubbo really, really hopes it isn’t Bishop. He needs to move.

“Hang on, Oleander,” Bishop calls and Tubbo tries to pay attention, really he does.

Adrenaline spikes through him suddenly and he gasps. Must be Bishop, he thinks, feeling his heart pound with a sick, awful fear. His power. He’s trying to help.

Again he tries to respond, tries to channel this new urgency elsewhere but he’s shaking now, shivering apart at the joints, and it’s—he’s—

The world finally blinks into silence, and Tubbo lets it.

It’s all quite impersonal after that. Really, what did Tubbo expect?

He sprained his wrist in the fall, and at least the Association wraps it for him while he’s informed he’s made an inexcusable lapse and let down the image of the Association and really it’s a shame to lose him and it’s time he move on.  

He doesn’t even get to say goodbye to Bishop.

Chapter Text

Without the Association to force him to stay focused, Tubbo loses a few days to a fog of fever and exhaustion. When he’s finally properly awake and can walk more than a couple feet without nearly falling, reality sinks in and it’s about all he can do not to be overwhelmed in the face of it all. 

At least it’s a little easier to think now, Tubbo decides. Survival mode is what he knows, pretty much all he’s lived for almost as long as he can recall. 

Tubbo takes a lukewarm shower, preens his wings, and updates his resume. He tries to move on. 

The Association gives out one standard job title for resumes, for the sake of privacy, and it’s easy enough to tell interviewers about managing people but needing a break from the constant deadlines and pressure. And just like that Tubbo is once again drifting anchorless through the world. Just like that, he’s back in retail.

He supposes there are worse places to end up, but it’s hard to think of many. 

“You got all that, honey?” his new manager, Mary, asks, having talked him quickly through the rules he needs to know.

“I think so,” Tubbo offers, trying to parse the single-page printout she’s given him. The page is cramped and has more written on it that Mary could have possibly just explained to him.

“Mhm.” Mary nods sympathetically. She’s too nice, Tubbo thinks. She’s wingfolk and might pity him and Tubbo feels like he’s allergic to the saccharine tone of her voice. “Just let me know if you’ve got questions, alright?”

Tubbo nods. “Yeah. Anything else I should know?” He offers her the best smile she can summon. 

Mary seems to think about it for a moment. Her hair, dark and just barely starting to gray, brushes her shoulders and contrasts with the vibrant red and brown of her wings. “That’s all for now. Monday at six, yeah, Toby?” She pauses, then, “Oh, you want anythin’ special on your nametag?”

Tubbo blinks. He probably shouldn’t, but… “Could it say Ollie? Is that okay?”

Mary gives him an odd look, then shrugs. “Sure.” She pulls out her phone and notes something down. 

Tubbo doesn’t do much that weekend, still exhausted from whatever illness he’s just gotten over. On Saturday he wonders, briefly, if he should try to get out more. He should, probably, even if just because more sunlight on his skin and fresh air in his feathers would be good for him. But he was never very likable, and over several months in the Association he’s been busy and tired for long enough that anyone who once invited him places has stopped.

It’s fine, in the end. He needed the rest, no matter that it’s just as hard to get up on Monday as it is every other day. 

On Tuesday, a customer spills something in aisle six that somehow leads to a near meltdown of the entire store. Tubbo’s shift is meant to be over by two, but it’s half past that by the time things are stable enough for him to think, I should clock out, and then Mary very apologetically tells him that Lara can’t make it—would Tubbo mind taking her spot, since he’s already here, and then it’s eleven by the time Tubbo’s standing under a streetlight, dreading the walk home.

Tubbo has the second shift the rest of the week, so at least he can’t be asked to stay longer. But on Friday there are major inventory issues and it’s past midnight before Tubbo gets out of there, practically falling asleep on the walk back to his apartment. 

Tubbo visits Las Nevadas Cafe before his afternoon shift Monday, mostly on a whim. It’s a bit out of his way, a bit farther than he’d go on his own, but nothing too bad. 

He doesn’t know quite what he wants, but he buys an empanada for lunch. It’s as good as Bishop had said, the right amount of spice and a soft, crisp shell. The cafe itself is bright and airy; it has layers of yellow-orange string lights and a busy bulletin board full of fliers, posters, and children’s crayon drawings about the cafe itself. It’s clearly trying to pretend it’s not on the first floor of an office block just outside the city center, which Tubbo equal parts resents and appreciates. 

He isn’t sure what this says about Bishop. He probably shouldn’t be thinking about Bishop anyway, should he? He’s supposed to be moving on.

He put Ollie on his fucking nametag, so one more failure to move on might not matter.

Wednesday half the deli—both machinery and people—has a breakdown and Tubbo unexpectedly tries his hand at telling mesquite from hickory when customers ask. He hopes the people who left with the wrong meat don’t notice and somehow manages to survive the day.

Tubbo looks out his window, considering flight. It’s eleven in the morning and he does some quick math—shift at two, ten minutes early, twenty-five minute walk on a bad day, breakfast somewhere in there—and he has time, maybe.

Fuck it, he thinks. He hasn’t really gone flying in far too long. He knows that most wingfolk don’t fly at all, let alone frequently, but he’s always enjoyed it. It’s hard but fun, a talent that isn’t as isolating as his power. Flight is how he used to feel at home in his skin when he didn’t know his wingfolk father or see many wingfolk his age.

He’d put on a jacket in anticipation of the fall weather, but he realizes as soon as he gets outside that it’s not gonna be enough. Wind is biting at his skin already, and he knows it’ll only get worse if he actually takes off—if he gets above the rooftops, especially. Despite how at home Tubbo usually is in the cold, it’s somehow more biting at altitude.

He grits his teeth, tucks his hands into his sleeves, and heads for a green space a couple blocks away. 

At the park he looks instinctively for a space out of the immediate public view. If he fucks it up, if he can’t take off, at the very least no one should be able to stare at him. 

Tubbo tries to reassure himself that he’ll probably be able to take off, and it’s fine if he’s not, in the end. He can feel that he’s already lost most of the muscle he kept up in the Association, and the Association never cared about his flight stamina or strength. But it’s fine. He’s always been able to before, even when he wasn’t actually keeping up his strength.

He ends up with a row of thin, struggling trees between him and the road, and decides that’s good enough to stretch his wings behind him and take a running jump. 

After that, it’s second nature to him.  He does get off the ground, and there’s immediately wind in his hair and feathers, tugging at his sleeves. He fights the dense cold air to get above the trees, then the buildings. Through his inner eyelids protecting his eyes from the wind, the ground is a vague, comforting blur far below.

The cold is stinging, but exertion fights it from the inside, and when Tubbo lands he’s sweating in his jacket but his hands are nearly numb. He leans heavily on one of the young trees, panting and almost laughing to himself, and stays there until the sparks clear from his vision and he can walk home.

That good mood lasts until about halfway through his shift. At that point, all the little bugs in the checkout computers apparently become too much, and the system goes down. Tubbo and Lara somehow end up being the ones who have to tell people that they might want to come back later, no one can check out and they don’t know how long it’ll take. 

A few customers get angry. They’re the usual Karens and Brads, and Tubbo’s practiced blank stare and faux-friendly voice gets them out soon enough. A few seem truly upset, and that’s worse. Tubbo tries to remind himself that it’s not his fault, and it kind of works. 

“Think we should flip the signs to closed?” Lara asks when the crowd of customers is mostly dealt with. “I mean… we can’t exactly do what we’re supposed to right now.”

Tubbo shrugs. “Might as well, yeah?”

Before they get much further than pulling the signs from the glass front doors, Mary calls from within the store, “Toby! Lara! What are you two doing?”

“Changing the signs,” Lara calls with barely a glance over her shoulder. Tubbo puts the sign down and turns, already hearing irritation in Mary’s voice. “So people don’t come in.”

“Hey, why?” Mary asks, now clearly using the fake-disappointed voice she has when she’s actually angry. 

“Nobody can check out,” Lara points out, turning now but still sounding utterly uninterested. Tubbo’s trying very hard to vanish—Mary’s anger is all the more crushing for how gentle it is.

“We can’t keep people out,” Mary insists. “We’re still open.” She flutters her wings a little as she stops in front of them, looking worried. 

“Why?” Tubbo asks before he can stop himself. He tries not to wince. “I mean… Lara has a point? People can’t actually buy anything.”

Mary seems to consider this, although she’s also already glancing around back into the store. “We’re still open,” she decides after a moment, nodding. “It’ll just be a minute.” She smiles distractedly at them as she leaves.

Tubbo smiles back. Lara does not. 

As anybody but Mary could’ve guessed, it takes hours to get the computers working again. Tubbo and Lara turn away customer after customer, explaining yes, we’re open, you just can’t shop, and then Tubbo carries on alone when Lara wanders off.  

For whatever reason, this is the day that two things that should have been obvious to Tubbo occur to him. First, as recently as three months ago he used to save lives in his work; now he tells people when their coupons are expired and he does not feel any different. He is no less exhausted, no less miserable, frankly feels no less insignificant. Second, the vast majority of the endless crises at the store are made worse, if not caused, by Mary.

The first thought he does his best to set aside. He’s a little busy, at the moment, dealing with customers and Mary and the bakery workers who are ready to riot and keeping an eye on the time and wondering if he might actually get overtime pay for this. 

He has much more of a chance to deal with the second thought. It’s pretty obvious, now that he thinks about it. The shift schedules are in continuous chaos, and Mary makes them; Mary is meant to update and check on the computer systems that never quite work right; right now Tubbo is having to monitor the doors because of Mary’s rigidity in the store's hours. He doesn’t really think Mary knows, though, and it’s easy to decide he isn’t gonna bring it up. He isn’t sure if it’d upset her or anger her, and he isn’t sure which would be worse. 

He gets home late that night, only closing up after the computers are finally working again and checking out the few poor souls who insisted on staying until they could do their shopping. Mary smiles gratefully at him as they both pick up their bags to leave, and he doesn’t know if he feels more valued or suffocated. 

Both thoughts won’t leave Tubbo alone after that. He watches his coworkers and wonders. The constantly stressed people in the bakery—what do they blame Mary for? What do they think of their work, their careers? Do the people at the other checkout tills feel like motes of dust in the wind, nameless faceless members of the infinite crowd? Lara might have the right idea, Tubbo thinks, to distance herself so thoroughly from everything else. 

But even as he thinks that he can’t quite manage to disconnect himself. He still answers when Mary calls, still feels warm when she pats him on the shoulder or casts her tired, patronizing smile his way. He doesn’t fight it when Mary leans on him, calls him in when Lara vanishes, asks him to come early or stay late or take a look at the computers. 

Mary’s not at all like Bishop, Tubbo thinks to himself one day, walking home at three pm after clocking out at two. 

He turns the idea over in his head and decides it’s true. Where Bishop was self-reliant, focused, made Tubbo earn his allyship, Mary is disorganized and willingly reliant on Tubbo in an increasingly large realm of tasks.

And on top of feeling like he’s on a slippery slope to being Mary’s assistant, it’s all so… mundane. Pointless. Tubbo’s just another cog in the endless undercurrent of unvalued people who keep the rest of the world comfortable. 

But that’s always been true, hasn’t it?

He doesn’t know why that’s the thought that stops him in his tracks, but it does. Someone brushes roughly past him with a muttered excuse and Tubbo barely hears them. 

Even when he had power, had purpose, it was all so hollow. It was just trying to be what he thought other people needed, and he couldn’t even pull it off. 

He finds his way to a bench, he thinks at some bus stop, and sits down without really feeling it. 

He needs to get home. He has laundry to do and dinner to reheat and other things he’s forgetting. Instead he stares at the passing cars and lets his mind drain of thoughts he doesn’t want to have anymore.

Fuck.

“Do you want a pretzel?”

Tubbo blinks and looks for the source of the voice. He finds it, standing next to the bench: a blond man about Tubbo’s age, one hand tucked into his pocket and the other holding out a soft pretzel towards Tubbo.

“What?” Tubbo rasps. He blinks at the man. 

“Do you want a pretzel?” he repeats slower. 

Tubbo realizes he has no idea what time it is, how long he’s been sitting here. His joints feel stiff with cold. “Um… why?”

The guy shrugs. “You look like you need it more than I do.” He looks familiar, almost, although Tubbo certainly can’t place him.

Tubbo stares a moment longer, then sighs. “Sure, yeah, I’ll take the pretzel.”

The guy nods decisively and pushes the pretzel closer to Tubbo until he takes it. Somehow Tubbo’s surprised when it’s warm, and he brings it close to his chest as if it could warm him on the inside too.

“I’m Tommy.” The man—Tommy—crosses in front of Tubbo and sits next to him on the bench. 

“I’m Tubbo,” Tubbo offers in return. After another second of hesitation, still wondering if he’s actually meant to eat it, he takes a bite of the pretzel. It’s still warm but cooling quickly, between the early-winter air and Tubbo’s hands. It tastes… nice. Like yeast and salt mostly, but nice. “Thanks,” Tubbo mutters when he sees that Tommy is watching him chew.

“No problem, man,” Tommy replies with a dismissive handwave. “My pleasure, really. Is it any good?”

Tubbo nods, smiles despite himself, chews and swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good.” His and Tommy’s gazes meet briefly, then Tubbo looks away from Tommy’s inquisitive blue eyes. “Nice to meet you?”

Tommy nods, tilting his head back to look at the slate-gray sky. “Hey, have you seen Terminator?”

Tubbo gives a startled laugh and almost chokes on pretzel. “I don’t think I have, actually. How is it?”

Tommy laughs back with incredulous brightness. “You’ve gotta watch Terminator, man, c’mon. It’s a classic!” Something on Tubbo’s face must look encouraging to Tommy, because after that he’s off, explaining in detail exactly why Terminator should be required viewing and how it changes lives, apparently. Tubbo can barely get a word in edgewise, but it’s almost nice to not have to talk, to perform for once.

He gets home late, feeling disoriented and cold, but with a new contact in his phone and five new messages from Tommy already.

“Do you watch the news, Toby?” Mary asks, watching Tubbo enter new inventory into the computer.

“Sometimes,” Tubbo answers after a moment. More than he probably should, given that it only ever makes him feel drained, but it’s habit and takes less time than other TV. He lets Mary make the next move, even though he thinks he knows what she wants to talk about.

“What do you think of that new guy? Echo?”

Tubbo nods. For all her quirks, at least Mary’s predictable. All of Tubbo’s timelines and feeds have been focused on a new Syndicate member, codenamed Echo, and it’s not surprising that Mary’s seen it too. “Kinda weird to have a new Syndicate member,” he offers.

Mary shrugs. “Sure, yeah.” She pauses and Tubbo can feel her gently pitying gaze without looking up from the screen. “Do you even remember before them?”

“Nah,” Tubbo replies. He’s had this conversation before. “I was, like… twelve? Ten?” Part of Tubbo’s Association training was the policies that changed after the rise of the Syndicate, how newer, more organized villains made the Association’s leash that much looser. For Tubbo it’s just a fact of life.

“Poor kid.” Mary pats his shoulder and Tubbo doesn’t flinch. 

“What do you think of it?” Tubbo asks, still focused on inventory. He’s meant to be explaining it to Mary, but he gave up on that the third time she asked him. “Of Echo, I mean.”

“Mhm… I don’t know how I feel if the Syndicate’s adding new people. The Association always used to say they work alone.” Mary’s tone is completely idle. She’s not worried, or she’s showing a brand-new ability to hide her anxiety. It makes sense, Tubbo supposes; the Syndicate probably only affects Mary when building damage blocks her commute. Grocery stores and their managers aren’t high-priority targets for anybody. “And,” Mary adds suddenly, “I definitely think people are right about the Replica thing.”

Tubbo doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t. “They’re… similar,” he agrees eventually, trying to keep his voice flat. 

Echo is Replica. Was Replica, Tubbo’s sure of it. The powersets are obviously the same, and they’re similarly tall and lanky, that’s clear even through a blurry Instagram shot or TV news segment. Tubbo’s been staring at all the footage he can find for longer than he’d care to admit, looking for Replica’s body language under the black jumpsuit and white cape, Replica’s personality under the impenetrable white veil hanging from his crown.

Mary makes a sudden sympathetic noise, as if realizing something, and puts her hand back on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Oh, honey, you worked there, didn’t you? I remember now, poor thing.”

Tubbo shrugs. Stay calm. It’s fine. “It’s behind me now,” he says. Even he can hear how false it sounds.

Mary squeezes his shoulder and lets go. “How is it in there? Did you know him?”

Did you know him? Tubbo doesn’t want to face that question. “I—I don’t think I’m meant to talk about it?” he stammers, forcing himself not to look around at Mary.

Mary laughs apologetically. “Right, right, sorry. You done with the inventory yet, hon?”

Tubbo blinks. “Um, not quite yet. Sorry, I’ll…” He trails off and refocuses on boxes of bananas.

Tubbo scrolls through his alerts and socials after the late shift at the store, barely awake or reading but not quite ready to commit to sleeping yet. His phone buzzes twice and he stares at it for a moment before he can connect a memory to the contact name Tommy.

He taps the notification, surprised. It’s been a few days, and he’d assumed Tommy forgot about him.

Hey man! the message reads. Sorry to leave you hanging, things got wild! You still need to watch Terminator though

Tubbo desperately wishes he had the energy to think of a clever response. After thinking about it for too long, he replies, Lmao okay

Hell yeah, comes the response. I’ve got it downloaded when are you free? Could come over

Tubbo hesitates, hand hovering over the phone keyboard. He likes Tommy, he thinks, and he’d hate to scare off his only even potential friend, but his instincts are screaming. An anxious parent, an isolated childhood, and a year in training and the Association all beat paranoia into Tubbo’s bones, and so far it’s working. He’s surviving.

Idk if I can go to your house, Tubbo types eventually. He hits send and rushes to clarify, We just met yknow? Send again. Sorry I’m just paranoid

The thirty-second gap while Tommy types is tense and Tubbo fights the urge to send more messages. Smarter than me dude, is the eventual answer, and Tubbo exhales. Is another location good? Like back room of a library or some shit?

Tubbo rolls his eyes with a smile. Yeah, sure, if it’s not shady

Tommy sends a thumbs up. Gotta find a spot then :) you’re not free

Glad to hear it lmao, Tubbo responds. I can find a spot? I’m the one causing trouble

Nah, comes the immediate reply. After another second, Tommy adds, My movie my treat yeah? Dw about it

Tubbo lets himself just smile at the phone for a moment. He’d almost forgotten how nice it is for someone to bend for him, for his wants to be a natural part of the equation.

Get some sleep okay? Tommy messages after a moment. It’s late

I’m not a kid, Tubbo types, then deletes it. In the end he sends a thumbs up and doesn’t go to sleep.

The next afternoon, Tommy sends him a screenshot of the Google info box about a Starbucks on Park Street and the caption Saturday 3??

Yeah I’ll be there, Tubbo replies and hopes he’s actually understood the invitation. He’s not quite brave enough to ask when he barely knows Tommy. 

Of course on Saturday Lara doesn’t show up for the afternoon shift, and of course Mary doesn’t even give Tubbo the formality of pulling him aside to ask him to cover it. Tubbo nods absently, having expected this as soon as he saw Lara on the schedule, and then remembers Tommy. 

He already told Mary he’d stay. And the worst thing Mary can call someone is unreliable, with a sadly disappointed shake of her head, and Tubbo feels vaguely sick. 

He does, in the end, find someone who wants more hours and can fill in for him filling in for Lara. He gets to the Starbucks at ten past three.

Tommy, tucked behind a table in the corner, waves vigorously.

Tubbo slinks over and waves back. “I—I’m sorry, I got caught up at work.”

“It’s whatever,” Tommy replies with a shrug. “I’m waiting for my coffee anyway, yeah?”

Tubbo watches Tommy’s leg bounce under the table and bites back a joke about whether or not Tommy really needs the coffee. “I might get a muffin, then,” he says after a beat too long. “If we’re waiting.” It’s more expensive than if he just made a sandwich at home, but it’s not like Tubbo goes out much otherwise and he hasn’t eaten since before he left for work this morning. 

Tommy nods easily and Tubbo goes to get in the short line. 

A few minutes later, Tubbo’s picking at a blueberry muffin while Tommy fights with his earbuds and sips his mocha.

“There we go,” Tommy declares eventually, offering Tubbo an earbud with a triumphant look. “Ready to have your mind blown?” From his grin, Tubbo can’t tell if Tommy’s overselling is self-aware.

“If you insist,” Tubbo replies, taking the earbud.

Terminator is… fine. A fun way to spend an afternoon, but certainly not life-changing.  

At some point Tubbo switches to mostly watching Tommy instead of the movie, and that’s much more interesting. Tommy’s eyes are glued to the computer and the low-resolution pirated movie and he reacts a few seconds in advance of the plot, smiling or wincing just before whatever he’s responding to. 

He has a wiry strength to him, and halfway through the movie Tubbo notices a knot of pale scar tissue over the knuckles of one hand. The scars are close enough to Tommy’s skin tone that he wouldn’t have noticed from farther away, but they look like a nasty injury, maybe even a cement burn. For a moment Tubbo’s aware of his own map of scars, hidden under his jacket and pants, and wonders what Tommy would think of them.

That night Tubbo spends far too long staring out his front window after finishing his dinner. 

He managed to almost focus on Terminator for two full hours. He had time, time that he only realized in retrospect, when he was briefly not thinking about the grocery store or Oleander. It was exhausting but he was laughing with Tommy and it felt easy to follow along. He felt, kind of, something approaching normal. 

Tubbo runs into Tommy with startling frequency after that. Tommy’s just there, apparently walking somewhere when Tommy gets off the morning shift, texting him photos of birds at strange times of the night, always with a smile and a laugh and sometimes a pretzel.

Mary’s starting to notice, Tubbo’s pretty sure, that now Tubbo has something outside of work. She looks at him oddly when he takes his break for once and checks his phone and smiles. She must see how he makes an effort to leave, sometimes organizes someone else to pick up a shift instead of staying himself. 

As if in retaliation, she gets more helpless and crisis-prone than ever. 

“Toby?”

Tubbo, waiting for someone to come through his till, pulls himself from his daze to look at Mary. 

“Hi,” she says with a small smile, although her wings show the tension behind it. “Have you heard from the produce people?”

Tubbo scans his memory for a second, then shakes his head. “Should I have?”

“They’re meant to come today and I haven’t seen them,” Mary explains. “I just… you answer the phones sometimes, so I though maybe you’d’ve heard from them?”

“I definitely haven’t,” Tubbo tells her, frowning. How badly could the order be fucked up? He’s not sure he even wants to find out the limits of that. “You should call, probably,” he suggests, one of his dwindling efforts to pretend this is a normal manager-employee dynamic. “Their number should be in the binder in the office?”

Mary nods and frowns. “Alright, hon, I’ll let you know what they say.”

“No problem.” Someone’s hesitating a few feet back from Tubbo’s till, and with a final nod at Mary he waves the customer forward. 

Tubbo’s walking home late at night when he hears his name called and looks up to see Tommy across the street from him.

Tubbo waves, almost too tired to be confused by Tommy’s presence, and before he can say anything Tommy is crossing the street to walk alongside him.

“Chilly tonight, innit?” Tommy greets cheerfully. 

“I guess,” Tubbo allows. Tommy’s black jacket is zipped tight, and he’s either trying to warm his hands up or cradling one arm to his chest. “No breeze, at least.” This kind of still, dead cold feels too much like Tubbo to bother him. 

“It’s dangerous to walk home alone at night,” Tommy says, nodding to himself. 

Tubbo shrugs. “I’m fine, I know this route. Just got off work,” he explains, then winces when he realizes it’s a Friday night. Should he have admitted that? Is Tommy going to realize his utter lack of a real life? “What are you doing out, anyway?”

“Um.” Tommy hesitates just a moment too long. “Work?”

“Work?” Tubbo echoes, then forces himself to breathe out. It doesn’t really matter.

“Something like that.” Now Tommy’s recovered a bit of his usual easy cheer. “The grind doesn’t stop, you get it.”

Tubbo laughs dryly. “Sure.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, too loudly but at least sounding like himself. “Hey, wait—”

Tubbo tenses. He’s not sure if he’s looking for a threat or Tommy’s judgment, what kind of fear he’s feeling. 

“Has your name been Ollie this whole time?”

That barely does anything to clarify what Tubbo’s feeling. One hand flutters to the nametag pinned to his chest and a stone sinks into his stomach. “I’m meant to leave that at work,” he mutters.

“Shit, man, this is embarrassing.” Tommy talks over Tubbo without even blinking. “Have I been—fuck, really? Ollie? That’s—I don’t even know where I got—”

“My name’s not Ollie,” Tubbo manages to half-shout, cutting Tommy off. He feels a little sick. “My name’s not Ollie.” He’s lying. Or—no, he’s not lying. Customers call him Ollie sometimes, casually— good morning Ollie, have a good one Ollie, thanks Ollie. It makes his head spin every time, knowing that’s the wrong voice saying that name, knowing it’s a memory he shouldn’t engage in. 

“You steal the nametag or something?” Tommy jokes. He recovers his bearings so quickly, Tubbo notices. He thinks on his feet so easily. Tubbo’s been falling for months.

“I—it’s mine,” Tubbo offers weakly. “My name isn’t Ollie.”

“Alright,” Tommy says, drawing the syllables out for too long. “That’s a little ominous, not gonna lie, but—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Tubbo says it quietly, but Tommy must hear, because he cuts himself off.

“Sure, whatever.” Tommy holds his hands up in surrender and Tubbo immediately forgets all about the nametag thing.

“Tommy, are you bleeding?”

The flash of panic across Tommy’s face answers that question before he even speaks. “Maybe?” Looking almost guilty, Tommy returns his hand, his clearly bleeding hand, to its previous position, cradled to his chest.

“Shit, what happened?” From the second Tubbo saw it under a streetlight, it looked bad, a dark gash across the center of Tommy’s palm and matching marks on a few fingers, as if he tried to grab something sharp. 

“Nothing,” Tommy insists. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing,” Tubbo retorts. “Don’t fucking lie to me!”

“I’m not—it’s fine, okay?” Tommy rolls his eyes sharply.

“How long have you been walking around with that?” Tubbo presses. “C’mon, show me.” He’s stopped walking to square his shoulders and face Tommy, and sheepishly Tommy holds out his right hand, palm up.

It’s bad alright. It’s not actively bleeding, but the wound on the palm is deep enough it hasn’t closed either. The tacky half-dried blood coats Tommy’s hand, almost sticking his fingers together. How the hell did he— it doesn’t matter.

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Tommy offers. He sounds unsure. Tubbo would bet it does hurt, and for some reason Tommy has the same practice Tubbo does in ignoring it.

“Bullshit,” Tubbo mutters. He raises his own hands under Tommy’s to get a better angle and hears Tommy wince. Tubbo takes a tight breath, wondering how much he likes Tommy, then sighs. “Look, come back to my place, yeah? It’s just a couple blocks away, and I can patch you up.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You can’t bandage that yourself, man,” Tubbo points out.

“I—fine,” Tommy says with a pout. 

Tubbo almost laughs at him, but just lets go of his hand instead. “C’mon, then.”

By the time Tommy’s walking into Tubbo’s apartment, Tubbo almost regrets his offer. Almost. He’s taking careful, slow breaths, and he knows if it weren’t for his Association training there’d be a thin layer of frost forming in the hollows of his palms.

“Sit,” he tells Tommy, pointing to the table. Half a bowl of dry cereal he didn’t finish this morning is still sitting there. The whole place is a mess, really.

Tubbo takes another breath and gets his first aid kit from under the bathroom sink. 

When he returns to the front room, Tommy is still standing. He looks so out of place by the half-wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the room, somehow more solid or saturated than the space around him. 

“Thought I told you to sit,” Tubbo tries to joke.

“I mean, I—I didn’t know which chair is yours?”

Tubbo rolls his eyes with a snort. “What’s got you so nervous? You’re the one seeing my shitty flat.”

“It’s still yours,” Tommy argues as Tubbo sets the first aid kit down and opens it. “And you, I dunno, you said you were touchy about going to people’s houses? I don’t wanna… bother you.”

“I invited you over.” Deep breath. No ice on his fingers, yeah? No questions about that tonight. Tubbo shakes his head. “Whatever. Get over here, then, yeah? We’ve gotta clean it anyway.” Tubbo leads Tommy to the kitchen sink—empty at the moment, thank whatever—and washes his hands with practiced precision. When he gestures to Tommy, Tommy holds his injured hand out slowly, already wincing. Tubbo spares him a moment for a sympathetic shrug before he takes Tommy’s hand and moves it under the water.

“Shit,” Tommy hisses. Tubbo has to tighten his grip on Tommy’s wrist to keep him in place. “Shit, Tubbo, that hurts.”

“It’s just tap water, you’ll live.”

Tommy gives a wordless, dramatic whine. “But it sucks.”

“Less than an infection would.” It feels strange to try to banter and watch the blood swirl down the drain at the same time. You’re not meant to talk, part of him wants to tell Tommy. Bishop and Replica didn’t talk. They did, actually, sometimes, but only in clipped, pained sentences, and Tubbo never had to answer.

“Wow, okay,” Tommy replies. “Harsh.”

Tubbo shrugs again and keeps his eyes on Tommy’s hand. As the water keeps running, the mostly-dry blood sloughs off, giving Tubbo a better look at the cuts. He’s relieved to see it’s nothing too awful, in the grand scheme of things. The cut across the palm is deep, but Tommy can clearly still move his fingers, so it doesn’t reach anything important. His first two fingers have similar cuts between the second and third joints, but they don’t seem nearly as deep.

“How’s it lookin’, doc?” Tommy asks, pain bleeding into his voice now.

“You’ll be fine,” Tubbo replies. He’s almost surprised to hear how fond his own voice sounds. “Are you right-handed?”

“Um… yeah?”

“Mmm. It’s gonna suck for a bit, then.”

“It already sucks,” Tommy complains. 

Satisfied with how much of the blood has rinsed away, Tubbo moves Tommy’s hand away from the water and goes to open a pack of gauze pads.

“Y’know, that’s a good first aid kit you’ve got,” Tommy comments as Tubbo now runs water over the gauze. “Seems like you get hurt a lot.”

Tubbo shrugs. The pulse point at his wrists beats cold for a second. “I guess.” He used to, and worse than bandaids and neosporin could deal with, in the Association, and it just hasn’t been long enough to deplete his supplies yet. 

“Are we done yet?” Tommy whines.

“Jesus, give me a minute.” Wound now sufficiently cleaned and dried, Tubbo leads Tommy back to the table and this time presses on his shoulder to sit him down.

“Well are we?”

“I said give me a minute,” Tubbo repeats, arranging gauze over the largest cut and fighting with the end of a roll of bandages.

“Your bedside manner sucks, you know,” Tommy informs him.

“Never got complaints before,” Tubbo retorts before he can think about it. He manages to stop himself from wincing. 

Tommy scoffs. “Yeah, from how many people?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Whatever, man. I still say you suck.”

“Bold words for someone actively bandaging your hand.”

“Is that a threat?”

“What? No.” For a moment Tubbo thinks that he would have heard it as a threat, would have heard far too many Association voices ready to take advantage of any weakness. He ignores the thought. “I’m almost done now anyway.”

“Finally.”

“Alright, see you, Toby.”

“Bye, Mary,” Tubbo calls back before stepping out into the sunlight.

God. It’s so bright. He blinks once, twice, before he manages to start moving towards home. 

At least the air is cold. He breathes and it feels crisp and light in his lungs, at home. It soothes his stomach and he keeps his eyes mostly focused.

He’s pretty sure he’s sick. No, scratch that, he’s definitely sick. He interacts with literally dozens of random strangers on most days, so it’s honestly not all that surprising, but it still sucks. 

It’s fine, mostly, so he hasn’t bothered to alert anyone. So far no one’s called him out—he can pull himself together when he needs to talk to Mary or Tommy, spend the rest of his shifts on autopilot, and collapse as soon as he gets home. He figures he can’t do much except wait it out anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

Part of him does want to call out sick some mornings. But the Association made that little voice near impossible to listen to, and with the bakery getting increasingly fed up with Mary she needs him there.

His phone buzzes. He kind of feels like if he stops moving he won’t start again, so he lets it go until he’s home and can fold up in an armchair.

It’s Tommy, naturally. Almost no one else ever texts him. 

Hey wanna watch another movie soon? Remember I’m hurt so you have to listen to me

Tubbo laughs and it makes his head spin. What movie? he replies, probably with many typos he decides not to catch. 

Terminator Dark Fate? A beat, then Tommy adds, It’s fine if you’re over Terminator though

Nah, it’s fine, Tubbo sends. He lets his head fall back against the chair and blinks up at the ceiling. He feels like he should be hungry, but he isn’t. God, as soon as Tommy says goodbye he’s going to go to sleep. In the chair, even, he doesn’t care.

His phone buzzes. Sick, Tommy’s saying. We could do my place this time? Or strbks fine if you want!

Your place is fine. In this moment, at least, Tubbo genuinely doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t have the energy to have his guard up even if he was still unsure about Tommy. 

Although. Spending half an hour with Tommy when they run into each other is fine, but even that is getting increasingly exhausting as Tubbo gets through the gauntlet. Longer than that, while Tubbo’s this sick, and Tommy would definitely notice. 

Also maybe he shouldn’t get Tommy sick? That feels like something a good friend would do.

I’m a bit swamped atm, Tubbo sends to Tommy. He really hopes this is readable, like, at all.

Okay! What day works?

Shit, now Tubbo has to think. That’s difficult. 

It’s a Thursday. It’s been a couple days since Tubbo noticed himself feeling bad, and honestly he doubts it can get much worse than this. 

Tuesday? he suggests. Surely Tuesday will be better.

Tuesday is, if anything, worse.

Tubbo makes it through his shift, if only barely, almost without thinking at all. He’s not congested or coughing at least, just dizzy and nauseated and in pain. That makes it a little easier to act fine.

He’s halfway home before he remembers that he’s not meant to be going home. Shit. He makes it to a bus stop with a bench and sinks down onto it before pulling out his phone. 

He could cancel. The thought crosses his mind. Tommy probably wouldn’t be that mad.

He would, however, demand to know why. Tubbo couldn’t offer anything but I’m sick and I feel like I might be dying without sounding like a shitty friend. And Tommy would freak out over that, and whatever happens next would be overwhelming. Tubbo doesn’t have it in him to fend off or comfort Tommy at the moment. 

He can make it through one movie, right? Tommy doesn’t seem to expect a lot of plot comprehension when he shows Tubbo movies, Tubbo won’t have to put too much effort into staying alert. 

Yeah. Yeah, it’ll be fine. Tubbo pulls up directions to the address Tommy sent him.

The walk is an exhausting blur, but Tubbo makes it. He squints through the late-afternoon sun at the block of townhouses and tries to remember what number Tommy said he was in the basement of. 

“Tubbo!”

Tubbo blinks and turns to see Tommy at the top of a set of stairs a few doors down, waving. 

“Hey,” Tubbo greets. He takes a breath and tries to pull himself together. Just for a little while, he promises himself. He just needs to scrape together enough energy to interact with Tommy for a couple hours. The world is spinning around him. “I made it.”

“Yeah! You look exhausted man, you must be really busy,” Tommy laughs. 

“Something like that,” Tubbo agrees. Tommy takes his hand and pulls him forward, and Tubbo doesn’t feel the bandage that should still be there. “Your hand?”

“Oh, the—” Tommy waves his other hand through the air and Tubbo thinks he sees the bandage there. “Don’t worry, it’s healing fine.”

Tubbo nods. Tommy’s hair is catching the light… some way. Tubbo thinks he might recognize it, then almost laughs at the thought. Of course he recognizes Tommy.  

The stairs are harder than they ought to be, and Tubbo’s definitely moving slower than Tommy is. Focus, c’mon. You can do this. He isn’t even sure he ate this morning. 

They do get inside, eventually, and Tubbo is seriously starting to wonder if he should’ve canceled. Tommy at least seems distracted.

“Do you like popcorn? Of course you like popcorn. Anyway, I’m gonna make some, gimme a moment.”

The world feels like it’s tipping around Tubbo and he squints at Tommy, suddenly sure he’s missed something, there’s some puzzle he hasn’t connected. He tries to follow his own muddled train of thought and comes up with vertigo, blurred vision, Tommy’s blond hair, and… something.

His eyes find a framed print on the small table, next to Tommy’s key ring and a beanie hat. Birds, black birds with white wings. Magpies. Magpie.

Magpie?

That is it, Tubbo realizes as Tommy returns from the doorframe he’d disappeared through. Tubbo’s thinking of that shift with Replica, the one he couldn’t possibly forget because he saw Magpie. And now Tubbo looks at Tommy and finally does recognize a teenage boy with blond hair who makes reality go strange around him. 

Shit. Magpie. He thinks he ought to feel more afraid, or at least upset, than he does.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asks nervously, stepping closer. “You’re freaking me out, man, you look awful.”

Tubbo takes a breath to say something, anything. 

His knees buckle before he gets the chance.

Chapter Text

“Shit!”

Everything hurts. Tubbo flexes his wings and shifts, preparing to get up, but the pressure on his joints is unbearable.

“Ohh, god, oh fuck. What the fuck.” Tommy sounds stressed. Shit, Tubbo should say something about that.

He blinks and finds his eyes were closed.

“Tubbo? Can you hear me?”

Tubbo tries to move his wings out of his way. Did he fall? Shit.

“Shit, shit. Tubbo, I’m gonna touch you, okay?” 

There’s a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, rolling him rather forcibly onto his side. Tubbo’s arm folds awkwardly with the movement and he gasps.

“Shit—I, sorry, look at me, okay? Okay?”

Tubbo rolls his head back towards where he thinks Tommy’s voice is coming from. He can see Tommy, kind of, which is better than the usual with Magpie. He looks just to the right of Tommy, like the Association trained him to, and it doesn’t help—most of the blurring happening now is Tubbo’s fault.

“Tubbo? Tubbo, can you hear me?” 

Tubbo blinks his eyes open. He’s lost track of Tommy and he lets his head twist towards the floor, blocking out the painful light from above.

He can hear Tommy, he thinks. He should let Tommy know.

Tommy’s muttering something too quietly for Tubbo to understand. Tubbo manages to flex one hand, then reach for and grab Tommy’s arm.

“I—okay, yeah, I’m here.” Tommy’s hand tightens on Tubbo’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Tubbo, stay awake.”

Honestly, Tubbo would rather not. Everything hurts. 

“Tubbo, c’mon, look at me.”

Tubbo tries to lift his head and can’t quite handle it.

A hand—too cold, Tubbo thinks vaguely, too cold even for him—lands on Tubbo’s hand, holding it to Tommy’s arm, and Tubbo realizes he’d let go. Why won’t Tommy let him go?

His whole body aches and he’s so tired. He’s not at home, he doesn’t think. He ought to get home before he sleeps.

“Okay. It’s gonna be okay, Tubbo. You’ll—you’ll be alright.” 

Tubbo finds he believes Tommy, but it’s not enough to quell the darkness rising behind his eyes.

“That any better?”

One of Tubbo’s wings is trapped behind him, pinned by his body and the wall. He pushes against whatever surface is behind him with a discontent sound—who even knows why his body rolls over like this in his sleep, but it’s easy enough to push himself back.

“Woah! Woah, no, don’t do that.” Just as Tubbo starts to roll forward, hands catch his shoulders and stop him. “Please don’t fall.”

His whole body aches. He pushes with his wing again, harder. He doesn’t have enough space.

The hands on his shoulders are still there, insistent. “Stop trying to fall off the couch, what the hell?” 

Tubbo thinks he makes another sound. He reaches up with the arm that isn’t pinned under his body—god, this is just an uncomfortable position—and can’t find whatever’s holding him in place. It doesn’t help that his eyes are closed.

“C’mon, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Tubbo folds his free wing forward with a whine, hoping to make more room behind him.

“Shit, your wings? Still not comfortable?” Tubbo tries again to roll over. “Y’know, it’d help if you’d say something.”

The world suddenly swoops under Tubbo and he has to focus on not giving into nausea. He opens his eyes and nothing makes sense, it’s all just a blur of light and sound twisting at strange angles, and he closes them again. 

He’s shifted again—he thinks he’s being pulled upright? It’s so hard to tell. There are hands on his shoulders, definitely, and now an arm braced across his chest and another tugging at… his knees? What? Everything hurts and Tubbo doesn’t understand.

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay. I hear you. Roll over, okay? The other side might be better.”

There’s someone here. Obviously. Tubbo feels stupid for not thinking that before. There shouldn’t be someone, Tubbo can’t think let alone defend himself, it’s not safe—

It could be Bishop.

That would make sense, Tubbo thinks. Bishop is a person Tubbo would let see him when he’s this sick, someone who would give a shit instead of writing him up for it. 

Bishop’s hands, continuing to move Tubbo, are uncomfortably firm. The world sways back and forth and for another second Tubbo tries to open his eyes.

“Work with me here,” Bishop mutters. “C’mon, roll over. Wake up.”

Tubbo lets himself fall forward until his head is leaning against Bishop’s chest. Bishop is gonna be mad about this later, but Tubbo’s so tired.

Bishop makes a startled sound, then a hand comes up to pet Tubbo’s hair. “Yeah, okay. This is fine too.”

Tubbo drifts. It feels almost nice, honestly, after so long of fighting not to. Everything hurts, and the world keeps spinning even though he’s pretty sure he’s lying down, and he feels like he couldn’t move if he tried, but at least he’s not trying anymore. 

“Hey, Tubbo? Can you wake up?” Tubbo feels the light pressure on his shoulder and actually manages to blink his eyes open. He wants to close them again right away—it’s bright, so bright—but he hears the voice above him make a relieved sound and feels guilty. “Okay. Okay, you wanna sit up on your own or do you need help?”

Tubbo’s not that defenseless. He shifts where he’s lying, taking in that he’s on his side facing the back of a couch, and shoves himself up. His stomach churns as the room swoops around him, but after clinging to the couch for a moment he gets himself up and facing one arm of the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” A Tommy-shaped blur moves into Tubbo’s vision, crouched next to the couch.

Tubbo scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Tommy?”

“Hi.” A pause. “So how’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Tommy’s quiet for a loaded moment and Tubbo realizes he’s not even sure how he got here. “Right,” Tommy says, too slowly. “You’re burning up, big man.” That doesn’t make a lot of sense; the ice has always been a part of Tubbo.

“It’s fine,” Tubbo mutters. He rubs one hand over his eyes. It blocks out the lamplight for a blissful second.

“Shit!” A hand grabs Tubbo’s shoulder roughly. “C’mon, stay with me.”

Tubbo forces his eyes back open. After a second, Tommy slowly lets go and Tubbo shifts to balance himself sitting up again.

“Jesus, okay. Um, the internet says you need paracetamol. Okay?” Tommy holds out his hand, palm up, and if he squints Tubbo can make out the two pills he’s holding. 

“Sure.” It’s been helping some, the past few days, when he remembers to take it.

Tommy hands off the pills, then a glass of water that he doesn’t take his hands off of as Tubbo slowly guides it to his mouth. Tubbo would be more upset if he’d managed to get it done without needing Tommy’s help. 

“Have you eaten?” Tommy asks, keeping the water near Tubbo’s face. “I’ve got… a cracker somewhere, I think.”

“Not hungry.” Tubbo raises the glass to his lips again, mostly just to feel the cool water in his mouth. God, he’s exhausted. 

“You’ve gotta eat, man, you look like shit.”

Rude. Tubbo blinks up at Magpie, wondering how dangerous it could be to go back to sleep here.

“Tubbo? Tubbo, you with me?” The crisp sound of someone snapping reaches Tubbo’s ears.

I’m fine, Tubbo tries to say. He isn’t sure if it comes out right, and the next time Magpie speaks it’s in distorted sounds that Tubbo can’t make sense of.

“Tubbo?” Tubbo barely registers the sound as his name through the fog in his head. “Okay, c’mon and sit up.” Hands push and pull at Tubbo’s shoulders and he lets them guide him. They dig into the flesh of his arms, but it’s not much compared to how the bones in his arms and legs and wings ache.

Fuck. Tubbo’s meant to go to work—he was just there, he thinks. He’s not—where is he?

“Just at my place. Remember?” 

Someone had thrown a rock at Mary, when Tubbo was at work a moment ago. That’s—bad, Tubbo needs to—

“Tubbo! Tubbo, calm down, it’s—hey!”

Shit, where is he? How did he get here? Fuck.

“Ollie!”

Tubbo freezes. He doesn’t think that sounds like Bishop, but… who else calls him Ollie?

“Okay.” The syllables are drawn out, and now that sounds a bit more like Bishop. “Um… you need to drink some water, okay Ollie?”

A hand takes Tubbo’s and guides him to a smooth, cool cup, then the cup to his lips. Tubbo accepts it gratefully—he hadn’t realized before, but the water is already clearing his vision a little. 

“Yeah, alright,” Bishop—the voice, which doesn’t sound like Bishop but must be him—says once the cup is empty and lowered. “Better, right?” Tubbo does his best to nod. “Do you wanna grape? You haven’t eaten.”

That doesn’t sound like Bishop. Where the fuck is Tubbo? He blinks, trying to look around, but he can’t place his surroundings and feels too exhausted to move and look around. 

“Hey, shh, shhh. It’s okay.” The hand on his arm shifts, petting him slightly. It makes the ache in the muscle worse and Tubbo twitches away. “Ollie? C’mon, focus on me. Are you hungry?”

He is, actually. He makes his eyes focus on a plate in his lap with a few grapes rolling around on it. He could eat, maybe, he thinks. If it’s what Bishop wants.

Tubbo blinks his eyes open slowly and finds there’s some red surface inches from his face. Just the couch, he thinks slowly. The back of the couch. It’s fine. It’s not his couch, but he doesn’t mind. 

“So you see what I’m dealing with?” Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. Tubbo almost, almost lifts his head to see what Tommy’s talking about, but in the end he’s too tired. He can barely even keep his eyes open, honestly.

“Mhm.” A higher voice, feminine, replies to Tommy. Tubbo doesn’t recognize it. Again he finds he doesn’t mind. “And how long’s it been?”

“Days,” Tommy stresses. He sounds so upset. Tubbo wants to hold his hand and tell him it’ll be okay, but he’s still too tired to move. “Like—like two, three days now? He’s awake sometimes, but usually it’s just like, asleep or incoherent.”

“So you want me to… do what, exactly?”

“I dunno! You’re a real adult, do something!”

The new voice laughs, short and incredulous. Tubbo lets his eyes slip closed again. “So specific, Tommy, thank you.”

“Niki,” Tommy whines. “WebMD says his fever is too high, and he won’t wake up. I’m really worried.”

Tubbo can’t decide if he’s hungry or nauseated. Probably both, come to think of it. He thinks he remembers eating grapes, a while ago, and then dreaming they were bugs.

“Look.” There’s a sigh. “Just call Techno, okay?”

Or maybe Tubbo ate bugs and then dreamed they were grapes. He isn’t sure.

“I can’t call Techno. I can’t.”

“He’d be happy to help and you know it.” The voice is getting annoyed, and Tubbo wonders if he should be worried. He also thinks Tommy probably wouldn’t feed him a bug.

“Yeah and that’s the problem, Niki! I can’t—I can’t let those two get to him.”

“I mean… you said yourself he’s just some civilian, right? We have standards, Tommy.” There’s a beat of silence. Tubbo runs one nail along the lines in his palm, letting stripes of frost blossom where he makes contact. They’re thin and melt almost instantly—he probably needs water. “Tommy, listen to yourself. Your friend has a dangerously high fever, can barely wake up enough to hold a conversation, and he’s not getting better. Get over yourself and call Techno, okay? It’ll be fine.”

“I can’t call Techno.”

The other voice starts talking again. Tubbo really does try to listen, but he’s so tired.

Weirdly enough, Tubbo comes to in the middle of eating a bowl of cereal. He’s aware, dimly, before that, but one moment he’s deep in a fog and moving Frosted Flakes around in his mouth and then slowly things clear until he swallows hard and looks up at Tommy. 

Tommy, next to him on the couch, catches his gaze and narrows his eyes slightly. “Not hungry?”

Tubbo shakes his head slowly. “No, no, I…” His voice is raspy and his brain still feels full of slush. “What day is it?”

“Friday night,” Tommy says cautiously. 

Shit. It was… Tuesday? In Tubbo’s last clear memory, it was Tuesday. He stirs his half-empty cereal bowl. “It’s been three days?”

“Uh—yeah, about three days since you passed out.” Tommy puts down his own spoon in his own Frosted Flakes and squints at Tubbo for a second. “Are you awake? Like, actually awake?”

“I think so?” Tubbo isn’t sure how to answer that. He raises another shaky spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “I mean, I… what the hell happened?” He hesitates, trying not to flush. As best he can remember, he passed out in Tommy’s entrance and has been drifting in and out of feverish delirium ever since. He thinks he’s entitled to some embarrassment. 

“You tell me, man,” Tommy replies with a weak laugh. “Did you know you were sick?”

Tubbo pretends to need time to chew. “I thought I could push through,” he offers. 

Tommy laughs again. “Mhm, classic. Anyway, you blacked out before we could watch Terminator and it’s been kinda… hit or miss since then.”

“Sorry,” Tubbo mutters. “And thanks, Tommy, I… yeah.” He winces at the scrape of his spoon on his bowl. Everything aches and he flexes his fingers gently. That hurts too. “I should get home, right? I shouldn’t… I oughtta go home.”

Now Tommy takes an awkward moment staring into his cereal. “I—okay, I can’t stop you. And, like, if you’re sure, that’s fine and all. But I’m kinda worried? You’ve got a really bad fever and…” Tommy stops himself, sighs aggressively, then spits out, “I don’t think anyone would notice if you went back to your apartment and just didn’t wake up.”

Tubbo’s spoon stills in the bowl. He can’t say he hasn’t had that thought before, but it feels different coming out of Tommy’s mouth. “I’ll be fine,” he says hollowly. He thought he was fine on Tuesday, something inside him whispers. 

“Yeah, of course.” Tubbo wonders if he’s imagining the dry humor in Tommy’s voice. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” Tubbo admits, and then thinks that the fever is definitely affecting his filter. 

“You’re not,” Tommy insists. “I mean, I’m worried as fuck, and you’re not fine, but I really do care about you, okay? And my job’s really flexible and all, so don’t worry about it.”

“I should go home,” Tubbo repeats. He blinks slowly, exhaustion creeping back in. 

Tommy sighs. “If you want, man. Stick around a little longer, though, okay? Just like, take a nap or something, I dunno how much rest you’ve actually been getting.”

Tubbo nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

Tommy nods back. “You done with your cereal?”

“Think so.” Tubbo blinks into the cereal bowl. It’s empty, he decides with another nod. He might still be hungry, but he’s also still too nauseated to risk it. 

“I can take the bowl,” Tommy offers, starting to stand. “There’s water on the coffee table if you want it.”

Tubbo’s never met somebody his age who had a coffee table before. “I got it,” he tells Tommy, waving him off and standing off the couch with his bowl still in his hand. 

The world sways violently as soon as Tubbo gets even halfway up. He tries to flare his wings for balance but sits down hard after only a second. Spots swim across his vision. Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe. Don’t throw up.

“Tubbo?” Tommy sounds nervous.

“Sorry,” Tubbo mutters, not quite sure what he’s apologizing for but feeling like he should. He feels Tommy take the bowl from his hands.

“C’mon, wake up,” a voice says from somewhere above Tubbo.

It’s dim, wherever he is, and he wonders if he fell asleep in the closet space again. He flexes his fingers and feels ice creep up from the pulse point on his wrists.

“Hey, Tubbo, c’mon.” Bishop calls him Ollie, Tubbo thinks vaguely. He doesn’t think Bishop ought to know his civilian name, either, and a wisp of anxiety presses against the lead in his chest. “You there?”

Tubbo presses his palms together, enjoying the feeling of the frost melting and reforming against his skin. He thinks it’s softer, melting easier than usual. Interesting. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder now, and he shifts his wing to shove against the arm it’s attached to. It doesn’t let go. “Tubbo? Tubbo, please, wake up.”

Tubbo tries to blink his eyes open. He really does. But it’s hard, and his stomach is turning too much to really move, and in the end he gives up before he can actually get a signal to whoever’s talking—Bishop? Magpie?

The voice sighs. “God, knew it was too good to be true. You sleep, man, I’ll be here.”

Tubbo sleeps. 

Fuck. Tubbo startles into wakefulness and doesn’t know where he is.

He’s lying on his side and with a few glances decides he’s on a couch he doesn’t recognize. How the fuck did he get here? 

He’s not safe. He’s not wearing his mask, and he needs to get to work anyway. Shit, how did he get here? He needs to get back to HQ. 

His hands shake as he braces them against the couch and pushes himself up. He breathes hard, trying not to gag, but eventually his vision gets a bit less cloudy.

He doesn’t recognize this room—or, he does, but vaguely? It’s so hard to think. The couch is red, a low pale laminate table lies a few feet away, across the room a TV sits on a stand. There’s a poster on the wall with bright letters that swirl into each other too much for Tubbo to read. 

He needs to get home—or, or to the store. He’s late to work. Fuck. Where is he?

He stands, flaring his wings for balance. He notices a few strands of frost creeping between his feathers. They’re thin, weak, and he can practically feel the exertion weakening his knees. Despite all that, the effort to shut off his power is more focus than he can summon. 

The world sways around him in smooth, grand somersaults—

When his vision clears, he’s on the ground, legs folded awkwardly under him. He needs water—dimly, he remembers someone saying there’s water on the coffee table. Who the fuck was that? Bracing one arm against the couch and another on the coffee table, he manages to sit up. Fuck.

He focuses his eyes on a cup on the table. The cup is clear, water is clear, and he has no idea how much water might be in there. He can actually feel his head drop for a second as he fights to stay conscious. 

Reaching for the cup feels more like watching someone else reach for it. Tubbo squints.

The sound the cup makes as it tips over is far too loud, and Tubbo flinches, then nearly overbalances and falls. He narrows his eyes at the table and it doesn’t seem like there’s much water on it, at least. Maybe the cup was empty?

Whatever. He’ll be fine, he just needs to get somewhere safe. He’ll get water later.

Isn’t he safe here? He thinks he… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know shit and he needs to get home. He shifts his arms, pushing against the table and couch to stand—

Everything blinks in and out—Tubbo thinks he feels his wing hit the table—

He needs to get home.

“Hey? Tubbo?”

Everything hurts. Tubbo forces his eyes open, but things are so blurry and dim it doesn’t make much of a difference. 

“Hey, yeah, sit up for me.” Hands on his shoulders push him upright. His wings fold behind him as he shifts—they feel kind of gross. He should preen soon, he thinks, but he’s tired.

Sitting up, the world is brighter but still blurry and hard to make sense of. The blond boy in front of him helps him lean against the couch and holds something up.

“I got water, okay? I think that’s what you were trying to do, so… here.” He’s speaking so gently. Tubbo doesn’t think that matches Magpie—Tommy—whoever’s in front of him. 

Tubbo raises a hand vaguely and the boy takes it, guiding him to wrap it around the glass.

“This is… not great, is it?” the boy murmurs as the glass tips against Tubbo’s mouth. “Probably a bad sign.”

Tubbo hums in return, feeling the glass buzz. The water feels good going down. He thinks his throat is strangely warmer than it’s meant to be. He has no idea whether or not that makes sense. 

“Yeah, I don’t even know. I should probably just call Techno, shouldn’t I? Niki says I’m proud.”

Frost crawls from under the skin on his wrists into his hands, in time with his pulse. He’s meant to have a tighter handle on it than this, he thinks distantly. He knows better. 

It’s not doing much harm, though, he doesn’t think. And it takes focus to keep this natural expression down—focus that’s usually just background noise but seems like so much work right now. He does trust the boy in front of him, whether it’s Magpie or Tommy. 

“What the fuck are you—Tubbo?”

Tubbo lowers the glass—he’s still thirsty but his stomach hurts more now—and manages to mostly focus his eyes on the fractal patterns of ice on the glass, the thin spines crossing the water. 

The boy slowly pries the glass from Tubbo’s hands, and it takes a bit of effort because of the frost bonding the two surfaces. His words, his hands, all so gentle. It feels both wrong and so very right. 

“Did you… what?” Tubbo lets himself slump towards the table, the ice apparently done with him for the moment. “You… made the ice. Okay—wait.” A hand takes his and flips it palm-up, maybe finding something there. “Wait. Ollie… Oleander.”

Tubbo likes that name and doesn’t, he thinks. He could think about that, maybe, if he had more energy.

“Holy shit, Oleander. Okay, this… yeah, okay. Jesus, I’m stupid.” The boy sighs and Tubbo wishes he didn’t sound so worried. “God, you’re really out of it. I should really just call Techno. Do you want more water?”

“So this is your guy.” Tubbo doesn’t recognize that voice, probably. It’s kind of distinctive—rough and sardonic—so he thinks he would know if he did. Then again, nothing quite feels real at the moment.

Whatever. 

“And he’s been like this… how long?”

“Five days? Ish?” Tommy sounds so upset. Tubbo breathes carefully, trying not to stress him more. 

“Mhm.” There’s a beat of quiet, then a hand brushes over Tubbo’s hair, clearing the greasy strands from his face.

“Techno!” Tommy exclaims. 

“What?” comes the new voice, sounding amused. “I thought you wanted me to do my thing.”

“I know, I know,” Tommy mutters. “I just… I dunno, I can’t see your power and I’m nervous.”

“Hey, watch your language. He’s not unconscious now, I think we woke him up.”

“Oh shit, he’s up?” Tommy’s voice is suddenly much closer.

“Nah, nah, I don’t think so. Just conscious.” The hand returns to Tubbo’s hair, smoothing it this way and that. After that it traces lower, brushing along his cheek before settling on his shoulder. Tubbo focuses on the warm darkness behind his eyelids, feeling like moving would break some kind of bubble. 

“So you can help, right?” Tommy asks anxiously. “He’ll be okay.”

“I mean, probably. A virus is a little more complicated than a stab wound or something. Luckily I’m pretty good at what I do, so… I can point his immune system in the right direction.”

The hand retreats, and Tubbo thinks he makes a sound. There’s a lot of shuffling, and scraping sounds, and Tubbo wants to go back to sleep but it’s too loud. He pulls one wing further over his body despite how it aches to move.

But then hands return, one resting softly on the top of his head and the other on his shoulder just above his top wing joint, thumb tracing circles on his spine. Tubbo lets himself melt into the comforting presence as Tommy starts talking again.

“So how does it work, anyway?”

“I’m tryin’ to focus, Tommy.” Tubbo’s bones ache. He wonders if it’s getting worse, or if he’s imagining that. He thinks he’s been imagining a lot recently.

“That’s my best friend you’re fucking with,” Tommy retorts. “I’m allowed to be curious.” Best friend, Tubbo thinks distantly. He hasn’t had a best friend in a while.

A low, huffing laugh comes from behind him, the hands on his shoulders shifting for a moment. “Y’know, even you can’t actually see what I’m doin’. I could just lie and you wouldn’t know.”

“I know,” Tommy says, sounding aggrieved. “I’m proving how much I trust you, so I deserve trust too. Fuckin’—what would Phil say?”

There’s that laugh again. “I haven’t heard you invoke Phil in a while.” A beat of silence passes and the hand on Tubbo’s back shifts to lie fully over his spine. “Okay, you want me to talk through it?”

“Yeah. Well—if it won’t mess you up too bad.”

“Smooth, Tommy. Smooth. Yeah, it’ll be fine.” Another pause. “It’s like… half the symptoms are because of your immune response, right? Because it doesn’t know what to attack, so it just hits everything. And that’s a good thing, just—to be clear. The immune response keeps all your organs from shutting down. Just, y’know, things might get a little worse before they get better.”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Tommy mutters. Tubbo can practically see his arms crossed over his chest, his nose and eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance. He almost laughs and in his half-asleep state it comes out as a single shuddering exhale. 

“What, you want me to kill him?” The voice still sounds so amused, as if everything that’s happening here is a middle schooler’s eager but mediocre skit presentation. Tubbo so badly wants to agree with the voice, but he’s tired down to his bones and isn’t sure it’s really a laughing matter. “Because I could slow down his immune system, and he’d feel better for a bit, and it’d kill him. I’m guessin’ that’s not why you called me.”

“Don’t,” Tommy snaps. “Don’t even joke about it.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not—stop lookin’ at me like that, okay? I’m doin’ what I can.”

Tommy sighs. “I know. I know, alright?” He pauses. “Thanks, Techno. Really, I—now you stop looking at me like that—whatever! Anyway, I was trying to say thanks.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” replies the voice. The hand shifts again, further down his back between his wings, and Tubbo lets the dark water pull him under.

“You know, you could kill me back here and no one would notice,” Tubbo says without thinking about it or looking up from his laptop.

Everything hurts. Tubbo can’t remember a time when it didn’t.

“Jesus, Ollie,” Bishop replies. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” Tubbo pauses in his typing for a moment to consider—he’s meant to be ‘evaluating’ Replica’s recent performance, but if he gives full marks the system will flag it. What’s the least risky thing to mark down for Replica? “I mean, it’s true.”

“Do you really wanna think about that?” Bishop asks with an uncomfortable laugh. “I mean, now we’re gonna think about that every time we’re both back here.”

A hand cards through Tubbo’s hair. 

Tubbo shrugs. “I mean, I already was. It’s kind of a comforting thought, y’know?”

“It’s gonna be alright, okay? It is.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Means I don’t mind it.” Tubbo shrugs, deciding it’s accurate and probably fine to give Replica partial marks on ‘innovation.’ “Means I’m okay with the risk.”

“Your fever’s going down already, I think.”

“Probably not the best decision.” Bishop’s probably right. Trust gets you hurt, even killed, in here.

“Well, we made it,” Tubbo replies. Firebird lived in an untouchable, aloof bubble and it got him killed too. “It’s too late now.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to phrase it like that.” Bishop’s laugh is a little less uncomfortable this time. “You’re such a freak, Ollie.”

Tubbo laughs back now, finally looking up from his screen. Bishop’s staring at him, the static smile of his mask showing as little emotion as it ever does.

The hand shifts from his hair to press briefly against his forehead, then cheek. “Just a little longer, yeah?”

“What, the kind of freak who survives the Association?” Tubbo jokes. He knows his goggles show the creases of his smile around his eyes.

Bishop sighs and turns back to his own work. “Hey, don’t count your chickens. I could kill you back here and no one would even notice.”

“We’re almost through, I promise.”

The first thing Tubbo notices is that he’s hungry, and only then does he realize he’s awake. His head is pounding and he can feel himself shaking the moment he tries to shift, but he’s awake, and can kind of think, and that feels like a win.

Step two is to sit up. Tubbo does so, in slow, halting movements—rolls fully onto his stomach, pushes against the arm of the couch, pulls his legs in, uses the back of the couch to stay upright. He takes a moment there to catch his breath, whole body trembling. 

Once he’s gotten his balance, he can actually turn to look at the room and take stock of himself. He feels gross, first of all. His scalp and wings are past even itching, his whole skin just crawls. He’s still in his black store uniform shirt—thankfully, he seems to have remembered to leave the Ollie name tag at work. 

The room must be Tommy’s living room—Tubbo kind of remembers arriving for movie night, and Tommy’s curled up asleep on a beanbag chair. An honest-to-god coffee table in pale fake wood hunches a couple feet from the couch, the surface cluttered with a pair of half-empty glasses, a few clear plastic wrappers, and half an orange on a bright red plate. A boxy wooden chair that would be more at home in a kitchen sits near the end of the couch, as if to allow someone to loom over Tubbo’s sleeping form. 

Oh, and Tommy’s asleep on the beanbag chair. Oh, shit, Tommy’s asleep on the beanbag chair. Tommy, who’s been nursing Tubbo through this for the past… god knows how long. Tommy, who as Magpie once pushed Tubbo down two flights of stairs. And he’s asleep in a beanbag chair maybe five feet from Tubbo.

His face is relaxed in his sleep but he still somehow looks tired, hands both curled under his chin. Tubbo studies him, squinting around vague spots in his vision. 

He still thinks he’s right about Magpie being Tommy. He remembers those loose blond curls, that angular frame from all those months ago. If he tilts his head right, he can see into the front hall and to the framed magpie print on the table. 

This explains the cut from a couple weeks ago, now that Tubbo thinks about it. It could’ve been Mantle who did it, actually, he had a knife with a broad, two-edged blade. Tubbo wonders what it says that he really didn’t question that until now. 

Tommy twitches a little, looking unfairly like a cat starting to wake up, then blinks and squints at Tubbo.

“Hey, bossman,” Tubbo says, then winces at the scratch of his voice.

“Morning,” Tommy replies, also sounding hoarse. He picks up his phone from the floor next to him, glares at it for a second, then adds, “Evening, I guess. Hi.”

“Hi. Are either of these glasses mine?” Tubbo gestures vaguely at the table. 

“Whichever’s closest to you should be fine,” Tommy answers, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. “I think I’m already sick anyway, so who cares.”

“Shit, sorry.” Tubbo moves slowly as he picks up the glass. 

“I’ll be fine,” Tommy dismisses. “Techno’s helping and it shouldn’t be nearly as bad. I think.”

Tubbo nods into his water, then stops and lowers the glass. “Sorry, who’s Techno?”

Tommy hesitates a second too long, giving the floor a wide-eyed stare. “He’s a friend. He, uh, he’s kind of good at medicine? He’s got his methods. I’m meant to call him that you’re awake, actually.”

“Alright,” Tubbo says slowly. He’s trying hard not to wonder if “having his methods” means a power. “Are you gonna do that then?”

“In a minute, I’m tired.” Tommy’s still for a second longer, then shifts his weight forward to slide onto the floor and sit there for a moment. “Are you hungry? I kinda wanna make mac and cheese.”

“I would fucking kill for some mac and cheese, man.”

A small, self-satisfied grin spreads across Tommy’s face. “Hell yeah! That’s what we love to see.”

It takes the two of them fifteen minutes to get into the kitchen and start water boiling. Tubbo’s just as weak on his feet as he would’ve guessed, and Tommy doesn’t seem so great himself. Tubbo recognizes the vertigo and nausea he himself was in the thick of a few days ago.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy laughs, sitting across from Tubbo on the kitchen floor. “I really fucking hope we don’t set the house on fire, my landlord would kill us.”

Tubbo starts to laugh back, then stops suddenly, Tommy’s casual reference bringing reality crashing back. “What’s the date?” he asks quietly. He has to focus on keeping frost off his fingertips—he can’t believe how much control he lost to a fucking virus or whatever. 

Tommy gives him a puzzled, worried look. “The fourteenth today. Tuesday. You okay?”

Tuesday evening. A full week. Rent should’ve been dealt with before Tubbo’s collapse, he’s almost certain, but his mind had been so foggy even before that. God, Mary will be pissed. He might not even have a job anymore, honestly.

“Oh!” Tommy says suddenly, expression clearing. “Your stuff should be fine.” He gives Tubbo a slightly sheepish smile. “I went and checked shit was locked a couple days ago, please don’t be mad? And your manager wouldn’t stop calling you, so we had a… chat. She’s a real piece of work, if you know what I mean.” He makes a bit of a face.

“She’s trying her best,” Tubbo defends halfheartedly. “She just needs my help with a lot.”

Tommy scoffs. “Yeah, sure. She had some real shit to say when I told her you were sick and wouldn’t be coming in. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Tubbo.” He shrugs, expression settling. “She oughtta be off your ass some, though. Very productive chat. If you catch my drift.”

Tubbo is suddenly very much concerned that he does catch Tommy’s drift. “Please tell me you didn’t threaten Mary,” he sighs. Asking about it probably is less suspicious than not, right? Like someone who doesn’t know their friend’s abilities and morals. 

“She’s fine,” Tommy says in a frankly not-very-reassuring tone. “What matters is she shouldn’t give you any shit for being off, just call when you’re ready to go back.”

“Thanks,” Tubbo says after a long second, a little afraid to push any further.

“Hang on a sec.” Tommy cranes his head back, then sighs and starts to push himself up off the ground. “I think the water’s ready for pasta. Have you got your phone?”

Tubbo pats his pockets somewhat pointlessly. “I think it’s on the coffee table.”

“Dammit.” Tommy’s briefly drowned out by the sound of the pasta entering the water. “So’s mine. Think you could grab yours for the timer?”

Tubbo takes a bracing breath, then grabs the top of the counter to pull himself up. “Yeah, gimme a minute.”

By the time Tubbo’s back with his phone, Tommy’s dragged one of the kitchen table chairs over to the stove to sit in while he watches and stirs the pasta. “Eight minutes, yeah?”

Tubbo nods and sets his timer, sinking back to the floor. “You’re meant to call Techno, aren’t you?” he remembers.

Tommy shrugs. “I’ll call him after we eat, he’ll survive waiting a bit longer.”

Tubbo hums agreement and nods. “Thanks again for… yeah. Everything.”

“What was I meant to do?” Tommy scoffs. “Kick you out? Don’t think I could’ve if I tried. Don’t sweat it, man, friends help friends.”

Tubbo keeps his eyes on the floor. “Yeah,” he echoes quietly.

There’s a second of pensive silence, then Tommy says, “I don’t think my chairs are very wings-friendly,” out of nowhere.

Tubbo considers the straight-backed wooden chair Tommy’s in, that matches the one at the side of the couch and two more at the table behind them. “I’ve dealt with worse,” he replies honestly. “I’ll live.”

Tommy makes a face. “That can’t be where the bar is, man.”

Tubbo shrugs. “Seriously, it’s fine.” Sensing Tommy about to argue again, he adds, “Do you mind if I shower after we eat? I feel kinda gross.”

“Nah, go for it,” Tommy replies with what looks like a genuine smile. “Probably help you feel like a human again, right?”

“Fair,” Tubbo laughs. “I’ve gotta preen and everything so it’ll take a bit, sorry.”

“Yeah, no stress,” Tommy assures him. “I don’t know shit about wings, so sorry in advance, but do what you gotta do.” He pauses, squinting into the pasta pot. “How much time’s on that timer again?”

Even though he doesn’t have a change of clothes, Tubbo really does feel much more alive after showering and preening. 

Leaning against the wall in Tommy’s bedroom to catch his breath, he can hear voices in the kitchen but not quite make out the words. He opens the bedroom door to re-emerge into the kitchen, curious and a little apprehensive.

Tommy’s facing away from Tubbo but everything about his body language communicates irritation at the two men on the other side of the kitchen. 

Oh, hey, one of them is wingfolk, Tubbo thinks to himself, pleasantly surprised, before he takes a second look at the blond, dark-feathered wingfolk man and realizes. 

It’s not just anyone in Tommy’s kitchen—it’s Daedalus in Tommy’s kitchen. Tubbo recognizes his face from Daedalus’ reckless mask discipline, the partial veil that shows most of his face in the right circumstances. 

Tubbo doesn’t know if he should be more or less shocked than he is that Tommy knows the Syndicate, apparently.

“Hey, mate,” Daedalus says with a friendly smile that still holds a hint of the supervillain in it. “You must be Tubbo?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says lamely after a second.

“Phil,” Daedalus replies, stepping forward and holding out a hand to shake. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Tubbo can’t help casting Tommy a nervous look. Tommy’s expression softens slightly when he catches Tubbo’s gaze, then hardens again as he looks back to Daedalus. Phil. “You weren’t meant to be here,” Tommy accuses. “I only called Techno.”

“I’m curious,” Phil replies with a light shrug. “I never get to see your life anymore, y’know?”

“I called Techno,” Tommy insists. “I don’t need your help.”

Daedalus gives Tubbo a half-second look. “There’s more than one way to help a friend out.”

Somewhere in the continuing argument between Phil and Tommy, Tubbo’s gaze finds Techno. He’s groundfolk, easily five or seven inches taller than Tommy and muscular, with warm strawberry blond hair pulled back in some kind of ponytail. 

He’s the one who apparently “has his methods” that helped with Tubbo’s fever. Looking between Magpie and Daedalus arguing in the kitchen of a basement flat, Tubbo thinks he can’t really deny that the “methods” are a power anymore. He can’t really pretend he doesn’t know who Daedalus’ close friend with the unusual height and the healing power is.

He doesn’t have to think about it, either, though, if he doesn’t want to.

Tubbo crosses the kitchen with his eyes down to sink into a chair before his legs give out. He’s tired.

Chapter Text

“Sorry Phil and Techno came over,” Tommy says for probably the third time. He’s clearly much more annoyed about it than Tubbo is. 

“They really didn’t bother me that much,” Tubbo reassures him. The two of them are draped over the beanbag chair, Tubbo on his stomach and Tommy facing the ceiling. “Techno seemed glad I was doing better.” 

He should maybe be a bit more concerned—a lot more concerned—that a Syndicate member asked him distracted but genuine questions about his physical health while another member cheerfully annoyed Tommy in the background. However, he is honestly too exhausted, even since before this virus knocked his feet out from under him, to care about it.

Maybe that’s something he should be concerned about, actually: the fact that when he tries to worry about Tommy, Magpie, the Syndicate, it feels like turning the key in a car with a dead battery. 

…Worrying about that sounds like something that would require having enough energy to worry. Disappointing.

“Phil could’ve been less of a bitch about it though,” Tommy replies. The beanbag shifts as Tommy rolls over and he adds in a muffled voice, “I only called Techno, y’know. He didn’t say he’d bring Phil.”

Tubbo doesn’t know enough about the relationships here to really comment on that. “Yeah, I get that’s annoying.”

“I’ll live,” Tommy sighs. His voice is less muffled—he must’ve turned his head out of the beanbag. He shifts again, his hand bumps Tubbo’s wing, and he mumbles an apology. “I’m gonna go the fuck to sleep, man.” Tubbo giggles at the phrasing until Tommy grumbles, “Lemme alone, dude, I’m sick.”

“Yeah so am I, you’re not special,” Tubbo retorts. “If you’re going to bed, should I head back to the couch?” He doesn’t know how much he’s looking forward to that—his back is starting to make clear how Tommy’s couch is not meant for wingfolk to sleep on. 

“I’m staying right here, I don’t care what you do.” Tommy’s mumbling; it sounds like he’s already starting to make good on his decision to go to sleep. Fair enough, Tubbo figures. It’s been a hard week for both of them, and even though they only woke up in the afternoon it’s now pretty late at night. 

“I’ll stay, then,” Tubbo decides, resettling himself before his arm goes numb. “Night, Tommy.”

Tommy says something unintelligible in reply. 

“I probably need to deal with my apartment today,” Tubbo says over toast the next morning.

Tommy nods absently. “I could help you pack a bag.”

“What?” Tubbo nearly bites his tongue. He feels like he’s missed a beat of this conversation.

“Y’know, grab some clothes and stuff. You can stay here a little longer, if you want.” 

Tubbo isn’t sure what to say. He had, kind of, been dreading returning to his apartment and picking up his pieces on his own. On the other hand, he’s already been such a problem for Tommy.

Tommy finally looks up from his plate and blinks at Tubbo. “Hey, I mean it. God knows you’re not a hundred percent back and I’ve kinda gotten used to worrying, y’know?” A smile twitches across his face and he adds, “Plus, it’s your turn to take care of me.” He makes an exaggerated coughing sound and Tubbo rolls his eyes. 

“Well, if you’re so gravely ill,” Tubbo replies, cautiously returning Tommy’s smile. “I suppose I can be convinced.”

Tubbo insists that Tommy stay home while Tubbo goes to his apartment. At this point, he’s pretty sure Tommy’s sicker than he is, and would only be a distraction. 

It takes probably three times as long as it should to get home, with Tubbo stopping every few blocks to sit on the curb and recover his bearings. Going back to work is going to be a hassle, he realizes—he might see if they still have that stool Chrissa used when she broke her leg. 

The apartment feels almost eerily fine. There’s something of a bad smell in the kitchen, but Tubbo’s diet isn’t nearly healthy enough to have done anything horrific. He sets aside and saves what he can, and it doesn’t take long to clean out what’s gone off. 

It turns out that the most serviceable bags Tubbo owns are a larger-than-average cloth shopping bag and the duffel he used to use to bring stuff back and forth to the Association headquarters. He can barely bring himself to touch the ice-blue shirt with the loose three-quarters sleeves that he finds at the bottom of the duffel, but pushes himself to dump it in his closet with a reminder of precisely whose flat he’s going back to. 

Tubbo packs some clothes and a few personal items in his association duffel, then whatever food might go bad in the canvas tote bag. He’s never been more grateful not to own a houseplant. 

Walking down the street, Tubbo has a nearly overwhelming sense of deja vu. Minus the tote, a photo taken of him right now—sweats and messy hair, plain black duffel slung over one shoulder, eyes firmly on the ground in front of him—could be from any week he was in the Association. 

Unbidden, he wonders if he’s seen Bishop at all since he was fired from the Association. It’s been months at this point and Tubbo doesn’t know if he’d even recognize Bishop’s voice out of context. Any short, thin guy on the street with a short black ponytail could be Tubbo’s one-time only ally. He hasn’t gone back to Las Nevadas Cafe. He hasn’t checked. Bishop could be anywhere. 

He trips on a crack in the sidewalk and goes down, then lets that train of thought drain away as he catches his breath on the cement. 

“Hey, Tommy?”

Tommy, asleep in his own bed for once, mumbles something unintelligible. 

“Your alarm went off, time for food and meds.” Tubbo lays a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, wondering if this is gonna be the time Tommy doesn’t wake up. So far, over the past forty-eight hours, Tommy’s version of the virus has been gentler than Tubbo’s. It could be Techno’s earlier intervention, it could be that Tommy’s actually letting himself rest, or it could be that he’s still getting worse. Tubbo doesn’t have the expertise to know.

Tommy cracks his eyes open to give Tubbo the world’s sleepiest glare. He mutters something that sounds like I don’t wanna.

“Rough,” Tubbo replies. “Get up, I made an egg.”

“Sick of eggs,” Tommy whines as he rolls over to face Tubbo. 

Tubbo hums unsympathetically. “Cook for yourself, then. C’mon.” He takes Tommy’s hand and helps pull him up, letting Tommy flop against his shoulder and lean a lot of his weight there. Tubbo honestly isn’t sure how much of it is dramatics and how much is real. 

He does, eventually, manage to deposit Tommy at the kitchen table, and Tommy eats the scrambled egg with minimal complaint. Tubbo’s made himself one too, and he does have to admit it’s getting a little old. It’s just easy to make, and doesn’t require too much thought or planning. 

Tubbo keeps promising himself that he’ll put more effort in once he’s recovered his energy. He’ll allow that he’s been running almost on empty since well before the Association fired him, but he feels like it’s been even worse since he got sick. The last couple days off work, just keeping an eye on Tommy and pacing the flat, haven’t helped nearly as much as he thought they would. 

He probably just has to get over it, he figures. The times he felt most at home in the Association were when he stopped waiting for it to get better. 

He can probably force himself to make a stir fry with the vegetables currently languishing in Tommy’s fridge. Everybody owns rice, almost certainly. He can make a bunch, then just reheat portions, and Tommy will have a different food to get sick of and complain about.

Tubbo passes Tommy a couple fever reducers and resolves to try.

Later that day, when Tommy is asleep again and Tubbo is watching rice boil, Tommy’s phone rings.

It’s been buzzing with texts for a bit, and Tubbo’s been ignoring it. Tommy will deal with that when he wants to.

Now, though, someone is definitely calling. Almost against his will, Tubbo drifts to the end of the counter to check the number. He tells himself he should tell Tommy who called when Tommy wakes up. 

The contact name is Bitch 2 (Techno), which makes Tubbo hesitate. If Techno’s calling, who’s helped Tubbo and Tommy before despite Tommy clearly disliking him, it’s probably something important. And he might leave a message, technically, but no one does that in reality and Tommy likely wouldn’t listen to it anyway.

Tubbo takes a bracing breath to ignore the feeling that he’s fucking up and picks up the phone.

“Hey, Tommy, just wanted to let you know I’ll be over later,” Techno says immediately, not giving Tubbo time to greet him or explain. “Just checkin’ in, y’know, do some more power work to keep things runnin’ smoothly if you’re still sick. Sound good?”

“Uh—” Tubbo doesn’t think he’s meant to be hearing this. 

Once again he gets no time to talk. “Cool, see you soon.” 

“Wait—”

Techno hangs up. 

Tubbo just stares into his rice for a long moment before he goes to put Tommy’s phone down. He should’ve listened to his instincts—he definitely did fuck up by picking up the phone. He sits down at the kitchen table, putting his head in his hands. 

It’ll be fine, right? Tubbo just has to wait for some indeterminate “later” and then not explain to Techno that it was him on the phone just then. The less Techno thinks Tubbo knows, the better. 

He stands back up to check on the rice again. He’s been trying to push himself today and yesterday—standing or walking around as long as he can, hoping to recover his stamina. He has no idea how well it’s going. 

He probably needs to call Mary, actually, doesn’t he? He expects to be confident enough in his own and Tommy’s health to go back to work within the next few days; he should ask her to put him back on the schedule. Even with Tommy’s assurance he’s been dreading talking to her, but it’s probably time to bite the bullet on that one. 

Later, he decides. Right now he needs to cook. 

While Tubbo’s putting the last of his stir fry in large tupperware to cool down, a knock sounds from the front door. 

Techno, he assumes. It must be later. 

He goes to answer the door.

It is, in fact, Techno, alone this time, who seems surprised to see Tubbo at the door.

“Uh… hey, Tubbo.”

“Hey.” Tubbo blinks up at Techno, anxious and awkward. “Tommy’s asleep. Should I wake him up?” He steps back, allowing Techno in.

“Yeah, if you would. He’s still feelin’ bad?”

Tubbo nods, leading Techno into the apartment. It surprises him the amount of deference Techno shows him—he matches Tubbo’s slow pace from a few steps behind, although he must know this apartment well and Tubbo’s just a guest. 

“Tommy!” Tubbo calls once they’ve turned the bend into the kitchen. “Are you up? Techno’s here!”

“What?” Tommy’s voice from the bedroom sounds half-asleep. “What’s he doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doin’?” Techno replies, managing to sound both amused and annoyed. “What do you think I’m doin’?”

“Fine,” Tommy grumbles, loud enough for them to hear him clearly. “Let me put a shirt on.”

Techno gives Tubbo an amused huff and rolls his eyes. Tubbo stares blankly; he has no idea how he’s supposed to react to this relationship. 

In the ensuing quiet while Tommy, presumably, gets dressed, Techno turns his gaze to the dirty pots and half-full tupperware container. “What’re you cookin’?” He steps closer to it to take a look.

Tubbo shrugs. “Stir fry. A bunch of vegetables were gonna go bad.” 

“Smells good. You must be feelin’ a lot better, then,” Techno comments.

“I guess so.” Tubbo hesitates. “Thanks, by the way,” he adds. “For your… help, earlier. I know you didn’t have to do it.”

Now Techno shrugs, not looking up from the counter and the stir fry. “A friend of Tommy’s is a friend of mine, right? And Tommy woulda killed me if I hadn’t stepped in,” he laughs, a bit awkwardly.

“Tommy might kill you anyway,” Tubbo jokes, for some reason made more comfortable by how Techno’s manner becomes slightly stilted at the serious topic.

Techno laughs again, the sound this time realer and fuller. “I’d like to see him try.”

At that, Tommy emerges from the bedroom, his hair a rat’s nest but wearing a shirt and a different pair of pants than when he went down for the nap. “Hey, are you two bonding?” He narrows his eyes at the pair of them. “You can’t bond. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” Techno replies offhand. 

The room falls into silence. Techno gives Tubbo a wary look, so quick Tubbo almost misses it.

“I’ll go to the other room,” Tubbo offers after another stiff moment, gesturing vaguely to the opening into Tommy’s living room. “I need to, uh, check my email?” Nobody protests as he retreats to the couch.

He hears Tommy’s bedroom door close again and pulls out his phone.

“Hi, Mary.” Sitting on Tommy’s beanbag chair, Tubbo cradles his phone to his ear. 

“Toby, honey,” Mary greets in her usual warm tone. She pauses, though, letting the silence over the phone line stretch. “How are you feeling?”

“Um… fine. Not sick anymore, or anything.” Tubbo can feel himself flushing as he stumbles over the answer. He doesn’t miss how Tommy, on the couch, looks up from his laptop to watch Tubbo with a sharp gaze. “Yeah, feeling much better. How’s the store been?”

“Oh, fine, fine. Corporate wants us to use a new computer system, and Lara can’t figure out how to work it.” 

Tubbo doesn’t doubt that Lara can, in fact, work the new system. He almost respects her stubborn refusal to do jack shit for Mary. 

“I can take a look at it,” Tubbo offers. Tommy’s eyes narrow and Tubbo tries not to hunch inward. “It’s not a problem.”

“Are you coming back soon, then?” Mary sounds so relieved she’s almost excited. 

Tubbo nods, uselessly. “Yeah, if you’re… if that’s okay. You can just put me back on the next schedule if that works for you?”

“Sure,” Mary replies. She hesitates again and Tubbo waits. “Do you think you could come in for the evening shift Monday, actually? Sathvik called out. I mean, if you feel up to it,” she adds in a rush.

Tubbo doesn’t really know how to react to Mary obviously trying to be less pushy. Tommy must’ve really frightened her. “I can do Monday, yeah,” he agrees. He can handle it, he’s sure. “See you then?”

“See you then,” Mary agrees. “Bye, Toby.”

“Bye.” 

Tubbo hangs up and exhales.

“What’s she making you do?” Tommy asks warily.

“Nothing,” Tubbo replies, almost defensive. “Just look at the new operating system corporate wants us to use. It’s really no big deal.”

“And you’re going back Monday?” 

“I guess, yeah.” A small smile plays across Tubbo’s face, then he feels guilty about that. “She asked, like, really nicely; what did you say to her?”

“Nothing!” Tommy’s only-slightly-sheepish smile says otherwise. “It’s a good thing, right? You can’t just let her walk all over you.”

“Whatever.” Tubbo shakes his head, still fighting a smile. 

Tubbo ends up going back to his own apartment Monday morning, before his shift at the store. 

Tommy insists on walking him home, despite the last dregs of the virus sapping his stamina. Again, it doesn’t seem as bad as Tubbo’s was. They stop every couple blocks to catch their breath, but it’s as much for Tubbo’s sake as Tommy’s.

None of that stops Tommy from whining the whole time. 

“I’ll be so lonely without you,” he says for probably the fifth time as Tubbo unlocks his apartment door. “Won’t you be lonely?”

“I’ll be too busy enjoying the quiet.”

“Hey!” 

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “What, do you want me to die of heartbreak overnight?”

“It’d be a nice gesture,” Tommy mutters. 

“Whatever,” Tubbo laughs. “Are you sure you can find your way back home?”

Tommy nods solemnly. “Google maps is my best friend.”

“Hey, what about me?” Tommy’s suddenly gotten liberal with calling Tubbo his best friend since Tubbo’s illness. Definitely a weird feeling, but a good one.

“Well, since you refuse to die of loneliness…”

“You know what, fuck off. Get out of my apartment.”

“Fine! Farewell, Tubbo, I’ll cry into my lunch without you, I—”

“Hush.” Tubbo closes the door, muffling Tommy’s cry of complaint. 

Tubbo takes a look at the grocery store computers during the shift he took over from Sathvik. Mary spends fifteen minutes walking him through it before he googles the documentation and just reads that. 

It turns out they needed to download a separate extension to get the loyalty cards to work again. He promises Mary he’ll help her reboot the registers and get them working after closing tonight.

Mary happily explains her success in getting the system to work to everyone who walks into the breakroom, by what Tubbo hears from her and his coworkers. She gets the file type they downloaded wrong every time. 

Friday evening finds Tubbo and Tommy on Tubbo’s couch, watching Pacific Rim and talking over the whole thing.

“I’d be a great Jaeger pilot, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about—ugh.” Tommy’s phone buzzes and he frowns at it. He’s been getting a lot of texts tonight, Tubbo can’t help but notice. He mostly ignores them or makes faces, and Tubbo had decided not to ask. 

This is the biggest reaction yet, though, and now Tubbo’s more curious than he is polite. “What’s going on?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Phil and Techno won’t leave me alone. They’ve even got Wilbur to bother me about it now and he’s the worst.”

“…About what?”

Tommy hesitates, narrowing his eyes at nothing for a second, then says, “It’s kinda about you, actually.”

There’s an explosion in the movie that covers up the moment of pregnant silence. “What about me?” Tubbo asks cautiously.

“They—Phil and Techno—keep saying they want to check on you again. I keep telling them you’re fine and they keep asking where you live and if you want to come to dinner and that kind of shit. I don’t think they’re actually worried, they’re just trying to get you to like them. I’m not giving them jack shit, don’t worry.”

“I’d go to dinner,” Tubbo says, surprising himself. 

Tommy, judging by the half-second of quiet, is surprised too. “Seriously?”

Tubbo shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like my social calendar is packed.” It’s kind of nice that they cared, he doesn’t add. As much closer as he is with Tommy now, that’s a bit too pathetic to express even for him. Besides, part of him still wonders if Tommy’s dislike of Phil and Techno has something behind it that Tubbo just hasn’t noticed yet. 

Plus the supervillains thing. That’s surprisingly easy to forget. 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to pretend to like them or anything. You don’t, like, owe them anything.”

“I don’t actually know them,” Tubbo replies. “I can’t really know if I like them or not. I dunno, I’d go to dinner if they wanted.”

“Oh, they want. Trust me,” Tommy scoffs. 

Tubbo laughs. “You can give them my number or something if that’s easiest.”

“Fine, if you’re sure.” Tommy still sounds like he doubts Tubbo’s judgment. “You’re gonna have to go to their place for dinner in, like, two weeks at most, fair warning.” He pauses, then snorts. “I’ll try to get everyone invited. They can’t get up to as much bullshit if Wilbur and Niki are also there to get up to bullshit.”

Tubbo smiles cautiously, not recognizing a single one of those names. “Sounds good to me?”

“Ugh, it shouldn’t. But that’s what we’re doing, I guess.” Tommy shrugs cheerfully. 

Lara waves to Tubbo as she enters the break room, and he returns it without really paying much attention to it. It’s disinterested for both of them, more a confirmation they can see each other than a real gesture. She retrieves something from her bag and puts it in the microwave, and Tubbo ignores her. He’s mostly here to rest his lungs and muscles, still building back up since the virus.

Lara sits down unusually close to him, though, with just a couple of the randomly scattered folding chairs between them instead of across the room. Tubbo looks up from his phone to glance at her. 

“Hey,” she says, “so where’d you vanish to?” Her voice is still flat—Tubbo considers that maybe that’s just how she sounds. 

“Sorry, what?”

“When you disappeared for two weeks. Where were you?” Lara doesn’t even have her phone out. Her dark eyes are digging into Tubbo’s skin. 

“Oh, um… I was just sick.” Tubbo shrugs, shifting in his chair and wincing when the cold metal brushes his feathers. 

Lara winces back. “Must’ve been bad if you couldn’t work for that long.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” I could have died. Probably. Tubbo tries not to focus on that. He shrugs again. “Better now, mostly. All water under the bridge.” He pauses. “Can I ask why you’re asking?”

“Everybody got curious,” Lara tells him. “You’re basically assistant store manager and you were just gone with no warning or explanation for almost two weeks. People talked and Mary wouldn’t answer any questions.” 

Tubbo makes an equivocal sound. He tries to imagine his coworkers talking about him when he’s not there and can’t. “Were things okay here?” 

“I mean, are they ever?” 

It’s a bit too true for Tubbo to laugh at. “Sorry. I would’ve come in if I could, y’know?”

Lara gives him a sideways, almost annoyed look. “Don’t apologize for that.”

Two days later, Tubbo gets a text from an unknown number simply reading, Hey, it’s Phil. Is this Tubbo?

Tubbo, at home late at night ignoring the Netflix show playing on his laptop, takes a second then replies, Yeah hi

Neat :), comes the immediate response. When are you free this week? Trying to plan a dinner with friends

Tubbo snorts aloud. Tommy wasn’t exaggerating, apparently. 

Tommy surprises Tubbo by being outside the doors of the grocery store when Tubbo gets off his morning shift. 

“Tubbo! Tubbo, over here!” Tommy waves vigorously and Tubbo makes his way over, near a lamppost in the busy parking lot. 

“Hey,” Tubbo greets. He pulls his hand from his coat pocket to wave back. The days are starting to get warmer, but he’s still bundled up, feathers fluffed for warmth. 

“You’re going home, right? I came to walk with you.”

Tubbo snorts a laugh. “What were you gonna do if I didn’t have the morning shift?”

Tommy shrugs easily. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You did.”

Tubbo nods concession. The two of them start side by side down the sidewalk towards Tubbo’s building. 

“You got Phil’s dinner invite, right?” Tubbo confirms. He’d assumed so, and suddenly feels nervous at the idea that he might actually be expected to go alone. 

Tommy nods, though. “For Saturday? Yeah. Everybody’s gonna be there—I didn’t even have to bother Phil and Techno about that, they did it on their own.”

Tubbo hums vaguely. “Sorry, who exactly is ‘everybody’?”

“Oh! Uh, y’know, everybody. They’ve got a whole little friend group going. Phil, Techno, Ranboo, Niki, and Wilbur.”

“And you, right?”

Tommy hesitates for a long moment. “It’s complicated.”

Tubbo shrugs, meaning to signal that he’s willing to drop it. “I’m a little nervous if everybody else already knows each other,” he says lightly instead. “Are they close?” 

“Um, kind of? Ranboo, Phil, and Techno all live together, and Niki’s really close with them. Wilbur and I are more… Phil’s projects.” He makes a face. “So welcome to that club, I guess.”

Tubbo laughs awkwardly. They’re not Syndicate, are they? They couldn’t be. Phil wouldn’t be stupid enough to invite people he thinks are random civilians to his terrorist cell dinners. 

Honestly, the more Tubbo thinks about it, the more he thinks that maybe Tommy doesn’t even know Phil and Techno are Syndicate. Yeah, Techno seemed more open about his power with Tommy, but there are probably plenty of people with healing powers in a city this size. 

It’s plausible. Not likely, but plausible. 

“Wanna meet up before and go together?” Tommy offers. “They’re out in the suburbs but I know a bus that takes you almost right there.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Phil had sent the address and Tubbo looked up directions the other day, but he’ll appreciate the companionship anyway. “You won’t make me late, right?” he jokes.

Tommy shrugs. “Eh, only fashionably.”

They aren’t late, in the end. Tubbo gets the feeling that Tommy wants to be, but Tubbo manages to herd him to the bus stop quickly enough that they catch the exact bus they needed to and don’t have to wait. 

From the bus, Tommy confidently leads them down the winding streets of a suburban development. 

“So it’s just down there,” Tommy announces, interrupting his own ramble. “Third house from the corner.” He points and Tubbo follows the gesture. 

It is perhaps one of the most upper-middle-class-suburb houses imaginable. White vinyl siding, a partial second story over part of the ground floor, black shutters, a single tree in the yard. Bushes lining the front walk cast deep shadows in the setting sun. The only thing that distinguishes this house from any cookie-cutter seventies development project is a metal ramp going from one side of the tiny concrete porch to the top of the driveway. 

Despite not being late, Tubbo suspects they’re the last ones to arrive—two cars are parked along the street in front of the house, in addition to the one on the driveway.

Tommy falls quiet as they go up the walk and Tubbo tucks his hands deeper in his hoodie pockets, keeping his wings close over his shoulders.

“So… do you wanna knock, or…” Tubbo asks after they stand on the porch for a long moment, looking at each other.

“I can,” Tommy replies with a small shrug. He raises a hand and knocks sharply.

Not ten seconds later, the door is opened by a woman Tubbo doesn’t recognize. She’s taller than Tubbo but not by much, and her hair—dyed a soft pink and growing in blonde at the roots—falls to partway down her chest. “Hey, Tommy; hey Tubbo,” she greets with a smile. 

“Um… hi?” Tubbo replies. Is he meant to recognize her?

“Hey,” Tommy says, not enthusiastically but without bitterness. “Tubbo, meet Niki. Niki, this is Tubbo. I don’t think you’ve met before,” he adds pointedly.

“Nice to meet you,” Tubbo offers. 

“Very nice,” Niki agrees, her smile going amused and somewhat fey. “Come on in, we’re all in the kitchen.” She turns and gestures to them to follow, and Tubbo notices she’s wearing thin black gloves. “Put your shoes by the door, Tubbo,” she calls over her shoulder.

Tubbo closes the door behind him and slides his shoes off. Tommy follows Niki down the wide hallway without taking off his own. Niki’s wearing shoes too, visibly scuffed-up combat boots that make her footsteps loud on the wooden floors. 

Tubbo takes his time as they move towards the back of the house, looking around. From the entrance, the house splits in three directions: to a den with a couch and TV on the left, to a small and cold-looking formal dining room in the shadow of the stairs to the right, and down the hallway where Niki and Tommy are going. 

The sounds of conversation rise as they quickly reach the end of the hallway and yet another doorless square arch. Tubbo feels the pulse points on his wrists running just a little cold and he breathes into it, letting it ground him without showing on his skin. 

“Tubbo’s here,” Niki declares as she goes through the arch, and a part of the conversation quiets. 

“Hey mate,” Phil calls from out of sight. 

Tubbo is last through the archway and has to pause for a moment to take in the scene and eclectic collection of people. 

To the right is the kitchen. Phil stands at the stove, seemingly in the middle of stirring a large pot of something. The sheer absurdity of it all strikes Tubbo yet again—that’s Daedalus, the Syndicate member, the wanted criminal, smiling warmly at Tubbo and cooking. A section of counter sticks out, defining the kitchen from the rest of the room, and Boreas leans casually against it. He’s wearing a SIX the Musical sweatshirt. Fucking merchandise.  

Niki joins Techno at the counter while Tommy goes confidently to the left, where two more people sit at a large, beat-up table. 

The people at the table each have a white streak through their hair, Tubbo notices. Other than that they look nothing alike, so he figures it must be a strange coincidence. 

One of them, closer to the kitchen, looks perhaps in his late twenties. The prominent white streak through his bangs disrupts otherwise medium brown curls trailing almost to his shoulders. He’s wearing large red-tinted glasses despite the twilight outside, and a pair of orange aluminum forearm crutches lean on the table next to him. 

The other one looks younger, closer to Tubbo and Tommy’s age, with generally softer features and posture than the first guy. Their hair is darker and straighter, a choppy semi-mullet that’s nearly a quarter white. 

Tommy takes a seat by the younger one and gestures Tubbo to join him when Tubbo hesitates. Tubbo ends up at the foot of the table, next to Tommy. 

“Uh… hi, I’m Tubbo,” Tubbo greets as he sits. The backs of the chairs are low and comfortable for him—makes sense, given that another wingfolk lives here. 

“Wilbur,” returns the guy in sunglasses. “Pleasure to meet you.” His mouth turns up in a toothy smile. 

“I’m Ranboo,” the younger one adds with a small wave and a significantly normaler smile. They hesitate, then add, “I’m Phil and Techno’s roommate.” Another pause. “Employee.” Another pause; they now look thoroughly anxious and lost. “…Friend?”

“Nailed it,” Wilbur comments with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sure,” Tubbo says uncertainly. He and Tommy share a glance full of what on Earth can you say to that?  

“So… how do you know Phil and Techno?” Ranboo asks with a now-tense smile.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Tubbo replies. It occurs to him that if Tommy’s right and Ranboo lives here, they almost certainly already know. “I met them through Tommy,” he explains anyway, accepting the olive branch of conversation. “How about you?”

“Um—yeah, kind of a long story too,” Ranboo says. “They helped me out of a really tough time and now I live here, at least for now? They’re really nice people. You’ll love them.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Wilbur butts in. He’s giving Ranboo some kind of look, and Tubbo can’t tell if it’s meant to be a joke or just mockery. 

“Oh, and now you’re a judge of people’s niceness? Please,” Tommy interjects with a dramatic eye-roll, “name one single other friend you have, Wil. I’ll wait.”

“You,” Wilbur retorts. He’s smiling now and Tubbo hopes that means this is all in good fun. “If you’d let me into your flat.”

Tommy flips him off, and now Tubbo and Ranboo share a glance. “Fuck you, I’m gonna live there forever because of you. The stairs are a vital protective factor.”

“Wow. So who’s supposed to be the bad friend here?”

“Hey, who wants to hear about the school board meeting?” Ranboo announces before Tommy can answer Wilbur. 

“The school board meeting?” Tommy echoes in confusion. 

Wilbur nods. “Right, these pricks arriving interrupted you. Go on.”

“Do you… have a kid?” Tubbo asks hesitantly. He had guessed Ranboo was about his and Tommy’s age, but maybe they’re older. Or just have a kid. 

Ranboo shakes their head immediately and vehemently. “God, no. No, I just go to the meetings. I’m trying out local politics; I go to all kinds of stuff like that.”

Tubbo can’t fathom how different their lives must be. He didn’t even know you could try out local politics. “Woah, you must be popular.” He can’t begin to formulate an opinion on whether or not trying out local politics sounds fun. 

Ranboo laughs. “Oh, not at all. I think every elected official in this city hates me personally at this point.” 

“But the school board meeting,” Wilbur prompts. 

“Right! That one transphobe parent was back, so that kinda sucked. He—”

“We don’t know who that is,” Tommy interrupts. “Sorry.” 

Ranboo stops and makes a vaguely agreeing gesture, but before they can continue Techno approaches from the kitchen area, a glass of water in each of his hands. “Dinner’s ready,” he announces. “Come get your bowls.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says with saccharine faux-politeness as the three teenagers stand. “Would you be so kind as to fetch a bowl for me?”

Tubbo blinks in momentary confusion, then once again registers the forearm crutches propped by Wilbur’s seat and figures that, yeah, those would make carrying a bowl hard. 

Tommy makes a face at Wilbur. “Not if you use the word fetch.”

In the kitchen, Phil and Niki are having some kind of quiet, laughing argument. 

“You’re a guest, Niki,” Phil is insisting. He has his hands on the sides of a glass dish of cornbread, but hasn’t picked it up off the counter. “I won’t allow it.”

“It’s my cornbread,” Niki replies with a roll of her eyes. “I can carry it to the table.”

“Just go sit, it’s fine, jesus.” Phil rolls his eyes right back at her. 

“Okay,” Niki says playfully, and grabs the dish from Phil, taking it to the table with a distinct flounce to her step.

“Hey! Niki—”

“I was going that way anyway,” Niki replies, turning to cast a cheerful smile back at Phil. “Sorry!”

“Fucker,” Phil calls after her, absolutely no heat in his voice. He turns to the three of them, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. “Here, bowls. Serve yourselves, there’s plenty.” He gestures to a stack of bowls on the counter near the stove. 

“What is it?” Tommy asks, grabbing a bowl and passing it to Tubbo. 

“Chili,” Phil answers. “It’s vegetarian, if that matters,” he adds with a glance at Tubbo. 

“Um… no, I eat meat. But thanks,” Tubbo replies. 

The chili smells delicious as Tubbo carries his bowl to the table—warm, with a bit of a kick to it. He notices, taking back his seat next to Tommy, that in the end Tommy did bring over a bowl for Wilbur, which neither of them acknowledge aloud. 

“So, Tubbo,” Niki says as the scene starts to settle. “Nice to finally meet you.” 

Tubbo returns her smile. “Yeah, you too.” He hesitates. “Finally?”

Niki shrugs. “Tommy talks all about you. You must be very good friends.”

“Hey!” Tommy exclaims. “Tubbo, she’s lying. Don’t listen to her.”

“Nah, he talks about you,” Techno comments, setting down his own bowl and sitting. He’s across from Wilbur at the other end of the table from Tubbo, next to Niki. The only open set place is now between Tubbo and Niki, obviously for Phil. Tubbo isn’t sure how he feels about that. “It’s sweet, Tommy, stop makin’ that face.”

Tommy’s expression is set in an almost childish glare, flushed just slightly red. Tubbo decides it’s probably not a good idea to bring up how little he’s heard about all of them. “Lies and slander,” Tommy accuses. He turns to address Tubbo. “They’re always trying to embarrass me.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Phil says lightly. He’s the last one to sit at the table, and Ranboo seems to take that as a cue to lift a slice of cornbread from the dish to his bread plate. “You’ll live.”

Tommy’s expression turns darker, a bit less overdone, and for once he doesn’t seem to have a retort. 

“So what keeps you busy, Tubbo?” Niki asks, not giving the silence even a moment. She still has that small, amused smile, apparently unaffected by the quarreling. “What do you do?”

Tubbo shrugs awkwardly, shuffling his wings behind him. “Right now I just work at a grocery store. I… don’t really know what I’m doing. What about you?” 

“Hey, groceries are important work. I work with a couple different homeless shelters,” Niki answers easily. “Some administrative stuff, sometimes making food, stuff like that.” She still has gloves on, for some reason—Tubbo can see how she uses her spoon differently to keep a grip on it. 

“Oh, wow, really? Is it hard?” She makes a difference, Tubbo finds himself thinking. She actually helps people. Or maybe not, Tubbo would have no way of knowing. Maybe he’s just jealous. 

“Not so hard,” Niki replies with a shrug. “The organizational stuff is alright once you get the hang of it, and food prep is always pretty simple.”

“Aren’t you a little biased?” Techno ribs her. “You’ve been cookin’ for literally decades and you’re great at it, wouldn’t that make anythin’ easy?”

Niki laughs and ducks her head slightly for a second. “Oh, stop. You’re too nice.” Techno laughs. 

The conversation carries easily from there, and Tubbo finds himself much more comfortable than he had feared. 

He isn’t sure exactly what he’d worried the conversation would center on—something that would make it hard to ignore the three supervillains in the room, or put a spotlight on Tubbo—but it’s almost shockingly normal. Niki’s trying a new banana bread recipe soon; Ranboo keeps forgetting to return her tupperware. Techno saw a new movie and loved it, but Tommy is vocally disappointed at its reported lack of explosions—he hasn’t seen it, of course. Techno’s a lawyer, apparently, and dealing with an overaggressive prosecutor who’s taking up a lot of his time. That one throws Tubbo for a bit of a loop, he’ll admit. 

It couldn’t be more obvious that all these people know each other well, even Tommy and Wilbur who seem to take turns having the strangest definitely-fake opinions imaginable. Tubbo can barely get a word in edgewise. 

“Thanks for stopping by, Tubbo,” Phil tells him as the two of them clear the dishes. It’s unclear even to Tubbo how he got volunteered for this job. “I know it was kinda short notice, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for the invite,” Tubbo returns. His smile comes naturally, with only the barest mental alarm of you are smiling at a Syndicate member. They’re in the kitchen, insulated ever-so-slightly from the dimming conversation around the table. From the snippets Tubbo can hear, Wilbur and Tommy are arguing about Terminator while Ranboo tries to mediate. “The food was great, by the way.” 

Phil had been humming something to himself, under his breath, and cuts himself off. “Aw, thanks mate. It’s nothing much really, just beans in a pot.” He laughs and shrugs. “Niki’s cornbread really is magic, though, isn’t it?”

Tubbo nods. It mostly tasted like cornbread to him, frankly. Good cornbread, to be sure, but nothing life-changing. Maybe his palate is just unrefined or something. 

“Hey, Tubbo, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Tubbo replies warily. He winces as soon as he hears his tone. Normal people don’t sound so fucking paranoid when they’re asked a question, he thinks. He’s trying to be normal, isn’t he?

“Do you fly?”

Tubbo blinks. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. Not as much as I used to. Why?” Reasonable question, he tries to think—he’d be offended, and have a right to be, if a groundfolk person asked him, but Phil has wings. 

“Just wondering. There’s this spot a while out that I fly to sometimes, it’s got a great view. I was thinking you might wanna see it?” 

“Oh.” He’s not sure if he’s pleasantly surprised or just surprised. Is it too late to worry about secondary locations? Yeah, probably. “Sounds cool, sure,” he agrees, then hesitates. “I don’t have a ton of… stamina? At the moment. I don’t fly much, and, y’know, I still get really short of breath from when I was sick and everything.” He can feel himself flushing and he hates it. 

“Oh, sure,” Phil says, voice still chipper. “I shoulda figured. If you like, we could work up to it together. I kinda just wanna fly with someone, you know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Tubbo agrees. Wingfolk aren’t supposed to be that rare, according to census data and shit like that. Ten percent, or fifteen maybe? Tubbo can’t recall off the top of his head. The point is, they feel a lot rarer. Tubbo would love for some of that “wingfolk community” he hears about to actually reach him. 

It’s comforting, in a weird way, to think that someone like Phil, older and more established than Tubbo, might feel the same way. 

“That sounds nice,” Tubbo says after realizing he’s been quiet for too long. “Yeah.”

“Great,” Phil replies with a smile. “I’ll be in touch, yeah? Let me know when you’re free.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Toby?”

Tubbo looks up from his phone, where he’s been staring blankly at the same tweet for the past two minutes. He hadn’t even noticed Mary enter the break room. “Hi, Mary, what’s up?”

“Oh, just had a couple questions, hon. Do you have a sec to talk?”

“Yeah, of course.” Tubbo sits up a bit straighter, trying to ignore anxiety squirming through his gut. Worry feels like worry instead of starting a dead car again, apparently. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

“Aw, don’t give me that look, Toby,” Mary says with a gentle smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “I don’t bite.”

Tubbo does his best to laugh. “Sorry, just… tired. What do you need?”

“I was wondering if you could pick up the morning shift on Saturday?” Mary asks, giving him her same hopeful smile. “Lara’s called out sick and we’ll end up shortstaffed if nobody can take it.”

Tubbo starts to nod, and then thinks about whether or not he can take the shift. He’d agreed to go flying with Phil that day, he recalls, but not until the afternoon—maybe three or four pm? He can’t remember. “Yeah, I can pick that one up,” he tells Mary, navigating to his phone calendar to enter it. It’ll be fine; he has plenty of his stamina back by now. “Is Lara alright?”

“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Mary replies easily. “There’s a flu going around something nasty, I’ve heard. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Tubbo swallows. “Right. Got it.”

The shift that Saturday very nearly runs long—or, more accurately, Mary very nearly gets Tubbo to stay late. He manages to extricate himself in time, though, and figures if he hurries he still has time to go home and change before catching the bus to meet Phil.

Phil had suggested it was easiest if they just met at the house; Tubbo already knows where it is and Phil is familiar with the area and good routes to fly. He’d had enough of a point that Tubbo hadn’t argued, although he’s still instinctively nervous about going to unfamiliar homes. 

He gets there pretty much on time but decidedly tired.

“Hey mate,” Phil greets with a bright smile as he opens the door. “Come on in.”

Tubbo follows him inside. As he starts to take his shoes off to leave them in the pile by the door, Phil gestures vaguely at him.

“Just leave them on, it’s fine. We’re about to head back out anyway.”

“Oh—right. Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, mate. You want a snack? We’ve got granola bars.”

Tubbo has to hesitate for a startled moment. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind.” He trails a few steps after Phil down the hallway to the kitchen. 

“I offered,” Phil laughs lightly. “C’mon.” In the kitchen, Phil roots through a pantry and pulls out two brightly packaged granola bars. He tosses one to Tubbo. “Hope the flavor’s okay, that’s the only kind we have.”

“It’s fine, thanks.” Tubbo starts to unwrap it, mirroring Phil’s position standing over the counter. 

There’s a moment of silence and Tubbo wonders if he’s the only uncomfortable one. 

“So… how’ve you been, mate?”

“Um, fine,” Tubbo responds after a second. “Yeah, mostly fine. Uh, and you?”

“Oh, yeah, same as ever.” Phil flashes him a smile. “You said you work at a grocery store, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Tubbo agrees. “And you’re… what do you do, again? Sorry.”

Phil laughs again, fuller this time. He sounds almost startled, but happy about it. “I don’t really work a job, actually. I keep the household running, y’know, and Techno and I have a bit of a side hustle that I do some stuff for, but nothing regular. I never really meshed with the whole nine-to-five thing and Techno’s job keeps him so busy that it was just easier for me to stay home.”

“Huh, cool.” Tubbo hesitates a bit, then risks asking, “So are you two… married? Or…?”

“Nah, nah.” Phil keeps laughing, then cuts himself off with an amused smile. “Nah, nothing like that. We’re good friends, is all. Things just… worked out this way. Y’know?” He takes another bite of his granola bar and chews for a second. “So how about you? You have roommates or a partner or anything?”

“Nope,” Tubbo replies. “Just… just me, yeah. Sorry, I don’t really have much going on.” He finds himself laughing, a bit embarrassed to be revealed as uninteresting. Better than if he knew why he should take an interest in me, though.  

“It’s fine, mate, don’t apologize.” There’s another moment of silence; Tubbo is marginally more comfortable. “Talking about work it is, then, I guess. How’s the grocery store gig working out for you?”

“It’s… fine.” Tubbo busies himself with his granola bar while he thinks. “The manager really likes me, I guess, which is nice.”

“Yeah? That can be a blessing and a curse, from my experience. But yours is good?”

“She’s really nice—my manager, I mean. A really sweet person. I know what you mean, though.” Tubbo can’t bring himself to say it’s more of a curse than a blessing. It’d just be cruel; Mary really is so sweet.

“Mhm.” Phil straightens up, stretching his wings and arms a bit above his head. “You about ready to go?”

“Uh—yeah.” Tubbo steps away from the counter too and gives his wings a shake. He feels a bit less dead tired after that moment to breathe, although he was standing up the whole time. He meets Phil’s gaze with a half-smile. “Let’s go.”

Through a sliding glass door Tubbo hadn’t noticed at dinner, the two of them step out onto a mid-sized wooden deck. A low railing of wet, rotting wood circles it, with a gate and stairs down to the sloped backyard. The yard is dominated by empty garden beds, some raised and others part of the ground, a few with stark wire trellises rising from the soil. Beyond that, a sharp line of trees defines the woods stretching back from the neighborhood. Tubbo can only think that in the summer it probably looks like a movie set—all it’s missing is a random rope swing hanging from the single tree separate from the forest.

Phil rests one hand on the railing and gestures vaguely with the other. “I was thinking of just a short loop over the woods for today,” he tells Tubbo without looking back. “Just some sightseeing, you know, seeing what you’re comfortable with.”

Tubbo wonders with a prickle of discomfort how much thought Phil’s put into this outing. “Fine by me,” he replies. He remains a step back from the railing, eying the dark wood and the peeling white paint. 

“Perfect.” Phil takes several steps back, then with a brief running start and help from the railing pushes himself into the sky. Tubbo follows a moment after, Phil flies a short loop around the yard to let Tubbo catch up, and they’re off. 

Once Tubbo catches the rhythm of flight again, things start to run together a bit. Phil’s dark wings and army surplus jacket are easy to track and follow as the two of them coast over the tops of the trees. Tubbo knows that some trees are starting to bud, gaining a dusting of color over the tips of their branches, but with his inner eyelid protecting his eyes from the rushing air the forest is still a uniform gray-brown winter blur. 

Phil knows where he’s going, obviously. He’s strong and confident in the air, climbing and diving and twisting around seemingly just for fun. Tubbo tries not to think of Daedalus while his lungs and muscles burn. 

They arrive back on Phil’s deck after infinity and barely a minute. Both of them stumble to a stop and Tubbo grabs the railing to support himself. 

There’s a second of mostly quiet, both of them breathing hard. 

“So?” Phil asks brightly, still catching his breath. “What did you think?”

Tubbo nods. “The—the woods are bigger than I thought,” he gets out eventually. “Nice place.”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees. “We’re not too far from some nice spots, if you know where to look. Stuff groundfolk could never get to—I really love it.”

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds cool.” Tubbo feels like he can barely breathe still, although Phil’s speech and breath have evened out. “Pretty—yeah, pretty cool.” He pauses, gives Phil a smile. “I’ll get out of your hair, sorry.”

“Shit, Tubbo, you’re shaking pretty badly,” Phil points out as Tubbo starts towards the sliding door. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Tubbo insists with a nod. For once he gets the sentence out in one breath. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry, you’re fine,” Phil assures him. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Tubbo keeps nodding. “Yeah, I just—y’know, still kinda out of shape from being sick, and had my shift today—I’m fine, just tired.”

Phil is giving him a concerned frown. “Can I drive you home? It’s a bit of a walk to the bus stop.”

“I’m fine, seriously,” Tubbo tells him. They pass through the door and the warm air smacks him in the face. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“I’m going to drive you home,” Phil presses, following Tubbo toward the front door. “It’s no trouble, really.”

Tubbo hesitates, hand on the doorknob. He can feel his hands shaking, his muscles resisting movement. “Okay,” he relents finally. “Thank you.”

Phil smiles in broad, obvious relief. “Alright. C’mon, let’s get going then.” He grabs a coat off a coat rack, pats around the pockets until he finds and pulls out a set of keys, then gestures for Tubbo to open the door.

Tommy hasn’t texted in two full days.

Tubbo almost can’t believe he didn’t notice sooner, but he supposes he’s just used to getting frequent texts from Tommy and doesn’t think about it much. Two days straight without any word is definitely unusual, especially since their illnesses.

After staring at his phone for a second, anxiety pinching his chest, Tubbo sends a simple, hey are you alive? lmao, and figures the ball’s in Tommy’s court now.

Lara’s back at work now, apparently recovered from her flu. She asks Tubbo if he was the one to cover her shift, and when he confirms it gives him a curt thank you.

He doesn’t have much time to think about that during his shift, but he does it anyway.

As Tubbo leaves the store late that night, he checks for a text from Tommy. There is none, even though the message has apparently been read. He frowns to himself, looking from his phone to the dark parking lot. 

“Tubbo!”

Tubbo physically jumps at the sound of Tommy’s voice. He looks around and spots Tommy under a streetlamp, waving to him.

“Tommy!” Tubbo reaches him quickly, and they start walking together. “Are you okay, man?”

“I’m great,” Tommy replies, a touch defensively. “Why?”

“I texted and you didn’t reply,” Tubbo explains, frowning. “And you didn’t text for like, two days before that. I was worried.”

“I responded to your text by showing up,” Tommy retorts. “See? Here I am.”

“You could’ve warned me.” Tubbo finds his voice growing sharp and blinks at himself. “Sorry, I—I don’t know where that came from.”

“It’s fine.” Tommy isn’t looking at him. Tubbo can’t deny the sullen, bitter note to his tone. “I get it.”

“Get—get what? Tommy, what’s going on?”

“Nothing! Everything’s fine, right?” Tommy now sounds openly sarcastic. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his gaze trained on the street ahead of them. 

“Tommy, seriously. I have no idea what you’re pissed about.”

“I’m not pissed. Who said I was pissed about something?”

Tubbo wants to scream. He takes a deep breath. “You’re acting all—weird. I have no clue what you’re upset about, believe me.”

“There’s nothing to be upset about,” Tommy says in a sardonic sing-song. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Tubbo thinks he rolls his eyes. “Nothing at all. You’ve got all your cool new friends, everybody who’s so much nicer to you, and nobody’s got time for Tommy and his stupid grudges. He’s fine. He doesn’t need anybody anyway, right? Everything’s fine,” he spits.

Tubbo stops walking. Tommy stops a couple steps later, turning to fix Tubbo with an expression daring him to try and argue.

“Tommy, with all due respect, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You and—and Phil and everybody! Everybody loves you, Tubbo, don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not replacing you or some shit,” Tubbo retorts. “What made you think that?”

“All the—you know! You haven’t texted me either. And Wilbur said you and Phil went flying together and Phil drove you home.”

Tubbo has to take a second to sort that out in his mind. “Sorry, Wilbur said that?”

“Yeah. Wilbur tells me shit sometimes. It’s what friends do, Tubbo.”

Tubbo takes another deep breath. He’s not going to shout at Tommy. “Okay, setting aside how Wilbur knew and why he told you—going flying with Phil doesn’t mean I like you any less. That’s ridiculous.”

Tommy visibly falters, narrowing his eyes. “It’s not that ridiculous.”

“Tommy, look, I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting!”

“I—yeah, we’re not fighting. Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“I—” Tommy begins, then stops. “I didn’t really think that far.”

“Right, I—”

“I just don’t want to lose you,” Tommy blurts out. He’s glaring again, but uncertainly. 

Tubbo blinks. “You’re not.” 

Now Tommy has to take a second. “But you’re—spending time with Phil and shit. You like all them.” 

“I barely know them,” Tubbo replies. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. You’re still my—you know, I care about you.” 

“I—you say that—” Tommy cuts himself off. Tubbo considers how it would look if he started walking again; he really would like to get home. “You have things to do with them, flying with Phil and shit. We don’t have a thing.” 

That’s actually a decent point. “We watch movies,” Tubbo points out. “I don’t really do movies unless you suggest them, did you know?”

“Wait, really?” Tommy shakes his head sharply. “That’s not the point. I just mean… we’ll grow apart.”

They might. They’re nineteen—shit, Tubbo’s nineteen now, where has the time gone?—and people grow apart. Tubbo lost all his high school friends that way within months of graduating. “We won’t,” he insists. It turns his stomach, a little. “We’re not going to.” He does his best crooked attempt at a smile. “We could get a thing.”

“Movies,” Tommy says, pronouncing it like he’s echoing someone. He pauses. “You don’t like movies?”

Tubbo shrugs. “Nah, I don’t mind movies. I just usually put on shows and shit instead at home.” It’s mostly all background noise. He does video essays sometimes—less likely to have sudden loud bits—but he feels worse about ignoring those than ignoring fiction. “My coworker recommended a show a couple days ago,” he recalls.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, they just finished a season or something. It’s a rom-dram, I think, the usual stuff. I’ll have to look up the title, but I could probably find it.” He meets Tommy’s eyes, trying to read his friend’s expression. “Do you wanna give that a shot? We could watch it together and it’d be a thing for us.”

“Ew, romance,” Tommy replies, wrinkling his nose. “I’m in.”

“Nice.” Tommy smiles at Tubbo, maybe a bit cautious but wide, toothy, and starts walking. Tubbo follows along. “Um… Friday? I have Friday off, I think. Are you free?”

“Ugh, maybe? I might have a… work thing.” A thrill of alarm goes through Tubbo—what does that mean, is it a Magpie thing, how should he respond—but Tommy’s just squinting at the sky, to all appearances a normal young adult annoyed by his responsibilities. “I’ll see if I can get out of it.”

The very next day, Tubbo gets a text from an unknown number.

Hi! Are you Tubbo? This is Ranboo

By the time Tubbo sees the message, there’s another one, sent a minute or so later: Phil gave me your number

It’s entirely reasonable, Tubbo tries to think. The two of them met at dinner, and Ranboo and Phil live together. Tubbo and Ranboo are even in similar situations, so it makes even more sense. They’re the same age, and both caught up in whatever supervillain and civilian dynamics Techno, Tommy, and Phil live. 

Ranboo seemed nice enough at dinner, too. A bit nervous, a bit shy—maybe as awkwardly aware of the situation as Tubbo? Tubbo tries to banish the thought. There’s no way to ask, so he may as well not wonder. 

Yes, this is Tubbo, Tubbo sends, then cringes. How are you doing? Even worse. Great. Ranboo will see exactly how unsocialized Tubbo is. 

Doin fine, comes the response, barely a few minutes later. How are you?

Yeah, fine, Tubbo replies. Nice to hear from you

Ranboo doesn’t dignify that one with a response. Fair, honestly. 

Tommy insists they meet at Tubbo’s house to start watching the new show. Tubbo had used the details he remembers from his coworker’s description to find the title and report it to Tommy.

“Love is in the Aether?” Tommy echoes, giving Tubbo a skeptical look. “Seriously? It looks like total bullshit, man.”

To be fair, it does look like total bullshit. In the Netflix thumbnail, a wingfolk twentysomething gives the camera a light but wry look, the title emblazoned in a handwriting font next to her. “They’re, like, witches or something,” Tubbo explains. “I think. And they fall in love and fight other witches and stuff. It doesn’t have to be cinema to be fun, right?”

Tommy shrugs. Bold move for someone who’s seen every Terminator movie at least three times, in Tubbo’s opinion.

Tubbo sighs. “I have it on good authority that there are explosions in season two.”

“Shit, really?” Tommy visibly brightens. “Can’t wait to see how they manage that.”

Tubbo laughs and rolls his eyes. “Magic, probably.”

“Spoilsport,” Tommy shoots back. On the laptop, balanced between their two laps on the couch, Tubbo hits start and a dramatic theme starts playing. 

“Well,” Tubbo announces when the credits roll of episode one of Love is in the Aether, “that is without a doubt in the ten worst-written things I’ve ever watched.” 

“But her witch classes,” Tommy protests sarcastically, grinning. “Her witch classes, Tubbo, aren’t you invested? They’re so deep and interesting.”

“Genuinely I cannot tell what the writers are trying to do with the magic in this show. What the fuck.” Every scene where a character uses magic—which is far too many of them, in Tubbo’s opinion—is a fever dream of nonsense incantations and CGI way too good for the rest of the show. 

“It’s so bad,” Tommy agrees. “I fucking love it.”

“Oh, totally. Can’t wait to watch another episode.”

“I mean… are you busy? We could watch one now,” Tommy suggests, looking uncharacteristically tentative. 

“Oh—yeah, I don’t have anything going on.” Tubbo hesitates. “Didn’t you say you had a… work thing, though?” He wonders if this is encouraging Tommy to do crime, and if that makes him an accomplice. Maybe Tommy has a day job, though. Tubbo has no idea and isn’t about to ask a question he doesn’t want answers to. 

“I, uh, it got canceled,” Tommy replies. “We should stay another episode, definitely. Just, y’know, no reason. It’s a good show.”

Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “Have we been watching the same show?”

“You know what I mean!” Tommy protests, throwing up his hands. 

“Sure, let’s watch another,” Tubbo agrees, rolling his eyes and trying to let the tension fade. “Maybe it’ll get better.”

“I sure hope not,” Tommy quips as he resettles on the couch next to Tubbo. 

Tubbo gets another text from Ranboo, this one asking if he’s free sometime the next weekend. 

Sunday night, Tubbo replies. Not the other days, though, sorry

That’s fine! Ranboo shoots back. Me and Niki were planning a movie night and I was wondering if you wanted to join in?

Tubbo thinks, slightly guiltily, of telling Tommy their thing was movies, then swallows that thought. Sure, if I can make it. Don’t schedule around me, though, I don’t mind if I have to miss

Is that too much of a brush-off? Ranboo barely knows him, but they’re reaching out—should Tubbo be making more of an effort? It’s not like there’s much he can do though; he just has the late shift that Friday and Saturday. 

Sunday should work! I’ll let you know :D 

Tubbo’s chest feels strange. He doesn’t know if he’s nervous or excited, or why he would even feel either way. 

“Say, Toby, did you see the damage reports from the Syndicate yesterday?”

“Hmm?” Tubbo looks up from where he’s once again dealing with the inventory software, hunched over Mary’s desk with the one proper store computer. “Sorry, what was that?” He doesn’t know how he could’ve misheard Mary, but also she surely wouldn’t just ask that out of nowhere. 

“On the news,” Mary says as if that clarifies things. “Have you seen where the Syndicate was yesterday? I heard there was a big standoff between them and the Association.” She sounds as mild as she always does when she brings up the Syndicate. Tubbo’s only ever heard her actually worry about them when an Association search in her neighborhood almost kept her from getting to work once. 

“I did see some of that, yeah,” Tubbo agrees, doing his best to match her tone. “Are they saying it was more than usual?” It was closer to Tubbo than Syndicate stuff usually is, for sure. He has to pass a cordoned-off street on his way to work. 

The official story is that the Syndicate was targeting the home of a director of a state agency of something-or-other. Tubbo’s been seeing the same five-second clip of a strip of townhouses in flames on all his social feeds. 

“Oh, yeah,” Mary confirms. “Big news. Andrew Curthois—or Courtney? Alex… Cuthems? Him, in the state senate. He made a speech about it.”

“Really? I thought he already did that.” 

What popped out to Tubbo—really all he could track from the news—is that the standoff happened during the two hours Tubbo and Tommy were watching TV together. During Tommy’s “canceled work thing.” Tommy had gone out of his way to make sure Tubbo stayed indoors for the entire afternoon. Should that mean something? Does it?

Mary makes a contemplative sound. Tubbo straightens up for a second, feeling his back muscles start to get tense. Mary, perched in her rolling chair not meant for wingfolk, shifts a little in sympathy. “Maybe he made another one. You know how he is.”

Tubbo nods. He doesn’t know. 

“Are you holding up okay, hon?”

“Sorry, what?” Tubbo twists to look at Mary around his wing briefly. If he focuses he can feel the fractal pattern of cold up the back of his neck from the bases of his wings—anxiety or just focus making ice that he knows his turtleneck hides. “Yeah, I’m… I’m doing fine. Why?” Maybe he’s masking his power less well than he thought; that’d be awkward.

Mary shrugs. “You’ve just been quiet, you know? So distracted. I know it’s silly, but I worry,” she adds with a self-deprecating smile. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m okay,” Tubbo assures her. “I’ve just been dealing with… personal stuff? Recently. You don’t need to worry.” He smiles back. 

It really does feel nice to be complimented by Mary. He’s actively, in this moment, doing her job for her, and he thinks his coworkers all hate him for it, and Mary probably couldn’t name a single fact about his life if she tried. But fuck him, if being smiled at isn’t still a ray of sunshine.

Tubbo checks his phone like a talisman as he approaches Phil and Techno’s house for his movie night with Ranboo, confirming and re-confirming the time. He reaches the house five minutes early and spends a second standing on the curb, looking at the budding bushes around the tiny porch. 

With one last check of his texts with Ranboo, he starts up the walk.

The door opens just as he begins to raise his hand to knock, revealing Ranboo behind it.

“Oh—sorry,” Ranboo says with a sheepish laugh. “Should I close the door again so you can knock?”

Despite himself, Tubbo laughs. “Nah, I’ll just come in. Unless I’ve offended your delicate hospitality.”

“Pff—yeah, come in.” Ranboo steps back to allow Tubbo in. Tubbo turns to the pile of shoes by the door and starts to remove his own shoes. “Oh, you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to,” Ranboo says, offhand. “We don’t really care.”

“It’s fine.” One shoe is already off anyway, he’s committed to it now. “Sorry I’m early. Is Niki here yet?”

Ranboo hesitates for a pregnant second. “Um. She actually had to cancel.”

Tubbo pauses in the doorway of the den. “She did?”

“Yeah.” They give him a tentative, awkward smile. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten to tell you; my memory can be a little…” They gesture vaguely, circling their hand in the air beside their head.

“It’s fine,” Tubbo replies cautiously. “That’s too bad though, she seems nice.”

“She is,” Ranboo agrees. “Phil’s planning another dinner soon and I’m sure you two can talk more then. Wait, I don’t think I was supposed to have said that. Um… never mind.”

Once again, Tubbo surprises himself by laughing. “Said what? I heard nothing.”

Ranboo laughs too. “That’s the spirit! No one will ever find out.”

Ranboo turns away, retrieving something from the kitchen table—there’s not a wall between that area and the den—and Tubbo lets himself suddenly deflate, hit by a wave of emotion he can’t name.

Something happened . The sinking feeling in his chest is nearly nostalgia, nearly grief even, but neither of those feel quite right. He feels slightly off-balance. There was nothing to recognize, there, just Ranboo’s excited tone and Tubbo’s own amusement, but Tubbo still senses something familiar just beyond his fingertips.

He shakes his head. I really do need more sleep, huh?

Ranboo turns back around and brandishes an unpopped bag of microwave popcorn. “Who wants some?”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “There’s only one person in the room, Ran.” He pauses, catching himself. “Sorry. Can I call you Ran?”

Ranboo takes a second before answering, and for just that moment Tubbo wonders if they’re feeling that same unplaceable weight. “Go for it,” they answer eventually, voice chipper as ever, and Tubbo tries to brush it off. 

Tubbo sits at home that night, still feeling that weight and using one nail to trace soothing patterns of frost on the back of the other hand. 

The entire movie night had that baited-breath feeling. Tubbo kept trying, every couple minutes, to look over at Ranboo and see how they were looking, and kept catching the corner of their eye as they turned quickly away. Ranboo didn’t bring up the way they were clearly watching each other more than the movie, so Tubbo let it lie. 

Tubbo still isn’t sure what, exactly, he sees in Ranboo that puts him so on edge. He just feels a little sick, a little unmoored, hearing their distracted laugh and watching their narrow gray eyes catch the light. 

He’s not getting anywhere with it, either, the longer he sits here. What’s the point, even?

With a sharp sigh, Tubbo covers the frost with his palm until it melts and stands up to go brush his teeth. 

Tubbo and Phil go flying again—it goes a bit better this time. Tubbo doesn’t think they fly any further, but Tubbo doesn’t end up shaking when they land back on the porch.

“I’ll just take the bus back,” he tells Phil as they finish glasses of water in the kitchen. Phil has been giving him entirely unsubtle once-overs since they landed, and Tubbo doesn’t know what conclusions he’s coming to. “I’m okay this time.”

“You’re sure?” Phil asks. His eyes are away now, trained carefully on a wall calendar that still shows last month. “It’s really not a problem to drive you home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tubbo says firmly. “I’m sure you have things to get back to, y’know?”

“Alright,” Phil allows. “If you’re sure. Really, I don’t mind, though.”

Tubbo casts him a smile and it comes easily. “I’m sure. Thanks, Phil.”

“No problem. Oh, hey, would you mind passing a message to Tommy, actually?” Phil tacks the question on casually, nothing about his face or posture changing. 

Tubbo feels himself tense up. He forces himself to stay mostly loose, matching Phil’s energy, but he’s sure Phil sees his wings move closer to his shoulders. “Sure, why?”

“It’s nothing bad, don’t worry, mate,” Phil says with an amused smile. “We’re—Techno, Ran, and me—we’re hoping to do dinner with everyone again probably Friday or Saturday? I thought Tommy might be more likely to show up if you told him. You get it?” 

“Oh.” Tubbo does, unfortunately, understand the play. “I can do that, yeah.”

He decides to bring it up with Tommy on Thursday when they meet up to watch more Love is in the Aether, the day before Phil’s told him dinner will be. 

“So… Tommy,” Tubbo begins, watching Tommy hang his jacket on one of the command hooks stuck on the wall. 

Tommy makes a sound of affirmation and gives Tubbo a split-second look to show he’s listening.

Tubbo hesitates. He probably should’ve thought this through more before literally the last possible day. “I was talking to Phil the other day,” he starts, then hesitates.

Tommy cuts him off with a sigh. “He wants me to come to dinner.”

Tubbo can’t help a short, ironic laugh. “Yeah, that’s it exactly. How’d you guess?”

“He does this shit all the time,” Tommy complains. “It just used to be Wilbur that he’d make ask me. You don’t have to listen to him, Tubbo, seriously. He can’t make you do shit.”

“I—I know,” Tubbo replies. “I just thought it’d be—nice, y’know. To ask, since he asked. Do you think you’ll go?”

Tommy purses his lips, giving the far wall a hard look for a second. “Do you think you’ll go?”

“Probably?” Tubbo replies. He takes a seat at the table and opens his laptop, starting to navigate to Love is in the Aether. “It’s free dinner, right? And everybody’s nice. I might as well. Are you going, though?”

“Do I have to?”

“I’m not asking you to do it, just whether you will?” Tubbo looks up from the screen to check on Tommy. He’s still giving the air that irritated look. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine. Has Phil told you what time to show up yet? What day is it, anyway?”

“Um. Tomorrow?” Tubbo answers sheepishly. A spark of amusement crosses Tommy’s face for a second, so that’s a win at least. “And five thirty.” Half an hour earlier than last time, Tubbo had noted. He hadn’t thought much of it, at the time—it’s just the second time he’s gone over for dinner, so he can’t draw conclusions. 

Tommy grumbles wordlessly as he makes his way to the couch. Tubbo, with the episode pulled up, joins him. “He knows I won’t say no if you ask,” Tommy says out of nowhere. “Dirty fucking trick.”

“You really don’t have to,” Tubbo reminds him. “I’m not asking you to come.”

“And leave you alone with them? Fuck no. I’ll come, don’t worry.” When Tubbo’s quiet for a second, Tommy makes a strained attempt at a smile. “Hey, start the show, would you?”

The next day, Tommy and Tubbo take the bus together to Phil and Techno’s neighborhood. Tommy seems less bitter about the whole thing than he did yesterday, but Tubbo still doesn’t risk bringing anything up in much detail. Instead, they mostly complain about the not-like-other-boys love interest on Love is in the Aether (Tubbo will allow that at least he’s attractive, which Tommy groans loudly at) and Tommy insists that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator could kill any of the witches on the show, with magic or not. Tubbo doesn’t have a hard time believing that one, honestly. 

Before Tubbo knows it, they’re at the front door, Tommy knocking without so much as a second thought. 

Techno opens the door and gestures them all inside. “Nice to see you,” he greets in that sardonic-sounding tone that Tubbo’s slowly learning not to notice. “Wil!” he calls back into the house. “The kids are here!”

“I’m not a kid!” Tommy retorts. He pauses by the door to take his shoes off and hang up his jacket, and Tubbo follows suit. 

Techno raises an eyebrow and gestures with one hand as if indicating the several-inches height difference between them. “Tommy, by the way, Phil’s been wantin’ to talk with you. He’s downstairs, if you don’t mind.”

Tommy arches his eyebrows back at Techno, his expression suddenly derisively acidic. Tubbo lets his wings slide closer to his back as he looks between the two of them. “Seriously? You’re not even gonna do it yourself this time?”

Techno shrugs. “Arguin’s never been my strong suit. And you’re gonna argue, aren’t you?”

“Depends on what Phil has to say.” Tommy shifts his weight back, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at Techno. 

Techno keeps that deadpan, unamused expression. “You know what he has to say.”

“Y’know, for—” Tommy cuts himself off with a glance at Tubbo. Tubbo can’t help but blink in shock. “You guys aren’t very subtle.”

“Smooth, Tommy,” Techno scoffs. He starts into the house, down the hallway. “Phil’s waitin’ downstairs.”

Techno gets almost to the kitchen doorway before either Tommy or Tubbo move. Tubbo just watches Tommy’s face, unsure of what to say.

Tommy gives a long sigh and lets his arms drop to his sides. “I’ll just be a moment, Tubbo. Don’t mind me.”

“Are you alright?” Tubbo asks as the two of them start after Techno down the hallway. He realizes he doesn’t even know where downstairs is. He can see the stairs up easily enough, in that cold front dining room, but he hasn’t seen another set. 

“Fine,” Tommy replies shortly. 

This is… fine, Tubbo’s sure. A normal private conversation between two friends and surely nothing to do with them both being wanted criminals.

Tubbo can’t quite convince himself. 

They pass the rest of the short walk in silence. In the kitchen area, Tommy turns right, towards where Techno’s already chopping vegetables on the counter, then opens a door in the wall shared with the dining room. Tubbo had assumed it led to some kind of pantry—he hasn’t seen Phil open it when he’s come over to fly—but it leads to a stairwell, painted a warm off-white, that Tommy starts down. He closes the door after him and Tubbo turns to take in the rest of the room. 

The only person here is Wilbur. He looks about the same as last time Tubbo saw him: curly brown hair with that broad white streak, red sunglasses, giving Tubbo an interested but calculating look. The only major difference is that his crutches aren’t leaned against the table next to him. After a moment, Tubbo realizes he’s in a wheelchair this time, and the chair that usually be in his spot at the table is in the corner between the counter and the back door.

Tubbo waves, and Wilbur returns a lazy, two-fingered salute.

“Hey, Tubbo,” Wilbur greets with a broad smirk.

Tubbo takes the seat next to him, careful not to hit the wheelchair as he sits. Wilbur’s angled towards the kitchen and Tubbo mimics the position so he can see Techno work. 

“Hey, Wilbur.” Tubbo pauses for the barest second. “Where is everyone?”

Wilbur laughs, sharp and rough in a way that makes it sound almost sarcastic. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s coming for a while. Niki and Ranboo are off doing something on their own, who knows what.”

“But… aren’t they coming?” Tubbo furrows his eyebrows, feeling horribly out of his depth. “They were at the last dinner.”

“You are new, aren’t you? You’re early. Phil and Techno want to talk with Tommy, so they told you the wrong time. Don’t worry, happens to the best of us.”

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Tubbo asks cautiously. “Techno made it sound really… ominous.”

“It’s fine,” Techno cuts in from the kitchen. Tubbo winces; he’d somehow forgotten Techno was right there. “Tommy’s just dramatic.”

Wilbur laughs his acerbic laugh again. “I mean, you have to give him some credit. The kid’s got convictions.”

“He’s almost twenty,” Tubbo points out. Given that he and Tommy are the same age, he feels vaguely obligated to make the point.

Wilbur shrugs. “Look, Tubbo, I’ve known him since he was in braces. He’s a kid if I say he’s a kid.”

“And he’s not almost twenty, he’s nineteen,” Techno adds. “I heard that.” 

“Do you know what they’re talking about, though?” Tubbo probes, giving Techno a cautious glance. 

“Sorry, even I have standards,” Wilbur replies. The smile he gives Tubbo is more of a smirk, one eyebrow raised. His sunglasses partly hide his expression but it still seems like a challenge, as if asking Tubbo to keep pushing. “Plus, Techno’s right there.”

“Wil,” Techno says warningly. “I know you wouldn’t. Right?”

“Such a worrywart. Can’t a man joke around?” Wilbur asks with a sigh, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, do you hear that? They’ll be done soon.”

The whole room goes quiet for a second, and distantly Tubbo realizes he can hear raised voices from the door in the kitchen. 

Techno sighs. “Dang, I really thought this might be the time. New… evidence and everythin’.”

“New evidence?” Wil asks idly. Straining to listen, Tubbo can’t make out the actual words from downstairs. He just hears Tommy’s voice for a couple sentences, a pause, Tommy again, and finally Phil’s lower-pitched voice raising too, his tone clipped and tense. “Mind sharing?”

Techno pauses on his way to fill a pot at the sink. There’s a moment where he’s quiet, Tubbo can almost see him rephrasing something in his head. “What, are you interested?” he asks finally, a tilt of amusement just barely audible.

Wilbur returns Techno’s crooked smile. “Interested? Same as always, yes. Interested? That’s still a no, my friend.”

“Mhm. Shame.”

There’s another split second of quiet—it would be comfortable, were it not for the growing shouting match downstairs—and then Tubbo hears the front door open. 

“Hey everyone,” Niki calls from down the hall, and Ranboo echoes her a bit more quietly. 

“Niki,” Wilbur calls back. He pushes himself back from the table to meet her as she comes through the doorway, navigating his chair smoothly around the leg of the table. 

“Hello,” Niki greets, waving as she enters. “Oh, Tubbo, hi.” She’s wearing gloves again, the same thin black pair as last time, and once again has shoes on despite Ranboo having taken theirs off.

“Hey,” Tubbo returns. The commotion almost, but not quite, covers the noise from downstairs. He casts Niki and Ranboo a slightly tense smile.

Ranboo returns a more enthusiastic smile and wave.

“Phil and Tommy’ll be just a second,” Techno informs the newcomers, gesturing with one hand to the door leading downstairs. 

Niki winces sympathetically; Ranboo gives the ground a distinctly uncomfortable look. 

“So how was shopping,” Wilbur asks, wheeling himself mostly back to his place at the table. “Three Corners Mall shake shack treat you well?”

For whatever reason, Ranboo’s look of discomfort only intensifies—their slightly queasy side-eye is now focused on Wilbur.

“Wil,” Niki sighs with an eye roll and a slight scolding tone. “That’s just creepy and you know it.”

“God forbid a man have hobbies,” Wilbur retorts. “You know I don’t mean anything by it.”

Niki says something in reply, but Tubbo’s attention is captured by the sudden crescendo of Tommy’s voice downstairs. For the first time in the conversation, he can make out Tommy’s words, muffled but distinct: “Fuck you!” he’s shouting, “and fuck your Syndicate!”

Before Tubbo can even really register it, though, the door slams loudly against the wall and Tommy emerges, his whole face screwed up and flushed.

There’s a second of dead silence.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Tommy demands, glaring at the room in general. “Don’t mind me,” he adds sarcastically as he stalks out to the hallway.

The uncomfortable quiet continues as Tommy makes his way down the hallway until they hear the front door open and close, only barely less harshly than the basement door. 

Tubbo stands up without really thinking about it. “I—I should go,” he mutters, and rushes to put his shoes on and follow Tommy. No one moves to stop him.

Outside, Tubbo has to jog a bit to catch up with Tommy. He’s moving quickly down the street, hands braced in his jacket pockets. Too late, Tubbo realizes he forgot his own jacket inside.

“Tommy!” Tubbo calls once he’s a few steps behind. “Wait up!”

Tommy stops suddenly. “Tubbo?” 

“Are you alright?” Tubbo asks, coming to a stop at Tommy’s side. Tommy’s face is still flushed red with emotion—the chilly evening isn’t helping either—but he looks surprised rather than just angry now. 

“Fine,” Tommy mutters, turning his eyes to the ground. He starts moving again, slower, and Tubbo keeps pace with him. “Just peachy.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever said peachy before,” Tubbo points out. 

Tommy makes a sharp, frustrated sound. “Whatever. It’s fine, alright? I don’t care.”

“Sorry Phil shouted at you,” Tubbo says despite Tommy’s assertion.

“I started it,” Tommy replies. “Not your fault anyways.”

“Still,” Tubbo insists. “Seems frightening, honestly.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “He’s not really mad, just annoyed. You only have to be scared if he gets real quiet, you know?”

“Sure,” Tubbo allows. 

“Anyway, it’s not like we haven’t done that before. Definition of insanity type shit.”

Tubbo stays quiet this time, waiting to see where Tommy will go. Fuck you and fuck your Syndicate isn’t exactly something he can just bring up. At the same time, though… at this point, he wouldn’t mind getting a bit more information. Phil must’ve felt very confident to start a conversation—argument—like that when all his guests were just upstairs. 

“Hey, Tubbo,” Tommy says when they’ve been quiet for almost a block. Tubbo lets out an involuntary breath of relief; it’s truly unsettling to watch Tommy not talk for that long. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure,” Tubbo says again. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his expression neutral. In the twilight dimness, with the streetlights not yet on, he doesn’t know how much Tommy can see. 

Tommy exhales audibly and looks up to the sky for a long moment. “So you know Magpie, right? The—” he waves his hands briefly through the air “—that guy. Magpie.”

Tubbo just nods. If he speaks, he’s sure he’ll betray the knot in his stomach.

Tommy turns to look at him now, a grin starting tentative and then becoming broader across his face. “That’s me. Magpie.”

Chapter Text

Tubbo feels his stride stutter, a few shortened steps as he processes Tommy’s declaration. “Magpie,” he echoes, and his voice sounds flat. Magpie. He was right, then. He’d been sure this whole time, but it’s different to hear it in Tommy’s mouth. Magpie.  

Tommy is quiet again, grin almost faltering. He’s focused entirely on Tubbo’s face, too, not even looking where he’s going. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah,” gaining enthusiasm. 

Tubbo breathes around his constricted windpipe for a second longer. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Tommy’s expression isn’t quite clear in the dim light and Tubbo can’t read his tone.

“Okay.” Tubbo nods. “Magpie. Cool.” This is definitely the wrong reaction, he thinks. Hopefully Tommy won’t read too much into it. 

“That’s all?” Tommy probes, somewhere between curious and insistent. “Just cool?”

Tubbo makes a sound as he hesitates but it catches in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I—I dunno. Okay. Good to know.”

He can feel Tommy’s eyes on him despite the dark. His wings shift uncomfortably. 

“So… that’s what Phil was talking to you about?” Tubbo offers. He keeps his gaze on the ground.

Now it’s Tommy’s turn to hesitate an awkward second. “Yeah, uh, pretty much. He—I—hmm.”

“I know he’s Syndicate,” Tubbo says flatly, hoping to disarm Tommy’s stuttering. 

“Oh—shit, really? Okay, yeah, he’s always trying to get me to join the Syndicate. Utter bullshit, really.”

“Sure,” Tubbo replies, mostly for lack of anything more reasonable to say. “Sounds frustrating.”

Tommy makes an enthusiastic sound of agreement. “So… how’d you know, then?” 

His question is a little too forced, a little too weirdly singsong to be casual. Tubbo realizes suddenly that fuck, yeah, he’s not supposed to recognize Daedalus and Boreas. That’s the kind of thing that has a story behind it.

“Lucky guess, I suppose,” he says and suppresses a wince at how fake it sounds. 

“Lucky guess?” It still doesn’t even quite sound like a question, and Tubbo’s forced to wonder what Tommy wants. What he might know.

He can’t. There’s literally no way. 

Tubbo, boring, lazy, asocial Tubbo, could not be farther from Oleander, except for the fact that he was Oleander. 

Oleander was never important anyway—not to the Association, not to his few friends, and certainly not to Magpie—so there’s no reason Tommy would even guess.

He can’t possibly know.

“Lucky guess,” Tubbo repeats, more firmly. 

With the shrill jolt of his alarm far too early the next morning, Tubbo almost forgets about the events at dinner. In fact, he’s halfway to work, cold without his jacket and nursing a thermos of understeeped coffee, when he recalls. 

It takes all he has not to physically flinch on the street. 

He wants to think it was a dream. Some kind of stress-induced reaction. But he hasn’t even been that stressed recently, has he? With the Association to compare things to, he doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve to say he’s stressed again in his life. 

Tommy admitted that he’s Magpie. And he wanted something from Tubbo, something he didn’t get judging by his almost sulky demeanor when he reached his flat and left Tubbo. There has to be a reason. 

There had just been that shouting match with Phil. Tommy was upset and off balance, seeking comfort. But that wouldn’t be enough, would it? Even Tommy wouldn’t do something like that so impulsively. 

Unless he knew the friend he was disclosing to also had a second identity. 

But he can’t know. How on Earth could he know?

And if he knows, that still doesn’t answer what he wants.  

Because, seriously, what the fuck is Tubbo supposed to do about this? What does Tommy want from him? Tommy’s and Phil’s situation isn’t anything Tubbo can fix—the only card he has to play is Oleander, and frankly that could only make it worse.

In the midst of his swirling thoughts, he arrives at work. As he sets the now-mostly-empty thermos down in the breakroom and pulls his phone from his pocket to clock in, he does his best to clear his head. Deep breaths. Mary needs him most immediately right now, and Tommy can wait a few hours. He can.

And as if there wasn’t already enough to process, Tubbo gets a text from Phil on his break.

Hey! I noticed you left your coat here last night

Sorry for all the chaos. Do you wanna stop by later to pick up your coat? We could go flying maybe :) 

I could come pick you up if that’s easier

He probably does need to pick up his jacket from their house, as little as he wants to talk to any of his friends right now. Spring is approaching, but not nearly fast enough. 

I’ll take the bus. Could I come this afternoon? He might as well just get it over with, and the early shift at the store is done by mid-afternoon. 

Phil replies immediately with a simple, Sure :) see you then

“Oh, hey,” comes a voice from behind Tubbo. He looks up to see one of his coworkers—someone from the deli, much older than Tubbo but who’s worked here for just slightly less time. Shanice, maybe? Shawnisse? Whatever their name is, they hesitate for a short but noticeable moment before continuing, “Ollie, are you free?”

Tubbo feels his breath catch. “Sure,” he manages. “Just a couple minutes left on my break.” He’d just been starting to get used to getting called Ollie at work, too—nobody here quite seems to know if he’s Toby, Tubbo, Ollie, or some other random name they misheard. It’s understandable, honestly. Tubbo never bothers to correct anyone. 

“We might’ve… lost a ham?” the woman, whose name is definitely Shanice, continues somewhat sheepishly. “The computer’s saying there should be one more in the freezer, but we can’t find it. We’re trying to go through the freezer and the computer’s bookkeeping, but could you help out?”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” Tubbo agrees. He’s already running through possibilities in his head of where it could be, or how the computer system might’ve gotten off. They haven’t had trouble with the deli meat suppliers recently, or Mary’s kept it record-level quiet, so…

He shakes his head to clear it and stands, tucking his phone in his pocket. 

“Sorry about that,” he tells Shanice. “Let’s go, then.”

The ham turns out to be tucked away in the bottom of the freezer, and doesn’t even need that much of Tubbo’s help to be found. He goes to the registers to let Lara tap out, and by the time he gets there he’s already returned enough to the swirling thoughts of the morning that Lara gives him a more interested look than usual as they switch places. 

He still can’t understand what Tommy’s endgame is here. He must have one, right?

Magpie never really seemed to have an agenda, either, come to think of it. The Association, with all their combined brainpower and regular power, could never predict his next move or make more than a guess at a goal. 

He has to have one, though. He must. The further Tubbo gets from the Association, the more he notices they weren’t as competent as they would have liked to be, so maybe they were going about it wrong. Tubbo always just took the analysts and other heroes at their word that Magpie was inscrutable.

Magpie was an abstract, though. Magpie was a name on a dossier, nauseating visual snow, and one blurry memory of Tommy. Tommy is a person. He must have a plan, or at least a goal. 

Tubbo might just not have enough information. That could be it. Despite his time in the Association, he doesn’t know much about Magpie’s history, or any attacks that Tubbo or Bishop or Replica weren’t assigned to. It just wasn’t the kind of thing anybody thought was important to know.

That’s probably it. The puzzle makes no sense because Tubbo is missing pieces.

The metaphor doesn’t make it any easier to put the damn thing away. 

I don’t have a goal, either.

The thought hits Tubbo just as he’s about to clock out for the day, mercifully able to leave when his shift actually ends. He’s standing in the breakroom, empty thermos in one hand and phone in the other, and he realizes he doesn’t have a goal. 

He hasn’t for a while, either. He’s done all this worrying about Tommy’s plans and what he wants with his Magpie revelation, assuming that of course Tommy has a goal, everyone has one, and Tubbo himself just… doesn’t.

He used to. He wanted to graduate high school, then he wanted to join the Heroes’ Association, then for a while there he wanted to be the best hero he could be. He thinks he gave up on that one long before he got fired, though, and it takes more thought than it should to consider what he wants from life right now. 

To survive, mostly. Mostly he just wants to survive, but that comes with the vague and uncomfortable sense that he should be doing something more with himself. He has a power, as niche and frankly useless as it is, he used to defend civilians against the Syndicate, and he only wants to survive?

And the Syndicate, the half of it he’s met, are actually lovely people, come to think of it. A bit ominous, sure, but kind to him. It’s difficult to reconcile the veiled man who stood over a bridge and watched it crumble with Phil, who makes a pretty good pot of chili and sometimes says “yee” instead of “yes.” 

Tubbo hasn’t tried very hard to reconcile them, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to start. 

“Hey, Toby,” Lara says, and Tubbo startles.

“Lara! I didn’t see you there,” he tries to laugh, pressing the hand with the thermos to his chest. “Hey.”

The look Lara’s giving him is irritated, but softer around the eyes than usual somehow. “Look, Toby, stay home if you’re feeling sick, alright? It’s just not worth it.”

Tubbo blinks at her. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think, we all saw last time and you’re standing there staring into space again.” Lara gestures at no specific part of him with a sharp exhale. “The job’s not worth killing yourself for, and god knows Mary’s not worth it. You’re just a kid. Go home.”

Tubbo feels his eyes narrow slightly before he can think about it, and he doesn’t bother to control his expression. “I’m nearly twenty,” he replies. “And my shift just ended, thanks, so I am going. Have a nice day.”

Who the fuck does she think she is, anyway? he thinks as he goes from the painfully-dry warm air of the store to the crisp afternoon chill. Lara, of all people, telling Tubbo how to live his life? 

Halfway down the block, seething, Tubbo remembers he needs to pick his coat up from Phil’s place. He bites his lip before he can swear aloud. 

Hey Phil am I still good to come pick up my coat? Tubbo sends, typing with one hand and creating and melting ice in his palm with the other. 

Phil’s response is nearly immediate: Go ahead! I’m just vibing haha

Right, yes, Phil doesn’t have a job. Tubbo always forgets that until he’s reminded. To be fair, it’s a bit overshadowed by other things Tubbo knows about Phil. 

Okay, on my way over. Will be a bit, Tubbo replies, then realizes he needs to pull up maps to find the bus station he needs from here—he refuses to go all the way back to his house to get his bearings. 

If it weren’t for the competing trains of thought running wild through his head, Tubbo’s pretty sure he would’ve fallen asleep on the bus and missed his stop. Luckily, though, the same things that kept him up last night save him now, and he gets off the bus in Phil’s neighborhood without too much trouble. 

How much does Phil know I heard last night? The bit where Tommy mentioned the Syndicate was only the very tail end of the conversation, and the only bit that could be heard from the table. Tubbo might be able to claim he didn’t hear anything. 

That’s probably the safest bet, Tubbo decides. If, as far as Phil knows, Tubbo still thinks Phil’s just a random civilian, there’s no reason for Phil to look into anything about Tubbo. Tubbo’s managed to keep his identity—old identity?—a secret from even Tommy, and he’s not nearly as close with Phil. 

Honestly, he’s not even sure Tommy knows he has a power. It’s not really something people talk about—potentially touchy with anyone no matter if they have a power or not, so mostly the domain of families and invasive strangers on the internet. If Tubbo hadn’t known Tommy was Magpie, he probably wouldn’t have noticed Tommy’s power either. 

So, it’s definitely safest to just keep under wraps, then. I couldn’t make out anything they said, because they were downstairs. Tubbo can continue to bury Oleander in his past without any prying Syndicate eyes. 

Tubbo nods to the bushes and single tree as he approaches Phil’s front door. The sidewalk is dark with mostly-evaporated water—must’ve rained while he was working, Tubbo figures—and the wheelchair ramp up to the side of the porch gleams wet in the weak sunlight. Tubbo knocks with only a split second’s hesitation. 

Phil opens the door almost immediately. “Tubbo! Hey! Glad you made it.” He gestures at Tubbo to come in, and Tubbo does. The house is the same as it looked last night and before; Tubbo’s coat is in the outer layer of the crowded coat rack by the door. 

“Hey, Phil, thanks for letting me come get my coat,” Tubbo returns as Phil closes the front door behind him. He gives the best smile he can manage, but it feels somewhat wan even to him—in his defense, he’s been up since before five in the morning. 

Phil laughs. “What, was I meant to hold it hostage?”

Tubbo shrugs. “I mean, I dunno, it’s still time out of your day. I can be out of your hair now, sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize, alright? Honestly, I should probably be apologizing,” Phil adds with a dry half-laugh. “Tommy and I kinda put you in a tough spot last night.”

“It’s fine.” Tubbo waves him off stiffly. “I couldn’t hear anything or anything.” Was that too abrupt? Did it sound forced? Tubbo can’t tell. 

Phil smiles at him, so he assumes it must have been up to snuff. “That’s good, at least. Still, bit awkward to have Tommy storm out like that.”

Tubbo just shrugs again. “He seemed… upset, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Phil sighs. “It’s been… a rough couple years, with Tommy. We used to be a lot closer.”

I do not want to know, Tubbo thinks. “Really?” he says aloud. “How’s that?”

“Believe it or not, yeah,” Phil chuckles. “When Tommy was in high school, this place was like a second home for him. He used to hang around here all the time.” Phil gets this nearly wistful smile on his face, gaze moving around the hall as if tracking a memory. “Had a bit of a falling out a while ago,” he adds. “Techno and I… I guess I thought we could step in. Help him out a bit, with his blood family all… y’know, the way they are. Turns out Tommy doesn’t like anyone’s opinions on his future, even ours. But you’ve probably figured that out, right?” Phil finishes with a sardonic smile at Tubbo. 

Tubbo can’t help but return it. “He knows who he is,” he agrees. He knows who he is. Tubbo’s pretty sure that’s at least part of why he liked Tommy so much when they first got to know each other. Tommy’s easy confidence, unabashed intensity of self, was something Tubbo aspired to. 

“He knows who he is. That’s one way to put it, for sure,” Phil replies. “Anyway… yeah. Last night was just rehashing old arguments, and I’m sorry you got caught up in it.”

Rehashing old arguments. Fuck you, and fuck your Syndicate. Tommy was invited to join the Syndicate before—right at the end of high school, if Tubbo is picking up the implications correctly. Tubbo would’ve been graduating high school too, and just starting to train with the Association. Didn’t Magpie pop up just a few months after that?

Tubbo feels like he’s glimpsing a play from the back, trying to fit together the scenes he saw from the audience with the machinery and stagehands he sees now. 

“It’s fine,” he tells Phil, unsure of what else he can say. 

“Thanks, mate. Have you been alright, actually? You look tired.” 

“Oh, I’m just… busy,” Tubbo offers. “With work. Had to get up early today, is all.”

Phil nods and hums acknowledgement. “Yeah, gotcha. Are you still up to fly for a bit, then, or do you just wanna get home and get some sleep?”

It’s barely four in the afternoon, but Tubbo can’t find it in him to be embarrassed at the suggestion he’d go to bed immediately when it had, in fact, been his plan. He’d kind of forgotten Phil even suggested flying after picking up his coat, and honestly isn’t sure whether or not he agreed.

“Um—doesn’t really matter to me,” he answers eventually. “Like, I don’t wanna impose if you’re not in the mood.” He shrugs. “Whatever you want is fine, really.”

Phil gives him a skeptical look for a moment. “Why don’t we just reschedule, then. I can drive you home. It’s a bit of a trek, right?”

Tubbo bites his lip for a moment, then nods and lets Phil follow him back out the front door. 

On his break during the early shift at the store the next day, Tubbo notices a text from Tommy. Are you free? Wondering about next love is in the aether ep, it reads, all in one message. 

For maybe the first time in the days since the whole… Magpie conversation, Tubbo realizes that Tommy might be feeling just as precarious as Tubbo is right now. Beyond that one talk, Tubbo hasn’t given Tommy any reaction to the reveal, and they haven’t really talked beyond Tommy sending him a random meme. 

Free tonight, Tubbo replies. Yours or mine? He should maybe give Tommy some kind of reassurance that they’re still friends. As long as Tubbo’s own past stays inside his head, there’s no reason to be afraid of Tommy. Well, there is, but only in an abstract way. No more than there was before, when Tubbo was just trying to ignore the Magpie thing entirely. Surely Tommy would understand why a civilian—and that is what Tubbo is now, he reminds himself, Oleander or not—wouldn’t want to discuss anything supervillain-related in too much detail. Aiding and abetting is a crime. 

There’s no immediate response from Tommy, and Tubbo returns to scrolling the internet until his break ends. 

Tubbo’s nearly done with his shift, manning a register that’s been mostly deserted for the better part of twenty minutes, when he sees Mary approaching from the shelves. She’s probably emerged from the office in the break room to talk to him, Tubbo reasons, and braces himself for what’s gone wrong. 

“Hey Mary, what’s up?” he greets as she comes to join him behind the conveyor belt. Her hair is pulled back in a short ponytail today, highlighting the silver at her temples.

“Oh, just checking in. How are you, Toby?”

“Fine, fine,” Tubbo replies and waits for the actual reason she’s here.

“I just remembered Chrissa had called me,” Mary tells him eventually. “She’s not going to make her shift tonight—I think her kid got sick, poor thing.”

Tubbo winces sympathetically. “Man, hope the baby’s alright.” Chrissa’s kid is barely two, if he remembers right. It feels unfair that bad things happen to people that young. When Mary doesn’t continue, he adds, “Is someone covering for Chrissa?” in as gentle a tone as he can manage. 

Mary has the decency to give him a sheepish smile. “I was wondering if you could, hon, actually. It just completely slipped my mind until now, with having to deal with the meat slicer breaking and everything.… You’re just always so reliable, you know? Do you think you could stay for the evening?”

Tubbo keeps his eyes on his keyboard and scanner for a moment, trying to consider. He told Tommy he could watch a Love is in the Aether episode tonight. He can’t leave the store short-staffed—frankly, full staffing is already too few people, and Mary needs someone reliable.

At the next register over, Lara looks up briefly from bagging someone’s groceries to give Tubbo a look with significance he can’t read. She looks back down, but he feels the weight of her attention on him. 

“I don’t know if I can stay the whole time,” he begins, forcing himself to meet Mary’s eyes. “I’ve kind of got a thing? I might cancel, I don’t know. I’ll find someone else to cover and stay until they show up; is that alright? I’m sure somebody needs the hours,” he laughs.

Mary nods readily. “Do what you need, dear.” She smiles wider, more genuinely, and almost against his will Tubbo drinks in the warmth of it. “I trust you to do the right thing.”

Tubbo nods. 

Mary brightens and nods back, wings fluttering once. “Thanks, Toby, let me know what happens—I should get back to the office now, on hold with the people who made that slicer.”

She turns to go and Tubbo bites back any thoughts on Mary coming to talk to him while being on the phone with the company they got the currently-broken deli slicer from.

For the next chunk of time, Tubbo alternates between checking people out and reaching out to his coworkers when the register is quiet, asking who wants more hours and can come in today. It takes a while—Lara leaves for the day and shoots Tubbo another look on her way past him—but eventually Sathvik is available and arrives just a couple hours later. 

Tommy says tonight works, too, Tubbo can come over and Tommy will make mac and cheese, and since Tubbo’s already on his phone he knows where he’s going by the time he clocks out. 

The sun isn’t quite low enough to turn the sky red when Tubbo leaves the store. He rolls out his wings and shoulders as he walks, trying to stretch off the stiffness from his workday. 

As usual, Tubbo has to check his phone to remember exactly which of the near-identical rowhouses on Tommy’s street has Tommy’s flat in it. He descends the half-flight of stairs and texts Tommy that he’s arrived, and barely fifteen seconds later the door is opening.

“Tubbo, big man, hello,” Tommy greets, loud as ever.

Tubbo laughs despite himself. “Hey Tommy. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much, the usual, y’know. Just starting water for mac and cheese—wasn’t expecting you this early, sorry man.” Tommy starts into the flat, back towards the doorway into the kitchen, and Tubbo trails after him. 

“Eh, my fault—I came right from work.”

Tommy gives him an entirely too suspicious look. “Weren’t you working this morning, too? How long were you even there?”

“It’s not that bad,” Tubbo defends himself. 

“That’s not a number.”

“I’m fine. Seriously, somebody just called out. I just kinda covered until someone else could get in. It’s just what was easiest, y’know?”

“Easiest for who?” Tommy presses. “I will talk to your boss again if you need. She seems like a real—” he seems to fish for words “—piece of work.”

“Mary’s perfectly nice, Tommy.” He doesn’t need this lecture twice, he thinks to himself, he’s already gotten it from Lara the other day. Tubbo was a superhero, for god’s sake. He knows how to handle himself. 

“Okay, you say that, but what is her job, even? Like, I’ll be real, I think you have her job.”

That is… a fair assessment, actually. Tubbo frowns. “I said I’m fine, okay? I think I’m a bit more qualified to know about regular jobs than you anyway, so it’s fine.”

Tommy gives him a sidelong look as they cross over to the kitchen. “I did work retail, just so you know. In high school and shit.”

Tubbo blinks and nods. In the time they’ve known each other, he hasn’t heard Tommy talk much about his past at all. “Oh, really? Sick.”

Tommy shrugs. “Yeah, sure. For, like, three years until, uh… you know. Stuff.”

“Magpie?”

Tommy nods, looking almost embarrassed. “Mhm. Shit, did you know I haven’t talked about Magpie with anybody but, like, Techno and shit? Feels weird.”

“Right.” Tubbo’s gaze finds the window high on the wall and the base of the bush outside it. Nearly the same thing occurs to him: he hasn’t even mentioned his time in the Association except in the vaguest terms since he was fired. He thinks he’d find it awkward, hard, to say Oleander even if someone knew what he was talking about. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to,” he tells Tommy in what he hopes is a gentle tone. 

Tommy hesitates. “If I do, is that… okay?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo replies immediately. “Of course, yeah. You can tell me anything, Tommy, I don’t care.” He turns to catch Tommy’s gaze, try to make clear that he means it. “I mean—wait, I care, you’re my friend, I just don’t—ugh. You get it.”

Tommy smothers a laugh. “I get it. Thanks, man.”

Tubbo returns his smile and takes a seat at the table. Tommy sits in the chair next to him, angled to watch the pot on the stove. “So you were saying…?” 

Part of him is terrified to talk about Magpie, or the Syndicate, with Tommy. It hedges a bit close to Tubbo’s own past, or might lead Tommy to ask about what Tubbo’s been doing the past year, and Tubbo’s still sure nothing good could come of Magpie knowing Oleander’s identity. 

Another part of Tubbo is jealous. Being there for Tommy in this specific way makes him wonder if it matters that Tommy has someone to talk to about this. It forces Tubbo to confront whatever’s different between him and Tommy that means Tommy is living his life and Tubbo is drowning. 

“Honestly, kinda forgot what we were talking about,” Tommy replies after a second’s thought. “Damn. Uh… how was your day?”

Tubbo laughs. “Fine, fine. No catastrophes at work, thank god. You?”

“Yeah, fine,” Tommy agrees. “Ran some errands, did work stuff.” He hesitates the barest second. “Like, I got some photos of stuff the Syndicate’s using to plan when Phil was doing his pitch thing, because fuck that, and I’m just trying to figure out what it means. Jeez that’s weird to say aloud. It’s like, I even think in alibi stuff, you know? Like I’m so used to pretending it’s paperwork or whatever and telling people that that I think like that, too. Does that even make sense?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Tubbo usually just doesn’t talk about his time in the Association, period, but when he’s forced to do so he does try to make it sound like he was on a support team, not a hero himself. It’s not often enough that he thinks about the lying. Considering it, he could probably count on one hand the number of real external social interactions he had while he was in the Association, so he didn’t have to lie that much then, either. “Like any other secret, I guess.” 

“Guess so, yeah. Anyway. Yeah, not much happening. I haven’t heard from any of the Syndicate or Wilbur since the fight,” he adds with a laugh. “I give it two more days before somebody cracks. They haven’t been bothering you, have they?”

“Um—no. Phil just let me pick my coat up, I left it there that night. I’ve been kinda busy with work, so… yeah.”

“Shit, that was probably my fault. Sorry. Phil wasn’t weird, right? I can deal with it if he was weird.”

“Nah, he was mostly fine. Told me you guys used to be close, I guess, that was kinda weird. He’s not harassing me or anything, I’m fine.”

Tommy still rolls his eyes. “Wonder what happened there, huh? Surely nothing Phil would have any idea about.”

Tubbo winces sympathetically. “His fault?”

“His and Techno’s,” Tommy agrees. “Well, all of them, but Niki was fine until after I turned them down and Wil hasn’t really given a shit in… a while. None of us even knew Ranboo then, so can’t really blame them except for taking the fucking offer, right? I don’t think Ran knew they even asked me to join until after they signed on. Poor bastard.” Tommy hesitates, giving Tubbo just a second to wonder what Ranboo, Wilbur, and Niki have to do with this—they’re just civilians, right? “Wait, sorry, Phil wouldn’t have actually told you, would he? He and Techno wanted me to join the Syndicate a long time ago, and I said no. I don’t need their fucking charity.”  

Tubbo almost laughs despite himself, caught off guard by the word choice. “Charity?”

“Like, them babying me because my parents sucked ass and they’re activists or whatever the fuck. I wanna make my own choices—everybody does, that’s literally the whole point of their Syndicate bullshit anyway! Who knows why I’m the exception because I’m Phil’s fucking chick—” Tubbo fails to suppress a wince and Tommy stops. “Shit, is that offensive? Because of the—wings?”

Tubbo nods apologetically and holds up two fingers pinched almost together to say a little.  

“Fuck, man, sorry,” Tommy replies, wincing back. “I really don’t know any other wingfolk, shit.”

“It’s pretty much fine,” Tubbo tells him. “Just a bit… touchy for some people. A lot of us grew up around bird insults from groundfolk, so… same as someone making a dumb blond joke around you, probably? I know you don’t mean it, but other people won’t, y’know?”

Tommy nods. “Gotcha, okay.” He glances at the water on the stove, now fully boiling, and stands. “I probably oughtta stop ranting, anyway. It’s just annoying at the end of the day, I’ll live.”

“I don’t mind,” Tubbo assures him with a half-smile. “What’re friends for, am I right?”

Tommy turns back with a strangely distant, almost sad expression. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, not quite awkward, while Tommy pours pasta into the pot and stirs it.

“So…” Tubbo clears his throat. “What’re you thinking about Love is in the Aether tonight? Is Alec finally gonna confess?”

Tommy groans loudly. “Tubbo? Honestly? I just want Mina to kill them all. Just snap and send Sonia and Alec and everybody to space or something.”

“Jesus, Tommy, bit harsh,” Tubbo laughs. “I still think Mina gets redeemed next season. She’s too cool to actually defeat.”

“I mean, did you see what they did to the fucking… what’s it called? Homo bunkus? In the second episode? That was sick as fuck, and they just melted it. They melted it, Tubbo. They have no idea what’s cool.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do if Mina is gone in season two,” Tubbo declares. “Something, definitely.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy scoffs. “We’re gonna keep watching even if it’s just Sonia and Alec in the end; I’m invested.”

“Whatever you say,” Tubbo replies just as teasingly. 

A few days later, Tubbo finds himself staring up at the ceiling, phone open in his hands, still thinking about Tommy and Magpie and the Syndicate. 

He still doesn’t know why Tommy would have told him, exactly, except for the growing suspicion that Tommy really was just looking for someone to talk to. Support. But still, then, why? 

And can Tubbo even provide the support Tommy needs? In the end he couldn’t actually help Bishop and Replica—they made it day to day, barely, and it wasn’t enough. It made Replica leave, and eventually got Tubbo fired. Bishop, last Tubbo saw, is still at the Association, actually.

That’s strange to think about. Bishop is older than Tubbo, was there when Tubbo first started training and is still there now. He’s a survivor—Tubbo always knew that. 

Oleander was just Tubbo. Barely a legal adult, barely keeping his head above water, barely qualified. Just someone. 

Tubbo sighs and shakes his head to clear it. Thinking about Bishop doesn’t help Tommy and it doesn’t help Tubbo make sense of the information he has. 

He knows a third member of the Syndicate, he thinks suddenly. He’s spent the months since Echo emerged trying not to think too hard about it, but he did know Echo, once. He knew Replica, at least, and he’s nearly certain those two are the same. 

He hasn’t spoken to Replica in longer than he hasn’t spoken to Bishop. He wonders if Replica quit or was fired.

If he wanted to, he could probably ask Tommy who Echo is, or maybe even to introduce them. Tommy might tell him, or might not. There’s no reason for Tubbo, Tommy’s random civilian friend, to want to know Echo, but if Tubbo was going to turn anyone in he would’ve done it by now. 

Of course, knowing Echo’s civilian identity—let alone meeting him—would be an irrevocable step back towards Oleander. To actively hide their shared past from Echo, from Replica, would be unbearable, and so Tubbo would have to build a bridge between the world he no longer has a right to and the one he currently inhabits. 

The thought makes him feel sick. Oleander was just an act, in the end, or if he was real then it’s Tubbo who’s the facade. It’s probably healthiest to just let go, like he’s been telling himself to do for months. 

He couldn’t put down roots in the Association, he can’t do it now, and he has to admit to himself that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He hasn’t, not for a long while. He used to have plans. Goals. This person, flopped awkwardly over his couch late at night chasing himself in circles with his thoughts, is not someone he ever thought he would grow up to be. 

Bishop would know. He seemed like he knew what to do.

Tubbo blinks, considering it. It’s true Bishop almost always seemed confident, sure of himself. He treated both Tubbo and Replica like he knew better than them, and he probably did—he did much better in the Association than either of them. 

If Tubbo could talk to Bishop, he could ask questions. What questions, he’s still not quite sure, but at the very least he wouldn’t have to worry about hiding his past. Bishop knows just as much about him as Echo does, and if Tubbo could get to someone without an intermediary to show them together…

In the midst of that wishful thinking, Tubbo remembers a pastry shop, just far enough out of his way that he only went once. Las Nevadas Cafe, where Bishop said he frequented for lunch. It was a nice place, Tubbo remembers, pretty small, with a bulletin board covered with fliers. 

A note to Bishop wouldn’t even be difficult. All Tubbo would have to write is Bishop, Ollie wants to talk and the message would be perfectly clear to Bishop without giving them away to strangers. He could just add a place and time—the flat roof of his building, he thinks, where another wingfolk could get easily but that isn’t meant to be accessed by the public. 

Oh, what the fuck is he on about? That would be utterly reckless, and have next to no chance of working besides. Tubbo’s nineteen and living alone—a grown fucking adult, really. He can work out his own shit. 

Tubbo decides not to reach out to Bishop, and then of course two days later finds himself at Las Nevadas Cafe, carefully written note in hand. Bishop, read the largest letters across the top; then, below: Ollie wants to talk, the Association location code for Tubbo’s street, and eleven at night one week in the future. Just barely enough information that he thinks Bishop will find him if he sees it, but people who don’t already know will leave it alone. 

This is stupid. Absolutely mental.

Bishop has to have answers, or experience, though. Bishop will understand that Tubbo is Oleander, and is not Oleander, and doesn’t know which one is real or who he can trust. 

It didn’t help that Tubbo passed an Association blockade on his way here, he thinks wryly as he stares at the crowded bulletin board. He doesn’t know if it’s the Syndicate or Magpie that the heroes are after right now, but either way Tubbo doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

It’s not difficult. He just needs to take a pushpin that’s not in use— that blue one, there, in the corner, he thinks—and pin his half-sheet of paper onto the board. It’s in fate’s and Bishop’s hands after that. He just needs to make one move. One simple move.

He continues to stare at the board. One roll of the dice. A stupid gamble, a likely-pointless gamble, but a straightforward one. Someone at a table with an empanada is giving him a weird look. He just needs to move.

Tubbo lets out a sharp, frustrated breath and shrugs his shoulders as if to prove to himself that he can physically move. Fine. Fine. Here we go. Three.

Two.

He finally forces himself to step forward on one, grab the pushpin, and tack up his note. Satisfied that it’s visible and unwilling to overthink it any further, he turns away immediately and makes his way out of Las Nevadas Cafe. 

There’s a police car parked sideways across the street when Tubbo gets through the door. He remembers the Association blockade from his walk over and once again wonders if he should check if anyone’s posting about supervillain activity online or if it’s Magpie or the Syndicate that’s being hunted right now. 

The sound of a bullhorn crackling to life comes from the cop car, and Tubbo figures he might be about to get an answer to his questions. 

“Attention,” whatever cop is in the car begins, “attention, citizens. Due to Heroes’ Association action in the area, all civilians must temporarily evacuate. Please go to Gardenia Street, where officers will provide further directions. Attention.” From there, they begin to repeat themself and Tubbo stops listening.

It still could be either Magpie or the Syndicate—he’ll probably be able to check online in a couple hours, but that doesn’t help now. Either way, Tubbo’s pretty sure this is the closest contact he’s had with any supervillain since his Association days. 

He’s probably less likely to get hurt by them if he’s just a civilian. If he isn’t unlucky enough to end up in the epicenter of a Syndicate strike, he can push all the risk onto someone else just like any everyday person. 

He should be fine with that, really. It’s half the point of the Association. 

But still, it feels different knowing that he used to be the one who took the risks, and couldn’t handle it. 

Someone grabs his shoulder and startles him from his reverie. “Hey, man, you okay? We gotta go,” the owner of the hand, a gray-feathered wingfolk man peering down at him, says.

Tubbo just blinks. The hand is still on his shoulder. He glances around, briefly, to realize that the cop car has moved away from its spot blocking the street.

“Dude. C’mon,” and the person tugs him forward by the shoulder, insistent and just on the border of rough.

Tubbo jerks back instinctively, and only a moment later realizes the man is probably trying to help. Tubbo zoned out completely on a street that civilians are meant to be evacuating. It makes sense someone would want to make sure he leaves.

They grab him again, though, by the elbow. “Come on, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not worth it. Okay?” Tubbo wonders if they’re annoyed or trying and failing to sound sympathetic. Another tug forces him to take a stumbling step forward and again, on instinct, he pulls out of their grip.

“What the fuck,” he half mutters, half spits, rubbing at his elbow where the skin is protesting. He’s not really a civilian anyway, is he? “Don’t touch me, man.”

That must finally be the last straw for the man, because they return Tubbo’s glare for half a second before turning and making their way quickly down the street away from him. 

A moment later, it fully sinks in that Tubbo is pretty much alone on a street he’s not supposed to be on. He looks around again, and then follows the trail of the man towards the corner, still walking slower than he knows he should. It’s just—he knows from his time in the Association that he’s not actually in that much danger if he’s careful, and it’s strangely hard to move quickly when part of him is wondering which of his friends is getting chased by Association members a few blocks away. 

Still. He needs to go. Oleander or not, Tubbo hasn’t been fit or practiced enough to deal with a supervillain for a while now. 

Movement in his peripheral catches his eye, and without thinking he turns towards the gap between two buildings to see what’s there.

Oh.

Fuck. Hecate. 

That, at least—the sight of her in the alley, looking right at him, her costume unmistakeable—finally gets some adrenaline pumping. He takes one step back, then another, trying to keep his wings from flaring out—

And she beckons to him. She raises one hand, her pale skin easily visible against the brown and black layers of her costume, and crooks her fingers as if telling him to step closer.

And what the fuck is he meant to do about that? He freezes in place. He can’t outrun her, and he knows how her power can hurt—but at the same time, the last thing he wants to do is be closer to Hecate in the shadow of the tall office blocks around them. 

She gestures to him again and he steps closer. She takes a step back and repeats her gesture, and gradually Tubbo follows her instructions until he’s barely at the mouth of the alley and she’s several feet away deeper into it. 

“Are you alright?” Hecate asks in Niki’s voice. 

If Tubbo wasn’t frozen in place before, he sure fucking is now. Niki?  

He thinks she smiles—it’s hard to tell with the lower half of her face covered. “Just me,” she adds with a small wave. “Hi. Are you okay?”

“Uh. I’m fine?” Tubbo offers after too long. “Niki?”

Niki winks and shushes him. Tubbo glances around, suddenly afraid the street might not have been empty, and takes another couple steps into the alleyway. His nerves are shouting that he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t get closer to Hecate, he needs to run. He doesn’t think he has anywhere to run to. 

“Are you that surprised?” she asks almost sardonically. “I—we can talk later, but the Association are liars and I’m not going to hurt you. It’s not safe for you to be here, though.”

But you have hurt me, Tubbo thinks. You literally broke my arm not even a year ago. “I know,” he protests. “I know.”

Niki’s quiet for a moment, squinting at him in what might be concern. 

Shit, that’s three out of four Syndicate members that Tubbo personally knows, apparently. Wait. Four. Echo.

Fuck. 

And Niki was a dinner guest, apparently one of Phil, Techno, and Ranboo’s closest friends… how many people at those dinners aren’t supervillains? Just himself, Wilbur, and Ranboo, it would seem. 

Or, if he’s being honest with himself, just him and Wilbur.

“Tubbo? You alright?”

Tubbo blinks. Hecate’s—Niki’s—still standing in front of him. “Fine,” he says with a shake of his head. “Just… distracted. Sorry.” He’s talking to Hecate. He’s speaking with a Syndicate member in the field. Nobody fucking does that—or at least nobody does it and talks about it later. 

“Come down here, alright?” Niki tells him, backing further down between the two buildings. She keeps her hands down at her side, Tubbo notices, probably in an attempt to seem nonthreatening. “Just wait around back this way until the blockade clears. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll try to keep things quiet around here.” Tubbo follows her, still barely processing her words, until she gestures vaguely at the ground at almost the halfway point of the alley. Niki hesitates a moment and winces, then adds, “Text Tommy when you’re safe, okay? Don’t get hurt.”

Tubbo just nods. 

Niki glances back a few more times as she leaves, but soon just turns and runs, leaving Tubbo alone in the alley with his thoughts.

“Fucking hell, man,” he mutters to the ground.

Chapter Text

At home, that night, Tubbo lies flat on his stomach in bed, staring blankly at his wall. 

Niki. Hecate. 

He should have guessed, honestly. He knew for a fact that Magpie, Daedalus, and Boreas were part of that group, and it had been pure willful ignorance to assume the other three members were civilians. 

Tommy had as much as told him how close Phil, Techno, Niki, and Ranboo are. Really thinking about it, Tommy’s been speaking as if Tubbo knew all four of their identities since they first talked about Magpie. 

Tommy still doesn’t know how he recognized Boreas and Daedalus. Tommy’s just let that go, respected Tubbo’s silence. Tommy’s kinder to him than he deserves. 

Whatever Tommy is thinking, it doesn’t change that Niki went out of her way and took a risk to keep Tubbo safe today. He doesn’t know what, exactly, she was doing there—other than probably something at least terrorism-adjacent—but she saw him having his half-crisis on the street and took him to safety despite knowing he could have turned her in. She does that, and yet he knows she’s caused civilian casualties, and yet she tried to hurt him and Replica without remorse when they were in the field.

What distinction does she draw between Tubbo and Oleander? Why? Honestly, it’s not even whatever moral implications are there that bother Tubbo, he just wants to know if and where he should draw his own line.

That is, assuming he ever gets a choice. He was Oleander for a year, now he’s been Tubbo post-Oleander for nearly as long—the only real choice he made was first signing his Association contract. 

He buries his face in his pillow and groans. It is way too late to be thinking; he has to be at work tomorrow. 

He’s just wrapped up washing dishes when he gets a text from Tommy. 

Lmao you are not gonna believe this, it reads. As Tubbo dries his hands and goes to open his phone, a second text comes through: Phil wants me to invite you to dinner

Tubbo laughs despite himself. Seriously?

Yeah. What did he do to you?

Tubbo hesitates for a moment, then decides that fuck it, Tommy already knows everything he knows. Uh Niki may or may not have talked to me while in the field as Hecate

He winces almost as soon as he sends it—normal people don’t refer to supervillain activity as “in the field.” Too late now, though; he can only hope Tommy doesn’t think anything of it. 

Tommy’s only response is omfg 

I’m okay dw. Are you going to dinner?

Idk, only if you do

Oh, Tubbo replies. I was only gonna go if you went

Tommy types for long enough that it’s almost funny. It’s Techno’s turn to cook so is shepherd’s pie worth going? Another beat, then he sends another message with, Everyone will stare at us the whole time but it’s pretty good shepherd's pie

Tubbo stares at the far wall and chews on his lower lip, thinking. The risks, in his mind, are having to talk to Hecate—or Echo—or somehow getting revealed as Oleander. The potential benefits are the chance to talk to Hecate or Echo, maybe even about being Oleander.

Well, that’s not very helpful. 

I’ve never had Techno’s cooking before, he tells Tommy eventually. Is it worth it?

Oh we should go then, Tommy replies. So you don’t miss it. That okay?

Sure, Tubbo agrees. He can live through one awkward evening. At least it probably can’t go worse than last time. What day?

Thursday

Two days before he might talk to Bishop. 

Tubbo nods to himself and tells Tommy he can make it. 

When Tommy knocks on Tubbo’s apartment door on Thursday—Tubbo’s place is closer to Phil and Techno’s than Tommy’s is, so it’s easiest to just meet up here—Tubbo isn’t ready at all. 

“Shit, sorry, give me five minutes,” he tells Tommy as he lets him in. “I totally lost track of time, fuck.”

“Hey, no worries,” Tommy assures him, perching on the couch. “Not like I want to be early,” he adds with a laugh. 

Tubbo laughs weakly back. “Yeah, honestly fair.” He ducks into his bedroom to change from his store uniform shirt to an actual t-shirt, then throws a sweatshirt on over it. “How’ve you been?” he asks as he re-emerges and tries to locate his wallet and keys on the crowded counter. 

“Oh, fine, fine. Pretty quiet. Argued with a guy on Reddit for like three hours last night, you know how it is.”

“Jesus,” Tubbo laughs, shaking his head. He finds his wallet and puts it in his pants pocket. “Just get off Reddit, seriously, man. Why’d you even do that to yourself?”

“They were wrong,” Tommy insists. “I can’t let it slide!”

“You absolutely can,” Tubbo retorts. “Here, watch me let it slide right now: let’s go, I’ve got all my stuff.”

Tommy splutters indignantly, but follows Tubbo out of the apartment. “Hey! You can’t just ignore me, what the fuck?”

“Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you,” Tubbo replies with all the faux-sweetness he can muster. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“Tubbo!”

By the time the bus drops them off in Phil and Techno’s neighborhood, it’s harder for Tubbo to keep up his light banter with Tommy, and just a few steps off the bus Tommy looks him over with a slight frown.

“Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, bossman, don’t you worry,” Tubbo assures him with a smile. Tommy doesn’t let up on the frown, so Tubbo shrugs and adds, “Just a little… you know. Yeah.”

“We can go if you want. One hundred percent, we can just dip. Who gives a fuck what they think?”

Tubbo stays silent, and he imagines Tommy hears the silent well, I do.  

“Gotcha,” Tommy almost sighs. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, okay? Niki even wears those gloves so she doesn’t accidentally hurt someone. At most they’ll be a little too polite and say some stupid mysterious shit. And tell me if you wanna leave, right? One fucking word and we’re gone, I don’t even care.”

Tubbo laughs despite himself and notices it comes out tired enough to fully break whatever facade he’d been trying for. Tommy’s concerned, determined expression doesn’t change. “Okay. Thanks, Tommy.”

Tommy throws an arm around his shoulders and nods grandly. “Friends help friends, right?” 

Tubbo just laughs again and nods and lets Tommy keep his arm there until they’re nearly at the driveway. 

“Alright,” Tommy half-whispers as they start up the driveway. He gives Tubbo a final squeeze before dropping his arm. “Showtime.”

Techno opens the door before they can even knock. “Tommy, Tubbo. Everybody’s in the kitchen, c’mon in.”

“What’s up?” Tommy asks as they enter and Techno closes the door behind them. He leaves his shoes near the pile by the door and Tubbo follows his example. 

“Nothin’ much, just been cookin’,” Techno replies. Tubbo wonders if he imagines the momentary meaningful look Techno casts his way. “Tryin’ a new pie recipe for dessert. You guys been up to anything?”

“Eh, not too much,” Tommy says.

“Watching bad TV,” Tubbo adds, smiling as Tommy rolls his eyes. “Dealing with work, you know how it is.” Techno’s a lawyer, he remembers suddenly. Once again he wonders what the fuck is going on with that. And Niki works at a couple homeless shelters, she said. Are those full time jobs? 

He should ask Niki. He can do that now, now that she knows he knows who she is. He wonders if that conversation would be worth the answers. 

At the end of the hallway, Phil’s waiting in the kitchen while Ranboo, Niki, and Wilbur are at the table. Nearly everyone waves, and Techno returns to the kitchen. Tommy and Tubbo take seats next to each other at the table. 

“The prodigal son returns,” Wilbur comments with a toothy smile at Tommy. He once again has those sunglasses on: the deep red ones, very close to being oversized, dark enough to make his expression hard to read. They’re almost more memorable than his face. 

“Shut up, Wil,” Tommy retorts. “I’m only here for the shepherd’s pie anyway.”

“Aw, not for me?” Wilbur asks sardonically. He gestures with one hand and knocks his crutches where they’re leaning against the table, then has to fumble to catch them. Niki stifles a laugh and Wilbur grumbles something unintelligible. 

With her laugh, Tubbo fully registers Niki and Ranboo at the table for what feels like the first time tonight. They look like they have the last times Tubbo met them as civilians; Niki has her same worn gray sweatshirt and black gloves and her pink-and-blonde hair loose over her shoulders, Ranboo’s posture is terrible and their gray eyes dart around the faces in the room. Tubbo remembers Tommy saying that Niki wears the gloves to stop herself from accidentally breaking things. He meets Ranboo’s eyes and tries to imagine them behind a mask.

The conversation has moved on now, but Tubbo’s not tracking it much. He can’t just sit here. He can’t just stew in his thoughts while everyone else passes him by—that’s what he’s been doing for months now and it hasn’t done jack shit for him. 

Ranboo is more likely to be an actual productive conversation, he decides. Niki is perhaps more pressing, and definitely expecting him to ask, but Ranboo actually knows him. Knew him. Knew Oleander, at least. 

When there’s a lull in the conversation, Tubbo catches Ranboo’s gaze. “Hey, Ran,” he begins, quieter than he intended to be. Ranboo tilts their head at him and the rest of the table goes quiet. Tubbo swallows. “Could we… talk, do you think? Somewhere private?”

Ranboo hesitates for a second, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Um… we could go up to my room, I guess. What’s going on?”

Tubbo shakes his head minutely. “I’ll tell you up there?” He’s aware of Niki’s, Wilbur’s, and Tommy’s concerned gazes on him. 

Ranboo nods. “Yeah, uh, okay. I’ll show you.” They stand and start haltingly around the table to the hall.

Tommy catches Tubbo’s eye as he stands, looking as if he’s about to say something. Tubbo offers him a weak smile and squeezes his shoulder before moving away. He hopes it communicates I know what I’m doing and not I’m scared out of my fucking mind. Either way, he follows Ranboo around to the stairs up without Tommy stopping him. 

The upstairs is smaller and cozier than the downstairs areas. The walls of the hallway are painted a pale apricot, and decorated with an array of photos in thick wooden frames showing the residents of the house in various places and circumstances. Once again, Tubbo is struck by how in place this house would look in a movie set and some part of him aches at the faux normalcy. 

Ranboo leads him through the door farthest from the staircase into a surprisingly sparse bedroom. It’s dominated by a bed along one wall, a wooden dresser along another, and a purple beanbag chair in a corner. After a second’s hesitation, Ranboo pushes the messy blankets to one side of the bed and sits cross-legged on the now-exposed sheets. 

Tubbo joins them when he gets an encouraging nod, perching at the edge of the bed and folding his wings forward a little awkwardly to make the position work. 

“So… what’s up?” Ranboo asks. 

Tubbo takes a deep breath. Another. It’s not that hard. “I’ve been thinking,” he manages. There’s a long, pregnant pause as he arranges his next words in his mouth. “You’re Echo. You were Replica.” He meets Ranboo’s eyes—they look stricken. “Right?”

“I—hm.” They stare at a wrinkle in the light blue sheet, eyes wide. “Well.”

“I’m Oleander,” Tubbo spits out before he can second guess himself. “I was Oleander. Please, you were Replica, right?”

Their mouth opens in a silent inhale. When they meet his gaze again, they somehow look so much older than they did a moment ago. “Fuck,” they breathe. “Hi, Ollie.”

Tubbo has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from making a sound. “Hi.”

“You look rough,” they say with a wry half smile. “I mean—you always kinda look rough, but… yeah. I worried.”

“I worried,” Tubbo replies with an inflection that’s half laughter and half choked up. “You disappeared, man, what the fuck?”

Ranboo takes in a hissing breath. “I… I couldn’t do it anymore. I quit. Didn’t they at least tell you I quit?”

Tubbo shakes his head mutely before he can reply. “You just… vanished. Like Firebird did. We were fucking terrified, me and—me and Bishop.”

“Dammit,” they sigh sharply. “I’m fine, I just quit. I, uh… another opportunity came along,” they add with an awkward smile. “You’re not still in it either, right? I would’ve seen you if you were.”

Tubbo shakes his head again and bunches his fingers in the fabric of his jeans. “I got fired, actually. Almost a year ago now.” He doesn’t remember the exact date, he finds with mild surprise. He was pretty sick, sure, but it feels like it should have been more important. 

“They fired you? Seriously? Jeez, they really have no idea what’s best for them.”

“Thanks man,” Tubbo laughs despite himself. “Yeah, I kinda got sick and couldn’t keep up. My own fault, really.” He shrugs.

“What? No way is that your fault,” Ranboo snaps back. “They got you good, oh my god.”

Tubbo just narrows his eyes at them for a moment, not enjoying those implications. “Oh, like you aren’t part of the fucking Syndicate now. What’s up with that?”

Ranboo’s expression sours right back. “C’mon, it’s a good cause. You’ve seen how the Association runs, surely you don’t believe they should have any power.”

“They’re at least not hurting anyone,” Tubbo insists. 

“Oh, yeah, not hurting anyone,” Ranboo says sarcastically, rolling their eyes. “Just surveilling the city in case anyone might be questioning their regime so they can arrest them on trumped-up charges because they’re a threat to the peace. Just making it so the media can’t report on half the shit they do or criticize any ‘hero’ ever. But yeah, sure, it’s fine as long as only the bad guys get hurt.”

“That’s not what I fucking said! You and I both know the Syndicate has killed people just for being unlucky enough to be standing in their path.”

“And the Association hasn’t? The Association refuses to even take care of their own, let alone the rest of the city. You of all people should know that.”

Tubbo scrapes a hand through his hair, staring hard out the window at the growing dusk. This isn’t at all how he imagined this going. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he mutters.

Ranboo sighs and their posture softens. When they catch Tubbo’s eyes again their gaze is gentle, sad. “What do you want?”

Before thinking, Tubbo replies, “To know what I want,” with a mirthless laugh, and he thinks it’s true. 

Ranboo’s quiet for a second. “I don’t think I can help you with that.”

“You know what you want, though. You know who you are.”

“I mean, not really. I guess it doesn’t bother me as much, but I’m very much still figuring out what I want from life. It takes time. I’m just doing what’s right in the meantime.”

“Who are you, then?” Tubbo asks, then clarifies, “Which one are you? Replica, or Echo? How do you make it make sense?”

Ranboo gives him a look of utter confusion before answering. “I’m Ranboo. I’m just me. I’m Replica and I’m Echo, I guess, because they’re both just Ranboo.” They pause for a second and Tubbo tries to think of an answer. “The thing is that the Association wanted me to only be Replica, and I couldn’t do that. People are more complex than the Association lets them be. With the Syndicate I’m Ranboo first, then Echo.”

Tubbo makes a small sound just to acknowledge he heard what they said. “It seems like you’re doing really well,” he says dully after a moment.

“Thanks, man, I think I am.” They hesitate, then add, “You don’t have to be doing great. I think it’s okay to just kinda feel shitty for a while.”

Tubbo laughs again, utterly without humor. “Ran, with all due respect, I’ve kinda felt shitty for at least two years and maybe my whole life. I don’t think that’s meant to be okay.”

“I mean, like, you don’t need to beat yourself up about it. And I can’t tell you who to be, right? You’ve gotta do that stuff on your own.”

Tubbo’s aware. That’s half the fucking problem—he doesn’t know how to do it on his own, and the molds other people offer him only ever seem to make things worse. “Thanks,” he tells Ranboo. “We should go back downstairs.”

Ranboo offers him a tentative half-smile and pushes themself to stand off the bed. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything, okay? Just text or something. I figure I owe you a lot of favors, so… whatever I can do to help.”

Tubbo just nods as he follows Ranboo back through the apricot upstairs hallway, the formal dining room at the bottom of the stairs, and into the kitchen. Two round dishes are on the counter dividing the kitchen and the dining area: a shepherd’s pie with its mashed potato top slightly browned, and a regular dessert pie of some kind with a warm, golden brown crust over the top. 

Phil is the first to notice them and nod—his hands are busy with the bowl of roasted carrots he’s carrying to the table. “Hey, back just in time,” he tells them cheerfully. “Food’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Ranboo returns with a bright smile. They leave Tubbo’s side immediately to grab a bowl from the counter. 

Tommy comes quickly to Tubbo in the doorway. “You alright?” he whispers, leaning close.

Tubbo nods and takes a deep breath. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” He doesn’t know what lie he could tell to hide the real topic of conversation, and telling Tommy about his past still seems like a good way to lose his only real friend. He knows he can trust Tommy to respect his secrecy, though.

Tommy nods back, and the two of them make their way to the counter still nearly pressed together. 

The shepherd’s pie smells absolutely delicious. “This better be as good as you promised,” he murmurs to Tommy as he fills his bowl. 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Tommy replies immediately. “If there’s one thing Techno can do, it’s cook potato-based meals.”

Tubbo laughs. “That’s incredibly specific.”

Tommy just shrugs. “He’s a man with a passion, what can I say?”

“Hey, Tubbo?” Niki says just as Tubbo realizes she’s at their side now. “If you don’t mind, I was wondering if we could chat for a second. We could take our food out to the other room?” She offers him a genuine smile and he feels a little like he’s choking.

“I’m coming with him,” Tommy jumps in before Tubbo can answer. “I’m not gonna sit this one out.”

Niki frowns at him. “Tubbo can make his own choices, Tommy, don’t speak for him. We want to talk alone.”

Tubbo clears his throat. “I want him to come with me, actually. If you don’t mind?” He avoids Niki’s gaze as he speaks, instead examining his food in the bowl. 

“Fine,” Niki says after a second. “If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

Tubbo takes a bracing breath and nods, then lets Niki guide him and Tommy to the formal dining room at the front of the house. Ranboo gives them a strange, slightly concerned look as they leave, but Phil and Techno barely even look up—they’re in on whatever Niki’s plan is, Tubbo’s sure. 

Even the lightbulbs in the dining room are colder than the ones over the kitchen table, and through the dark windows Tubbo can’t see the front yard. Niki sets her bowl and glass at a seat on one side of the table, Tubbo sits across from her, and Tommy takes the spot next to him. 

Tubbo stirs his shepherd’s pie, fork clinking quietly against the ceramic, until it becomes clear that Niki’s waiting for him to start. He meets her eyes, then immediately looks away. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Niki replies with an amused smile. “How’re you feeling?”

Tubbo shrugs. “Alright. I didn’t have work today.”

“That’s nice.” The table lapses into silence for a long moment. Finally, Niki sighs. “Does Tommy know what happened?”

“Um—kinda,” Tubbo admits. “He knew something was up when Phil asked him to invite me over here instead of doing it himself, and I don’t like to lie to him.” It’s true, he defends to no one. Just because he’s doing it doesn’t mean he likes it. “Is that fine?”

Niki shrugs. “He already knows about the Syndicate, don’t worry. I was just wondering if we had to catch him up, since he insists on being here.”

Tommy narrows his eyes at her for a moment. “I have every right to support my best friend,” he insists.

“I should probably fill him in,” Tubbo tells Niki, then turns to face Tommy more. “So, a few days ago I’m out running errands, right?” Why he was out isn’t relevant to the real story. He doesn’t like lying to Tommy, but he has to. “And when I’m going back there’s a police blockade moving through, telling civilians to leave and there’s Syndicate people in the area. 

“And, I dunno, I just kinda blanked.” Here it’s a little harder to make it make sense without explaining his thought process, but he tries his best to gloss over it. “I guess I must’ve panicked? Not really sure. Anyway, I didn’t actually leave, and then the next thing I know the street is empty and Hecate’s in this little nook telling me to go over to her.” He shrugs. “So I go over, because I’m scared—” that part is true, at least “—and it’s Niki. That’s about it, right, Niki?”

Niki gives a more or less gesture. “I got worried he was sick or hurt,” she explains. “Something like that. I didn’t want to just leave you there, you know? I’m sorry if I scared you, Tubbo.”

Tubbo shrugs. That is the least of the times you have scared me. “I lived. It’s fine.”

“I still wanted to check in,” Niki pushes gently. She sounds friendly, truly concerned—it’s hard to imagine her as Hecate in the same way it’s hard to imagine any of the other Syndicate members as themselves. “Answer any questions you have. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

Tubbo focuses on his food for a long moment, chewing slowly and trying to think. It’s probably suspicious if he doesn’t ask a question, but he honestly isn’t sure what he wants to know that isn’t compromising to ask. 

“How long?” he comes up with finally. “Have you… been Hecate?”

Niki raises an arch eyebrow at him. “Google probably knows better than me, honestly. A few years, at least.”

Tubbo gives her a tense smile in return. “Bad question, sorry.” he pauses again. “How about why, then?”

At that, Niki scoffs under her breath. “Because nothing else works. Because our government is taking more and more of people’s liberty, and nobody else is doing anything about it. Legal methods can’t work when the whole system is corrupt, but maybe something more… dramatic will get through to people.”

And how well is that working out for you? Tubbo restrains himself from asking. Gotten anything done so far?

“It’s the same thing as Techno’s pro bono legal work, or my civilian volunteering,” Niki adds. “Just a different way of direct action. Looking out for all people, not just the ones with the law in their pockets.”

“Right,” Tubbo says, because he really doesn’t want to start an actual fight with Hecate. 

“You still don’t look happy,” Niki observes.

Tubbo takes a deep breath. He needs to control himself and phrase this carefully. A fractal pattern of frost forms between the bases of his wings on his back and he tries to ignore it. “You kill civilians, though. And aren’t Association members people, too? You’re actively trying to hurt them, seems to me.”

Niki sighs, wincing to herself. “Casualties are inevitable, Tubbo. You’re an adult; surely you understand that life isn’t a fairy tale.” Tubbo stays quiet until she continues, “Association members choose their path. I’m not responsible for them.”

Tubbo takes another moment to think, make sure he isn’t showing Niki or Tommy too much of his hand. “What about Echo? They were a hero before they were Syndicate, right?”

“They changed their mind,” Niki replies with a shrug. “I can’t speak for them, but they saw all the problems with the Association and they couldn’t support that any longer. They’re much happier now—the Association is soul-crushing.”

Trust me, I know. Tubbo almost laughs sardonically at Niki’s off-hand comment. He doesn’t, though, he just goes back to mixing his shepherd’s pie with his fork. 

“Tubbo?” Niki probes, and the gentleness of her voice is really becoming quite grating. “What are you thinking?”

Tubbo glances from his food to Niki, then over to Tommy. Both of their eyes are fixed on him. “Can we go back to dinner now?” he asks. 

Once everything is done, Tommy and Tubbo walk back to the bus stop side by side. Both Niki and Techno had offered to drive them home, and the two of them hadn’t even needed to consult each other to turn both offers down. 

Tubbo keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on the street, and his hands jammed in his jacket pockets for two uncomfortable blocks. 

“So… what’s going on?” Tommy asks eventually, tilting his head at Tubbo. 

“Nothing, really,” Tubbo answers slowly.

Tommy sighs sharply to show exactly what he thinks of that answer. 

Tubbo sighs back more slowly. “I… I don’t really wanna talk about it, Tommy, okay? Not yet, at least.”

Tommy’s quiet for a second, then says. “You’re sure? I swear I won’t tell anybody, you know that. You can talk to me if you want.”

“I know,” Tubbo assures him. “I just… want to keep this in my head for a while. I’m sorry. We can try not to think about it, right?”

“Alright,” Tommy agrees, sounding resigned. “Whatever you want. Just know I care, okay? Even if you never wanna talk.”

Tubbo finds himself smiling sadly down at the ground. “Thanks, Tommy.” 

Tubbo volunteers to pick up the late shift after having the opening one the next day. He doesn’t want to have the energy to think about anything.

Despite his best efforts, though, he thinks. 

Replica—Ranboo—Echo—is alive and well. Much happier, if Niki is to be believed, and Tubbo does believe her after talking to Ranboo. They’re doing okay, and they had the initiative to leave the Association when they realized how it would take and take from them. Objectively, probably healthier than whatever Tubbo and Bishop were doing. 

They fucking left him there, though. Weeks, months, patching each other up, watching each other’s backs, offering each other whatever absolution they could, and Ranboo fucking left him. They had so much practice hiding from the watchful eyes of their higher-ups, and Ranboo never breathed a word of their plans to Tubbo. 

Tubbo would’ve tried to bring Replica and Bishop with him, if he had known he was leaving for what he thought was a better, safer cause. He doesn’t really think the Syndicate is that, but he knows it’s what Ranboo thinks.

Tubbo would’ve tried to tell them. Suddenly he thinks that Bishop would have hated him for that. Bishop seemed to think every potential connection was just an opportunity to get backstabbed or abandoned— and was he right?

Replica left Tubbo behind and never looked back. Technically, it was Bishop’s power that caused the collapse that got Tubbo fired. All these months Tubbo has truly believed it was an accident and that Bishop was trying to help. He and Bishop had gotten each other through so much before, so it doesn’t make sense that Bishop would sabotage him in such a critical moment. 

He wouldn’t.

He would say that he would, though, Tubbo thinks. Bishop was absolutely not above a bit of sabotage if he felt it was needed. Tubbo just doesn’t want to believe him capable of it. 

And still, what purpose would hurting Tubbo even serve? Tubbo got Bishop through some tight scrapes just as much as Bishop helped him. It doesn’t make sense.

Besides, no matter what Tubbo can speculate about, what actually happened was that Replica left them both for greener pastures. It was just what he had to do to survive, Tubbo tries to convince himself. The same way I did what I had to to stay in the Association and survive.  

Someone is coming through to his till. On autopilot, Tubbo starts pulling the groceries off the conveyor belt, scanning them, and placing them in plastic bags. 

The customer, and older man, nods to Tubbo as he comes up to the register. “How’s it goin’, Ollie?”

Ollie. It’s still on his fucking nametag. Tubbo feels like something is chewing on the muscle of his heart.

“Great!” he tells the customer with a smile. “How about you?”

The night air is unseasonably warm as Tubbo waits on the roof of his apartment building. He’s above the streetlights here, turning his phone flashlight on in short bursts to look around without fully killing the battery. The sky isn’t helping much either—the moon is barely even halfway to full, and he’s been up here several minutes and still can’t see a single star. 

In theory, Bishop will be here within the next couple minutes. If he saw the message, and understood it, and isn’t busy, and remembered, and even wants to see him at all. In theory, though. In theory it works. 

Tubbo spreads his wings just slightly to feel the gentle breeze run through his feathers. He forgot to preen before coming up here—he’ll have to do that before bed, or he’ll end up needing to do it tomorrow and running late for work. 

He’s already internally bracing himself to go back inside disappointed. He’ll wait fifteen more minutes, he promises, then go inside. If Bishop doesn’t come, then he doesn’t. It’s not Tubbo’s problem.

Time continues to pass. Tubbo chews on the inside of his cheek and looks around at the other buildings silhouetted around him. 

And then, finally, a winged figure swoops up over the roofline and lands heavily a couple feet away from Tubbo. 

Tubbo’s breath catches in his throat. He fumbles to turn his phone on, then find the flashlight. 

Before him stands Bishop: a lean man with tan skin, yellowish-brown wings, and a scarf and sweatshirt hood mostly obscuring his face. 

“Ollie?” 

“Hi,” Tubbo breathes.

To his surprise, Bishop sighs sharply. “Why’d you have to show your face, man? Just ‘cause you’re a civilian doesn’t mean it’s safe. No, don’t—ugh. Here, it’s only fair.” With quick, sharp movements, he tugs his hood down and unwraps the scarf to let Tubbo take him in. 

By the harsh phone flashlight, Tubbo can’t make all that much out. Bishop’s face is framed by dark flyaways from his ponytail, glowing against the night. His eyes are dark brown, focused sharply on Tubbo. Most notably, there’s a scar down the left side of his face, starting just above his brow bone and continuing nearly down to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into a permanent slight sneer.

It’s also possible his expression is just a permanent slight sneer. That would track with his personality.

“You actually came,” Tubbo says almost incredulously.

Bishop shrugs. He takes a couple steps forward and turns, coming to stand at Tubbo’s side and look out over the side of the building. “So what’d you want?”

Tubbo has to take several deep breaths before he can push himself to ask the question he’s been rehearsing in his head for so long. “How do you do it? How do you always… just keep moving?”

Bishop hisses through his teeth. “Big question, damn. What do you mean?”

Tubbo squints at the roof below their feet for a second. “Like, you’ve been in the Association for years. And you knew Firebird, you… knew me, I’m sure you’ve had other friends. But it doesn’t trip you up. You keep moving without them; you’re thriving. How the fuck are you doing it?” He hopes the last sentences don’t sound as bitter as they feel in his head. 

“Mhm.” Bishop seems to take a long moment to think. “It gets to be a habit, you know? I’ve gotten a lot of practice. You were just a kid, man, you were… twenty? Nineteen? You couldn’t have known anything, it’s not on you.”

“The whole point of the Association is that it’s on me,” Tubbo points out. “That we take—they take the risks instead of everybody else. That’s the point if they’re anything like what they say they are.” They aren’t, not really, he knows, but some part of Tubbo is still that wide-eyed child fresh out of high school in the Association training program. 

Bishop shrugs. “In a, like, abstract, group way,” he replies. “Not you, specifically.” He sighs. “Look. I fucked up, I know, and I wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry. It’s done, though. You just have to let it… be done.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s done, though. “That’s what I’m asking,” Tubbo insists. “You can let it just be done. I don’t fucking know how.” 

“I don’t know either, man, you just drop it,” Bishop tells him, voice starting to rise. “You stop wanting it back.” He pauses suddenly, physically pulling back somewhat as if flinching. “You want it back. Don’t you?”

Tubbo lets out a breath. “I don’t know if I do. I really don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t.” Bishop sighs again, tilting his head back towards the sky. He hasn’t made eye contact with Tubbo once tonight. A holdover from the Association, maybe. “You really shouldn’t. Honestly, just forget you were ever Oleander. It’s what’s best for you.”

“You don’t know what’s best for me.” The words are out before Tubbo can hold them back. “You can’t just tell me to forget.”  

Bishop finally does look over, just to raise a single eyebrow at Tubbo. “I honestly think I know better than you do on this. We’re—we were—superheroes, but we’re really just some guy. We don’t get to go back just because we don’t want to go forward.” 

Tubbo meets his gaze, trying to read him in the dim light and strangely-cast shadows. “Do you not want to go forward?”

Bishop just shrugs again. “I keep doing it, so who knows?”

Tubbo sighs. “Right.” He pauses, searching the still-nearly-starless sky as if it has answers. “Thank you for showing up, Bishop. It really does mean a lot.” 

“I mean, you asked, right?” Bishop takes a hesitant step away, then gains confidence as he gets closer to the ledge surrounding the roof. “Hey, Ollie, take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” Tubbo replies dully. “You too, man, keep yourself safe.”

Bishop snorts in a halfhearted laugh. “I’ll try.” He turns away, hesitates, looks back. “Have a nice life, Ollie.”

And then he’s gone, and it’s just Tubbo and his past on the roof, staring into the night. 

The next weekend, Tommy and Tubbo end up taking a break from Love is in the Aether to watch the second Pacific Rim movie and, of course, ignore the whole thing and talk over it. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Tommy asks during a quiet scene, when the two scientists are just talking to each other.

“Hm—shit, sorry.” Tubbo realizes that he’d once again been leaning against Tommy’s side, nearly letting his head fall onto Tommy’s shoulder, and pulls back so a small cushion of space is between them. “I promise I’m fine, Tommy, just haven’t been sleeping great.”

Tommy squints at him for a moment, then his expression clears. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” Tubbo insists with a smile. He is, mostly. He spent a few days trying to keep himself utterly busy with work, but he’s finally accepted that it wasn’t working. He’s been thinking about Bishop still, of course, so hasn’t gotten that much more sleep, but at least he’s not multitasking. 

“Alright.” Tommy shrugs. “And you can lean on me if you want, I don’t care. I’ve literally slept next to you on that beanbag right there.” He points across his living room at the beanbag chair in question. “Personal space is for pussies anyway. That’s not true, don’t listen to me.” 

Tubbo laughs, shakes his head, and tentatively returns to leaning against Tommy’s shoulder and watching the movie scientists make terrible decisions. 

The thing is, Tubbo thinks while at work, that he didn’t like what Bishop had to say. Some of it made sense, to be sure—the whole thing about not being able to go back just from wanting to hit entirely too close to home. But Tubbo is pretty sure now that he wouldn’t want to just stop thinking about his time in the Association.

He’s stocking shelves mostly on autopilot as thoughts run circles in his head: he doesn’t think he feels any clearer about what exactly he wants from himself, and he can barely reach the shelf he needs to put these jars of peanut butter on. At the same time, not knowing what he wants feels so much less paralyzing than it has. Thank god he’s finally done with that set of peanut butter jars. 

How Bishop functions would not work for Tubbo. Frankly, he doesn’t think it’s actually working for Bishop when you get down into it. 

Ranboo’s and Niki’s strong, perfect convictions and hypocrisy aren’t a mold he wants to fit either. Ranboo is happy and healthy. They did what they had to do to get that way, but Tubbo couldn’t have made those choices. He didn’t even have the chance, but he thinks that he couldn’t. 

He’s back near the truck dock now to gather more stuff that needs to go on the shelves and he thinks about Tommy’s history with the Syndicate, his absolute refusal to pick one side or the other. 

Tubbo still wishes he were more like Tommy, if he’s being honest. Tommy’s confidence, resilience, tenacity—Tubbo envies it. He still has to recognize, however, that he’s just not that. Tubbo could never make half the bold, reckless decisions he knows Tommy does, and that’s not a problem for him. He’s forced to admit, when he considers it for this long, that if he’s okay with the outcome maybe he also has to be okay with the traits. Not everybody can be Tommy, and the world seems to get along just fine. 

“Oh, Toby, there you are!” 

Tubbo, emerging back into the store at large, looks up to see Mary approaching him at a quick, shuffling pace. He shifts the box he’s carrying to his hip and waves with his newly-free hand. “What’s going on?”

She gives him an amused smile. “Nothing bad, don’t you worry.” Tubbo smiles back and waits for her to say something bad. “Just wondering if you could stay for the afternoon? Something’s gone a bit pear-shaped in the schedule and we don’t have enough people.” She shrugs apologetically.

Tubbo considers it. Technically, he doesn’t have anything going on today. He’d mostly been hoping to get some sleep—he feels like he barely got any last night—and make the frozen lasagna he has in his freezer. 

“I don’t think I can make it,” he tells Mary when he’s done thinking. “Sorry. You can find someone else, right? Neil is usually free Friday afternoons, I think. Sathvik likes extra hours, too.”

Mary furrows her brow for a moment, then brushes her hair behind her ear as she focuses back on Tubbo. “Do you think you could, hon? I always feel so awkward, y’know? And everybody’s probably used to you by now anyway.”

That could be true. “Hands are a bit full,” Tubbo says truthfully, gesturing to the box in one arm with an inelegant shrug. “You’re way more experienced than me, too—I’d really appreciate if you could do it. You’ll do great,” he tries to encourage her.

She brightens visibly, and Tubbo warms right back. “You think?”

“Totally.”

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” Mary nods a couple times, as if convincing herself. “I’ll come get you if something goes wrong?”

“I’m sure it’ll go fine,” Tubbo assures her, and she nods one final time and turns away, back towards her desk. 

Tubbo blinks up at the fluorescents for a moment, shocked that even worked, then starts out towards the shelves.

Once he’s home, he gets a text from Phil: hey mate! was just wondering if you wanna go flying soon? :) 

It has been a while, Tubbo supposes. Not since before Phil and Tommy’s most recent argument, at the very least. 

Sure, he replies. When are you free?

I could do tomorrow, Phil suggests immediately. like afternoon?  

Tubbo nods to himself. He’s not at work then—that could work. Unusual for Phil to schedule something with such little turnaround, but he’s sure it’s fine. What time?

Chapter Text

When Tubbo arrives at Phil’s house the next afternoon, the sky is drab and overcast enough that he wonders if it’ll start raining before they’re done flying. He knocks at the door, and Phil answers a few seconds later. 

“Hey, mate,” Phil greets him, waving him inside. “Weather’s not looking so hot, is it? Probably should’ve checked before I asked you over.” Inside, Techno and Ranboo are watching something on TV—Ranboo twists to wave at Tubbo as he passes the archway to the den. 

“It’s no problem,” Tubbo assures him. “We’ll just have to try to be quick, right?”

Phil is quiet for just a moment too long. They reach the kitchen area. “Actually,” he begins, “I wanted to talk to you about something before we headed out. If you’re willing to hear me out.”

Tubbo feels his jaw and stomach tense automatically—he actually catches himself scanning the room quickly before he can check the reaction. “Sure,” he replies, wary. “What’s up?”

Phil smiles at him. Tubbo does not relax. “Here, sit down.” Phil settles at the table, wings flaring and folding fluently as he moves. Tubbo takes the seat next to him, the both of them angled back so they can see each other clearly. Phil’s face is clear, his shoulders low and open, but he taps his fingers against the table in a rapid staccato. “So, Tubbo, Ranboo told me something interesting the other day.”

Tubbo’s jaw clenches even further, somehow. “Did they?” He can’t be that surprised, honestly. Ranboo obviously trusts the Syndicate completely and, when they talked, didn’t at all seem to understand why Tubbo doesn’t. 

“Mhm.” Phil doesn’t speak further for a long moment but keeps his gaze focused like a raptor on Tubbo’s face. 

“Something interesting,” Tubbo echoes eventually. “And how’s that?”

“Well, you two got to talking last week, didn’t you?” Phil replies, that easy smile still pinned to his face. “I’m sure you know. Always a treat to catch up with old friends, innit?”

“I’m sure it is.” If Phil wants him to talk about Association stuff, he’s gonna have to be the one to say it. Tubbo meets his eyes and tries to project the same determination Phil is giving him. 

Ranboo fucking told on him. Incredible. 

Phil sighs in a way that’s halfway a laugh. “Of course. Tommy likes you, of course you’re stubborn. Hey, it’s a good thing,” he adds, presumably at some unintentional shift in Tubbo’s expression. “Ranboo told me you two were in the Association together a while back. Oleander, was it?”

Tubbo takes in a breath, trying hard not to flinch and not sure if he’s succeeding. “That’s right,” he tells Phil, and even he can hear that he sounds so much smaller than a moment ago. “What of it, then?”

Phil turns, directs his smile down to the table. “You’re a smart man, Tubbo. And I’m sure Tommy’s been complaining to you about me for weeks, if not months. I think you know what I want.”

Tubbo narrows his eyes at Phil. His hands have tightened into fists in his lap, he notices, and he forces them to relax. “I do. Spell it out anyway?” He wants to hear what Phil actually knows before he says anything at all. 

Phil laughs fondly again, shaking his head down at nothing. “If you would like, Tubbo Smith, you are formally invited to join the Syndicate as a member in training. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Tubbo hums noncommittally. Hushed dialogue from the TV in the other room covers the quiet between the two of them, but Tubbo wonders if it’s quieter than when he came in. 

Finally, Tubbo looks back up at Phil. “Why do you even want me?” He was trying his best at a poker face, but he can read his own face and hear his tone and knows he still sounds small and closed-off. 

“You’re stronger than you think you are,” Phil tells him easily. “You’re a fighter and a survivor. We talked it over; we think you could help us, and we want to be able to help you.”

“And what if I say no?”

Phil raises his eyebrows for a moment. “You’re not Tommy. You can make your own decisions and he won’t be too upset, I swear to you.” 

“I know. What if my own decision is no?” Tubbo presses. He takes measured deep breaths, preventing any frost from coalescing on his skin even though the pulse points at his wrists are running cold. 

“Fair enough,” Phil acknowledges. “Nothing changes. You’re still welcome here any time, obviously, you’ve seen how we treat Tommy and Wilbur. It’s a decision we can revisit in the future, too, if you ever change your mind.”

Tubbo’s seen how we can revisit the decision looks for Tommy. He narrows his eyes. “Right.”

“Tubbo, come on. You know me,” Phil says lightly. He’s still fucking smiling. “I’m not that scary, right? We’ll train you and keep you safe, nothing bad will happen from joining us.” He pauses. “Ranboo thinks it’ll be really good for you.”

Yeah, they would. Ranboo doesn’t seem to give a shit that the people they injure and chase down are last year’s floundering coworkers, or about all the collateral damage of whatever fucking political agenda they have. Their prerogative, Tubbo supposes, and honestly not anything Tubbo wants to talk with them about any time soon. 

“So… what do you say?”

Tubbo keeps his eyes on his hands for another long moment. How many times in the past months has he wished he were still Oleander? If he’s honest with himself, going from the Association to the Syndicate is barely even a moral shift at all—whatever he wants to think about Ranboo and Niki’s ideas of who they’re helping, he knows nobody really cared about collateral or civilians in the Association if it wasn’t anybody who had a lawyer. 

He did not like being Oleander. Since he’s apparently being honest with himself, he has to admit that too. It felt important at first, and stressful later, and he thought that meant it was fulfilling. At some point, he thinks he decided that if it didn’t feel right it was because of something wrong with him.

And fuck, maybe there is something wrong with him. He as much as told Ranboo, when they talked a few days ago, that he knows life isn’t meant to feel so much like you’re drowning. But it wasn’t a problem that Oleander fixed; if anything Oleander made it worse. 

Phil shifts in his chair and Tubbo snaps back to reality. 

One more deep breath in. “No, thanks, I think,” Tubbo says, turning his eyes up to the ceiling.

“You’re sure?” Phil asks after a millisecond’s hesitation. 

“Pretty sure.” He’s not, not at all really. It’s so hard to be sure about anything, let alone anything related to his past in the Association or his future anywhere. He feels like not being sure he wants it is just as good of a reason to turn down Syndicate membership as being sure he doesn’t want it, though. 

Phil lets out a quiet breath, the barest sound of disappointment. “Alright, that’s fine. We can talk again after you’ve thought some more, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Tubbo allows, fully meaning no. He’s pretty sure Phil hears yes. That’s a problem for future Tubbo. He blinks once, twice, feeling oddly drained and not many emotions at all.

“Perfect. Thanks for hearing me out anyway, Tubbo.”

Tubbo stands abruptly, before he’s even really planned the motion out. “I think I’m gonna head home, actually,” he announces. What am I doing? Don’t make him mad. “Sorry.”

“No, I understand,” Phil assures him with a wry laugh under his breath. “I can drive you home, okay? It might rain.”

“No,” Tubbo replies immediately. He takes a step back, then another, and his stomach is rolling some even though he doesn’t feel anything cognitively about it. “No, I’ll take the bus. Thanks, Phil.”

Phil stands too, but thankfully doesn’t get any closer to Tubbo. “I’m not plotting anything, mate, I swear, I just wanna drive you home.”

“I know; I don’t want it,” Tubbo insists. “I’ll see you later, alright?” Tubbo’s in the hall now and Phil trails him vaguely, pausing behind the kitchen table, clearly trying to send nonthreatening signals. 

“Tubbo, you’re sure? It still looks like rain out there, seriously.”

“I’m sure.” And then Tubbo’s out the door, and down the driveway quickly, and making his way down the street through the overcast afternoon, and wondering what the fuck just happened. 

Almost on instinct, he texts Tommy.

Tommy

Please say you’re free

Thank whatever’s out there, Tommy responds almost immediately. I can be. Is something wrong?

No, Tubbo sends back. I don’t think so. Not yet 

A second passes, Tubbo’s phone showing that Tommy is typing, and then the little bubble disappears and his phone vibrates violently in his hand.

Tommy’s decided to just call him, apparently. Jesus christ, how badly did Tubbo fuck up?

He picks up immediately, of course.

“Are you safe?” is Tommy’s immediate question. “What’s going on? Those messages are sus as hell, man—wait, focus, are you safe?”

“I’m fine,” Tubbo assures him. “Sorry for scaring you.” He pauses and thankfully Tommy gives him the space. “Do you mind if I come over, actually?”

“What—yeah, of course you can come over. Where are you?”

“Phil and Techno’s neighborhood. I’ll be a bit, sorry.”

“No shit you’ll be a bit, what are you doing out there?”

The words feel strange in his mind and even stranger in his mouth. “Phil just asked me to join the Syndicate?”

“Fucking hell, really?” Tommy replies, clearly exasperated even over the phone. “Um—wait, sorry, reacted too soon. What did you say?”

“I told him no,” Tubbo reassures Tommy. “I… it didn’t seem like the right move.”

“Seriously,” Tommy agrees. “Absolutely come over if you want, for sure. We can talk or just like, put that stupid show on or whatever.”

Tubbo manages to laugh. “Perfect, yeah.” He realizes, probably too late, that Tommy would have no idea why Phil would even want to offer him Syndicate membership. He’s definitely going to ask, right?

Maybe he won’t. Tommy’s pretty good at letting Tubbo avoid things, once Tubbo shows he wants to avoid it. 

Even if Tubbo avoids the question, though, it’ll get even clearer that Tubbo’s hiding things from him. It tastes so sour to keep doing. 

“I’ll see you soon, then. Are you gonna be alright?” Tommy asks when Tubbo’s been quiet for another second. 

“I’ll be fine,” Tubbo promises. “I’m not that fragile, c’mon,” he tries to add as a joke. 

“Hey, I know!” Tommy protests. “I’m just worrying, don’t mind me.”

“I know,” Tubbo echoes. “I appreciate it, really I do.” He hesitates. “The bus is probably gonna be here pretty soon; I should probably hang up before it does.”

“Right, yeah, probably a bad idea to be talking about Phil and stuff where people can hear you,” Tommy agrees. “Call back if you need anything before you get here, though, okay?”

“I will.”

Tommy lets Tubbo hang up, and after staring at his phone for a long moment he tucks it back into his pocket. 

The bus feels so empty despite having a pretty normal number of people on it. Tubbo sits far from any of them and watches the streets scroll by out the window. Almost no one is walking right now—the threat of rain is keeping them inside or in cars. As the bus gets closer to the city proper the traffic gets heavier, people honking at each other and driving too fast and making aggressive turns.

Tubbo wonders what any of them are thinking about. Are they in a rush, or just impatient? Where are they going, and where did they come from?

Phil wanted him to join the Syndicate—where did that come from? Tubbo’s time in the Association proved he’s not a fighter, not like Phil said he was; Ranboo should’ve been able to tell Phil that easily. 

Ranboo must want this too, right? Did they really think Tubbo would want it, would say yes? Do they really think that the Syndicate is that different from the Association, or that Tubbo is that different from Oleander?

He wonders what the people in their cars are thinking about. He hopes they’re all having better days, weeks, months, years honestly, than he is. He wonders what Tommy thinks of all this, other than the obvious. 

By the time Tubbo’s turning onto Tommy’s street, there’s a light mist of rain coming down from the clouds. He keeps his wings pulled close to his body, hoping no water gets past the outer layer of flight feathers into the down—that’s always annoying to have to deal with. 

He texts Tommy that he’s nearly there as he descends the steps to Tommy’s front door. Under the awning formed by the upper floors sticking out some, he snaps his wings to shake out some water. 

The door opens. “There you are,” Tommy says immediately, relieved. He grabs Tubbo by the arm and pulls him inside before Tubbo can even reply. 

“Hi,” Tubbo says somewhat uselessly as the door closes behind him. 

“Get your wet shoes off, come sit down,” Tommy demands, pointing at the floor and the living room in turn. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, seriously,” Tubbo insists, laughing a little hesitantly. “Nothing really happened, Phil just asked and I said no and then I left. I’m just a little… shaken up, I’m okay.” He toes his shoes off as he talks, then follows Tommy down the hall. 

“Sure.” Tommy’s tone makes it clear what he actually thinks of that. 

There’s the magpie print still on the side table—Tubbo’s nearly stopped noticing it as he’s been over here more often, but it’s still there. 

“There’s something I should tell you, actually,” Tubbo spits out before he can talk himself out of it. 

“Mhm?” Tommy’s not even looking at him, focused on settling himself in one corner of the couch. Tubbo takes the other, angling his wings so they slot over the arm and he can comfortably look at Tommy. 

Tubbo tries to start his sentence. Stops barely a syllable in. Tries again, and a third time.

“You good?” Tommy’s giving him a concerned squint. 

“I used to work at the Heroes’ Association,” Tubbo manages finally, talking almost as quickly as he possibly can. “I went by Oleander.” He looks up at Tommy and the strange, inscrutable look on Tommy’s face. “I—yeah. It was before we met. Please don’t be mad?”

Tommy’s quiet for an uncharacteristically long moment. He sighs. “Look, I should tell you something too.”

Tubbo makes the barest sound of acknowledgement. 

“I kinda knew that?”

“What?” Tubbo says, too loud but unable to stop himself. 

Tommy shifts uncomfortably where he’s sitting, eyes practically on the floor. “Remember when you were sick and super out of it? You maybe kinda used your power a couple times on accident—no problem, happens to the best of us, but between that and your whole Ollie thing I, uh, I had my suspicions.”

Tubbo laughs despite himself, a ragged, relieved sound. “Holy shit, for real?”

Tommy’s laughing too, the sound just as harsh as Tubbo’s. “Yeah. Yeah, seriously. And I was like, I can’t tell him, right? I can’t just make that guess? Especially since, y’know, Magpie, it would just look bad. And I wasn’t even sure! I had like two evidence! Hey, I think you were a superhero is not a call you make unless you are one hundred percent sure.”

Tubbo has to force himself to catch his breath, the two of them laughing at nothing as Tommy monologues. “Oh my god, you know what’s kind of funny now?” Tubbo offers, too wired on adrenaline and relief and the aftershock of nerves to care. 

“What?”

“I knew you were Magpie then, too,” he admits, still giggling helplessly. 

“The fuck?” Tommy demands, throwing his hands in the air. “When?”

“Right before the whole, uh… illness thing,” Tubbo explains. “So when I was in the Association, I was there when Replica got that lucky shot with your power and we could see you for a second. And, like, I didn’t recognize you for a while, but something about that in the back of my head, and then being all dizzy and nauseous from being sick, and seeing the magpie photo in your hall—it all just kinda clicked right there, oh my god this guy is Magpie. Fucking hell,” he finishes. 

Tommy flops dramatically backward, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What the fuck, dude. What a fucking coincidence.”

“And then neither of us did anything about it,” Tubbo exclaims, unwilling or unable to stop now. “What the fuck were we on? Did we seriously both just move on with our lives after realizing that?”

“Hey, what was I meant to do?” Tommy protests. “I like you. I didn’t wanna scare you off or anything, can you blame me?”

“Guess not,” Tubbo allows. “And, I mean, I did the same thing, I can’t really talk.”

“Exactly. Let’s just agree we’re both idiots and move on.”

Tubbo sighs, catching his breath again. “Fine, yeah.”

“That’s not what we meant to talk about,” Tommy says suddenly, as if just remembering. “Phil asked you to join the fucking Syndicate?”

Tubbo swallows, the giddiness of a moment ago suddenly gone. “Yeah, he did. The, the Association thing is related to that, that’s why I said it.” He pauses again, trying to order his thoughts. “So me and Ranboo knew each other back then. I don’t know if you could know that. We were… kinda close? I don’t really know anymore. I, uh, that’s what I was talking to Ran about before dinner last time. And I guess Ran must’ve told somebody, because Phil knew.”

Tommy nods sagely. “Yeah, Ran’s got a backbone like one of those weird squishy fishes. Anything they know, Techno and Wilbur will both know soon, and whatever Techno knows Phil knows.”

“Are we sure they aren’t married?” Tubbo jokes weakly. 

Tommy laughs. “Maybe for tax purposes. Phil’s, like, aromantic or whatever, so that’s all they have going on. Kinda sweet, you’ve gotta admit. Ugh, I’m getting distracted, sorry—you were saying Ranboo told people about your past?”

“They must’ve,” Tubbo agrees. “But that’s pretty much why Phil wanted me to join, I think. Like, because I’m already trained and shit.”

“Mm, maybe.” Tommy squints at Tubbo for a second, lips pursed, quiet in a way that makes Tubbo a little nervous. “Can I say something and you promise you won’t get mad?”

Tubbo hesitates, definitely nervous now. “Sure?”

“Phil and Techno probably want you to join the Syndicate because you just look a little sad, y’know?”

“Hey,” Tubbo protests weakly. What on Earth is he supposed to make of that?

“I mean, just a little,” Tommy says, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “You just seem real tired a lot, see, and you get this kinda thousand-yard stare sometimes. Those two love taking in random strays—that’s why they liked me when I was a kid, that’s why they got so close with Wilbur after his injury and shit, that’s why they recruited Ranboo. Probably why they know Niki too, but I dunno, that was before my time and she’s competent as fuck now.”

“And I’m random strays now,” Tubbo asks dryly.

“Just a little!” Tommy insists. “You’ve just got a vibe. Not saying there’s anything wrong. Just… you know. A bit of a vibe.”

As much as Tubbo doesn’t like it—he’s almost nearly twenty, he’s a fucking adult, he grew up fast as a kid anyway—that does kind of track how Phil, Techno, and Niki treat him. “Jesus christ,” he mutters. 

“They should just get a dog, honestly,” Tommy adds, apparently to no one in particular. “I think Phil would be much more tolerable if he had a dog. One of those sheepdogs that needs to herd you everywhere, maybe. It’d balance him out.” 

Tubbo laughs despite himself. “Jeez, can you imagine?”

“It’d be another reason to go to dinners, too. Hey, I should pitch that to Techno, see what he thinks.”

“Let me know how that goes,” Tubbo laughs. 

“Mhm, definitely. Anyway, do you actually wanna watch some Love is in the Aether? I think we deserve to chill.”

“Ooh, totally,” Tubbo agrees, ready to ignore the events of today for at least a while. “Mina’s definitely back in this one, though.”

Tommy snorts derisively as he goes to pull up the show. “In your dreams, man, she’s totally fucking dead.”

“Hey, we’ll see about that.”

The rest of the week is shockingly quiet, all things considered. 

All that really happens during the week is that three of the bakery workers quit abruptly—two of the old ones who’ve been complaining for months and one newbie that Tubbo didn’t really know. 

Tubbo gets roped into the stupid early bakery startup shift one day—the remaining bakers tell Mary in no uncertain terms that they can’t pick up all the slack left by three vacancies—but manages to convince the actual bakers to cover the rest of them.

Other than that hell shift, though, all the bakery exodus ends up meaning for Tubbo is staying late to help Mary sort through resumes and her own schedule a bit more than usual. 

“Shouldn’t you be going home?” 

Tubbo startles and looks up from his phone to see Lara standing in the breakroom with him, near the door. Probably here to gather her stuff and clock out, he assumes; it’s two in the afternoon already.

“Nah, I’m just taking my break,” Tubbo tells her with a shrug. He takes the opportunity of the distraction to fix his posture in the folding chair for just a moment and arch his wings to stretch them. “Mary and I are still working on the bakery applications, yeah?”

Lara arches a dark eyebrow at him. “Since when were you assistant manager?”

“I don’t think that position exists.” Tubbo keeps his voice carefully neutral as he answers. What is with Lara lately, judging him so hard? It just doesn’t click.

She rolls her eyes at him now. Tubbo thinks that at least she’s still being prickly with him—if she was actually nice, he might start to get worried. “Have fun, Toby,” she says sarcastically, and then makes her exit without giving Tubbo time to respond.

“I know what I’m doing,” he says anyway to the empty room.

He looks back down at his phone. Three minutes left on his break, then he’ll head to Mary’s office to look at interview schedules.

He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t mind as much as he used to, though, and it’s still a good comeback to Lara. 

On Friday, after no contact from anyone but Tommy all week, Ranboo texts Tubbo. 

Hey man! We’re planning to do dinner maybe Saturday or Sunday, are you free?

Barely a second later, Tommy texts him too, saying, Lmao Techno’s asked me to dinner

Tubbo replies to Tommy first. Yeah I just got a text from Ran too

Phil’s turn to cook again, Tommy tells him. Which means Niki bread because that man can NOT bake

I feel like it hasn’t been too long since the last one, Tubbo sends to Tommy at almost the same time.

I’d bet you money Techno and Wil argued about something, Tommy replies. They’re trying to remind everyone we like each other

Sounds… interesting

Tubbo isn’t sure he wants to experience the group when more people are upset at each other than usual.

Nah it’s chill and fun, Tommy assures. Nobody will start shit and we’ll all just vibe

So we’re going then?

If you want. I mean, Niki’s baking

Lmao okay, Tubbo responds before navigating back to his messages with Ranboo. I can do Sunday, he tells them, if that works for you guys?

Sure! Ranboo responds quickly, but not quite quickly enough to have been watching the chat. Tubbo’s honestly kind of relieved. See you!

When Tommy and Tubbo make their way to dinner on Sunday evening, mostly Tubbo is thinking that at least the weather is nicer today than last time he was here. “It’s not raining,” he comments to Tommy during a lull in their conversation.

Tommy glances up at the sky. “Ugh, now you’ve jinxed it. What the fuck, dude.”

Tubbo looks up too—the sky is clear except for a few clouds on the horizon stained red by the lowering sun. “Pretty sure I can’t control the weather, sorry. There’s nothing up there.”

Tommy just huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “All I’m saying is, I’ll know who to blame when we have to catch the bus in the rain tonight.”

Instead of answering, Tubbo turns up Phil and Techno’s driveway towards the door. Once again, it seems like they’re the last ones here—the household car is in the driveway and two more are parked along the street in front of the yard. The bushes by the front walk are budding, each branch tipped with a delicate pale green pod.

“Do you know what color those are gonna be?” Tubbo asks idly, gesturing at the bushes as they pass.

“Mm… red, I think?” Tommy guesses. “It’s been a while, I dunno.”

The door opens before Tubbo can reply. Techno stands behind it and he nods at the two of them in greeting. “We were startin’ to wonder if you’d gotten lost,” he comments with an amused eyebrow raise. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tubbo returns, and Tommy echoes him more quietly. Both step inside, slide their shoes off by the door, and follow Techno into the kitchen.

Practically everybody is in the kitchen proper this time, Tubbo notices instantly. Phil is standing over the stove, Niki seems to have just pulled a tray of something from the oven, and Ranboo’s standing on the other side of the counter where it juts out and talking with them. Techno goes to stand next to Ranboo, and Tommy and Tubbo join Wilbur at the table.

Wilbur looks the same as ever—sunglasses, messy curls, orange crutches propped next to him. “Hello, children,” he greets with a sharp grin as they settle.

“Old man,” Tommy returns just as sharply. “How’s retirement going?”

“Oh, just lovely. Did you get the part in the school play, dear?”

Tommy actually sticks his tongue out for a second. “You’re just jealous,” he declares, then turns to stage-whisper to Tubbo, “He’s just jealous.”

Wilbur makes a sound of derision and Tubbo thinks he rolls his eyes. “Please, Tommy, anything you have I could if I wanted to. Some of us just have laurels to rest on.”

“Not stairs,” Tommy cuts in, leaning dramatically back in his chair. “Couldn’t have stairs if you wanted to.”

Wilbur’s silent for half a second, then deadpans, “I’m going to report you for harassment.”

Tommy just grins, leaning back forward. “Aw, you really do love me!”

Tubbo watches the whole exchange quietly, looking between Tommy and Wilbur. Something is trying to click together in his mind, he’s pretty sure, a pattern he can’t quite name. He squints at Wilbur’s sunglasses and they keep talking. 

“Gremlin child,” Wilbur is accusing Tommy. “Some kind of demon, most certainly. That’s the only reason to act like that.”

“Pssh, seriously? Anybody would be like this when you’re like that.” He gestures vaguely at all of Wilbur. “You’re lucky Techno has bigger fish to fry, or you’d be so dead.”

“Hey!” Phil cuts in, calling from the kitchen. “Tommy, don’t threaten Wil right before dinner.”

“Fuck off!” Tommy calls back, but lightly and with no heat to it. Tubbo thinks briefly of fuck you, and fuck your Syndicate, then decides he needs to focus on the present. 

“Honestly, I feel like that’s a compliment,” Wilbur tells Tommy, pretending to examine his nails. “The murder attempts prove people are thinking about you in their free time. What’s the saying? No such thing as bad publicity?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

Wilbur smiles faux-sweetly. “Remind me how many people have tried to kill you in the last six months? Two people? No one? That’s what I thought.”

“Do you regularly get murdered?” Tubbo chimes in skeptically, still squinting a bit at Wilbur. 

Wilbur smiles at him, showing a few too many teeth. “I would think you of all people would be able to answer that. Tommy, have you told him?”

Tommy and Tubbo share a glance, and Tommy looks almost nervous. “Not relevant, innit?” he replies to Wilbur. “You wouldn’t even have met.”

Wilbur makes a satisfied sound of disagreement. For just a second it reminds Tubbo of a cat sitting over a dead bug. “Common misconception, Toms. We met just once.”

“Met when?” Tubbo demands, looking between the two of them. “What are you talking about?”

Tommy takes a breath, but Wilbur waves dismissively at him. “Let him work it out on his own, will you? More satisfying for everyone that way.”

Tommy narrows his eyes at Wilbur for a long moment, then glances at Tubbo and lets out the breath. “Fine. I’ll tell you when we leave if you don’t notice, Tubbo. That okay?”

“Sure?”

“Anyway, Tommy, did Niki tell you she made yeast rolls?” Wilbur says, as casually as if it was the natural next step of conversation.

“For real?” Tommy asks. “Damn, she’s feeling fancy then.”

Wilbur shrugs. “Guess so. Our win, so I’m not complaining.”

“Oh absolutely not! She hasn’t made those in forever,” Tommy agrees. 

The two of them keep talking. Tubbo tries to think. 

Wilbur is clearly trying to make whatever he and Tommy are alluding to into some kind of puzzle for Tubbo. Honestly, Tubbo’s a little sick of puzzles and confusion about his own past, but at least this one presumably has an actual answer. 

What did Wilbur say? He and Tubbo apparently met just once, but it’s easy to think they never met. People try to kill Wilbur, or used to, and Tubbo is meant to know that. It feels like a fucked up word problem on a math test. What is the greatest common denominator of Wilbur’s and Tubbo’s secret pasts?

So what else does Tubbo know about Wilbur? He loves those stupid fucking sunglasses, and he’s got a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor, and he can’t walk on his own—he needs the crutches or wheelchair. 

And they met just once. And Tubbo should know that someone tried to kill Wilbur. 

Fucking hell, Tubbo knew he recognized those sunglasses from somewhere. 

Just once, well over a year ago now, Tubbo had met a frightening, sarcastic man in dark red goggles who had—Tubbo assumed—immediately gotten murdered while Tubbo watched over CCTV. Their time at the Association overlapped really only that one day, and even Bishop had to be corrected that they did meet once.

Wilbur must catch something in Tubbo’s expression, because he stops talking to give Tubbo his full attention and raise an eyebrow. 

“You…” Tubbo begins, unsure of how to finish that sentence. Wilbur grins at him, Cheshire Cat and coy. 

“I?”

“Firebird,” Tubbo says finally. He tilts his head. “Right?”

Wilbur puts a hand over his chest for a moment and inclines his head, playing at touched but still smiling like he has been. “One and the same. How’s my protege doing these days?”

“We met for, like, five minutes,” Tubbo points out flatly.

Wilbur, clearly stifling a laugh, gestures vaguely. “Clearly it was influential. Hush, Tommy, stop laughing. We’re being serious.”

“Sure,” Tommy replies, tone dripping sarcasm. “I’m gonna go bother Niki for a roll. Tubbo, you want one?”

“Yeah, if it’s okay,” Tubbo agrees.

“What am I,” Wilbur protests, “chopped liver? You wound me, Tommy.”

“Whatever, yeah,” Tommy says dismissively, pushing his chair away from the table. “Shut up, old man.”

Tubbo and Wilbur don’t talk while Tommy’s gone. Tubbo just watches Tommy in the kitchen, giving Niki his best attempt at puppy dog eyes while Phil moves something—fried rice, if Tubbo had to guess—from a pot to a large bowl. 

Barely a minute later, Tommy returns triumphant, balancing three rolls in his hands. “Behold!” he declares, offering one first to Tubbo and then to Wilbur. “The fruits of my labors. Bow before me, peasants.”

“Niki actually made them,” Tubbo points out, examining the roll in his hands. “You just walked like ten feet.” 

“Fifteen feet,” Tommy protests. “My journey is long and arduous.”

“I’m sure it was,” Wilbur comments. “There, there.”

The roll is a pale golden brown on the bottom and a shinier, darker tone on top. It comes apart easily in Tubbo’s hands, and as he chews a bite of it he thinks he understands why everyone raves about Niki’s baking so much.

Barely a few seconds later, Ranboo comes to the table from the counter. “Hey, we’re ready over there if you guys wanna get food,” they announce.

Tommy pumps a fist in the air as he stands. “Fuck yeah, I am starving, brother.”

“Didn’t you just come and eat a roll?” Ranboo asks, tilting their head and squinting at Tommy for a second.

“Because I’m starving,” Tommy explains, unhelpfully.

“Hi,” Ranboo murmurs at Tubbo as Tubbo stands to follow Tommy. 

“Hi,” Tubbo returns with a hesitant smile. 

Ranboo smiles back, wider but nervous. Tubbo can only wonder if they’re thinking the same things he is. Are we friends? Can we be friends? Did I ever know you, and are you who I knew?

“Hi,” Ranboo says one more time, and then the two of them go to get dinner.

Tommy and Tubbo leave with everyone else after dinner and dessert, feeling much more settled than the last several times Tubbo’s left this house. 

“Told you it’d be chill and fun,” Tommy says at the bottom of the driveway. Both Wilbur and Niki are already out of sight, their cars obviously much faster than Tommy and Tubbo on foot. 

“Yeah,” Tubbo agrees. “It was actually pretty nice. The rolls were killer, too.”

“I know, right? I have no idea how Niki does it. She even gave me the recipe once and it came out all fucked up.”

Tubbo hisses in sympathy. “If you still have it, maybe we could try together sometime,” he suggests. “Two heads are better than one, right?”

“Sure, if you want. It takes, like, all afternoon at least, though. Even for Niki, she said so.”

“Damn, really?” Tubbo shrugs. “Still worth it, maybe.”

“Maybe. Anyway, how’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Tubbo replies with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t need to check on me all the time, you know that, right?”

Tommy shrugs aggressively. “I dunno, you were really shaken up when Phil asked you to join, and it was just like a week ago. You’re my friend, Tubbo, I’m allowed to worry a little.”

“You don’t have to, though,” Tubbo insists. 

“I can do what I want, so there.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Tubbo sighs. Not that he’s going to tell Tommy, but it is nice how much Tommy cares. It feels warm. “Wanna come to my place and watch some TV, or are you tired?”

“Big men like me never need sleep,” Tommy declares with a mock-superior expression and tone. Tubbo laughs, exasperated. “Yeah, let’s watch TV. We’ve gotta be almost done with season two, right?”

“I think so,” Tubbo agrees. “Just one season left after that.”

“Fuck off. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“A tragedy.” Tommy sighs far louder than the situation merits in Tubbo’s opinion. “We’ll have to find another show after we’re done, right?”

“Yeah, definitely; you can’t get rid of me that easily,” Tubbo jokes. “I’m here to stay.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and bumps their shoulders together as they walk. “Duh. I’m not letting go of you, anyway, so you better be here to stay.”

Tubbo just giggles and bumps his best friend—here to stay—back.