Chapter Text
‘Primes, this is a huge fucking mistake isn't it?’ Tommy thought. He was, at the moment lugging a supervillain down the stairs towards his tiny mouldy basement apartment. You know, as one does to unwind after an eight hour shift on a random Thursday night.
“Alright big man, fucking work with me here, yeah?” The boy grunted as he guided the man – who was delirious and probably halfway to the gates already, down another step. Not an easy task when the man has got at least a hundred and fifty pounds made up of pure muscle on him..
“ Fuckin’, it just HAD to be The Blade. Didn’t it? Primes, why didn’t I ignore you or alert the cops like a fucking normal person.” Tommy mumbled to himself, ignoring the temptation of just throwing the piglin hybrid down the last few remaining steps. Which he actually he might’ve if he wasn’t worried that doing so would literally finish the man off.
After a couple minutes of some more great struggle (Tommy wasn’t weak, he was a Big Man , after all, this guy is just fucking massive ), he finally managed to get the villain into his apartment, putting him down as gently as possible onto the floor, so he could inspect the deep wound without jostling him further, it was a stab wound in his side, which luckily seemed to miss any vital organs, but was gushing an alarming amount of blood. In response, Tommy whipped off the worn-out hoodie he’d been wearing and pressed it to the wound and pressed down hard, it being his only option as he doesn't keep medical gauze in stock and he didn't wanna leave the man to go grab a towel or something. (He ignores the fact that this was the last ‘warm’ article of clothing that actually fit and winter was approaching fast, because that is a problem for future Tommy) Instead he focuses on praying and begging the Primes to not leave him with a dead supervillain in his apartment.
“Okay,” Tommy breathed out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. “I’m Big Man Tommy, I can save the life of a supervillain, I am the Biggest Man in the city of L’manberg after all. This is easy for a guy cool as me.” He grinned to himself, though if anyone else saw it would be better described as a grimace, at best.
Now with a mix of false confidence and adrenaline, he slowly peeled his hoodie off the wound to check if the blood had stopped.
It hadn’t, it didn’t even slow down,
“Oh, great, this is just fucking poggers, isn’t it.” His voice cracked. He could practically feel the false sense of confidence he’d conjured up not moments ago seep out of his body. “I’m gonna have to explain to the Syndicate that I killed their fucking friend, their ally, of how many years? Six? Seven? Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna die. I’m never going to get to water Clementine or eat Bad’s muffins ever again because the two scariest supervillains ever will have my fucking head on a spike, awesome, great, amazing. Pogchamp” Tommy was at an atomic level of stress, practically drenching his red and white shirt in sweat.
Then, he paused, and then he started thinking.
He lived in modern society. Very rarely did anybody leave the house without a phone or some kind of device. So why would a supervillain who probably lived in a place reminiscent of the Batcave that is probably filled with a bunch of cool and expensive gadgets be any different? So very suddenly, the villains might’ve just become the heroes of this very specific situation. Which meant Tommy didn’t have to end up as a lifeless corpse to be found by an unsuspecting dog walker.
Tommy reached into the pockets of the man’s weird medieval-looking pants, leaving one hand to keep pressure on the wound. He feels his hand hit something rectangular.
“Aw yeah, fuckin’ jackpot.” he celebrates, wrapping his fingers around it and pulling it out of the pocket. The celebration ceased. It wasn’t a phone. It was a plain matte black, with a singular button on it. Which he presses, immediately, because, obviously. It’s a button. You gotta push it.
"Wait, " Tommy reeled. This guy was a supervillain, he committed heinous crimes, like weekly, and the box literally came from his pocket, so who knew what the fuck it could do. Tommy half successfully swallowed his panic.
“That better be a fucking signal beacon or some shit because if I just blew up a building full of heroes, you and I are gonna have a fucking problem, Blade.”
Luckily for The Blade and Tommy, it only took a max of seven minutes for The Angel of fucking Death to swoop into his home, unluckily. That was done by him bashing in his front door and storming in like Hell’s dogs were snapping at his heels.
The avian hybrid stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Tommy leaning over his teammate, holding an old, now bloody sweater to the man's side.
Tommy looked up at him, trying to ignore how absolutely fucking terrifying the man was, with his imposing figure and his massive wings that were literally creating a shadow over the blonde. In a normal situation, Tommy would’ve felt jealous of the wings., With his own just growing in and with no knowledge of how to take care of them, they were small and ill-kept, but this was not a normal situation because the Angel of Death was staring right at him as he tried to keep his teammate from bleeding out, So.
“Are you just going to fucking stare at me, or are you going to help your stupid supervillain friend who managed to get himself stabbed in an alleyway?” He said with gritted teeth.
Logically, Tommy knows he shouldn’t be doing anything to provoke the practically immortal villain. But, he was stressed out and in desperate need to go to bed so he'd deal with the repercussions of cussing out a villain at a later date. Fortunately, his yelling seemed to kick the man into the drive because he hurriedly moved to crouch down next to Tommy, gently parading the boy away as he took over, putting pressure over the wound.
“Right then, let's see what we have here, shall we?” The man mumbled to himself quietly as he slowly peeled back the sweater to look at the wound. Then the avian paused. Which caused Tommy to stop breathing momentarily, immediately thinking he did something wrong and was about to get mauled by the villain.
Then he watched The Angel of Death let out the most exasperated sigh a person could possibly muster. Tommy stiffened, unable to
“What? What happened!?” Tommy asked. His voice wasn't shaking out of fear; it was anxiety, two completely different things, actually.
Death turned to him, a look on his face, one that was reminiscent of when Tommy did something to annoy one of his foster parents. It quickly softened into something different, something the younger blonde could not decipher.
“Nothing, mate. No need to worry, alright?
Tommy nodded,
Then Tommy watched the man stand up, nudge his bleeding, passed out teammate and say,
"Seriously? ”
"He looked Gold, Phil. ”
“Primes, That does not mean-”
Tommy zoned the two men out, startled that the man he just spent however long saving was seemingly fine? Like, he was okay. Apparently .
He looked over. Blade’s eyes were open, their eyes immediately meeting each other. To Tommy's dismay, the man’s eyes were actually twinkling (metaphorically. Of course) , and he didn’t even seem bothered by his currently bleeding wound. Which was when Tommy glanced at it, or where it was supposed to be, because it was mostly gone, the only trace of it ever being there was a thin scratch.
Tommy, now confused and maybe a bit frustrated and perhaps a little angry. He had a lot of questions now, but he figured any answer would give him heart arrhythmias in his current state, so he didn’t ask.
So he found himself stuck on what he wanted to do now as he watched the two villains bicker back and forth at each other. Stuck between biting the pink-haired supervillain (he quickly decides against that one, the repercussions of his actions would not be worth it, no matter how satisfying biting the man would be.) Screaming (as fledgelings tend to do when they are stressed, he thinks.), or walking out his front door, leaving L’manburg and never returning and forgetting about this whole ordeal. So, Instead, he passed out.
Obviously.