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“Nova, duck!”
The moment the words cross his awareness, Tubbo flattens himself against the wall at his back, arms raised and shielding above his head. There’s a crackling sound, a hiss and a pop, just beside his ear. When Tubbo peeks out from under his arm, there’s a new burn mark scorched into the wall, just where his head had been.
“Oops,” a voice says across the room. On the other side of the training area stands Short-Circuit, blue electricity still crackling around his fingers. “Sorry! I was trying to hit Spectre.”
“Excuse me?” At his name, a figure glimmers into view a few feet from where Tubbo is standing, and fixes a glare across the room. His form wavers for just a moment, blurry lines in blue and gold. “You were trying to hit me?”
“Get good, Circuit,” The Blade calls lazily from where he’s leaning one shoulder against the wall at the outskirt of the room. “You’re sloppy.”
Electricity crackles louder. Circuit’s eyes glow for a moment, cyan and static energy. “You wanna see sloppy, bitch? Come over here and face me yourself.”
“Come on, boys,” a final voice interrupts. There’s a rustling sound, a flap of feathers against rushing air, and then Icarus lands lightly on his feet, just behind Circuit. “This is supposed to be a team-building exercise.”
“Tell that to Short-Stack over there,” Spectre says. “Get him to stop shooting his lightning bolts all over the place and maybe we’ll build team a little faster.”
“Fuck you!” There’s a hiss and a crackle. Immediately, Tubbo jerks back a step further again. He doesn’t even need the verbal warning before he’s jumping out of the way of another arc of electricity. This time, the aim hits, crackling right into Spectre’s chest.
The mirage of the hero flickers for a moment, and then bursts into blue and gold smoke and disappears from view. A new image appears beside The Blade. This one raises a middle finger.
“Fuck off!” Circuit shouts. “Quit evaporating!”
“Quit shooting me with fucking electricity!”
“Where the fuck are you actually standing right now?” Circuit widens his stance, team building exercise wholly forgotten. “You’ve got three seconds to show yourself, or else I’m zapping random spots til I find you.”
Tubbo catches Icarus’s eye over Circuit’s shoulder as the bickering continues. The winged hero looks on wearily.
It takes dragging The Blade into their squabble - Circuit’s next bolt hits the mirage of Spectre at his side and singeing one white sleeve - before Icarus finally steps in.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he says. Circuit’s just squared off against The Blade, shouting insults and goading in turn until the other hero draws his signature sword and widens his stance. Icarus reaches out to physically drag the two apart. “Come on, you guys. What’s gotten into you today?”
Short-Circuit glowers, eyes fading from a glowing cyan to a more natural shade of blue. “I’m bored, Phil. We’ve done this exercise a thousand times before.”
“Hero names while we’re in costume,” Icarus chides gently. “We’ve done it a thousand times because we need to be good at it.”
Tubbo has not done this exercise a thousand times. If he’s being honest, he thinks he’s sort of lost the plot of what it was they were supposed to be doing, because Short-Circuit and Spectre had immediately devolved into this argument, and The Blade had wandered off to the sidelines and refused to move, and Tubbo definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing well enough to do it on his own.
He doesn’t speak up, though. Just keeps on watching the rest of the team interact. He’ll pick it up eventually, he’s sure.
“We are good at it.” There’s a glimmer of blue and gold, and then Spectre pops into existence at Icarus’s side. He doesn’t waver or shift this time, now solid and real in a tangible form. “C’mon, Phil. We’ve had a long day.”
“Names,” Icarus scolds again. “Spectre, please.”
“Give it up, old man.” The Blade sheaths his sword. “It was your idea to let these chucklefucks know your name and your address, live with the consequences.”
“Yeah, Phil,” Circuit says, grinning. “We know too much now. You’ll never get rid of us.”
It’s a funny feeling, watching the four of them interact. There’s an ease in the way they work together, the way they move and fight and train and play. It’s easy to tell from a single look that these four know each other. Not just as heroes, not just as teammates and coworkers, but outside of that too. There’s a bond that’s so obviously evident.
Tubbo’s… not jealous, he’s decided. Or maybe a little, but it’s okay. He just likes to watch. He likes to be the fifth wheel to their little family. A spare piece, one add-on. An extra wheel clunking along behind them.
It’s a poorly kept secret that all of them know each other behind the mask as well as with it on. Tubbo’s pretty sure they’ve all got a place together. Or at least three of them do. In comparison, Tubbo’s own house feels a little quiet and lonely, when he thinks of it. He thinks about calling Quackity. He hasn’t checked in on him in a few days. Hopefully he hasn’t gotten himself killed in a ditch since the last time Tubbo’s broken into his apartment.
“Nova!”
Circuit’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. He jogs across the training room, tearing his domino mask from his face as he goes. It is a small miracle, Tubbo thinks dryly, that Circuit’s identity has lasted as long as it has. Now, Short-Circuit slings an arm over Tubbo’s shoulders, leaning against him with effortless camaraderie.
“Nova, come home with us for dinner, would you? I want pizza, but I’m gonna get outvoted if Wilbur decides he wants something else. You’ve gotta vote for me.”
Tubbo laughs at Spectre’s name dropping immediately. “Dude. You’re horrible at this name thing.”
“You already knew Wil’s name,” Circuit says, waving a hand. “C’mon, Nova, please. Come over. Hang out.”
“I totally would,” Tubbo says, the lie coming out as if it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said, “But I’m absolutely swamped with extra work. Sorry, man.”
Circuit’s face twists up. Almost calling him out. Tubbo’s stomach turns with guilt. “You’ve been working all day. You’ve been here all day, training with the rest of us.”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “I’ve got, like, reports and shit. Other training work. It’s new hero stuff, y’know, gotta get through all the, uh, online courses.”
“Dude, literally just skip through the online courses. They’re useless anyway.”
“I’ve gotta finish them.” It’s a dumb excuse to stick to, but it’s the best he’s got. Tubbo shrugs Circuit’s arm off of his shoulders. “Sorry, Circuit.”
“Tommy,” Circuit interrupts. “You can just call me Tommy, you know.”
“Still wearing the costume,” Tubbo points out. “Circuit.”
He pouts, whines the next word to drag it out. “Nova. Please. Take a fucking break for once and come hang out with us.”
This is his last chance to give it up. To give in, to let go of the part of him that stands off to the side and watches the rest of the team - not his team, just a team - and let himself try something terrifyingly new. To let Circuit lean against him, to try out the name Tommy, the names Wilbur, Phil, out on his tongue. Maybe to slip out a name of his own. To be brave, for once, and to wonder if they know it’s a little like cutting his own heart out and handing it over to them.
“Maybe next time?” Tubbo shrugs with an apologetic smile.
Circuit takes the finality in the statement for what it is. He doesn’t pout any longer, just charges into a new tangent. Something about Spectre and how he was promised pizza three days ago and never got it, because he’s the worst brother ever, or something. Tubbo just smiles along with it, and he ignores the pit in his chest.
After he watches them leave and packs his own things - hoodie on over his suit, gloves carefully tugged up to his wrists, duffel bag slung over one shoulder - he steps outside of the training room. He digs his phone out of his pocket as he walks the near-empty halls, scrolling through a screen of notifications as he does. Still nothing from Quackity. It’s not too strange; Q is almost never the one to text first anyway. Tubbo makes a mental note to call him tonight. But there’s one text in particular that catches his eye now.
(6:20) sam: Hey Tubbo, I’ll be home by 7. Would you like to get dinner?
Tubbo’s stomach is still churning with undecided guilt-anxiety, leftover from turning down Circuit’s offers of friendship. He can’t put a finger on what’s holding him back, but it rears its head again now, strangely. It’s just Sam. It means he won’t be home alone tonight after all.
(6:34) tubbo: ok
He manages to get out a single word reply, and right as he hits send, his shoulder runs into something and he stumbles. There’s a noise, a very soft and very human “Oof!” and the clatter of something hitting the floor.
“Sorry!” Tubbo blurts out, even before he’s processed everything, as he’s catching himself against the wall and just barely managing to keep his phone from slipping out of his hands. He looks up, trying to take stock of the situation as he keeps rambling out apologies, “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, that’s on me. Sorry.”
Tubbo recognizes the figure leaning down to pick up the folder he’d dropped. Dream glances up, flashing a quick smile before he gets back to his feet, papers back in his hand. He raises one hand, placating, quick to jump to reassurances and disarming the situation. Tubbo appreciates it. His heart rate starts to settle back to normal.
“Oh, you’re all good, Nova. You’re good, no worries. You okay?”
Tubbo nods dumbly. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s all good. You coming back from training? How’s the team?”
“Fine,” Tubbo says. “I’m getting the hang of training with them, I think.”
“Good!” Dream smiles brightly. “I knew you would. I figure you’ll probably be moved to another team eventually, but hey. They’re a good place to start, right? Little chaotic, but I was sure you’d fit right in. You’re a wonder, Nova.”
Something about Dream’s praise fills up Tubbo’s chest. Makes him stand a little straighter. “Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Dream says, a scoff. “Drop the sir, Nova. You’ve been here long enough. You can just call me Dream.”
“Okay,” Tubbo says. “Dream. Thank you.”
Dream tucks his file under his arm. “Hey, walk with me a minute? I wanted to chat with you real quick, actually, I’m glad I caught you on the way out. You’re not busy?”
Tubbo shakes his head. He falls into step beside the other man, heading down the hall in the direction opposite he’d been going. Towards where he knows the records are kept, offices for the superiors in the force and the agents who work at a desk, not out on the streets. “No, sir–uh, Dream. What’s up?”
Instead of answering, Dream fishes out a keycard, unlocking a door with a flash of lights and a beep, motioning Tubbo through it ahead of him. “How’s the rest of your training going? I’ve seen some of your quiz scores. You’re phenomenal.”
There’s that pride-warmth bubbling in his chest again. “Thank you. It’s pretty easy to get the hang of, honestly. It’s all going really well.”
“Perfect. Perfect.” Dream stops in front of a door, frosted glass and dark wood. To the side of the doorframe is a small plaque that reads Agent W. Taken. With another flash of his keycard, the door unlocks and swings open. “Just dropping something in here really quick, you mind waiting?”
“Go ahead,” Tubbo says. He’s not sure where this is going, what exactly Dream wants to talk to him about, but he’s happy to wait a moment longer.
Dream flicks the lights on in his office. It’s a little cluttered, a variety of knick-knacks and photos on walls. Tubbo’s been in here once before - the day he signed on to the Hero Force - and now he takes in the photos again. There’s pictures of Dream with a variety of others, a series of photos taken in this room. Heroes signed on, Tubbo realizes, the same as he had - shaking Dream’s hand over the desk, or standing beside him with a smile. Some of the heroes he recognizes; Spectre and The Blade together in one photo, one with Short-Circuit clearly in his younger teens, grinning widely at the camera while Dream looks on with an exasperated expression.
There’s a few people he doesn’t recognize in these photos, too. These are outside of this office, a park, in front of a busy street, in the dim light of a restaurant. There are two people in particular that seem to show up in several photos. A hero with dark hair and goggles, and another with a bandanna and hair tied up in a ponytail. There’s one photo that catches Tubbo’s attention in particular. All three of them stand together. The goggled hero stands on the other side of the photo, lips half-parted as if he’s telling some joke, caught in time to make the others in the photo laugh; the other stands opposite him, turned towards the center and eyes squinted in a frozen near-blink. And there’s Dream in the center, suit crinkled ever so slightly, laughing enough to erase the lines that Tubbo’s used to seeing under his eyes. He looks younger in this photo, Tubbo thinks. There’s always been this line of something tired under Dream’s eyes, but it’s not here. Not in this photo.
“Do you remember when we first met, Tubbo?”
Tubbo starts. Dream stands just behind him now, looking over his shoulder at the photos that Tubbo has been inspecting. Tubbo hurriedly diverts his attention away from them, scrambling for something to say.
“Oh, uh, yes,” Tubbo says. And it’s true–he does remember, albeit in pieces and fractures. “Sorry, I was just–”
Ever so subtly, Dream cuts him off with a shake of his head. Tubbo falls silent, and Dream’s gaze stays on the photo ahead of him, the one of all three of them. “When I first saw you, I was impressed. You were cornered, three of our agents against one of you, and you were–what, fifteen back then?”
“Fourteen,” Tubbo says, quiet.
“Fourteen. And you held your own like the bravest hero I’d ever seen. It was impressive.”
“I fought against you,” Tubbo says, a note of curiosity reaching his voice. “And you were impressed?”
“Extremely.” Dream reaches out and brushes one finger against the photo Tubbo had been looking at moments before. “You were in a terrible spot, Tubbo. But you adapted. I watched the exact moment you swapped your power out for another, and immediately, you knew how to wield it. You took the change in stride, and you were unstoppable.”
Not quite, Tubbo thinks; not quite unstoppable, because they had taken him down anyway, but it’s as if Dream has forgotten that part. Or simply doesn’t care to recall it.
Now, Dream gently unpins the photograph and turns it between his fingers. “Not every person with powers is meant to be a hero. I think you know that already.”
Tubbo shifts, foot to foot. This conversation has taken a turn, and he’s not sure if he’s following it. He’s not sure who Dream is talking about, or even who he’s talking to. But Dream turns now, green eyes fixed on where Tubbo is standing.
“Not everyone is meant to be out in the field. Not everyone has the strength for it–not physically, but emotionally. Not everyone knows what you could leave behind out there.” Dream points at Tubbo, gesturing with the photo in his hands. Three smiling faces peek out at him from beneath Dream’s fingers. “But you do. You and I both do, and I saw that in you all those years ago. That’s what made me jump to offer you a position here on the force. I want you to succeed, because I know you’re capable of it. I’ve known you were since the first time I saw you fight with your back to a corner, outnumbered, outmatched, and ready to do what it took to win.”
The words make his head feel fuzzy, a little like he’s swimming and trying to catch on to every one of them. Gather them up and hold them tight before the current washes them away.
“You, Tubbo, are a rising star. You are going to be the greatest hero this city has ever seen.” Dream smiles at him. He pins his photo back on the wall. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
Breathless, Tubbo says, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m just glad you agreed to sign on.” He turns away from the wall of photos now; there’s a clear sign in his eyes that this conversation is over, so Tubbo backs towards the door without another word. Dream follows him out. “And hey, if you ever need any help with anything–training, questions, whatever, just let me know. Once you’re fed up with SBI, I’ll bump you up to some one-on-one training with any hero of your choice. You tell me, and I’ll pull some strings with the big man and get you where you wanna go. Deal?”
The word choice is funny. Deal? Dream says, as if there is anything Tubbo has to offer him in return. Maybe it’s just the expectation to succeed, and, well. That is something Tubbo can handle.
“Deal,” he says.
“How was training?”
It’s an innocuous question, asked over a booth amidst faint chatter of customers and clinking dishes and silverware. Tubbo pauses, fingers poised above the table where he’d been tapping them just moments before. Across the table, Sam has his eyes fixed on the menu in front of him, half-hiding his face.
“Fine,” Tubbo says. “I talked to Dream.”
“Oh?” Sam glances up. “What about?”
Tubbo shrugs. “Training stuff. He mentioned that after I’m done with my work with the current team, I could pick any hero I wanted to mentor under.”
“That’s great.” Sam sets down the menu and reaches for his glass of water instead, ice clinking around a plastic straw. “Didn’t know Dream was in charge of that.”
“He said he’d pull some strings.” Tubbo shrugs again. “I dunno. That’s just what he said.”
“Well, that’s great either way. Definitely worth celebrating,” Sam says, as if he wouldn’t have taken Tubbo out for dinner either way. “You should get something extra to celebrate.”
Tubbo could be somewhere else right now. The thought occurs to him, blunt and unexpected. He could’ve gone home with Circuit - with Tommy, with Phil and Wilbur, could’ve seen them without costumes on. He wonders what it’s like, all four of them crammed into a booth at some greasy pizza place. If it’s as loud and chaotic as when they’re in the training room together. If it’s as easy for them to fall into step with one another, if it’s easier. If Tubbo would be an onlooker; if he would fit in with them. He wonders.
He could be with Quackity. Could’ve ditched Sam and gone to a shitty little apartment a few streets from here and sat on a beat-up couch to eat takeout leftovers while Netflix plays in the background and the two of them pretend like it’s not weird for Tubbo to be there. Quackity’s good at acting like it isn’t. Tubbo’s good at not calling him out on it.
He could be home alone too, he guesses. Could be in his own room, watching through another video series on hero laws and public safety duties and the history of superpowers. Could be learning, absorbing information, tucking it all away to become a better hero.
Instead, for some reason, he’s sitting in this diner with Sam.
Like that’s the safest option.
Sam’s talking about dessert, even though they haven’t ordered their food yet, and pointing out the milkshakes in the menu. Tubbo sits there and watches him while the rest of the diner plays fuzzy around them both like a bad set of sound effects.
“Tubbo? You okay?”
Sam’s looking at him with eyebrows pinched, voice soft in concern. There’s a waiter standing by them now, and Sam’s looking at him, all expectant and waiting.
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “Sorry. Um, yeah, I’ll have a burger. Thank you.”
“And a milkshake,” Sam adds. “Chocolate?”
“I don’t really–” Tubbo starts to say, but Sam cuts him off.
“Chocolate. We’re celebrating.”
“Oh, really?” the waitress asks, cheerful conversation. “What’s the occasion?”
“Good grade on a project,” Sam says, an easy lie. And close enough to an equivalent, Tubbo guesses; it feels a little like homework sometimes. It’s just funny to think about it that way, though. A good grade on hero work. He’s got a high score on saving people and fighting crime.
“So have you talked to Quackity lately?” Sam asks when the waitress walks away. “Everything working okay at his place?”
It’s been a few weeks since the day he’d enlisted Sam to help him replace some of the shit in Quackity’s apartment with significantly less shitty upgrades. He knows Q is independent and stubborn to a fault, knows admitting he needs help is akin to cutting a limb off for him. Where Tubbo would rather cut his heart out than let his team know even his own real name, Quackity would rather sleep on a dirt floor before admitting that he can’t afford something better. They’ve both got their issues.
“I talked to him a couple days ago,” Tubbo says. “Was gonna call him tonight, maybe. He didn’t mention anything.”
Silence lapses out after that answer, like Sam is looking for the next thing to say. Like this conversation is a strategic game, and he’s deciding his next move. Finally, a breath escapes him like a sigh. “Tubbo, am I doing something wrong?”
Tubbo blinks. “What?”
“With Quackity,” Sam clarifies. “I know–Well, you know him better than I do. I just want to be sure that, you know, he knows. That I’m here if he needs something.”
“He knows,” Tubbo says. “Trust me. He knows.”
“Okay,” Sam says. And then, “Does he believe me when I tell him that?”
“No,” Tubbo says. It’s blunt, but he can’t exactly phrase that any better. It’s just the truth. He feels a little like he’s coaching Sam, which is funny, because Sam is a whole grown adult, and Tubbo is very much seventeen. “It’s not your fault, though.”
Sam deflates ever so slightly. He’s never been easy for Tubbo to read. He’s stoic - that’s the word for him. He’s got this constant look of weary resignation that never seems to go away, even when his mouth turns up in a smile and a quiet laugh, or when his eyebrows pinch together in anxious concern. Even in those moments, he’s muted; like even his emotions are a little worn out. He’s weary.
But there’s little flickers, sometimes. Lips pressed together, or eyes dimming for just a moment, and Tubbo can only guess at the meanings.
“I guess I’m just asking,” Sam says, scratching one arm with his other hand– “If this is normal.”
Tubbo isn’t really sure how to answer that, but he says, “Is anything we do normal?”
He knows what Sam is really looking for. And he wishes it was an easy answer to give - to simply say that yes, Quackity has always been reclusive, don’t worry about it, he just tends to shut himself away all the time. But that’s not the answer, and it’s not easy, and it’s not true. Quackity’s loud, stubborn, puts himself in the middle of everything even if he has no business being there, and he sticks to it. Tubbo’s seen him stick to things he has no right being part of for much longer than is any good for him. Tubbo’s seen him get in awful trouble for it.
This? This is just that, but in reverse. And Tubbo can’t explain that to Sam. Not in the middle of a diner at 8 PM on a Wednesday evening.
“I worry about him,” Sam says, finally. “I worry about both of you. I know I’m not really your dad, I’m not really anything but the guy who makes sure you have a place to live and food to eat, but I do worry. I want you both to be able to adjust to–” he gestures around vaguely– “to everything, and to be happy with your lives here.”
“I am happy,” Tubbo says. Something to throw Sam a bone. “And Quackity’s just… He just needs some time. He’ll come back, I think.”
There’s that flicker again, the one that Tubbo can’t read. Like Sam is deciding whether or not to believe him. Tubbo wishes him luck either way; he doesn’t know if he believes himself.
“Well,” Sam says, finally. He does that tired smile - trying to look bright - and he pushes Tubbo’s milkshake across the table. “Enough of this topic, then. It’s a happy night. I’m proud of you.”
And what a set of words those are.
Sam says things like this like they’re simple and straightforward, with the same amount of deliberation whether he is ordering a milkshake or telling the kid he took in off the fucking streets three years ago that he is, inexplicably, proud of him. As if he doesn’t know the weight behind them.
He can’t figure out how to reply. He just shoves his straw into the milkshake ahead of him and drinks.
It’s chocolate. It’s good.