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Dirt crunches underneath Wilbur’s feet as he walks a familiar path, the repetitive sound just barely drowning out the twittering of birds above. Their musical notes fill the air, but they come off more annoying than calming. He truly wouldn’t mind if he had a slingshot at the moment, but he knows, at the same time, that’s a terrible idea. He’s not supposed to be causing trouble anymore, anyway. He’s turned over a new slate, or that’s what he’s told himself. He’s the same person who blew up L’manberg, who begged his father to kill him, who went a little insane inside the cold cave walls of Pogtopia. But he wants to fix his mistakes, or do what little he can to make sure when he dies next people will miss him. (He wants them to hate him)
Alas, there’s not much else to do when he’s not entertaining himself with his and Quackity’s petty rivalry, or when he’s attempting to apologize to the many he’s wronged. And so he’s found himself wandering the familiar and unfamiliar roads of the SMP, lost in thought, sightseeing.
He’s found himself following the unchanged yet repeatedly trodden pathway to Tommy’s hut, but he just tells himself this was the closest route to get to the community house. No one can say otherwise if he pops by for a friendly visit anyhow, anticipation blooming in his chest the closer he gets.
He wonders what kind of reaction he’ll get today, resigned or angry. He’s well aware it’s not the healthiest habit to obsess over your friends’ (brothers’) reaction to seeing you, but he can’t help it. It brings a little spice to his days when he doesn’t feel like apologizing or heading off to get to the person he needs to apologize to. Besides, it’s kind of his way of checking in on Tommy, if he wants to think about it a bit more. But he doesn’t.
Just ahead he can see the bridge that leads to Tommy’s plot of land, his farm empty and anything left inside the tilled soil is shriveled and yellowed. It seems Tommy’s green thumb has left him in recent weeks. He passes a glance over the bench and music box at the very other side of the land, eyes sweeping over the railing of the bridge to find Tommy’s dirt hut.
Wilbur finds himself pausing just before he steps off the bridge and onto Tommy’s land, staring at the dirt shack, the same as it’s always been. A moment frozen in time, almost, a constant throughout all the changes they’ve gone through. The sight of something so old yet so new has his heart aching for something that will never return, a pang of longing stealing his breath.
Well, this visit is off to a lovely star-
CRASH
He jerks immediately towards where he thinks the sound came from, his wide eyes landing on the tiny, innocent sight of Tommy’s dirt hut, sitting politely. He holds his breath, falling still for a full minute with his ears straining to hear the sound again, or pinpoint where exactly it had come from. It certainly wasn’t a loud noise per say, nothing more than the muffled noise of someone falling and taking something down with them.
Slowly, a smirk spreads across his face, coming to the only conclusion possible. Tommy must’ve tripped and fallen, and maybe even made a mess. A wonderful opportunity to waltz inside, claiming he heard something. And maybe get some barbed pokes in there somewhere as well.
He saunters closer, feet sinking into the soft grass as he cuts across the pathway and makes his way to the front door, but something stops him in his tracks. Maybe it’s the dried blood, splattered across the door like some sort of bad thriller horror, maybe it’s the fact the door is open, peering into a shadowed room that he can barely make anything out inside, or maybe it’s the muddied footprints leading inside. Whatever it is, the combination of different clues has him rapidly flitting through possible reasons.
Maybe Tommy is just tired and forgot to close his door? No, the poor boy always has it locked. An animalistic instinctual fear that hasn’t always been there has made him wary, and cautious.
It can’t be that. And, when Wilbur moves closer on quiet feet, he can see the lock has been broken, shattered, kicked in. A cold stone of horror drops into his stomach like a boulder, his blood going cold. Someone broke in.
All of a sudden, the stillness makes sense, the lack of anything alive is because there might not be anything alive. He strides closer, urgency in every careful step, just in case whoever broke in is still inside. And, distantly, somewhere inside the dirt hut, he hears familiar voices, one droning, one panicked.
He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he can tell Tommy is one of them, and possibly the one being attacked. A rare surge of protection flares up in his chest like an atom bomb, brought to life in the face of possible danger.
If someone in there hurt his little brother, they’ll have hell to pay. He’ll make sure of it.
Foregoing any sense of caution in favour of hurrying in fear of being too late, he walks through the open door and into Tommy’s main room, surveying it with careful, calculative eyes. His bed, unmade and messy. Room a mess, more blood trailing down the hall, to the next room over whose door is halfway closed.
He can see shadows painted across the floor through the gap.
The voices are easier to make out, but he still can’t quite tell what’s being said, just able to tell from the tone of the voices that whatever is going on isn’t good. Tommy’s voice is easy to pick out, shaky and trembling, his breaths uneven and nervous, yet he still manages to yell to try and get his point across.
He’s sure he makes a decent amount of noise as he clambers inside and follows the noises to the source, but neither voices seem to lull when they hear him, so he doesn’t linger on staying stealthy. Without hesitation, he pushes through the open door with the force of a bull, grabbing the side just before it can slam into the wall.
With quick eyes, he takes in the situation with slowly boiling blood.
Tommy, alive yet bleeding, is curled in the furthest corner, a scarred arm bracing in front of his face as if it’d save him from the swing of the axe threateningly swinging in front of him. His face is a conflicting mess of fear and anger, refusing to stand down even when he’s practically cowering. He’s pleading for his life, trying to coax Dream out of whatever the hell the green teletubbie has threatened.
And Dream, Wilbur’s saviour, stands above Tommy, tall and imposing with a glittering netherite axe in hand, slicing through the air. His voice is a cacophony of cruel amusement, teetering on the edge of hysterical.
“Why are you so scared, Tommy?” He coo’s, sickening to Wilbur’s own ears, who’s used that very same tone himself, “you know I’ll bring you back. Again and again and again.”
Twisted amusement coats his words like venom, finding the very idea to be entertaining, interesting, like some sort of freak show. Wilbur knows how painful the process is to be killed and revived. It’s like you’re being torn apart, broken down into little, tiny minuscule pieces, and then thrown back together. Sucked through wormholes and made motion sick with every little twist and turn. It’s not a pleasant experience, and the fact Dream is using the revival book as a threat is enough to have Wilbur scowling.
“What’s going on here, Dream?” Wilbur asks, making his presence known as his eyes narrow, trying to decipher whether or not this situation calls for intervention. A part of him knows that Tommy doesn’t deserve whatever Dream is planning no matter what he does, but he’s good at lying to himself.
Both heads turn, Dream’s head tilting slightly to the side like an animal, deciphering Wilbur’s reason for appearing. Tommy, instead of appearing relieved, appears to be on the verge of a panic attack, his state worsening when his eyes lay upon Wilbur’s figure. That shouldn’t bug him as much as it does.
“Nothing, really,” Dream replies smoothly, mask tilting to keep Tommy in his peripherals, like a predator with prey. “Tommy here just needs to be taught a little lesson. He’s been stealing again.”
“I was stealing back my stuff-” Tommy makes a choked noise of surprise as Dream, in a quick flash, has his axe pressed against Tommy’s throat, pressing him back and into the wall.
“Quiet,” he snaps lowly, ensuring the sharp blade nicks Tommy’s neck, drawing out a bead of crimson. Just adding to the collection Tommy has smeared over and around him. “The adults are talking.”
Wilbur and Tommy make eye contact, yet Tommy makes it brief, tearing his eyes away like burned, almost resigned. Like he thinks Wilbur won’t help him.
Something thin that’s been close to breaking for a long, long time now snaps at that moment. Why it chooses now is beyond him, but the protective rage that blooms within his chest like a volcano is welcomed. He keeps a lid on it, however, eyes narrowing at Dream’s hand on the axe.
He’s never been a fighter, he has no chance if he tries.
But, words are his forte.
“I didn’t think Tommy was still your problem,” Wilbur remarks, ignoring how bitter the words taste on his tongue, calling upon his acting skills he’s picked up, “you were just supposed to take care of him in exile.”
It feels like a loaded statement, and he can feel how his words have an effect on the room, making the atmosphere thick and suffocating with the unignorable fact that he’s missing a huge part of the puzzle.
“Exile wasn’t enough time to fix him,” Dream decides to say, moving closer to Tommy, hunching over him like a towering building, casting shadows over the boy. “I’m teaching him manners, Wilbur. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be nicer if he was well behaved?”
“Like some sort of dog?” Wilbur asks, raising an arched brow at the subtle shift in Dream’s stance.
“Now, I’m not the one comparing him to a dog,” Dream points out, a low drawl that suggests he’s losing his patience with their conversation. “Out of everyone, I thought you’d love a loyal follower the most.”
“Oh, don’t act like you wouldn’t keep him to yourself,” Wilbur scoffs so harshly it leaves his throat raw and aching. “You’re nothing if not a selfish green prick, hm?”
It feels weird, talking about Tommy as if he’s nothing but a toy, not a human being with thoughts and feelings. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and the way Tommy’s biting his lip so deeply it bleeds in order to keep himself silent isn’t helping. He needs to wrap this up.
“I’m helping the SMP,” Dream states coldly, interestingly not correcting Wilbur’s previous statement.
“Then maybe you should think about leaving that to the ones who actually want to help.”
Dream stiffens, and no longer is there a friendly jibe to their words that had been slowly taken over by hostility. “Watch yourself, Wilbur,” Dream says as if he has any right.
“No, I think you need to watch yourself, I’m not the one in enemy territory, terrorizing a citizen who, may I remind you, has some very protective friends,” Wilbur says smugly, though he keeps his smirk out of his voice, sure Dream wouldn’t take kindly to that.
Dream is quiet for but a moment, head tilted eerily, crudely drawn eyes staring Wilbur down intently, but he holds strong. Finally, he talks. “What game are you playing at?” Dream asks, a healthy amount of suspicion in his voice.
“No games,” Wilbur smiles, ensuring his own head tilts with a sickening sort of crack, hands clasped behind his back. “Just that I want you to leave my brother the fuck alone.”
Another lull.
“And if I don’t?” Dream challenges, pressing closer to press the blade deeper, coaxing out more blood. Tommy whimpers, swallowing the noise immediately so it’s muffled, yet not completely gone.
“You don’t want to test that theory,” Wilbur tells him assuredly, fists tightening and loosening repeatedly behind his back, “just know it’ll be painful. I’ll make sure of it.”
Another fucking silence. This one drags on long enough Wilbur’s tempted to just walk over there and take the axe himself, but he holds himself back. And his patience rewards him. Dream silently flips the axe away from Tommy’s neck without another attempt at injuring him, strapping it to his back with a smooth motion.
He walks up to Wilbur, pausing mere inches away, head tilting to whisper into his ear. “You won’t be around forever.”
“We’ll see about that,” Wilbur snarls back, tilting his own head closer to keep their conversation silent.
With a huffing noise of complaint, Dream brushes past him, blessedly not shoulder-checking him and possibly making things worse. Wilbur stands in place until Dream’s footsteps fade off into the distance and he’s sure they’re safe. And then he lets his anger be replaced with care, worried eyes finding Tommy touching fingers to his multiple cuts that are still sluggishly bleeding.
He tsks, walking forward on swift feet, in the middle of telling Tommy off for pressing dirty fingertips into open wounds, but Tommy notices his rapid approach and jerks away. His head slams into the wall behind him with a bang in his haste to get himself as far as possible, momentarily dazing him.
“Woah,” Wilbur pauses immediately, eyes going wide as Tommy blinks his way back into reality, bringing up his arms like he thinks Wilbur is going to hit him. He swallows back bile, feeling sick. “Hey, you’re alright.”
“Fuh-fuck off,” Tommy spits to the best of his ability, but it’s weak to Wilbur’s ears, and a bit garbled. It only becomes apparent why when Tommy scrunches up his nose and turns his head to spit a glob of blood and spit onto the floorboards beside him.
Wilbur grimaces at the sight, counting that as another sign of a wound.
“I’m here to help you, man,” Wilbur tries to placate, holding his palms up and out, showing they’re empty. “I promise you I’m not going to hurt you.”
Tommy eyes his hands warily, his arm still hovering near his face, but it’s slowly lowering. Only from exhaustion, it seems. “I don’t trust you,” he manages, bruised eyes heavy and dark from lack of sleep blurring in and out, staring down Wilbur like a cornered bird.
“That’s fine,” Wilbur says even though his heart aches that he’s let their relationship crumble into this. “Let me prove to you I want to help. Just- can I get closer? I just want to see your wounds.”
The boy is tired, exhausted, even, and Wilbur can see a deep desire to just want to crawl into his arms. It’s always been there, and it always will be, and Wilbur will be damned if he lets an opportunity like that slip away. It might be a bit of manipulation, the way he keeps his voice soft and coaxing, all soft smiles and round edges, coming off like a baby-proofed house. But if it works it works.
“I just want to help, Toms,” he whispers, the last nail in the coffin.
His brother sniffs, arm falling limply onto his other in his lap, grey eyes (when did they get so grey?) watery with unshed tears. “Wilbur,” he pleads, hands reaching out, giving in, finally.
Oh, ender. His poor brother.
“Hey, you’re okay,” he croons, mildly awkwardly, unused to comforting others, and especially someone he hasn’t been there for countless times before. He steps closer and grabs one of Tommy’s reaching hands, squeezing it gently as he crouches down in front of him, settling further onto the floor with a heaving sigh.
Tommy takes both his hands in his own, squeezing them and digging in his nails like he’s expecting this moment to be ripped away from him any second. Wilbur grips him back just as tightly as the thought comes to him. Like hell he’d let that happen.
“Alright, let’s see the damage, alright, hun?” He murmurs, the nickname familiar on his tongue, but uncomfortable like he shouldn’t use it. A nickname reserved only for the caring Wilbur who actually did what he was supposed to do. But Tommy just seems to melt when he hears it, going along with what Wilbur says without a second thought, and he knows he can’t just cast off something so sweet.
He takes Tommy’s wrists in hand, pushing up his sleeves gently, carefully, aware of the blood soaking the fabric and sticking it to his skin. Tommy offers no complaint, even as many, many scars come on display. Self-inflicted. Wilbur knows what they look like.
He sucks in a breath, but otherwise doesn’t comment, finding some scratches down Tommy’s forearm, from Dream’s nails, possibly. He finds a deeper cut from some sort of blade down his palm when he turns his hand over, and in turn, he finds blood on his own hands.
“Sorry,” Tommy apologizes softly, spotting it before Wilbur and immediately applying a consequence to the accident.
“It’s fine,” Wilbur brushes him off, keeping a grip on his hands in case he tries to run. “Easy to clean. Anywhere else?”
Tommy hesitates for a moment, but ultimately just shakes his head. “Just some bruises, on my ribs,” he mutters, looking away as if ashamed.
“Right, okay, let’s focus on the cuts first,” Wilbur agrees, squeezing Tommy’s uninjured hand this time. “I’ll be right back.”
Tommy’s head jerks up with anxiety flashing over his face, immediate and easy to read.
Wilbur smiles, calloused thumb rubbing soothing patterns over Tommy’s knuckles. “Just getting medical supplies,” he answers in a soft tone. “I’ll be right back, promise.” It’s also to have a quiet moment where he doesn’t have to look at the injured display of Tommy, who’s injured and scarred and bruised and traumatized and Wilbur was never fucking there to stop it.
Tommy reluctantly releases his hands and Wilbur mutters thanks, getting to his feet carefully so as to avoid a head rush, leaving the room to find the chests he distantly remembers medical supplies being in.
He does try to hurry, though, feeling a similar sort of anxiety in the face of leaving Tommy for too long, especially with Dream on the prowl, despite Wilbur’s threats. He makes quick work of finding disinfectants and bandages, grabbing some tissue paper to soak in the disinfectant. It’ll do.
Returning, he finds Tommy in the same spot, picking at an old scab that he just won’t seem to let heal. “Tommy,” he chides gently, keeping his gait slow and careful this time as he approaches, “you’ve gotta let it heal.”
Tommy perks up as Wilbur makes his presence known, though he still shrinks away when Wilbur sits in front of him again. It’s a confusing sight, the poor boy simultaneously wanting to press closer, yet fear keeps him pressing away. It’s irritating, but not because of Tommy, no, never. It’s just irritating that Wilbur didn’t notice any of it happening.
“It’s itchy,” Tommy whines in answer, watching him set up everything with pensive eyes.
“Because it’s trying to heal itself,” Wilbur replies, raising a playful brow at Tommy’s scowl. “Now, arm, please.”
Tommy reluctantly rolls up his bloodied sleeve again and holds out his arm for Wilbur’s hands. He’s so bony. Wrist's tiny and bones jutted out sharply even though he knows Tubbo and Ranboo have been pestering Tommy to eat more. Wilbur’s entire hand can wrap around his wrist and overlap his own fingers. He fights not to comment on the state of Tommy’s skinny figure, setting on cleaning the cuts.
It’s a slow process, though Wilbur makes it like that, wanting to stay in this quiet, peaceful moment forever. Minus the pained inhales and whimpers Tommy releases, his muscles tensing as he refrains from trying to jerk away. Aside from that, it’s nice. Almost like the old days.
The tissues are dyed pink with blood and disinfectant, and Tommy’s cuts are red with irritation, but they’re clean. Dirt and grime cleared up from the cuts on his neck and hands. However, there’s nothing he can do for his bruises.
“How’s that feel, Toms?” Wilbur asks, throwing out the dirtied tissues and screwing the cap back on the bottle of disinfectant.
“Better,” Tommy replies, looking at the bandages wrapped around his forearm and palm oddly. “Thank you,” he adds quickly, looking up with wide eyes as if forgetting manners was going to get him hurt.
“Anything for you,” Wilbur mutters more to himself, but it’s not his fault if it’s just loud enough that Tommy can hear. He doesn’t comment, but they both know what he wants to say.
Not yet ready to leave, Wilbur shuffles over so he’s sitting beside Tommy against the wall, leaning against it with a sigh, spine pressing into the wood uncomfortably. A simultaneously uncomfortable and comfortable silence descends upon them, though Wilbur is sure it’s just him.
“So, Dream, huh?” Wilbur decides to try and start a conversation in the worst way possible, turning his head to gauge Tommy’s reaction. It’s as expected. His lips turn up into a disgusted sort of scowl, offended by the lack of grace the topic was approached with.
“I absolutely do not want to talk about that,” Tommy says, seriously, meeting Wilbur’s eyes with a glint of humour.
“Because you don’t want to?” Wilbur asks, raising a brow.
“That and your terrible conversation skills.”
“Pretty sure mine are better than yours,” Wilbur points out, popping his knuckles absently.
“No, Will, if you’re gonna sit here you can’t do that shit,” Tommy almost yells, loud enough that it’s obvious he’s a little genuine in his complaint.
Wilbur pauses, in the middle of releasing tension from his knuckles. “What, cracking my knuckles?”
“Worst sound in the world,” Tommy sniffs, eyeing his hands distastefully.
Wilbur maintains eye contact as he pops the one place he had been saving for last, humming a pleased sigh at the feeling, though Tommy obviously doesn’t feel the same, gagging as he turns away.
“I’m done, I’m done! I just needed to do that one spot,” Wilbur laughs, hands going up over his head in a surrendering motion.
“You’ve made me un-com-fort-a-ble,” Tommy stresses each syllable in a childish way as if to make a point.
Wilbur rolls his eyes, swearing he won’t ever do it again.
With his word, which has proven to be worth very little in recent years, Tommy still accepts it and shuffles closer, eyes averted as he does so. Wilbur stays carefully still, letting Tommy burrow his way into his side, shoving away his arm to give him more room to bury in. He pauses like that, going still, and it takes Wilbur a second to realize it’s him giving Wilbur time to reject the motion.
Oh, absolutely not.
With a hum, Wilbur slings his arm over Tommy’s shoulder in a motion that’s as easy as breathing, his other hand hooking under Tommy’s knees to tug them over his lap, smiling at the resounding squeak he gets. “The-e-ere we go,” he rumbles, pleased with this position as he tugs Tommy in closer.
“You’re suffocating me,” Tommy complains, yet he tilts his head and further burrows his face into Wilbur’s chest, negating his words.
“Yeah, you sound really upset,” Wilbur chuckles, tilting his head down to rest his cheek against Tommy’s golden curls, mindful of where some caked-on blood clings to the strands.
“I am,” Tommy assures him, voice muffled into his chest, hands coming up to cling onto his jacket.
Wilbur hums, allowing Tommy that small win. Even if he was actually suffocating that’d probably be considered a loss.
“I’m glad I got here in time,” Wilbur admits into the quiet, still air of Tommy’s dirt shack. “I don’t- I hate the way he talks to you. About you. In front of you.”
“Well, Dream’s a bit of a wrongen, isn’t he?” Tommy mumbles, a bit tenser than before.
“He always has been,” Wilbur agrees through a sigh, squeezing Tommy close. “I’d ruin him for you.”
“Don’t,” Tommy pleads, fisting a hand in Wilbur’s jacket. “Just- don’t.”
“Alright,” Wilbur allows, though inside he hatches a plan. If Tommy doesn’t know about it, it never happened. “Why don’t you take a nap? You’ve had a stressful day.”
It’s evening, but, well, the bags under Tommy’s eyes are a little concerning, to say the least.
“You’ll be here when I wake up?” Tommy asks, tilting his head back to meet Wilbur’s soft gaze.
“Of course, sweet thing,” Wilbur smiles, smile widening when Tommy ducks his head with a blush. He makes no attempt at trying to get Wilbur to not call him that, though.
Wilbur ensures Tommy is comfy before fully settling onto the floor, slightly laying down, a hand coming up to fiddle with Tommy’s curly strands, watching the doors, keeping guard.
Tommy soon falls limp in his grasp, snoring slightly, deep asleep, clutching onto his brother tightly, and Wilbur holds him just as possessively.