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Something crash landed in his garden.
Tommy’s pissed about it, more than a little, because he spent months making sure that fucking area was organized. The front is where the flowers are, the stupid shitty ornamental stuff he should never have planted, the shit that was a waste to begin with and even more so now that it’s a ruined mess.
Of course, there’s more than just the flowers to worry about, too. There’s also the something. Which one might argue is a some one, but Tommy isn’t so sure, not with the way it has all those feathers jutting out in different directions like a mess from its back, or shimmering golden shards are scattered around its form in the dirt.
Shit run of luck you’ve had, mate. Tommy can’t bring himself to say it in actuality. He can’t even tell if the thing is awake, or if it would understand him—or if it’s strong enough to hurt him. It’s covered in mud and petals. Gathering his courage, Tommy pads closer, and shivers with the feeling of being watched, eyes all around him, all over his body. A deity to look out for you…
He grits his teeth and crouches a few feet away, poking the thing with a stick. It shudders, long, silken-smooth strands of pink luminescent hair cascading to the ground and pooling there like stars in the dirt. Tommy’s breath catches in his throat, equal parts awe and fear.
It’s just as he suspected: this is something from the heavens. This thing laying in the dirt—it’s something holy.
In other words, it’s something he can’t trust. It’s something he was trained to worship for fifteen long years, something he dedicated his freedom to running from, something that betrayed him every time he turned back to it. Holiness. The watchful eye of a god and anything that services it.
Immediately, he’s on guard, eyes sharp with suspicion. Gods have fooled him plenty of times before. But this thing doesn’t have that alluring, tempting aura a god does, the coercive draw of a trick—this thing looks pitiful.
It wheezes, and Tommy flinches, shielding his face. It isn’t until the tall creature rasps again that Tommy puts together what it is, just a terrible sound, a dying one, a heaving sort of thing. Something from deep within, an unconscious groan. Not a threat, hardly. His stomach broils uncertainly.
The trees seem to bend in all around them in the meadow Tommy built his home in as dusk sets in. He glances up with a frown, straightening and stepping back. Tommy doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t even attempt to talk to the thing, just—just grabs it, by the hand. Then both. It’s instinct, almost. Like the universe is telling him to, not any god. Tommy drags the heavy body out of the garden and up to his front stoop and halts, panting, shoulders heaving.
He should not be doing this.
Something compels him to drag the thing, creature, person, whatever it is past the doorway and over the threshold, and it’s hard work for a scrawny guy like himself but he does it anyway, beelines for the guest room that never gets used and dumps the threat unceremoniously on the bed inside with an oomph of effort for good measure. Then Tommy backpedals so fast he nearly trips over his feet.
Nothing happens during the long stretch of seconds when he can’t tear his eyes away from the bed. The window remains closed. The bookshelf remains intact. Nobody starts glowing or floating any more than they already are. The celestial creature-man-being is disturbingly still. Tommy can’t stop staring at its cockeyed feathers, blackening at the tips.
Heart in his throat, he whirls around and flees like something is hot on his heels, even though it isn’t. Like somebody is watching, even though They aren’t, They haven’t been near him in years; it’s hard to remember sometimes.
Tommy slams the door behind him and cringes, hoping he didn’t wake the thing up. It’s not until he makes it to his own room that he’s certain of it: he’s done a very stupid, stupid thing.
—
The man-god-thing is awake now, so… that’s good.
It’s under the blanket now, too. That’s good, Tommy thinks again to himself, definitively, despite the tremor in his fingers. He presses himself against the back wall, waits for the predator to make a move—but the haggard silhouette in the bed just stares at him with bleary eyes, barely cracked open.
Tommy regards him with a measured curiosity. “Are you dead,” he says matter-of-factly. Slowly, the man blinks. It’s hardly there, but it’s unmistakable, because Tommy is studying him with a laser focus.
Impressed, Tommy grunts. It’s more of a response than he expected, at the very least. “Not dead, then,” he answers himself—and before he can get another question out, the man is already starting to fall back asleep. Tommy’s eyes widen indignantly, though he refuses to budge. “Hey, wait, you…” He falters and trails off, his dying breath huffing out, “You prick.”
He’s mad at the man, thing, being, for intruding on his front yard, but he’s more mad at himself for letting it inside. What the hell was he even thinking? Tommy remains frozen there until he’s sure the creature is asleep beneath the raggedy, itchy spare blanket. It’s only then that he allows himself to pad closer, inspecting the guy’s weary face.
Tommy holds his breath the nearer he gets. His heart is practically jumping in his chest. Quietly, he observes the sleeping form, waiting to see if it will breathe. The strangest part is the harder he looks, the harder it becomes to tell.
Gingerly, with a feather-light touch, Tommy allows himself to lift the edge of the blanket, slowly and tentatively. Beneath, he finds what he knew he would—singed wings, crumbling feathers, the end of something. A definitive punishment.
Tommy stares at the ashen barbules in disbelief. What the fuck happened to you? He’s afraid to hear the answer. He just felt bad for the thing when he came out and found it in his yard, but Tommy is no longer one to trust anything holy, the back of his mind is whinging, desperate to remind him to run. Tommy knows how quickly things go south, when celestial work comes into play; Tommy understands that gods don’t exist to serve him, not really. Not when he’s been bad.
But the look of this creature out in the dirt, half-buried and rasping some awful inhuman noise out… Tommy couldn’t just leave him, he couldn’t. And now he can’t bring himself to lug him back outside because, well… Tommy drops the blanket, retreats a step.
He knows what it feels like to be alone.
Alone, disoriented and frantic in the jungle, young and stupid and so incredibly lost. Alone, indefinitely, like a forever comma. He’s always fought for himself, even when things were bad, back on the island he came from, when They were always watching. Tommy is overcome with a recollection of the last time he saw an angel—the careful vigilant eyes pasted trillions of times upon his bedroom wall, nothing but a harrowing, blinding amalgam of wings and the holy gaze all the time—nothing but the feeling of feathers razor-sharp along his arms, the rustling whisper of judgement from the trees at every misstep—and the all-knowing Them—
Tommy gasps for breath and comes back to find himself trembling all over, posted outside the door to the guest room and white-knuckling the handle without the slightest hint of a recollection of how he got there. He loosens his grip, loosens a breath free from his chest and lets himself rattle on unsteady knees for a second, his gaze blurry. He can only hope that the creature from his nightmares is not what’s waiting for him behind that door.
He’s checked on the man-being-creature-thing enough for today. Tomorrow, Tommy will find the courage to throw him out.
—
Except he doesn’t.
Tomorrow comes, and Tommy only makes it to just past ten in the morning before he’s cracking the door open, peering in with no intention to disturb the creature, just one watchful eye scanning the room.
Another meets his own. Tommy’s breath catches in his chest. His throat constricts, everything tense and tight. His grip on the door handle is quivering and slight. Tommy freezes, wide-eyed, and the man-thing across the room huddled in the bed—he speaks. “Hey.”
Tommy jolts where he stands, a tremor running through his whole body. He forces his feet to stick, one hand moving to grip the frame of the door. All at once he itches to check over his shoulder, make sure the rest of the house really is empty, even though he’s been awake basking in the silence since the sun came up.
He feels eyes all around. “Hey,” the creature says again, strained and thin and quiet, and Tommy focuses on the gaze in front of him, breath coming in short pants. “You… got any… food?”
The words come gradually, like tree sap venturing timidly down its bark—like each syllable is fighting for the breath it’s owed. Tommy stares at him owlishly for a second, tempted enough to crack the door open wider. “Like,” he finds himself answering in the face of his fear, “what—what kinda food?”
“Potatoes,” the creature replies shortly, laying there and Tommy wants to fire back I don’t have that, idiot, except—
He does have that, actually. He sits with that for a second, allows himself to mull it over. Really considers it. Not that it should even be in question, because his food supply is always limited and there are always better things to spend it on and are you fuckin’ serious, you can’t give the evil god-thing a potato, but… he has one. Enough to spare, maybe.
So that’s how he finds himself boiling a potato before noon, and bringing it into the guest room bland and simple on a plate. He trods in carefully, balancing the oblong thing on the dish as he hands it to the creature, who has emerged somewhat from the blanket. “It’s hot,” Tommy warns.
“Mmmfghhggg,” the creature says, having stuffed the entire thing into its mouth at once.
Tommy gawks. The being has the decency to chew with its mouth closed. “I missed these so darn bad,” he eventually garbles out, and Tommy is floored at his cadence, his clarity. His informality. Has his hair started to dim?
“It—it’s just a potato, damn,” Tommy stutters out in an attempt at mockery, but the man gestures in disagreement, sweeping long, pin-straight hair out of the way and propping himself up on an elbow to avoid choking.
“Nothin’ beats it.”
Tommy blinks. There’s a beat of silence in which he feels a bit like he’s losing his mind. Then: “What are you doing here?” Maybe that didn’t come out quite right. “I mean—what—how the hell did you get here, anyway?”
More chewing. “You’re the one who brought me in here.” A gulp. “Swanky place you got. How ’bout another one of those potatoes?”
“Okay.” Tommy clenches his teeth, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You—okay—come on. What the fuck were you doing to land in my yard like that, man? You gotta realize, that looks…”
The other seems to reflect for a moment in the hanging silence. “Technical difficulties,” he replies, and Tommy throws his hands up.
“You are the most unhelpful bitch,” he spits, getting ahead of himself and beginning to pace in spite of his trepidation, and the other settles back down into the bed, undisturbed.
“Another potato might coax it out of me,” says the creature audaciously, and yawns, eyes fluttering shut. Tommy almost relaxes when they do. “I’ll see you then, Tommy.”
His blood freezes.
“How do you know my name?” he demands instantly, words running together in his fright, his anger. He inches towards the door, but the creature only sighs.
“Still gettin’ a little interference, I’d assume.” Then he’s out like a light, leaving Tommy with nothing but questions.
That’s how Tommy finds himself boiling two more potatoes, muttering under his breath throughout the entire process.
—
They fall into a steady rhythm that includes a lot of potatoes. Tommy’s getting a little worried about his stock, but he can always steal more from the shop just south of the village nearby if things get dire.
He’s figured out that the creature he’s hosting in the guest room is an angel—or was. This explains all the unsolicited glowing and name-knowing and skin-crawling. It doesn’t explain why Tommy has not managed to kick him out, unless he’s under some kind of charm. But the angel seems too sick for charming.
So this holy thing in his house is a guardian angel who has fallen from grace, and his name is Technoblade. That’s ‘plenty of facts already,’ Technoblade insists when pressed for more; Tommy won’t feel comfortable with this stranger in his home until he learns more of the story. It occurs to him that he could just get rid of Technoblade, throw him back out onto the lawn where he found him, but… Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t want to test it. Not now that the angel has regained some of his strength, anyway.
For instance, when he opens the door today, he finds Technoblade sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the stark blue sky. Tommy perks up. “You feel better?”
“Some,” the fallen angel answers without looking, and Tommy reels again with the echoes of higher power still draining from his voice. Part of the interference, Technoblade says.
“Well, the potatoes better be helping,” Tommy huffs, serving him a plate with three of them freshly boiled and cut up. “’Cause you’re runnin’ me broke, you hungry twat.”
The angel delivers a rumbling laugh. Tommy steps back nervously, hangs by the door frame, and much to his chagrin, Technoblade seems to take notice, observing him for a moment before forking a bite of his potatoes into his mouth. “Thanks,” is all he says.
Tommy nods. He should leave now. This is all he has to do to sustain him—he can tell that even just feeding the man is helping him. Tommy doesn’t have to talk to him any more than he wants to—he could back away and slip out the door now. Instead, he asks, “Can I see your wings?”
Technoblade’s face darkens slightly, and Tommy’s hairs all stand on end and his heart flips in his chest. Suddenly all he can think about is the jungle on the island, the eyes of the dense, wet forest—but quickly, Tommy realizes he’s not under attack here. The fallen angel only turns to the side, and Tommy is alarmed to find the skeletal remains of bones extending from his shoulder blades, darkened and twisting, the shadows of wings once grand. “I lost those privileges,” he tells Tommy as the younger of the two comes forward, digesting this information with a sick feeling.
Technoblade doesn’t stop him as he reaches out, feeling overwhelmingly like there are gazes crawling over him until the very moment his fingers brush the charred and gnarled end of—of destiny. The eyes all disappear, replaced by a fuzzy feeling of homeliness as soon as he realizes nothing is lunging at him. Before he can stop himself, Tommy is speaking again, making that familiar mistake— “What did you do?”
There’s a pause laden with information that ought to be shared. Tommy can feel it. Impatiently, he adds, “Something happened, innit? You—you did something,” he accuses, voice catching. “And got kicked out, yeah?”
Technoblade regards him with exhaustion. “How about—”
“I’m not makin’ any more damn potatoes,” Tommy says, flopping down at the edge of the bed before he even really knows what he’s doing. “You’ve had like, eighty billion today, shithead. Tell me why God threw you into my garden.”
The sky rumbles overhead like something is protesting Technoblade’s chuckle, a quiet, meandering thing. “I’m a guardian angel who broke a rule,” he says simply, and Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, regarding him warily. In the past week or two, he’s grown accustomed to the glinting red-eyed stare, the monotonous replies and cryptic phrasings, the fluttery feeling in his chest when Technoblade speaks. He’s learned.
“Which rule?”
Technoblade pulls the blanket towards himself, away from Tommy. “The Big One about interferin’ with human affairs. That’s pretty banned.”
Tommy is childishly curious. “What’d you do, then? Was it a fight? Were you rockin’ someone’s shit?”
“Nothin’ yet,” the fallen angel tells him, and Tommy is stunned into a squawking reply.
“Nothing? But… you… fell out of the sky.”
“Uh huh.”
“For nothing?”
“For somethin’,” Technoblade argues, a crinkle in his brow. He avoids Tommy’s gaze as he gets comfortable in the bed again, tucking his wings away as he settles onto the brink of sleep. “These potatoes.”
“Hey,” Tommy complains, though he gets to his feet to give the angel the room to lay down. “What’s—what’d’you mean?” Agitated, he reaches out to shake Technoblade’s shoulder.
Technoblade rolls onto his back, yawns again and refuses to take it seriously. “I can’t get any more free food if anythin’ happens to you.” Or… does he?
And Tommy just gapes at him, putting it together piece by piece.
The words reverberate in his head as Technoblade’s tall imposing form curls up, the skins of potatoes he somehow finished during their conversation cooling on the plate set atop the bedside table. Tommy’s brain is mush.
“You mean—”
“You know what I mean,” Technoblade says, and Tommy does.
No matter how hard he tries to dodge the question, Technoblade is —claiming to be— his guardian angel.
“You’re not serious,” Tommy blurts, “you bastard, you’re bullshitting, you’re a scammer,” but Technoblade only hums, eyes closed now.
“You haven’t been patchin’ me up long enough to tell when I’m bein’ honest?”
Not at all. “But—” Tommy grapples for words he can actually say. He feels stupid admitting that he doesn’t think—what? He doesn’t think he even deserves a guardian angel? “What’s—is something gonna happen?” A pang of panic strikes him. “Am—am I gonna—is—”
“Don’t work yourself up,” Technoblade murmurs, rubbing at his eyes. “Let’s… talk about it. Tomorrow.”
Tommy’s protest dies in his throat. Technoblade drapes a hand out, grabbing him gently by the arm, and a whoosh like a field of flowers bustles through him, and Tommy leans into the touch instinctively, no longer alone, but no longer surrounded. The gazes following him have started to avert. Tomorrow will do, he decides. He’ll have answers tomorrow.
It takes effort to pull himself away from the assurance of protection, that staticky feeling in his bones, but Tommy has to make his own meal now, and reflect on some things. The jungle hasn’t followed him here, he must remind himself, despite the way he always feels biting at his heels. He has his own home now in the meadows, with the flowers and the crops and now his guardian angel.
As he eases the door shut, Tommy can’t help but worry that something about him pulls stars out of the heavens by nature. But if it means he won’t be so alone, he doesn’t think he’ll send this one back.