Chapter Text
The world is ending.
Ever since that boat came through, trailing the sickness behind it like an octopus releasing ink. The iridescent slime that looked so pretty when it first arrived. The three of them gazed at it in wonder on the water’s surface, hypnotized by the way its colors shifted faster than a cuttlefish and its silvery metallic appearance. Just like one of the human boats.
Wil swam through it on a dare. They all laughed as he darted in headfirst.
That was until he emerged on the other side, heaving and clawing at his gills in pain.
And that was only the beginning.
It spread its tendrils further into the water and their home turned into hell .
Phil wakes slowly and utterly exhausted. He has to fight to keep his consciousness. It’d be so much easier to just… not be.
He knows he’s been sleeping far too much to be healthy, but with the way his chest shrivels and tightens; the constant squeezing agony of his stomach; the burning that claws down his spine, and the dull ache as his scales peels and chaffs.
Every moment awake is torture. It only makes him want to go back to the dark release of sleep.
No more pain. No more hunger. Just… rest.
He whines, flicking his fins. He’s being a horrible caretaker. He should be the one hunting and caring for his pup, not the other way around. His pod needs him.
Yet the sickness has hit him the hardest. Any movement makes his entire body pulse with pain. Swimming is out of the question. So he just lays in their den, whining like a sick pup, curled in on himself, as his pod drifts in and out, bringing meager attempts at hunting.
The fish taste worse and worse. He remembers seeing dead fish bob in place and laughing thinking it was an easy hunt.
He regrets it now.
His belly screams in protest. Food comes up more often than it goes down. It’s slimy and disgusting. Just the taste of fish makes him wither in agony.
Phil doesn’t want Wil and Techno to see him like this. He doesn’t want them to see their caretaker slowly wasting away like a poor whale stranded on a beach.
He wishes they would abandon him already. He can’t move anymore. They might as well leave. Go somewhere better. Without the sickness killing them all.
They’re so stubborn, though. A trait they unfortunately got from him.
So they watch him die, as he watches them.
They haven’t said anything, even though he’s been awake for a few minutes. Normally they’d croon as soon as they see his breathing pattern shift, ever vigilant and calling for his response desperately. Please still be alive. Stay alive, please.
The den is silent. He cannot feel their presence.
Phil’s chest shudders with relief. They’ve moved on finally. Now he can rest in peace.
It doesn’t stop the keen parting from his lips. A cry at the loss of his pod. His pup and partner .
Slowly, with great effort, he opens his eyes, expecting the brown of their den, but is instead met with white.
The most Phil can do is blink.
Perhaps if he was less sick and not in constant, roiling pain, he could bring himself to care more about his unfamiliar surroundings. But apathy is powerful, and for being cradled within Death’s hands, all he can do is roll his head to the side and gaze upward.
Soft light filters through calm, clear water above him. His gills flap and there’s no extra burn or sting. There’s a strange humming coming from… somewhere.
It’s peaceful. And nice.
Sleep drags him back like an undertow.
Phil jerks awake with a wail; fins flaring as his eyes dart around the unnaturally smooth white walls of his pool and calls for his pod.
There’s no answer. As before, he’s alone in the silence. Just the gentle lapping of water above his head, hitting the edges of his strange prison.
Phil uncoils from his ball and winces.
He hurts still and is tired to the point of lethargy, but it feels a bit less intense. The pressure easing as if he's rising from the deep.
For the first time in so long, he breathes without needing to choke.
Phil relaxes, fins slumping; and that's when the humans arrive.
He's helpless to watch them gather at the side of the pool. They jabber to each other, passing back and forth. None of them seem to pay him any mind, laying in a corner, wracked with aches. He can't tell what they're doing, the image is too blurry from so far away, but eventually they go away and there is silence.
Something dives into the water with him.
“Hello,” chirps a pup.
Phil jerks half-upright, eyes wide. His body protests at the movement, but his pain suddenly seems small in comparison to the other mer slowly drifting down toward him. The pup that radiates greetings and peace and calm.
“Hello,” the pup repeats, fins fluttering as he blinks at Phil, tilting his head slightly.
Phil coos, then shudders at the ache underneath his ribs. It’s been a long time since Wil was as young as this pup. He’s tiny . Not even the length of Phil’s tail yet. His gaze locks onto the little one, pupils dilating big and dark, brooding instincts flaring.
He’s a deep red with a golden underbelly. His sail flares, tall and proud as he rotates slowly, eyes a beautiful, brilliant blue.
“Hello,” Phil answers, breathless with wonder. “Hello. Hello. Come here, pup,” he calls and croons.
He cannot move, but the pup can come to him .
The pup obeys and Phil cannot stop the flurry of delighted purrs and chirps. He crawls against the floor and curls right into Phil’s side with a welcoming hum, rubbing at his stomach and the ache of his scales.
Phil whines, stretching into the touch, and attempt to raise his arms. His hands shake, and he can’t move far before his muscles seize, and he’s forced to lay them back down. He keens needily. He wants to hold the pup.
The pup breaks away from his skin and Phil bites back his desperate whine. Please stay. Please-
“Hungry?” The pup asks. “Want food? Fish?”
Phil doesn’t want to eat, but it’d set a bad example for the pup if he didn’t, so he nods.
Without warning, the pup darts away back to the surface and Phil startles and cries, “Come back, come back, don’t leave me!” His head spins as he tries to force himself up; his limbs to cooperate.
There’s a splash and the pup is back.
“Sorry,” he apologizes almost sheepishly. “Here, food.” he drops a little bundle of fish next to him as he curls back next to Phil, facing him. “Eat.”
Phil would, but he just can’t . He shakes his head, “you eat, pup,” he croons. “You need it more than me.”
The pup hesitates, fish held in one hand. Phil purrs again.
“Eat, pup.”
Finally, the pup listens, pressing a claw to the fish’s belly and splitting it open to tear a bite from. He puts it in his mouth and chews and swallows.
“Your turn,” he holds it out. White muscle poking out beneath silvery scales, a drifting fog of red floating between them.
Phil’s stomach churns at the idea, even as his nostrils flare at the blood in the water. He shudders and turns his head away. “No, you eat little one. I’m not hungry.”
The pup holds the fish out as if to tempt. “Food,” he chirps, ignoring Phil’s disregard for it.
Phil turns up his nose. He’ll be ok. There’s no hunger in his belly and in this pool with limited resources, everything should go to the pup. He’s old and close to death, so he can be sacrificed.
The pup frowns. “Eat!”
Phil smiles tiredly. “I’ll be alright. You eat. You need it more than me.”
The pup’s face creases deeper. His fins flare unhappily. He warbles softly. “Safe,” he whispers. “Food… is safe.”
“I don’t want it.”
The pup’s lips curl, a flash of teeth as he growls. He tears another piece of delicious meat from the fish’s bones and brings it to Phil’s lips.
“You eat, I eat.”
Phil narrows his eyes. It’s not supposed to work like this. He opens his mouth-
“Caretaker,” the pup sings and all Phil’s arguments disappear into the depths.
The pup trills each time Phil puts a bite in his mouth. The fish tastes good . Better than anything he’s had for the past few weeks. No acid burning of his throat or stomach. It’s pleasant and filling.
His eyelids droop with lethargy. The pup coos and bumps his head against Phil’s own. He wants nothing more than to return the affection, drag the baby to his side, so they can sleep together. But he’s still too weak, too exhausted, and all he can do is click mournfully when the pup pulls away.
“Safe, ” the pup croons. He says it a lot and Phil tries to believe him. “Be right back.”
Phil closes his eyes. When he reopens them the pup is laying across from him, watching silently.
“Hello,” he purrs. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out, pull the pup closer. “What’s your name, little one?”
There’s a brief pause, the pup’s face going blank as he thinks. He seems to do that a lot, Phil noticed. His speech is stilted and simple, filled more with instinctual basics than words and sentences. It’s… strange. A pup his age should have a much bigger vocabulary.
“Tommy,” the pup answers quickly after unraveling what Phil said.
Tommy.
Phil trills. He likes it.
“Your name?” Tommy asks back.
“Phil.”
Tommy beams. “Good,” he coos and Phil’s pupils dilate. The pup is happy. He likes him.
Awkwardly he pats his side. “Come join me. You should rest.”
Tommy huffs, “no, you,” but he swims closer, hesitantly ducking under one of Phil’s arms.
Perfect. This is all so perfect. His stream of purrs becomes an ocean roar and Phil tightens his grip. Not by much - he’s too weak to keep the pup with him, but it soothes his instincts and the anxious energy in his chest.
Heavy and full, Phil drifts into sleep peacefully.
The pup is gone when he wakes.
It’s easy to slip from Phil’s arms. The old mer is weak, so it hardly takes any effort to remove the arms around his waist. Tommy is pretty sure that he could’ve escaped just as easy even if he was awake and tried to stop him. Phil looks like he would crumble with the slightest tap of his tail, so Tommy is careful as he extracts himself.
Phil warbles sadly and Tommy freezes, thinking he woke up, but the wild mer simply curls further in on himself, and he sighs with relief.
He breaches the surface with a soft splash and paddles to the edge of the tank, lifting himself out of the water to grab the walkie-talkie beside the bucket of fish. He’d gotten Phil to nibble on less than a quarter of them, and he croons in distress, remembering the elder’s thinness. The sharp way his skin clung to his bones; stretched far too tight like a drum.
It’s ok. He’ll be ok , Tommy reminds himself. This is the best facility in the world! Phil will be alright. Healing will just take time.
He holds down the button on the small walkie-talkie and trills a silly little “hello” into it, then smashes the button on the front that makes the other one ring like a cell phone and giggles to himself in amusement.
“Be right there, Tommy,” Sam’s response crackles through, a smile in his voice.
Tommy sets the device back and sets to swimming in slow circles while he waits. He keeps an eye on Phil, but he doesn’t stir at all. Good. That’s good. The old mer needs lots of rest after living in a contaminated reef for so long.
Tommy couldn’t even imagine it. The open ocean. Living in the wild. The closest he got was watching documentaries and once an expedition when he was even littler. The open water made him nervous, so he stayed and played in the shallows, zipping by the researchers and his caretakers and splashing them with hands and fins. It was a good time.
He likes it here, much more, he thinks. The water is always warm. Food is in abundance. And he always has companions, so he’s never lonely.
Why don't more mer want to live like he does, he doesn’t understand. But with this new pod and how sick they are, they should be staying for a while! That’s exciting! He likes meeting more mer.
The door opens and Tommy trills in excitement, swimming up to Sam eagerly.
Sam crouches at the edge of the pool, holding out his hand and Tommy bumps his head into it for well-earned pets. His caretaker’s fingers are nimble and soothing as they rub around the crown of his head.
“How did it go?” Sam asks.
“Ok,” Tommy sighs. His tongue runs along the back of his teeth.
English is hard because his mouth and throat is not shaped for its sounds, but he’s far more fluent in human speech than mer. His accent is rounded, vowels elongated and consonants clicking too fast. He knows he is nearly impossible to understand without training, but Sam has been with him since birth, so he’s not shy when he speaks. He prefers it to signing, which he is even worse at.
“He didn’t eat much.” Tommy bites his lip.
“But he ate?”
“Mhm.” He stares into the tank’s depths. The green-black smudge that marks where Phil is curled in the corner.
“That’s still progress,” Sam says in that patient tone of his. He is never in a rush, never worried or anxious, and it grounds Tommy, and he calms. “Were there any problems?”
“He tried to give the fish to me,” Tommy fidgets. “I ate a little. Just to show it was safe. Sorry,” he warbles. It wasn’t his meal.
“Hey, that’s alright. I’m sure he’s nervous.” Sam’s lips rise in a small smile. “You can eat with them if you want to. Show them it’s safe, yeah?”
Tommy nods and Sam thumbs the back of his neck soothingly.
“One of the others woke up. Are you ready to go meet him?”
Tommy chirps his agreement. “Which one?”
He hopes it’s not the pink one. At least not yet. He’s nervous about being put in the same tank as a protector that big. What if he got angry and attacked even though he’s still a pup?
It’s incredibly rare, but it could happen.
He shudders at the thought and warbles softly. Sam, always so attuned to his mood, pauses.
“Do you need a break? I know this is a lot all at once.”
Tommy pulls himself further out of the water, leaning into Sam’s arms as they wrap around him. He’s getting his caretaker all wet, but Sam doesn’t mind a little water. He hooks his chin over Sam’s shoulder and sighs.
“Just… worried,” he mumbles. Tommy curls his webbed fingers into Sam’s shirt, playing with the fabric but making sure he doesn’t puncture it with his claws.
“About them?”
He nods and swallows, the taste of fish still on his tongue. The dull resignation in Phil’s eyes haunts him. It contradicts everything he heard about what mer are supposed to be.
“Yeah, I’m worried too.” Sam presses his knuckles into Tommy’s back beside his sail, and he fans it out slightly for gentle caresses. “But we’re going to help them get better.”
“I know.” Tommy pulls back, giving Sam the tiniest of smiles.
Sam returns it, easing Tommy’s nervousness. “You ready or still want a minute?”
“I’m ready.”
Tommy is a big mer and doesn’t need Sam’s help to crawl over to the stretcher they use for quick transportation and Puffy is called in to carry the other end.
“His name is Phil,” Tommy tells her when she arrives, knowing the doctors will want to know.
“That’s a good name,” she smiles. “I’m glad he’s sleeping well. We don’t have to give him anything extra. Unlike the big guy.”
Tommy gulps, chest constricting. “Is- is he aggressive?” he whimpers.
Puffy tips her head. “Not really… So far, at least. He’s been growling and pacing his tank; calling for his pod… We haven’t approached him yet, to give him some time to cool off. But he should be getting hungry soon.” Her lips purse in worry. “Do you think you can help with that?”
“I can try,” Tommy can only reply.
She ruffles his hair. “Don’t worry, we’re going to see the other one first. He’s kind of playful, so I think you’ll get along.”
They pick up his stretcher and Tommy is taken down the hall to the next isolation pool.
They're greeted with loud splashes as the wide double doors swing open. Tommy squirms in the stretcher, trying to get a good view of the second mer. He's a young adult, his pod role not yet certain.
Dark brown eyes widen as Tommy is placed down on the floor, all noises suddenly cut off. The top half of the mer's face bobs just above the water, small waves lapping at his lips as he stares.
I would've said give a wide berth if you don't want to be splashed, but, well.”
Quackity leans against the wall, dark hair tucked under a red beanie. Tommy delights in stealing it whenever he can get his hands on it. He shoves it on his own head and dives underwater to do victory laps around his tank while the man groaned and pretended to be desolate when he brings it back sopping wet.
It’s a game. Just between them.
Today's not a day for such things, however.
“I got him to eat,” Quackity grins, straightening from the wall with a bright grin and tipping his bucket to reveal it was half empty. “Just been snatching anything I give to him. He thinks he's scary; tearing it in pieces, but I think he liked the prospect of a good meal more than doing anything actually terrifying.”
To try proving his point, he lifts another fish by the tail and throws it underhanded towards the water. It lands with a plop before the mer. He doesn't even blink, fixated on Tommy.
“Ah,” Quackity chuckles in embarrassment. “Guess he's done.”
The mer rises so his entire head is visible and opens his mouth.
“Pup?” he calls, voice hoarse and so, so quiet.
Barely above a whisper and it sounds like he is straining.
Tommy croons back. A jumble of “hello-stranger-safe-happy,” and rolls off the stretcher onto his stomach.
Puffy sets the walkie-talkie down. “Here's this in case you need anything.”
Quackity leaves the bucket as well. “See if you can get him to eat anymore,” he winks. “Use your irresistible charm.”
Hell yeah. Tommy is so fucking charming.
Sam is the last to leave.
“We'll be watching on the cameras just in case,” he assures. “You're doing so well, Tommy. Just remember your training.”
They bump foreheads, Tommy nuzzling into his caretaker’s touch, clinging to it as long as possible. The mer makes a wounded noise, jerking forward with a worried frown. He hisses at Sam, lips peeled back to bare sharp teeth and fangs.
Tommy almost barks at the other mer in anger, sail bristling. How dare he threaten his pod-?
“Hey,” Sam draws his attention back, refocusing his priorities. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind Tommy’s ear. “Remember, this is new to him, so be patient. I’m ok. I’m right here. I’m in no danger, see? Safe ,” he warbles the best he can with his human mouth and lips.
The mer in the pool goes ramrod straight at the impression. Angry concentration broken as his eyes go comically wide with confusion. Tommy bites his lip to keep from smirking, knowing Sam won’t approve.
“Be nice,” Sam reminds him. Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes. He will be. “I'll leave you two now.”
The door shuts and Tommy stares at it for a moment then crawls forward. He makes it just to the edge, water tickling at his stomach when the mer is there, pulling him into the water with a welcoming trill.
The mer begins chattering far too fast for Tommy to understand. Just snippets of, “danger-human-pup-safe?”
Tommy wiggles in the other’s arms. “Safe,” he chirps. “The humans are good.”
His tone is not as nice as it should be, but he’s still kind of pissed.
The mer gives him an incredibly doubtful look, face pinching in a way that makes him look like he has to take a shit. Tommy laughs loudly and bops him on the nose, making the mer release him in confusion, and he darts away, spinning around to get a better look at the male.
Sam told him that he and the eldest, Phil, had tested positive for sharing DNA. Father and son. While Phil was a dark green, nearly black in the dim lighting of his isolation pool and with pale blond hair and bright blue eyes almost like ice; his son is opposite in every way.
The mer has chocolaty brown hair. Even weighed down in the water, Tommy can see the way it curls as it floats above his head. Paired with sapphire scales, streaks of muddy brown flaring along his fins and sail; brown eyes with a glimmer of gold in their depths, Tommy had seen when they were nose to nose. He is quite different from his father. Tommy tilts his head in interest.
It was hard to judge Phil’s size because he was hunched over, tail twisted into a tight ball in the corner, but Wilbur is a little bigger than average size. Over three times as long as Tommy is now at seven whole feet. (He’s very proud of his length because he’s officially bigger than his caretakers, and they were all very impressed at his last measurement.)
The mer whines at him, swishing closer. “Where did you come from, pup?” He reaches for Tommy’s arm. “Are you hurt? —Captured?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Safe,” he repeats, adding a little vibration through his chest to soothe the adult male. “What’s your name?”
“Wilbur,” he answers easily. Like Phil, his irises thin, pupils expanding to the brink. It makes Tommy feel weird, pressing into their instincts like that, but if it keeps them calm as they recover…
“I’m Tommy.” He ducks his head shyly as attention washes over him.
Wilbur suddenly grabs his arm and Tommy flinches, pulling back, but Wilbur croons, “safe-pup-calm,” and guides him to his side. “Here,” he hums happily, stroking a hand through Tommy’s hair. “Stay with me.”
It’s a little weird, but Tommy doesn’t pull away. Wilbur does slow laps, slicing through the water like a sharp knife and Tommy keeps at his side, just at his hip. The older male peeks glances at him occasionally, rumbling soothingly like Tommy is the one who needs comfort and assurance and not the other way around.
Tommy takes the opportunity to scan Wilbur’s scales. They’re mostly intact. No horrible patches that might need to be covered with plasters like Phil, so they don’t sting in the saltwater. Most of his damage, he knows however, is within his lungs and throat.
“Happy-calm?” Wilbur trills at him, and Tommy resists the urge to wince at the rawness in his voice. The way his gills flap too harshly, like every breath is a struggle.
If he can convince Wilbur to go on vocal rest somehow…
Tommy flares his hip fins, dragging himself to a stop. Wilbur is only a second behind, turning around with wide eyes and crooning to come back, come back. Tommy holds his ground.
“Hungry?”
Wilbur tilts his head quizzically.
Taking it as a yes, Tommy swims up towards the surfaces. Wilbur squeaks with surprise, voice breaking, and follows, just a breath too slow and Tommy sets his palms on the concrete floor and pushes himself up.
Hands grab his waist.
“No, no, pup,” Wilbur admonishes. “Stay in the water. Land bad .”
Tommy wriggles stubbornly. Years of practice pulling his heavy bodyweight out of pools made his arms and upper body strong, but Wilbur’s grip tightens. They both cling on, equally unwilling to let the other do what they want. The tug o’ war is short-lived; Wilbur beats his tail, pulling them back down into the water.
They barrel over backwards, tails slapping the top of the water as they go down and suddenly Tommy is led back into the crook of the mer’s waist, between his flared hip fins.
God, this guy is fucking annoying.
Tommy hisses at him, batting at his arms. “I was getting food. Go away.”
Wilbur makes a low, confused noise. A hurt warble as he tries to wrap his arms around Tommy’s shoulders.
“Stay pup,” he keens, but Tommy is having none of it.
He drops downwards, away from the circle Wilbur had spun around him, and darts for the surface.
The mer shrieks, gills snapping as his chest convulses, and he freezes, hunching inwards. Breathless, eyes wide with panic as he claws at his throat. Sharp talons scratching at easily breakable skin-
Shit. Tommy made a mistake.
He spins back around, returning in a flash.
“Are you ok?” he demands. “Hurt? Hurt where? Need help?”
Wilbur’s mouth gapes, opening and closing wordlessly.
Tommy takes the other’s wrists, settling them at his sides. Far from his throat.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll stay. Relax. Calm. I’m here. I’m here. ”
Tommy allows himself to be embraced, Wilbur’s desperation palpable and unnerving. It wraps thick tentacles around him, drawing them together tight; Tommy crooning between worried hiccups and Wilbur huffing in his ear, nose pressed to his throat.
“Ok,” Tommy whispers in English, his odd speech warped even further by being underwater. “Don’t get out of the tank. Cool.”
Wilbur nuzzles closer, ribs fluttering. Tommy can feel his rapid heartbeat, the way it stutters every once in a while, tripping over itself in panic.
“Safe,” Tommy attempts at rumbling. He’s not very good at it, his vocal cords not mature for much more than a light purr.
Wilbur gets the message with minimal prompting, thankfully, and as the minutes pass, he relaxes.
Good. That’s… good.
Tommy takes Wilbur’s hand. Their palms slot together. Long, webbed fingers. Claws that curl slightly.
Tommy is fascinated to note that Wilbur is big. So big that his hand is lost in Wilbur’s palm. In turn, Wilbur’s hand could span the width and length of Tommy’s chest without fanning the fingers at all. Logically, their size difference is obvious; Tommy already knew that, but… it’s different when actively comparing side by side.
All his caretakers have smaller hands than him. Even Sam.
It makes him wonder what it would be like to be held in such large, coaxing hands.
He exhales and shakes his head, gills on his rib cage shuttering wide and then settling.
He tugs Wilbur gently up. “Follow,” he commands, giving no room for argument.
“Tommy,” Wilbur clicks worriedly, but is limp and docile, exhausted. He puts up no fight as they breach the surface, lungs expanding as they switch to above water breathing.
Tommy has Wilbur hold onto the wall. The mer automatically curls his arms, laying his head down. His tail waves tiredly.
“What are you doing?” he questions. His voice is so faint. Tommy has to really lean in close to hear the barely mumbled sentence.
“Getting food,” he says simply, pointing to the red bucket. “Wait. Stay.”
He lifts himself onto his elbows and Wilbur immediately whines, grasping onto his dorsal fin.
“Tommy-”
“Caretaker,” Tommy coos and damn he feels mean , but Wilbur falters, lips parting into a wide O, pupils blossoming deeply. Tommy uses the opportunity to crawl forward at the speed of lighting, snagging the edge of the bucket just in time for the male mer’s conscious mind to kick back in gear.
Wilbur hisses in anger but his body language and expression speak the exact opposite message.
“Why?” he grumbles even as his eyes light up at the fish that slide around the bottom of the bucket, just begging to be eaten.
He huffs something that Tommy doesn’t understand, but he shrugs it off, slicing open one’s rib cage and presenting it to Wilbur to eat. The mer refuses to take it, pushing it back towards Tommy to eat. For the second time that day, he joins the wild mer in a meal, bite for bite.
They float, chewing leisurely. Wilbur lets the extra bones and cartilage, the extra bits he doesn’t like, drift to the bottom. Tommy should really dive and collect them. It’ll make the staff’s job easier. But… he yawns.
The excitement of the day is catching up with him. His belly is full from his snack and the water is extra warm. Wilbur hums, and it vibrates the water like soft massages. Ripples splashing against his back.
Tommy rolls over, hanging limply towards the bottom of the pool. His blinks get longer and longer, the call of sleep getting stronger. He warbles, lifting his head with enormous effort. Wilbur is still paddling along. Maybe he can just cling to the side and shut his eyes for a moment…
Wilbur rasps a chirp at him. “Come, rest.” He pats his chest. The action doesn’t translate and Tommy turns away.
He gets his arms on the concrete, his head down in the darkness between. With the water lapping into the small of his back, he could practically pass out at any second. He inhales and relaxes-
Again, he’s pulled away from the wall by his waist. Tommy’s head jerks up and he squeaks sharply.
“Hey!” he shouts. In English, not mer-speak.
Wilbur purrs, clicking his tongue funnily similar to an impatient human.
“Rest,” he repeats, more firm. Tommy is spun, so they are chest to chest and Wilbur tilts back and-
They drift. Wilbur serving as a raft for Tommy to float on. The up and down motion of the water, of the other mer’s breathing. Cyclic and soothing. Long fingers in his hair, playing with the edges of his cut.
Wilbur’s chest quakes with his rumbling and without meaning to Tommy falls limp.
What- what is happening?
He whines, turns to the side to slide away and back into the water-
Wilbur’s arms come up like a vice. He coos, “shhh. Stay pup. Go to sleep.” The pads of his fingers trail gently down Tommy’s spine, and he shudders, sail fluttering.
“I- I need to go,” Tommy tries to say. “Wilbur-”
“Tommy,” Wilbur croons, pressing a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at the knot of his spine. “ Relax. You’re safe with me. No more danger.”
His whispers edge deeper, they’re hardly words, just sounds and vibrations on Tommy’s sternum, but his muscles are unraveling and going loose and heavy. So inexplicably heavy.
“But-”
A longer hum. Tommy chirrs weakly. He lays his head on Wilbur’s shoulder; cheek on a particularly vibrant patch of blue scales and falls asleep.
“-Tommy.”
He wakes suddenly, head jerking up and off Wilbur’s shoulder to make eye contact with Sam kneeling at the edge of the pool.
“Hey buddy,” he smiles. “It’s time to go. Did you have a good nap?”
It takes a long time for him to process what Sam has said. He blinks. Once, twice. His head dips down for a moment, but he forces it back up, staring at his caretaker with drooping eyelids.
“Whaaa?” he warbles.
Sam chuckles. “Yeah, I see you’re still sleepy. I’m sorry, but it’s time to move you again. The big guy still hasn’t eaten yet, and we don’t want him going to bed on an empty stomach.”
Tommy’s mind is still fuzzy and heavy. He really wants to just curl back into the crook of Wilbur’s neck and close his eyes again. Go back into that comforting warmth and darkness. He shakes his head rapidly, trying – and somewhat failing – to keep his eyes open.
“Can you paddle over, Tommy? You’re doing so well. Come on.”
Wilbur’s eyes stay shut thankfully as Tommy slips off his chest. He mourns the loss of contact almost immediately, wrapping his arms around himself and keening under his breath. Quiet. He needs to be quiet, to not wake him up.
“Tommy,” Sam calls, holding out his hand. “Come on, pup. You’re almost done for the day, I promise.”
Tommy glances back one last time to Wilbur still floating, his fins flicking subconsciously in his sleep to keep him afloat and face up in the water.
Then he turns and swims for Sam.
His arms shake as he drags himself out onto the cement, and he rolls over onto his back, gills fluttering as he fights the deep ache for sleep.
Sam nudges his shoulder and Tommy whines.
“Shhh. I’m sorry. I know. Wow, you’re really out of it, huh? You just have to move a little farther to get on the stretcher, alright? You can do it.”
Tommy huffs, blowing air through his nose unhappily and wriggles, raising his hands to pluck at Sam’s shirt childishly. “Coffee,” he grumbles. If they’re gonna make him wake up, he wants something that’ll keep him awake.
Sam cups his hands gently, rubbing his thumbs over Tommy’s knuckles. “You know Ponk said coffee is bad for you.”
“Meanie,” Tommy frowns. “You’re a bitch, Sam.” If he weren’t so heavy, he’d slap the water with his tail to emphasize his point. Oh- but Wilbur is still sleeping…
The corners of Sam’s eyes crease in amusement. “You know what? For working really hard today I’ll let you have a sip.”
Tommy’s eyes light up in interest.
“Only a little,” he stresses, holding up a finger in wait. “It’ll be just between us. We don’t want a repeat of last time. You like that?”
Tommy nods eagerly. Now that was something worth waking up for.
“First you have to get on your stretcher, though.”
Tommy chirps his agreement and pushes himself up, rolling with a wince back onto his stomach.
He just has to see the scary pink mer, and he’ll be done for the day.
He swallows his reservations and crawls forward.
Sam keeps his promise. He’s so poggers, in fact, he lets Tommy drink half of his cup.
He cradles the warm mug in his hands, curled on the side of an adjoining tank and watches the protector sit in his corner. Puffy said he’d stopped pacing a while ago and had gone silent, holding himself upright in one spot, perhaps sleeping. Always primed to defend his pod even while unconscious.
Tommy tilts his head, chirring curiously. His gaze slides away as he lifts the cup, and it obscures his vision for a second. He doesn’t see Sam reach forward and wrap his fingers around the bottom, only noticing when he pulls if from his lips, and it’s gently tugged from his hands.
“Hey!” Tommy growls irritably. Sam holds up a hand, however.
“I gave you more than I should’ve; Ponk was going to come for my ass before, but we’re both digging this hole so we better quit while we’re ahead.”
Tommy glowers, but Sam makes a point, so he acquiesces and surrenders the mug.
“Thank you.” Sam ruffles his hair. Tommy hums and turns back to staring at the pink mer.
He picks at his finger webbing, hip fins jittering with barely contained nervous energy – or the caffeine is starting to kick in.
He licks his lips, chasing a few lingering drops. Sam puts lots of sugar in his so it isn’t so bitter, but the taste isn’t the reason Tommy likes it so much. It’s the pounding in his heart, his senses dialing up, so everything seems brighter and louder and more exciting.
Waiting to go meet a wild, potentially very, very angry mer that’s over double his size – bigger than Phil and Wil, easily towering over them; he thinks it might’ve been a mistake. Even with a thick pane of glass separating them.
“Are you ready?” Sam asks. He twists one of his many keys into the control panel on the wall, opening the paneling up to reveal the button and little light switches inside.
Tommy hunches over, waving his hand back and forth in the water, making the surface dance with ripples and splashes of reflected light from the ceiling.
“Can you stay?” he asks, biting his lip. His sail flaps, rising and falling with his breath. His heart pounds a little harder, a little faster in his chest.
Sam pauses. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll be right here if you need me. You’re being so brave, Tommy. I’m really proud.” He squats down, and they share a quick brush of their cheeks, Tommy’s scales rubbing at the stubble on his cheek.
Then Tommy dives into the water.
He’s uncertain of what approach to make. Phil and Wilbur was child’s play. The former was so exhausted and sick, Tommy just had to give him a little attention, a small nudge, and he obeyed his requests without fighting. Wilbur, though clingy, was never suspicious of food, as the doctors worried, and was fairly well-mannered.
This one, Tommy can tell already, is going to be trouble.
He spirals down to the bottom, keeping a close eye on the mer. He doesn’t move and Tommy’s gut uncoils with relief.
Other than being big, Tommy notes that he’s actually bicolored. Most of his body is that soft cherry blossom pink, but he has a patch of darker scales directly over his heart. Shining like rubies, the color drips down his belly and fades into the rest of his regular patterning. His fins as well, Tommy catches a glimpse of the undersides, and they are that same, deep scarlet.
He squints at the pink hair. Is that natural for wild mer? Strange, he warbles to himself, hesitantly setting a hand on the glass wall and leaning closer to try to get a better look.
Is the mer just going to sleep or-
Suddenly eyes flash open, bloodred and angry.
Tommy screams and darts for the far wall.
What the fuck , he gets a hold of himself seconds later, heart racing in his chest. The mer hasn’t even done anything. Much less threatened him. Damn he needs to calm down.
Slowly he turns around and flinches, colliding straight into the wall.
How’d he get to the glass so fast.
Oh, no. Tommy doesn’t like that. Not at all.
The mer starts rumbling, louder and louder, like the roar of a boat picking up speed. Tommy swears the glass is shaking – it has to be – because he can feel its phantom vibrations on the opposite side, with the distance and water between them.
He looks up into the mer's eyes, and a fearful chirp slips between his teeth. He claps a hand over his mouth, chest heaving, working his gills and lungs overtime. The mer is so fucking big. He could probably tear Tommy in half with minimum effort.
“Come closer,” the giant calls. His irises are thin rings and his eyes are black, bottomless whirlpools that Tommy is being sucked into. Dragged down into the depths where there is no escape.
He squeezes tighter to the wall, wishing it would swallow him up, and he could disappear from the mer's unblinking sight. All his muscles are locked. Tommy can't move. He can't move, he can't, he can't-
“Safe, pup,” the giant croons. He sets a palm on the glass, gaze briefly flickering in irritation. Then his eyes snap back to Tommy. “Safe,” he sings: a hook that slots under Tommy’s ribs and tightens fast – he gasps; a tug in his bones to listen.
“No!” Tommy cries. He doesn't know what the mer is doing. It's weird, how it's coiling inside his brain, making his thoughts all slow and soft. He slams his hands over his ears. “Stop it!”
There's a roaring in his ears, the drum of his heartbeat. But he can't hear the giant mer's crooning. He's safe-
His entire body vibrates, a rolling pulsing wave that makes him want to go limp like what Wilbur did, holding him against his chest…
In a burst of adrenaline, Tommy breaks from his trance and bolts for the wall. Back to Sam. His caretaker will protect him.
“Sam!” he screams, half heaving himself out of the water with a sob. The giant mer – the monster – roars and Tommy makes a frightened chirp-trill, desperately clawing for Sam’s pantleg to drag him closer.
“Tommy!” Sam yelps. He backs away from his needy, grasping fingers
Tommy is so much bigger than him, so much stronger, and he has to be careful because his caretakers are smaller and more fragile. He is not allowed to grap and tug and pull as he pleases because it is dangerous. He is breaking the rules, being so, so bad; but please, please , he is scared-
“Caretaker,” Tommy whines. He hunches his shoulders and shivers, streams of water flowing down his spine and pooling into the cement beneath him. Please, he doesn’t want to stay here any longer.
The monster is jabbering at him, crooning low and deep and all it does is make Tommy shudder and cry more because he doesn’t want to turn and see the way he’s staring at him. Then the sounds change into spitting hisses. Growls that make all his muscles clench in fear.
“Are you hurt?” Sam finally stretches out a hand and Tommy coos achingly, rolling his head into the touch.
“Pup,” the monster purrs. Tommy hesitates then glances in the mer’s direction.
Immediately, he puts his hand back on the glass. “Come closer. Move. Move. Human bad. Protect. Come.”
“Tommy?” Sam repeats. His lips are pursed white with worry. “Is this too much?”
“I-” All his words are stuck at the roof of his mouth, unable to detach no matter how much he scrapes at it. Like the one time he stole Quackity’s peanut butter sandwich to see what it tasted like.
Tommy looks up at the monster through his lashes and swallows, then chirps a mellow, “hungry?”
The mer blinks, pupils constricting slightly. “What?” he seems to say with his head tilt, long hair falling in waterfalls around his shoulders and floating in the water.
This mer is in better shape than Phil and Wilbur, but he’s still sick. Tommy’s eyes finally linger on the space between the mer’s ribs. The hollowness of his stomach. One of his hip fins has a jagged tear, leaving it hanging limp and useless. Scars and old wounds cross his body. A still healing gash shines silvery-white up the side of his tail.
This protector needs help just as much as the rest of his pod. Calling him a monster; running and hiding just because he’s a bit big and different isn’t right.
Tommy’s thoughts cleared, he hangs his head in shame and embarrassment. He shouldn’t have acted like that. Now the mer is huffing in distress, alternating between growling at Sam and cooing at him, trying to convince him to get away, get away. Sam is hovering, obviously worried, because he decided to overreact.
He points to the two feeding buckets and whispers, “can you open the window? I’ll try to get him to eat.”
Sam’s hands leave his shoulders hesitantly. “Are you sure?” he confirms slowly. “We can figure something out if you-”
“I’ll do it.” Tommy gulps and fights building nausea. Those red eyes still haven’t left him. The mer hasn’t threatened him once. Just cooing and calling him pup like the other two. Perhaps Puffy was right when she said mer don’t hurt young. Even foreign ones.
Whose idea was this anyway? They could train him all they want, but working with wild, fucking mer is far different from the other civilized ones he’s met. He doesn’t do that natural instinct bullshit.
He can work with this, he decides. No big ass protector is going to make the great Tommy stop being the best at his job.
He can do this.
The window between the two tanks is only a few feet wide in diameter. Plenty big enough for Tommy to slip through if he pleases, but there’s no way in hell the protector can get into his tank. The most he could fit was his hand – and most of his arm if he really squeezed – but Tommy is safe on his side of the glass and that is relief enough.
“Hello,” he greets, swaying nervously, avoiding eye contact. “My name is Tommy.”
The protector trills then purrs, scratching at the instinctual part far in the back of Tommy’s brain. Hanging out with these wild mer is making his head funny.
“Hello pup. I am Technoblade.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose. That’s a weird name if he’s ever heard one.
“Why?” he says without meaning too, the question tumbling out with no filter, and he darts back a bit, wondering if it’ll piss Technoblade off.
Rather, the mer laughs. An echoing rumble that buzzes Tommy’s chest delightfully.
“You may call me Techno, pup. Do not be scared.”
“I’m not scared!” Tommy bristles, his lips curling back to bare his teeth.
Techno laughs that booming laugh of his and croons, slotting his hand through the window, palm up in an offering. “Come pup, come here. Safe. Safe.”
Tommy swims back a bit further and Techno’s face drops with hurt.
“Want food?” Tommy offers and holds out a fish, trying to distract the protector.
Techno scowls. “No. Human food bad. Pup come here. Safe,” he pleads.
Ok. So he’s stubborn like Phil. Tommy knows how to get him to eat, then.
He grabs one of the fish – they’re bigger than the others he’s had today, and he has to cradle it in his elbow as he tears his claws into its soft meat.
“No, no. Safe,” he argues and bites into it. “Good. delicious.” He trills and smiles.
Eating takes even longer than with Phil. Techno refuses to eat or let Tommy take a bite until he examines every fish with a critical eye and sniffs at them experimentally. And Tommy has to eat too, or the protector gets all huffy.
Tommy rolls his eyes. Techno is so obnoxious. He tries to be patient, buffing his scales as he waits for the mer to cut open the fish, offering little slices of meat bit by bit for him to eat as Techno hums happily and coos at him.
It’s stupid. Tommy can prepare his own food! He’s not a baby.
Finally, Techno’s hand reaches back down, Tommy’s portion pinched between his claws. Tommy darts up, warbling exasperation and thankfulness as he grabs it-
A large knuckle pets the length of his tail before he can pull away. Tommy freezes. Techno purrs and extends his fingers.
Tommy fans his tail and backs up just in time for Techno’s soft sweep to pass him by.
“Pup,” he pouts. “Want. Want hold. Safe. Here.”
A jolt goes down Tommy’s spine, shocking him all the way to his caudal fin. The ache in his chest returns, pulsing with the hum in Techno’s voice.
“Stop,” Tommy hisses. “Stop that.” He slaps Techno’s fingers with his tail, darting by so quickly the other mer can’t grab him. “Bad.”
It’s not fair, Tommy scowls. Techno is so much bigger and stronger. He’s not allowed to try prying at Tommy’s instincts – the little he has of them, at least.
“Protector,” he croons back and grins in victory as Techno goes limp, eyelids fluttering as he croons way back in his throat.
Ha! That’s what he gets for being a bitch.
Techno passes him a few more bites. Tommy hands him another fish. All the waiting is boring, and he can physically feel his energy dipping. He wishes he had more coffee.
Tommy sits on his side, head propped on the glass, watching Techno strip the scales off his current fish with intense focus. The protector really takes his role seriously, doesn’t he. Tommy’s never seen something like it. It’s… nice, kind of. Knowing that the mer is taking care of his pod so well.
His face breaks with a yawn. He never got to finish his nap with Wilbur and if his internal clock is correct, it’s late. Far past when he’d usually be curled up in his moss nest-bed. The lights in his personal tank dimmed to resemble pale moonlight. Sometimes he’d even have the light vibrations of music in the water. Some instrumental piece that plays like a lullaby in the background.
He misses it. With all his working, he never got to play today, and now he mourns that fact with a chirp and warble.
Hopefully, they’ll be done soon. He’s so full he doesn’t think he could eat anymore. His belly so heavy, weighing him down at the bottom, so he can’t move. Not even a fin.
He blinks once, twice, and then entirely goes slack as he drifts into dreams.
He doesn’t feel the gentle fingers that probe his sleeping form, turning him on his back to pet at his golden belly scales with a singing purr.