Chapter Text
In all honesty, Tubbo is not wholly sure why he visits Dream. Maybe it's something to do with Ranboo's sleeptalking mumbles about him. Maybe it's the knowledge that Dream desecrated his best friend, tore a piece of Tommy away that there is no getting back. Perhaps it's a morbid curiosity about the further profaning of Tommy's wings, the dye and plucking and sick taxidermy display at Church Prime. Perhaps it's none of those things, or all of them at once.
Regardless, Tubbo finds himself standing at the entrance gate to Pandora's Vault, shoulders drawn back in an effort to make himself feel less insignificant in the face of the massive construction. His Cabinet suit and tie have been discarded for more comfortable clothing: the jeans and work boots he wears in his own workshop, the tank top and flannel with rolled-up sleeves and more stains and burn marks than he can count. His winter coat and ushanka are in his pack, the tundra he's hidden his tinkering in long since faded to meadow and forest.
Tubbo's hands itch for a tool to fidget with. Instead, he plucks his cell phone from his pocket, and navigates to Skype. His is one of the cool phones, where there are numbers when he flips it open and a keyboard when he slides it open. Sam's contact is there, and the last message he was sent is, too.
Shaky fingers type a message. Shaky fingers send it. Steady eyes scan the device until Sam's curt, one-word response arrives. When he acts as the Warden, all of the friendliness of Sam disappears. Even his appearance seems to shift, a less friendly green, a sharper, more imposing figure. If the Sam that Tubbo still spends a lot of time with is a soft bush of foliage, the Warden is nettles and poison ivy.
Inside the entrance hall, the portal ignites. Tubbo steps through, and waits for the intercom to buzz to life.
"Step through," Sam's voice crackles through a speaker. Tubbo closes his eyes as he walks through the portal and into the Vault's lobby.
Sam stands behind an imposing desk, a single book laid upon the surface of it. Obsidian and blackstone walls seem to close in around him, choking out the atmosphere.
"Read the contract aloud, and sign your name," Sam instructs.
Tubbo recites the contract robotically, his name scrawling itself on the page at the end. Sam takes the contract and puts it in his inventory.
The security process is mechanical, each check and door completed in a clockwork dance. The lava does not burn with fire resistance. The vault door is impressive and loud. The floor rises to meet their feet in the hallway with the regular security cells. Tubbo has barely enough breath to swim through the tunnel.
And then he is there, stood on a platform as lava drains from the chamber, slowly but surely revealing Dream in the cell. The single halo spins lazily. Tubbo is unused to seeing Dream with no mask, no green hoodie. He's not yet close enough to see Dream's face but he imagines it'll be unsettling.
"Walk with the platform," Sam commands, pulling a lever. The floor beneath Tubbo's feet moves and he moves with it, shoes clicking on the sturdy machinery.
The walk is far too long for the short distance covered. Even with the magma drained, its heat presses in on Tubbo from all sides. Breathing is harder in the dry heat, and he can hear popping beneath him as liquid earth churns. He will die if he falls. He does not fall. With each step, Dream's face grows clearer, the bored expression obvious and his angelic features spinning and pulsing with lazy radiance. It is a fraction of the power Tubbo knows he possesses.
The heat is no less of a miasma when the platform hits solid obsidian and Tubbo's shoes click onto the cell floor. His heart beats fast, both from the blazing inferno at his back and the anxiety in his belly. Tubbo steps up to the netherite gate.
"Call when you are ready to leave," Sam says. A lever clicks, and Tubbo hears the lava begin to refill behind him. The gate opens.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Dream says. There is a raw potato by the pool of water in the floor.
"Didn't expect to be here, myself," Tubbo says. "Impulse, really."
"You, visiting me, on impulse? I'm flattered."
Tubbo hums a reply. He walks further into the cell. Dream doesn't move, following him with his eyes. "You know, I almost wish Tommy had killed you."
"He couldn't risk his poor little friends having a permanent death," Dream taunts. "And now, I'm here."
There's something else, in Dream's eyes, even as he mocks.
"Funny you say that, considering he wasn't even there when you lost two lives," Tubbo says.
"Bingo," Dream says. "He's figured it out, and now he thinks he knows everything."
Tubbo scoffs. "I don't need to know everything to know a lie when I see one. Your halo still twitches when you lie, Dream. Did you know that?"
Dream looks away, shrinking in on himself the tiniest bit. Tubbo would almost say he's embarrassed that he still has such an obvious tell.
The only sound that passes in the room is the ticking of the clock and the hiss and pop of the lava behind them. Tubbo stares at Dream, and Dream stares at Tubbo. A stalemate of stubbornness.
"Did he end up dying?" Dream breaks the silence. "After I took his wings."
"No."
"Aw. I was half hoping the infection would get him."
Tubbo stands. Dream's halo is twitching in its rotation. "Sam," he calls, "I'm ready to go."
"Stand in the pool," Sam's voice crackles over the intercom. Tubbo steps into the waist-deep water. Potions rain down.
He wakes in a bed, in the same room as Sam. His clothes are dry, the magic of a quick respawn, and Sam is ready to escort him out.
----
Water spills from the spout of the watering can, soaking quickly into the soft soil of the earth. The snow has been cleared, and lanterns hung to melt fresh snowfall. Daffodil sprouts broke ground a few days ago, and if Tommy looks he can see the tulips pushing just below the surface. They will rise by tomorrow, without a doubt. Techno's anemone have two weeks on Tommy's daffodils and tulips, though in the chill of the arctic there is little growth to show for it.
As time passes, the age discrepancy will show. Then, as the plants mature, there will hardly be a difference.
The chill of the air seeps into him on a good day, grabs him by the spine on any other. Today is one of the days where it’s trying to hold him in a grip. It’s on these kinds of days where he nearly forgets all the things he’s learned since his exile; wonders about how peaceful death would’ve been if he had succumbed to his wounds that day or in the days after. Pain is something he wishes he didn’t have to live with, making his head spin and his body freeze up and his mind race, and if death is the way for it to stop, so be it, right? There’s only so much strength he can sustain before it gets to him. Maybe Dream was right. Maybe he did deserve–
“Tommy.” Technoblade calls from behind him, a hint of worry in his voice. His brother is gentler with him now, ever since he woke up in the man’s attic, haunted. Tommy forces a small chuckle out of his throat. He can’t muster anything else.
He can hear Techno step towards him through the crunch of the snow under his hooves. Once upon a time, the sound made him relax. Once upon a time, that sound made him cower in fear. Now, it does both- he tenses, flinches from the pain, then relaxes slightly when his brain catches up to him. It’s only Techno, who saved him. It’s only the reason he’s still alive. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
“Cold hurting you?” His brother is at his shoulder, holding a watering can similar to the one Tommy forgot he was holding. Tommy nods, loosening his grip, feeling the water slosh around inside. He still doesn’t move, even as Techno drapes a cape around him to combat the cold that permeates his bones.
“Meh,” he grunts. The cold aches, yes, settles deep into his spine and twists around the fresh scars like lightning, but he’s hardly in the mood to stop what he’s doing. If he stops, he thinks, and even though watering the flowers isn’t helping much in that respect, it’s better than nothing. Another splash of water is soaked up quickly by the thirsty soil of a sprouted tulip. He ignores how the slight reddish tinge of the fertilizer makes his chest tight.
Techno pours a bit of water onto his anemone. “You’ll be warmer inside,” he says. Tommy huffs, watching as Techno carefully measures the amount of water poured on each anemone and then uses his boot to tamp the soil back into place.
“Nah. Not done watering the flowers.” He drizzles the end of his watering can’s supply onto another tulip. Yeah, that may not be the best excuse. Oh well. He can be as stubborn as he wants, because Techno surely will be pigheaded as usual. He wants to stay outside, even if there’s no chores he can do right now, because he feels like it. And maybe to ponder his previous train of thought a little further while he still has the cold ache grounding him.
“You’re out of water. Come inside,” Techno insists. “All the flowers are watered.”
“Garden’s not,” Tommy says. He hears Techno set his watering can on the stair railing and grunts in frustration.
“We haven’t even planted anything. The ground is still frozen.” Techno steps closer to him, a looming presence over his right shoulder. Tommy barely turns his head to acknowledge him. “You’re deflecting.”
“No ‘m not,” Tommy protests. “You’re just being a bitch.”
Techno’s snuff is far more amused than upset. “Only a bitch would stay out in the cold when the house is right there. I’m goin’ inside, you have fun out here.”
It’s bait, a hundred percent. The thing is, Tommy is easily baited, and it works. “Fine, I’ll come in, dickhead,” he snaps. There’s no anger behind it. He sets his watering can down next to Techno’s and follows him up the steps and into the cabin.
He hates–well, that’s not the right word, more like is stubbornly upset about–the fact that Techno is right about being in the house. The change in temperature is so quick it almost gives him shock; warmth draping him like the cloak still settled on his shoulders and absorbing into his skin like the lotion Ghostbur says is good for his chronic pain. Techno gives him a look of I told you so as the color returns to his cheeks–was he out there for that long?--and fingertips. Something hot is placed into his hands gently- a cup of chicken soup with potato chunks, his favorite.
“You have to be starving by now, with how long you were out there.” Techno says with an air of gentleness. Tommy looks up at him. The concern in his eyes is not easily hidden, as much as he knows Techno would want it to be.
“You made this?” He asks. His brother shakes his head, hands still over his. The texture of his callouses is making him calm down, slightly. Familiar feelings on skin are comforting, especially after everything.
“Phil made it before he left. I just put the potatoes in.” His hands guide Tommy to the dinner table, where his chair is pushed back, ready for someone to sit in it. “Sit. You stood out there long enough that I’m worried you’re gonna collapse if you don’t.”
Tommy sits, stiffness in his hips turning to an ache when he does. Techno serves himself a bowl of soup, then sits at the table with Tommy. There are two glasses of water on the table, now, too, and Tommy figures Techno must’ve placed them down before serving the soup. No ice floats in the tall, slender glasses, but the water will be cool nonetheless. Even the heating system for the well-water and plumbing won’t heat things past lukewarm. He sips the broth out of his bowl, ignoring the spoon set at his place. Techno chuffs at him softly, annoyed but expecting this from him.
The soup is good. Phil doesn’t overspice things in the way Techno does, and though the kick of red pepper is notable it is not overpowering. Chopped carrots and beans float with the chicken and potatoes. Tommy slurps them out, knowing that if Techno doesn’t tell him to eat them, Phil will go on another worried ramble about the importance of eating vegetables. It’s not like they’re bad, either. The beans were in the cellar from the last harvest, blanched and frozen in the arctic ground. Now, they retain a hint of crunch and no bitterness. The carrots have been boiled to sweetness and are the perfect softness, not overcooked and chewy but with no tough centers. The chicken is leftover, cubed from the last time Techno made roast chicken, and the potatoes are cooked, probably boiled in the broth.
He finds himself drinking the last of the broth before he realizes his bowl is empty. Techno is still only half through his soup, the spoon not nearly as fast as drinking from the bowl. Tommy sets his bowl just off center on the hot pad, not enough to risk damaging the table but enough to be chaotic and rebellious in the quiet way he’s been doing for far longer than he’d like to admit.
“Have you been doing your exercises?” Techno asks, blowing on a spoonful that is definitely not hot enough to burn. “I saw you wince when you sat down.”
“Was my hip, not my shoulder,” Tommy says.
“You still have exercises for your hips. There’s pots, tea, heating pads, or I can heat up water for a bath,” Techno says. His voice leaves no room for Tommy to argue out of having something. And Tommy’s feet are still cold from walking around in the snow.
“I want a bath.”
“Alright.” Techno drains his bowl of soup in one swig, and gets the big pot out from the cupboard.
Tommy pours exactly one pot of water into the basin used as a bathtub. It hurts his shoulders, especially since he washed it out while Techno was starting the water. It only takes four pots to fill the basin, and the water cools to a comfortable warm while the last pot heats. Techno leaves a vial of herbs and bath salts on the counter, and then lets Tommy be.
It’s a bit of a struggle to unwrap the compression bandages around his back and shoulders, and he’ll need help to redo it after, but sinking into the hot water is heavenly. Both his sore joints and scarring feel better in the water, and the herbs smell nice. He’ll have to actually make an attempt to wash himself, later, but for now Tommy is content to soak.