Chapter Text
It would be so easy to leave him out in the snow.
Technoblade does not care for the lives of mortals. The Blood God slays them with his bare hands, leaving behind fatal liters of blood spilled across countless battlefields. He does not care for their lives, and it would be so easy to leave Tommy out there, on his bench, in the snow.
Techno does not care about Tommy. Tommy is a burden, but he is a means to an end as well. He is useful, and that is it. Aside from the reclaiming of his armor and minor terrorism, Tommy has no value to the Blood God. He is, as he has always been, a hindrance.
(This is a lie.)
Tommy is Phil’s only remaining mortal. While Techno may not value him beyond personal gain, Techno will always value Phil. And without Phil here to bring his mortal in from the snow, the job falls on his large, already burdened shoulders.
It is funny, really, how fond of such a small life The God of Death is. It seems as though it would go against his very nature, but Phil has never been one to follow what others believe he should. He is one of the oldest Gods, alongside those such as Clara -The Goddess of Space and Time- and he has not once been predictable.
Technoblade will never admit that that is one of the many reasons he is so fond of his friend.
There are burns on the left side of Tommy’s face. They’ve healed in the time since Techno found him dying of frostbite beneath his basement, but they are still there. He’s partially deaf in his left ear now, too. It’s just another reminder of how fragile mortals truly are; how breakable they can be when placed in the wrong hands. The Chaos God will always be the wrong hands, and just the thought of him has rage boiling in Techno’s chest.
He broke Phil’s mortal. He broke both of them. And in breaking his mortals, he also fractured a part of Phil, and the Blood God refuses to let that stand. Dream will pay for what he’s done.
After the favor, of course. Technoblade can do nothing to Dream until he cashes in his favor.
Tommy does not respond when he calls for him; he doesn’t even twitch. His eyes are far off and unfocused when Techno finally reaches him, but they are not glassy like they were when he was dying in Techno’s bed, so the Blood God does not worry. He reaches down and takes Tommy’s limp hand in his own, pulls him up, and slowly leads him back to the cottage. His thin fingers are cold, but they are not stiff like they were when he’d been dying. His breaths, though soft, are strong. He is not dying.
Mortals are so fragile, their psyche easily damaged beyond repair, and Techno only finds it irritating. Tommy’s fragility does nothing but irk him.
(This is a lie.)
Dream visited earlier that day, asking Technoblade if he’d seen Tommy. The Blood God had had to make his presence as large and loud as possible to cover the claim Phil has on Tommy, though he doubts it worked. Dream had lingered too long near the box where Tommy was hidden with invisibility.
Tommy is still recovering.
The Blood God seethes.
“Tommy,” he starts once they’ve made it inside, testing the words on his tongue before he says anything. He is not built for comfort or sugarcoating. Tommy turns to look up at him, eyes finally holding just that much more color and awareness. “Don’t talk until I’m done talking.”
“What!” Tommy cries, fire back behind his eyes, and Techno sighs.
“Shut up and listen.” The boy sputters more, but eventually, he sinks into the other chair by the fireplace, wrapping himself in Techno’s old cape. He makes no move to speak again, and the Blood God continues. “I owe Dream a favor.”
Tommy’s face pales considerably. He knows how favors bind Gods the same way claims bind mortals, and he is far from stupid.
“I wouldn’t have accepted his favor had I known you were hiding with my stolen things under my own basement, but it’s too late for that now. So now I owe Dream a favor, and I only have one thing he wants.”
Mortals are flighty creatures. Tommy sinks further into the plush chair, grasping so tightly at the cape that his already pale knuckles go white. “You- you’re going to give me back?” His voice cracks, and tears swell in his eyes, and something Techno refuses to acknowledge burns inside his chest at the sight. “You’re going to let him take me?”
Tommy is Phil’s. Tommy’s soul has been tied to Phil’s very being since he was five years old. Techno refuses to let this poorly taped together world ruin another one of Phil’s mortals. He refuses to let Dream hurt his friend again, no matter how indirectly it may have been the first time.
“If that’s what he wants me to do, then yes.” This is the wrong thing to say. Tommy looks as though he’s been shattered. “But Theseus, I will not let him keep you. He has no claim on you, no right to you. He has nothing. Do you understand?”
“You won’t let him keep me?” Tommy asks, voice cracking and high. He scrubs the tears and snot away from his face with the cape, and Techno has to refrain from cringing when the sheen of it reflects in the firelight.
“I won’t.”
“You’ll get me back?”
“I will.”
It’s quiet aside from the crackling of the fire and the gentle noises of Edward for a moment, and then Tommy shifts to face away from Techno. “You promise?” He asks, voice soft and insecure.
The Blood God hates Dream for what he’s done to Phil’s mortal. The voices demand his blood.
“I promise.” It is hard for Technoblade to speak softly, but he does his best to match Tommy’s tone.
Tommy turns to him then, a smug grin spreading across his face even as tears still shine on his cheeks. “You like me!” He exclaims, jabbing a triumphant finger in Techno’s direction. “Scary Technoblade likes little brother Tommy!”
“I do not.”
(This is a lie.)
-----
Dream stops them in the Nether after declining the favor. He says he’s changed his mind, and he wants it now.
He says, “Give him back.” He does not say, “Let me keep him.”
And The Blood God does. He ignores the crescendo of screaming within his own head, ignores the red that bleeds into the edges of his vision, and he tells Tommy to go. Where the boy may have protested in his youth, now there is nothing. No sound, no anger. He is afraid.
Technoblade gives him back with every intention of reclaiming him- reclaiming Phil’s mortal. Ours, the voices cry, but he does not listen. He does not have time to listen to their pleas, their rage, and instead must remain neutral. He can’t give himself away.
Tommy looks back at him with wide eyes, gray where they should be blue, and he positively trembles. He’s trying to stay strong as he walks stiffly toward Dream, and he’s doing as fine as he can. His fear is palpable, dancing across his shoulder blades where they’re hidden under the cape he refuses to take off.
His poorly constructed courage crumbles the moment Dream’s hand locks in a vice grip around his frail wrist.
“Techno!” Tommy sobs, trying his best to wrench his hand out of Dream’s grip. “Techno please-”
His voice cracks, splintering the minute control the Blood God has on his already crumbling restraint. He knows he’s failing to reel it in, knows Dream knows, because the blank smiley mask slowly turns to look back at him.
Techno can hear the sound of Tommy’s wrist bones cracking under the pressure of Dream’s hand.
He sees red.
Tommy goes silent almost immediately, retreating into the same shell he’d been in all that time ago when he finally healed enough to be aware that Techno had found him. Back when he was still a skittish animal, jumping at every noise, flinching at every raised voice or too heavy step. Back when Techno, unused to mortals and how they worked, believed him useless. Lazy. He knows better, now. He’s learned.
The Blood God has changed, and he seethes.
“You’ve gone soft, Technoblade.” Dream taunts, voice mocking. “A mortal? How pathetic.”
Blood for The Blood God, the voices cry, drowning everything else from within his mind. Save him. Ours. Õ̵̜û̶͚r̴̖̄s̴̡̛.̶͇̐
“And what of you, Dream? Your mortals?” He delights in the jump of The Chaos God’s shoulders, and the voices hiss their agreement. “All you wanted was to be loved, and look where you are now. Homeless.”
“I have a house!” Dream cries, dropping Tommy’s wrist in favor of stalking forward. He’s seething, on the defense, shoulders bunched and fists clenched. His axe materializes in his hand.
The Blood God grins down at him, venom on his tongue and hatred in his veins. “We both know I’m not talking about any kind of structure.” The Chaos God falters, and Technoblade pounces. “They hate you, yet you cling to them. You have this delusion that if you do just enough, if you make it all the way it should be, they’ll take you back. Who’s pathetic now?”
The air is heavy with tension and power, both Gods posturing over each other, trying to overwhelm. Tommy makes a small choking noise from where he’s slinking away, flinching each and every time Dream moves.
“They’ll take me back.” Dream mutters, voice angry. “As soon as I fix everything, they’ll take me back.”
“Touching,” Techno snarls, sarcasm like poison on his tongue, and Dream lunges.
He parries him easily, and if he weren’t being fed by the bloodlust that’s been living in his veins for months on end, he would laugh at how easy it is to rile the Chaos God into attacking him. But this is the excuse for blood he wanted. Dream attacked him, and now the favor is fulfilled, and there is nothing holding him back from putting Dream in his place.
Because yes, this is Dream’s world. Yes, what Dream says here is supposed to go. But Dream has made the fatal mistake of inserting himself into places he does not belong- has made the mistake of incurring the wrath of Technoblade, God of War, self-proclaimed Blood God. He will bleed by Techno’s hands, and the voices will cheer, and everything will go back to being the way it should be.
He vaults over Dream, placing himself between the Chaos God and Tommy as Dream heaves to catch his breath. Techno stands ready, sword in hand, shield angles just so to cover Tommy when he wedges himself against the Blood God’s side, peering around his shoulder. One of his hands latches onto Techno’s cape, and the other pulls the Axe of Peace from Techno’s belt. Pride rolls down Technoblade’s shoulders in waves.
The porcelain of Dream’s mask, though likely enchanted with unbreaking, has splintered. Only a corner of his mouth is visible, and a thin line of blood mars the corner.
“The favor, Technoblade,” Dream hisses, tense with rage. He does not like to be bested.
“You see, Dream,” Techno drawls, voice bland even as his insides roil with seas of molten anger, even as his head sings with the promise of vengeance. “I gave you Tommy already. Not my fault you couldn’t keep him under control.”
Dream moves to lunge again, and Techno levels the sword at his throat. “Think very, very carefully about your next move.”
He doesn’t get the chance, though, because two feet come out of nowhere and knock Dream clean off the bridge with a solid kick to the head. He disappears into the lava below, and Phil touches down with two powerful wingbeats, visibly seething.
“Are you both alright?” Phil asks them, shaking out his shoulders and wings. As the feathers ruffle, Ghostbur emerges from the plethora of souls that linger amidst them. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Hello, Tommy! Techno!” The ghost says, floating over to greet them.
“We’re fine, Phil.”
Dream tried to swim in lava to escape Ph1LzA
Tommy makes a soft noise as the death message pings across their communicators, but he does not let go of the Techno’s axe nor cape. His knuckles are white, and he continues to peer over the edge of the bridge at where Dream disappeared.
“Could we go home?” Ghostbur asks, voice somehow echoing even more in the cavernous expanse of the nether. “It’s quite hot down here, you’re going to sweat terribly.”
Phil hovers near Tommy’s side, and the mortal boy lets go of Techno’s cape to sequester himself underneath his adoptive father’s wing.
“I need to brush Carl, anyway,” Techno answers, keeping the attention off Phil’s mortal, and he begins to lead the way back to the tundra.
-----
“Thank you,” Tommy murmurs, sleep slurred words muffled by Techno’s shoulder. It’s late, and Tommy should’ve been asleep ages ago.
The excessive physical contact is making Techno uncomfortable now that he isn’t using it to make sure Tommy is safe from Dream, but he refrains from saying anything. The sooner the kid goes to sleep, the sooner he can get up and do something about the adrenaline still thrumming beneath his skin.
“Don’t mention it,” the Blood God rumbles, refusing to look away from his novel as he feigns nonchalance. “Seriously. Don’t.”
“Bitch.” It is whispered, barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace, but Phil snickers from his place on the other side of Tommy anyway. Tommy drops off to sleep without another word.
Technoblade has never, and will never like mortals. He tolerates Phil’s because they are Phil’s, regardless of what the voices hiss to him each and every time Tommy is so much as in his presence. Techno dislikes Tommy. He is and always will be a nuisance, and he is only kept around for personal gain.
The Blood God holds no love for things that will disappear.
(This is a lie.)