Work Text:
1.
The first time Technoblade meets the kid, it’s almost closing time.
The sign out front— the plain wooden board that reads TAILOR in block letters, and the intricately carved mahogany piece hanging from it that says AND BLACKSMITH! in a fancy script— is swaying back and forth in the breeze. There’s a storm coming in, probably, which makes Techno feel— Well, if Phil were here, he would call it excited.
Techno is a battle-weary warrior. Techno has killed more men than he’s learned the names of. Techno is strong and emotionless, and when he thinks of the prospect of curling into the couch in their little flat above the shop, drinking a cup of the cinnamon tea Phil presses into his hands, sneaking Floof bites of whatever food they cooked for dinner, watching the fireplace roar and listening to rain beat against the frosted window panes…
Okay, maybe Techno is a little excited. So sue him.
All this to say, Techno is ready to close up shop. Technically speaking, he takes down the sign declaring them open at about seven o’clock, but if someone needs supplies later than that, Phil will usually let them in no matter the hour. It’s about fifteen past six, though, and Techno is ready. His knee keeps bouncing up and down as he perches in front of his sewing machine, an ancient and unruly thing covered in stickers and surrounded by fabric. Skeppy came in a few days ago for a suit fitting, and though Techno is, in theory, immune to playing favorites, he bumped the order up in line. The piece is going to look fantastic as soon as Techno finishes it; it’s a deep blue color, embellished with tasteful jewels, and he knows Bad has a matching red suit it will look resplendent next to.
He’s pondering all of this, considering the uselessness of trying to continue work when he hasn’t made a single stitch in well over twenty minutes, when the bell over the front entrance rings and the human embodiment of a hurricane walks through the door. He almost yells for Phil, who is out back in his forge, finishing up some fine detail work on the hilt of a knife; that’s how jarring of an entrance it is.
The hurricane turns out to be a boy, Techno realizes when he turns back around. He’s young, though tall, with a mop of blonde curls and bandages wrapped tight around his fists and forearms. There’s one stuck over the bridge of his nose as well; the nose in question looks as if it’s been broken one too many times. The boy clutches two leather straps connected to a knapsack slung over his back, stuffed to the brim with what Techno thinks must be bricks.
He’s been in the store for all of two minutes, and he’s already touched everything. Everything. Nothing seems to be safe from this child’s reign of terror. He idly spins a spool of fabric, tossing a pincushion from one hand to the other before setting it atop one of the shelves and collapsing into a wooden desk chair.
“Can I… help you?” Techno asks. He’s not really sure what else to do.
“What’s in here?” the boy demands. He’s referring to the container of potpourri in the corner, crackling merrily even though Techno is almost positive potpourri is not meant to burn.
“Don’t touch that,” Techno says, in his Stern And Menacing Pig Man voice, and Tommy lets go of the bowl instantly. It solves the problem, but Techno immediately feels bad; the boy’s smile drops as he eyes the door.
Techno takes a deep breath and plasters on his best Customer Service Voice. “Right. Okay. Is there something I can help you find?”
The boy bursts back into action again, now that he’s been given sufficient prompting (i.e., the bare minimum of positive human interaction). “I need a doll.”
Techno nods. He can deal with this. Sewing is his thing. “Great. If you give me a few sketches, maybe a blueprint, or even just some ideas of what you’re wanting, I can have something ready in about—”
“No,” the boy says, shaking his head hard. It must come out harsher than he expected, because he takes a step back, hands going up slightly as if he expects Techno to get mad. When Techno just stands there, arching an eyebrow and waiting for him to continue, he clears his throat roughly and pushes his shoulders back. “No. I need— I mean, someone else needs it. Supplies and stuff. To make a doll by hand.”
There’s a lot going on in that sentence. Techno figures that if he gets through this fast enough, there might still be time to run down to the gardener on the corner and get herbs for those scones Phil likes to make, so he doesn’t press the matter further. “Oookay. Well, in that case, kid—”
“Tommy.”
He rolls his eyes; the boy rolls them back. “In that case, Tommy, I’d suggest you pick out some fabric, maybe buy a few needles, and then figure out which pattern you want.”
The boy beelines to a dark wooden cabinet mounted to the back wall, filled to the brim with scraps of fabric. He picks up a material that looks almost knitted, along with two similar lengths of silky fabric in black and white.
“Not that,” Techno points out due to sheer habit. He’s watched Phil botch enough pairs of trousers and burnt himself on enough daggers to know when a project is going to end up like absolute crap. “It’s going to bunch.”
Tommy looks him dead in the eye and clutches the fabric tighter to his chest. “I do what I want.”
“Bruh— literally, just— why would I be lying to you? It’s my job to get you to return to my business, or whatever.” He points to a bolt of cottony material at the bottom of the pile. “Get some of that, it’ll be the easiest to work with.”
Tommy ignores him entirely, moving on to a table where he has a few patterns set out. Techno lets out an indignant huff before pulling out a drawer full of papers; Tommy rifles through them before his entire expression lights up. With no small amount of crinkling, he detaches one paper from the others and shoves it into Techno’s hands. “I want that one.” It’s a pretty basic doll design, cut from one big piece of fabric with a few stitches for the face and hair.
“Great,” Techno says. He has his doubts about the texture of the fabric, but the pattern isn’t half bad, at least. “Now, I can give you some tips before you head out, ‘cause a few things on this sheet might be hard to read at first. Have you ever sewn before?”
Tommy looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Well, obviously not. Big men don’t sew dolls. This is for my friend, y’know, the one who needs all this stuff.”
“...Right,” Techno says with a skeptical expression. He looks at the materials gathered in Tommy’s arms. “Then do you need to go home and consult them, maybe, about your choices—”
“No. Nope.” Tommy shakes his head; Techno thinks maybe he’d be better off trying to create a bobblehead at this rate. “We’re close. Regular attached at the hip, that’s what we are. Whatever I pick out, they’ll love. Guaranteed.”
Techno resists the urge to let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, in that case, tell your friend this will be a pretty challenging task for a beginner. Lots of things could go wrong, and it might take several tries, but—”
Tommy glares at him. “How do you know they’re a beginner?”
“I don’t,” Techno says, praying for patience, or maybe for Phil to walk in and deal with this. “But, just. In case they are.”
Tommy rocks back on his heels, apparently satisfied with the answer and confident he’s protected his reputation to a shopkeeper he’s never met before. It’s getting late, so Techno grabs him a needle and some thread in the same color as the fabrics. Upon a moment of consideration, he adds another needle and a thimble into the stack. Tommy’s hands are already so thoroughly bandaged that the needle probably wouldn’t even make it through, but still.
When Techno turns back around, he pauses for a second, gaze darting between Tommy and his workspace. In the moments it took for Techno to grab what he wanted from his box of needles and threads, the kid nicked his whole lunch. All of it. He’s not even being subtle about it, shoving it into his bag and making enough noise to wake the dead while Techno watches.
There isn’t even a lot in there, given he lives upstairs: just a small thermos of hot cocoa, half a loaf of bread, a small container of honey, and some blackberries. Surely Tommy isn’t that stupid. He’s a terrible liar, obviously, but surely he doesn’t think Techno is going to just stand by and watch without noticing Tommy trying to shove his whole entire wooden lunchbox into a bag that’s, like, half its size.
“Uh, one second,” he says to Tommy, who nods and continues trying to defy the laws of physics with his knapsack. Techno grabs a bottle of juice out of the small icebox in the hallway between his workshop and Phil’s, setting it on the counter before turning back around. He fiddles with some things on the counter to look busy, rearranging papers and then putting them back in their places, before turning back to Tommy.
Sure enough, the juice is gone. Tommy didn’t steal any of the sewing supplies, as far as Techno can tell, and he’s been here long enough to have a pretty detailed mental inventory. He has no idea why — if Tommy just saw the chance to get free food and took it, if he’s a kleptomaniac, if he planned on paying for the supplies all for a chance to steal Techno’s lunch. Techno is genuinely impressed he’s survived this long in life, if all of his plans are like this one.
“Well,” Tommy says as if nothing has happened, “I guess I’d better head out. Thanks for all your help, boss man. Boss… pig? Boss pig man?” Tommy squints at the ground, deep in thought.
As Tommy ponders this dilemma, and Techno stands there, gaping at this strange and unruly child in disbelief and vague discomfort, the rain starts. It’s just a drizzle, gray clouds sprinkling down onto the cobblestones, but Techno still shivers when Tommy swings the door open. The bell above it once again echoes through the shop.
“You gonna be okay out there?” Techno says, glancing out the door. The sky is growing darker by the second, even though the sun isn’t supposed to set for another hour. “It looks like it’s about to start coming down pretty hard.”
Tommy throws him a mock salute, spinning on one foot and heading out the door. ”Don’t worry, I got it under control. I really need to get home. And thanks again, Mister…”
Techno huffs. “Technoblade. And don’t call me Mister.”
Tommy nods, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Can do, Mister Tech No Blade!”
That night is just as nice as he hoped, with the couch and the fire and the cinnamon tea. He’s stroking his fingers through Floof’s fur absently, head leaned back into Phil’s lap. Phil, for his part, is making several small braids in Techno’s hair, intertwining them together into one intricate hairstyle. His wings are spread out across the couch, one barely brushing each armrest. He pauses every few minutes to compare his work with an illustration of what he's trying to achieve.
It should be peaceful; it is peaceful. Techno usually doesn't like to be touched, preferring many other forms of affection, but the feeling of Phil's fingers carding through his hair soothes him somehow. The whole scene is relaxing, and Phil is going on about swords and metallurgy and embrittlement. Every time Techno looks out the window, though, at the freezing rain coming down in sheets, pooling in the empty streets and streaming from the gutters, all he can think is: I hope Tommy made it home safe.
He hasn’t kept anything from Phil in centuries, so when the latest monologue about steel alloys comes to a close, Techno says, ”A kid came into the shop today. Bought some stuff for a project ‘n left.”
“Oh?” Phil says. The word is warm, open, acknowledging Techno’s words while prompting his next. He’s not really sure what he did to deserve several lifetimes with Phil, but he thanks God for it every day.
“Yeah,” Techno says instead, leaning to the side so Phil can finish his last braid. It’s the end of this discussion for now, and they both know it. Phil watches him stare at the rain out the window with a little too much interest. He doesn’t pry, though; he just ties an eighth elastic into Techno’s hair and makes a pleased noise at the result.
2.
It’s been about a week since Tommy came into the store, and Techno hasn’t been thinking about it the whole time. Just… on and off. It’s hard to get some things out of his head, like Tommy believing he was too manly to sew, a sentiment which makes Techno scoff while at the same time reminding him of his younger self. He’s trying to keep his mind on his work, but his thoughts keep darting back to the tiny doll Tommy’s making, the bandages covering his hands, whether or not he’ll come back into the store, if the pattern will work out. But he doesn’t think about it that often, and he doesn’t even mention it to Phil. (At least, not too much).
Like he said, he’s a busy man. He’s got a lot of other things to think about, like whether or not he could get away with a little embroidery on the sleeves of Skeppy‘s tuxedo without making it look gaudy. He’s sipping the last dredges of tea, bitter and earthy, from his favorite mug when he hears a commotion in the shop. “Tech!” Phil calls from his place at the front counter. “Get in here!”
“You must be Tommy,” he can hear Phil saying as he makes his way through the hall. So maybe Techno has been talking about Tommy a little more than he intended to. As he rounds the corner, the scene comes into full view. A warm smile is plastered on Phil’s face— his default There’s A Child Here expression. He’s leaning over the countertop, just a bit, nodding along amiably to whatever he’s being told.
In front of him is Tommy, just as much of a whirlwind as the first time he entered. “Uh, yeah,” he says, shuffling from side to side while adjusting his grip on his backpack straps. “Surprised you recognize me. I came in a little while ago—” Techno steps out of the hallway, and Tommy stops mid-sentence, face lighting up. “Mister Tech Noblade!”
“Told you not to call me Mister, and it’s Technoblade. One word.” He pointedly ignores the sappy gaze Phil gives him in his peripheral vision; his whole face has gone soft and disgustingly heartfelt. Techno spent decades learning how to interpret the subtle cues of body language, and all he got for his trouble was Phil exploiting this fact to silently tell him that he thinks this whole situation is adorable.
“Whatever you say, sir!” Tommy says with a devilish grin. “Anyway, so, last time I came in, I was telling you about my— the friend. That I have. Who wants to sew a doll.”
Techno takes a deep breath and resists the urge to scream. “Right. And I told you not to give them the pattern you bought if they were a beginner.”
“Well, they, uh.” He stares at the ground, fingers tapping a pattern on the wooden table nearest to him. “They told me they had experience with sewing! How was I to know? Deceit from such a close friend. The worst thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.” He dips into a low, melodramatic bow while clutching his arms forlornly to his chest; Phil does a poor job of restraining his laughter.
Techno scoffs. “So how did the doll go?”
“Well, you see,” Tommy says. He winces in a way that does not give Techno a lot of hope for the rest of this conversation. “That's where the problems start.”
Phil is still staring holes in the back of Techno’s head, begging him not to terrorize this vagrant child, so he looks at Tommy with his best approximation of encouragement. “I’m sure it can’t be that —”
The doll is horrible to look at.
There’s no way to get around the fact, as soon as Tommy pulls it out of his bag. It’s a Lovecraftian nightmare, arms longer than its body by a large margin. Its torso sags over in a cadaverous slouch. It’s too skinny in the wrong places and bursting at the seams in others. Apparently, he gave up before he finished, because the space where its face should be is blank and smooth. When Tommy lifts one of its limp arms to further his point, it immediately drops back down with a horrific rattle. What did the kid use to stuff this thing, bones?
The noise Techno makes must not show sufficient support, because Phil elbows him in the ribs. It's not fair. His elbows are much pointier than they have any right to be. “Oh!” he tries. “That…”
“Sucks.” Tommy looks at him flatly. “It sucks, Mister Blade.”
“Yeah, a little,” he concedes. “I think looking at it should come with a warning.” Reaching out to take the doll, he surveys Tommy’s handiwork. It’s not half bad for a first try; it’s just that the pattern, obviously cut by hand, turned out uneven to begin with. The fabric he picked veered the whole thing straight into a disaster zone, not to mention the aforementioned human bones whatever he stuffed it with. Some of the stitches are bunched together, pulling too tight or too loose. It’s obvious he started and stopped sewing several times, probably to rethread his needle. Thread pokes out from the sides; the seams aren’t flat enough, leading to a weird growth around the doll’s neck.
“Well, you…r friend,” he says, “can always try again. Nothing makes you better quite like practice. Both of us can attest to that, right, Phil?” Techno turns to Tommy conspiratorially and stage whispers, “He screwed up thousands of swords before he got good at making them. I watched. Sometimes the hilt would end up where the point was supposed to go.”
Phil watches them, fond exasperation on his face. “Very true, mate.”
Despite their attempt to reassure him, Tommy gets… Well, his hands are still fluttering, but his shoulders curl in on themselves, and something passes through his eyes. He doesn’t look sad; he just looks defeated. Like he knew this never had a chance of working out. Techno wants to keep him from ever looking like that again, an impulse which surprises him.
“It’s just—” Tommy starts, clearing his throat harshly when his voice threatens to crack. “I don’t have time to get better at it. I already spent all that fuckin’ money on the stuff, and— I wanted to make my friend something for his birthday, which is next week, and it’s not going to get done, or at least done well, but I just… I really wanted him to have something nice that meant something.”
It’s not like Techno’s emotionally invested or whatever. He isn’t. It would just be bad for business if a child cried in his store.
“Fine,” Techno sighs, putting his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever, kid. Come here.” He walks to the front door, turns the Open sign around, and pulls two chairs out from his work table. “Let’s make a doll worthy of a birthday, huh? You were close, honest. Some of the stitches just need to be a little tighter, and your technique could use some work. It’s a decent first attempt, though, especially considering the fact that you did it in a few days.”
Tommy looks at him, frozen with his hand halfway into a polka-dot box of scrap metal belonging to both Techno and Phil. “I don’t— I mean— you don’t— Big men don’t sew,” he concludes petulantly, crossing his arms.
“Oh, please,” Techno says. “I could bench press you, and I run a whole store for sewing. Besides, if you need to restore your big man energies or whatever afterwards, you can go out back and help Phil make some swords. Stab some things. Get back that preteen machismo energy.”
Tommy gapes at him for a moment before dropping into the seat next to him, his expression dangerously close to a pout. “I am a teenager!”
“Of course you are,” Techno says with a patronizing ruffle of his hair.
It takes them almost six hours to make a doll Techno would be proud to claim as his work. He helps Tommy pick out another design, more manageable this time, and gathers fabric in the proper colors before finding a few needles and getting to work. Tommy, through some power unbeknownst to Techno, talks the entire six hours, hardly even pausing to take a breath. Techno’s never really been good at the whole conversation thing, so he nods in the appropriate places and listens to Tommy tell stories. Some of them cannot possibly be true, but Tommy’s conviction combined with his wild hand gestures keeps Techno from calling him on it.
On top of the entertainment value, Phil periodically brings them baskets of snacks: bread and butter, some strawberries fresh from the garden, a bowl of sweet popcorn, crackers with some sort of cheese dip. He knows Phil is backlogged on his blacksmithing orders, and as such, has no idea where he found time to make all of this. Techno knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, though; he just accepts each plate without question and puts more food in his mouth whenever it looks like Tommy’s going to ask him a personal question. Besides, Tommy looks like he could use the food, all sharp edges and worryingly thin; his eyes light up every time Phil brings out a new dish, which Techno privately suspects is why they keep coming.
It’s not like Techno didn’t suspect Tommy came from a rough situation, but somewhere between hours two and three, his suspicions are confirmed.
“It’s not like I’m making any major sacrifices,” he’s saying. Tommy’s offered to pay for the extra supplies about ten times, and Techno has refused him twice as many. “Most of this stuff was free anyway. ‘Sides, now I can save your parents a couple extra bucks.”
Tommy shrugs. “Don’t have any.” At what must be a crestfallen expression on Techno’s face, he plunges ahead. “But! I have Wil, the best big brother ever. And— and Ranboo, he’s alright, I guess, ‘n Tubbo, who’s actually the best friend and biggest man in the entire world. Puffy and Niki, too. They try and help Wilbur with work. Plus they let us hang out in their bakery a lot, and sometimes we get free cake. A lot of the time, actually. It’s good.” Tommy stares into space for a moment, evidently lost in thoughts of pastry.
“I see,” Techno says, resisting the urge to massage his temples. Phil should be dealing with this. This is feelings, and comfort, and those are firmly out of Techno’s wheelhouse. “And who’s this doll for?”
“Ranboo,” Tommy says confidently, as if he didn’t refer to him five seconds ago with all the affection one would show to a dead rat. “Obviously.” He gestures down at the doll, which yields no more information to Techno than it has in the past two-odd hours.
“Obviously,” Techno echoes, and the conversation moves on, by which he means Tommy notices a birdcage in the corner and proceeds to tell him several dozen fun facts about birds. Techno doesn’t tell him the birdcage was bought specifically to harass Phil; he thinks it’s probably wise to let Tommy assume they own a goldfinch or something.
By the time they’re done, the doll is neatly sewn. If it involved Phil acting as a distraction while Techno hurried to properly redo stitches Tommy insisted on doing himself, that’s neither here nor there.
As everything winds down, the sun dipping below the horizon, a finished doll resting on the counter, Techno notices Tommy shoving bread into a bag. It’s not even their good bread, just a couple of trial loaves that ended up downstairs for Sam to sample the next time he stopped in. (He and Phil love to trade baking tips like a couple of middle-aged mothers; Techno takes no small amount of joy in observing this.)
Techno’s digging around in one of the cabinets, trying to find a gift bag suitable to send Tommy back with, when he hears rustling from behind him, and he knows. He hasn’t called Tommy out on his theft, not yet. He’s afraid to scare him off, and in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t affect him all that much, but he really misses his wooden lunchbox.
“Seriously, it’s insulting that you think I’m not noticing this. I used to be in the military, for crying out loud,” Techno says without looking up, wrapping his hand around Tommy’s wrist. Tommy glances down at his hand, still halfway through picking up a nut loaf, before looking up at Techno. His face flits through several emotions before settling definitively on terror, and Techno takes that moment to consider that maybe this was not the best course of action.
Apologies are just going to embarrass both of them— he doubts Tommy will ever admit to being scared of him, even if it’s obviously the case— so he loosens his grip before pulling out a small container of goat cheese from the icebox. “Just ask for some. Heaven knows we have enough. Phil went through a home baking kick a few months back, and now I can’t get him to stop.”
Tommy perks up as soon as he sees the cheese, expression elated but wary. “What’s it cost?”
And wow, Techno doesn’t like any of the implications of that sentence. Rather than contemplate the best way to disembowel anyone who’s ever hurt this child, he says, “Nothing, I promise. Just come back and tell me how Ranboo likes the doll.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “And I want my lunchbox back, if you don’t mind. I can give you another one, but that’s my favorite.”
Tommy nods vigorously, pulling the lunchbox out of his (apparently bottomless) bag. Techno watches Tommy struggle to fit as much bread as possible into it before he grabs it gently, shuffling things around until enough food to feed a small army is swaddled between a few t-shirts. “Now get outta here, kid,” Techno says, shooing him towards the door. “Your brother’s gonna be expecting you. It’s getting dark. The bread’s getting cold.”
“You’ve got it bad,” Phil says, emerging from nowhere as soon as Tommy’s out of earshot.
“Shut up,” Techno says, then shoves him to accentuate his point. “You’re one to talk. I just watched you feed him, like, at least three jars of honey.”
“The older brother instincts,” Phil continues with an obnoxiously pleased smile. “They’re kicking in. We’re gonna have a new kid soon.”
“Shut up!” Techno calls down the stairs, but he can’t stop the equally large grin spreading across his own face.
3.
“Hey, kid,” Techno calls as soon as he hears Tommy enter. It’s not that other customers don’t cause the bell above the door to ring; it’s that Tommy shoves the door open with every last ounce of energy he has in a way that causes the bell to let out its own death knell. “I was startin’ to think you wouldn’t come back. Embarrassed to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar or whatever.” He raises his voice in a terrible imitation of Tommy’s. “Big man stuff.”
“Me? Embarrassed? Never,” Tommy scoffs. He sniffles, and for a brief and dizzying moment, Techno thinks he’s crying. He rounds the corner a second later, though, and Techno takes in his raspy voice and red nose.
“You feelin’ alright?” Techno asks, delicately folding Skeppy’s tuxedo and tucking it under his desk. “You look a bit… under the weather. Or something.”
“Never better,” Tommy crows, hands on his hips, but it lacks some of his usual bravado. He sniffles a few times after this declaration, which does nothing to make it more convincing.
“Right,” Techno says. “Remind me to dig you some cold medicine out of the back of our kitchen cabinet. I’ll send it with you when you go, alright?”
Tommy waves a hand through the air, physically batting away his concern. “Sure, okay, whatever. What I came all the way over here for is— is Phil here?”
“I think he’s out shopping. He said he was going to walk down to that general store on the corner and look for a few things. Maybe he’ll make some more bread, hm? I think I have a few loaves to send with you as is, but I can send a message to him, just to see what his plans are.”
The crows that constantly flock around Phil aren’t always as affectionate towards Techno, likely due to his habit of capturing them with his bare hands just to see if he can, but he’s pretty confident that one of them will carry a letter if he needs it. Mostly due to their respect for Phil over any desire to show Techno kindness, but he’ll take what he can get.
“You’re trying to fatten me up,” declares Tommy, even though he grins at the mention of more free food. “I’ve read Hansel and Gretel. I keep coming back for the sweets, and soon you’re stuffing me into your oven. That’s why I,” he continues, jabbing a finger towards his chest, “left a trail of string all the way home. I would have used breadcrumbs, but that stuff is too good to go to waste. Especially the walnut loaf, holy shit, tell Phil I would legally marry his walnut loaf.”
Techno laughs, low and genuine. “I’ll be sure to tell him. Isn’t it bad practice, though, to tell me about your trail home? Y’know, if I’m the one who’s trying to cannibalize you?”
Tommy waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I don’t think you’re smart enough to figure it out even if I told you exactly where it led.”
Techno lets out a noise of melodramatic offense, so high-pitched and out of character that Tommy doubles over laughing. Techno really loves hearing him laugh; it’s a full body thing, rocking back and forth, slapping a hand on whatever is in front of him, head bowed, air hissing out of his mouth like a tea kettle. It always makes Techno laugh too, chaotic spectacle that it is, no matter how loath he is to admit it.
This time, however, Tommy’s wheezing laugh turns into genuine wheezes. Coughs start to wrack his body, chest heaving in and out. Techno ushers him into a chair and he sits there for a few moments, head in his hands, trying to catch his breath. Techno rubs circles on his back in what he hopes is a comforting way until Tommy’s breathing eventually evens out to some semblance of normal.
“Okay,” Techno says as soon as he’s sure Tommy isn’t in immediate danger of passing out. “I’m getting you some medicine right now, actually.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy says, but it comes out as such a weak gasp of air that there’s no hope it will be convincing. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Didn’t you know that’s my job?” Techno says as he putters about, putting some tea on the stove and finding a spoon to pour cough syrup into. “That’s what it says on the front of the shop. Tailor, blacksmith, and government appointed Worrier About Tommy.” He’s pretty sure Phil put some sort of enchantment on the medicine they have; potions and magic have never really been Techno’s strong suit, so he can’t quite tell. He’s been drinking it for years, though, and it hasn’t killed him yet, so he measures it out before handing it to Tommy. “Take this.”
Tommy swallows the spoonful, grimacing slightly. “That was terrible. Maybe you are trying to knock me off.”
“Phil runs a weapons shop. If I wanted to kill you, I’d do it more efficiently than this,” Techno says. He pours Tommy a cup of tea once the kettle whistles, something herbal and good for a sore throat. “Stay here for a little while until the medicine kicks in. Phil should be home soon. Besides, wasn’t there something you were saying, before you decided I needed to move into a house made of candy?”
“What I came here to tell you,” Tommy says, sitting up straight, “is that Ranboo loved his doll. We had a whole birthday party for him and everything, and he said my gift was his favorite. Ranboo never lies, so I know we must’ve done a good job, but Tubbo and Wil got him some pretty cool stuff, too— Oh! Right, I brought you something. Hold on.”
Tommy digs through his bag, reaching his entire arm down to the bottom despite the fact that it can’t be more than a foot deep on the outside. After a moment of searching, he produces a package and offers it to Techno. “Niki made it. It’s some birthday cake I saved for you from the party. Thought you’d wanna try it, or maybe Phil, since he’s really into baking and shit.”
“Oh,” Techno says. He means to say more— a lot more, in fact. It’s just that there’s something in his eye, all of a sudden. He isn’t crying. He will deny that until the day he dies. Techno’s seen so much more blood and gore than the child sitting in front of him can comprehend. He’s snapped countless necks with his bare hands, trudged miles through the snow on broken bones, orchestrated the rise and fall of empires. And this, this teenager holding out a slightly smushed piece of cake carefully wrapped in wax paper, cradling it in both hands like it’s something precious, is going to be the death of him.
Tommy shrugs, looking more uncomfortable by the second as Techno sits there, making no move towards the package. “You don’t have to take it. I just— I dunno.” He shifts slightly, obviously intending to put the cake back in his bag. “It’s whatever.”
“No!” Techno says, perhaps with a bit more intensity than he intended. Tommy jumps back in his seat, eyes searching the other’s face.
“No,” he tries again, calmer this time. “It’s perfect. I just don’t… get gifts often.” To reinforce his point, he reaches out and takes the cake. It’s even nicer up close, black and white flowers (obviously the work of a professional) and messy red piping that forms the letter P (obviously not).
“Oh,” Tommy says, expression brightening again. “Well, then. Hope you enjoy.” He stands up, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. He looks better already; his face is less flushed, and he hasn’t coughed since taking the medicine. Techno privately suspects he was right about the cough syrup being magically imbued.
“Better get home then, sleepyhead,” Techno says. He offers the medicine to Tommy, who tucks it into his bottomless bag.
“Thanks, Techno,” he says, so soft Techno’s not sure he means to be heard. “For everything.”
Techno smiles, turning away from him and fiddling with some chiffon absently. “Whatever you need, kid. I mean it. You ever get into any sort of trouble, any of you guys, and we’ll help you fix it.” He finally turns to face Tommy, looking him in the eye. “No matter what happens, you’ve always got a place to go as long as we’re here.”
Tommy doesn’t reply, just nods, lips pressed tightly together, before ducking out of the door.
Techno is pretty sure the crows don’t obey his orders out of any regard for him, but one still follows Tommy all the way home when he asks.
4.
After that visit, a long stretch of time passes with no word from Tommy. He doesn’t stop in or pass by on the street. Techno wonders about him, a bit more than he intends to, but in the end, they led separate lives. There’s no reason for Tommy to come back and see him, now that they’ve made the doll. Tommy got what he wanted.
So life goes on, and Techno finishes Skeppy’s suit. It’s some of his best work, if he says so himself (which he does). He has quiet breakfasts and dinners with Phil, takes Floof on walks around town, and keeps his eyes peeled for anyone with unruly blond hair.
He doesn’t expect to hear from Tommy again. Even if some small part of him wishes Tommy would return, which it doesn’t, Techno will be fine. He’s no stranger to letting people go. He’s got Phil, and he’s got the shop, and it doesn’t sting as much as it used to. Which is why it’s such a shock when, one night, four people burst into the shop. Three of them— one with glasses, a much shorter brunette, and a black-and-white figure similar to the doll— are working together to carry someone who he immediately recognizes.
Techno sets down his cup of cider with such force that some of it sloshes over the sides and onto the plans for a new dress; surprisingly, he can’t find it in himself to care. He stands up and rushes over to Tommy, taking him out of their arms and cradling the boy's head to his chest. He’s light, terrifyingly so, and every few moments a fresh round of shivers wrack his body. “What happened?” Techno demands.
“He needs help,” says… Ranboo, Techno assumes, judging by the dragon-esque tail.
“What?” Techno says numbly. He needs— he needs Phil. Tommy needs him, though. All of these kids need him to be there right now. He runs a careful hand over Tommy’s forehead; it’s hot to the touch.
The oldest one steps in front of the other two, hands held out in front of him. It's a gesture he recognizes from Tommy. “Please, I don’t know how to help him, and your place was the closest. We can pay you back, I just need—”
“Okay. Okay, guys, let’s take a step back here and think.” Techno forces himself to take a deep breath. Despite the amount of jostling, Tommy’s eyes flutter without opening, and sweat plasters his hair to his face. “How long has he been like this?”
“A few hours. We thought it would get better. I’ve been making sure he takes medicine, but we just— I can’t take care of him,” the man admits, eyes fixed on the floorboards.
Techno can do this. He might be a little out of his element, sure, but he’s familiar with taking care of fallen soldiers. He knows how to operate in high-stakes situations, emotions entirely removed from the equation. “Wilbur, I assume?” The man in front of him nods. “Okay, we’ve got a bed upstairs. I’m going to carry him up, and you should probably come along, just in case he wakes up.”
The third child, who by process of elimination is Tubbo, squares his jaw and glares at Techno. “We’re all coming with Tommy.”
He looks like he expects resistance, but Techno just shrugs. “Sure. If you think you can fit upstairs, go for it. I need to grab— uh, I know someone who’s better with potions than me. He’ll know what to do.”
“How far away is he?” Ranboo asks. They crash up the stairs and through the door to the flat, Techno carrying Tommy with the other three right on his heels.
“Right there,” he says to Ranboo, and then, “Hey, Phil.”
Phil, previously curled into a ball of feathers and green robes on the couch, jumps to his feet. “What happened ?”
Techno waves him off. “Talk about it later. Can you help me get these three situated? I’m gonna put Tommy on the spare bed.”
He sets Tommy down as gently as he can, standing back while the other three surge forward. They seem to have it under control, making sure Tommy’s comfortable. Wilbur sends him a glance as he starts unwrapping some of Tommy’s bandages in an attempt to lower his temperature; it seems personal, so Techno steps back into the living room.
“What’s wrong?” Phil asks as soon as he enters, pulling Techno into a corner so they won’t be overheard.
“He’s sick, Phil. He’s not waking up. I need— can you make a potion? Healing? I’m not— a doctor.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair. “We need a doctor. Where do you think Ponk is? How fast can he get here?” His voice rises rapidly, panic beginning to sink in. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Phil—“
“Breathe,” Phil says, taking an exaggeratedly deep breath.
“Breathe,” Techno echoes, mimicking the action. All the panic seeps out of him, leaving only a hollow ache of worry.
“He’s going to be okay,” Phil says. Despite the way his hand twitches at his side, he doesn’t hug Techno, and this subtle acknowledgement of his boundaries almost makes him break down all over again. “I’ll send word to Ponk and see if he has advice until he can get here in person. Go grab some washcloths for them, and see if they can keep his fever down. I can have a decent health potion in about half an hour.”
Techno takes a deep, shuddering breath in. “He looks bad, Phil.” It’s true; Tommy’s pale, terribly underweight, and Techno doesn’t know if any underlying injuries are worsening his symptoms.
“I know. But he’s gonna make it through this, Tech. They came to us, and we aren’t going to let them down.” Phil stands up and heads down the stairs to his workspace, a subtle invitation for Techno to follow.
Techno hates this, hates feeling helpless, hates not being able to fix the problem all at once, but if there’s one thing he can do, it’s trust Phil. He watches him work, carefully pouring vials of glowing liquids together until he’s satisfied. True to his word, the process takes around thirty minutes, during which Techno checks on the boys about twenty-seven times.
When Techno enters again, the other three are asleep. Wilbur’s propped against the foot of the bed, Ranboo’s head in his lap, while Tubbo is laying at Tommy’s feet in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable. There’s something about it— the way they circle effortlessly around each other, a well oiled machine, planets in each other’s orbit— that makes him feel uncomfortably sentimental. They’re fighting for each other, tooth and nail, bitter and desperate. They carried Tommy here in the middle of the night from miles away, just for a chance at saving him. Like Phil said, Techno doesn’t have any intention of letting them down.
Tommy’s pulse is still strong, and Techno takes a moment to let himself breathe at that revelation. He coaxes the healing potion down Tommy’s throat, holding him upright to make sure he doesn’t choke, before tucking him snugly into bed. After hesitating for a moment in the doorway, he gathers three more blankets and drapes them around the others.
5.
“I guess I should get more rooms set up if we’re going to have four new kids in the house,” Phil says to him, about three days after Tommy arrives. He says it matter of factly, conversational, in the same way they would discuss breakfast or the weather. “Don’t know how much further I can make the upstairs stretch, but we can turn half my workshop into a bedroom if we have to.” He says it with such confidence Techno almost doesn’t question it.
Almost. “What?” he says in a voice so loud it borders on yelling.
Phil looks up at him from the casserole he’s making, eyebrows furrowed. “They’re staying, aren’t they?”
“No. Absolutely not. Phil, can’t they just— I mean—” He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click of his fangs. Tommy’s doing much better; Ponk’s assured them it’s just a waiting game at this point. The thing is, he never even thought that— that this, Tommy and Tubbo and Ranboo and Wilbur living with them, as an official thing— would even be an option. He’s simply refused to let it cross his mind.
He and Phil don’t have the space, the time, the resources to raise four kids the way they deserve to be raised. They’ve got friends, other adults like Niki, Puffy, even Sam. Any of them would be better at this than Techno. Sure, maybe Phil’s good with kids, and maybe Techno’s a little scared hesitant to take on such a large responsibility. Because that’s what taking on the development of four impressionable teenagers is: a responsibility, quite possibly the biggest one of his centuries-long life. It’s not going to happen. It isn’t.
The thing is, though, he’s really enjoyed these past few days. He’s enjoyed the way all three of them cram into Phil’s workshop to watch him make potions, eyes wide with poorly concealed awe. He’s even found himself explaining the intricacies of each stitch he sews to a newfound audience.
The thing is, it turns out Ranboo is funny, dry in the same way as Techno, and he contains a wealth of one-liners which leave Techno with his head in his hands. It turns out Tubbo asks so many questions, about the proper temperatures in the forge and how they run their businesses and why crows follow Phil everywhere he goes. It turns out, when Techno leaves the three of them alone in the shop, it takes about twelve minutes for them to dress in unfitted suits and parade around the store. Techno catches them pretending to be businessmen, Wilbur shouting at imaginary secretaries, Tubbo in genuine tears of laughter over Ranboo trying to put on a suit jacket made for someone at least two feet shorter. It turns out Wilbur is good at music— like, really good— and his face lights up when Phil offers him his old guitar. For the next several hours, there’s a constant stream of music coming from downstairs, and Techno catches himself hovering in the hallway to listen.
The thing is, when Tubbo marches into the kitchen and demands more banana nut bread, when Wilbur follows behind him apologetically, when Ranboo stumbles blearily into the room because I heard someone was making banana nut bread?, Techno doesn’t feel anything he thought he would. It’s almost three in the morning, and a seventeen year old is demanding to be waited on hand and foot, but he’s not annoyed. He just rolls his eyes before showing Wilbur how to measure out the ingredients. Easy banter and the smell of baking fills the flat, and as Techno watches Ranboo crawl awkwardly under the kitchen table to coo over Floof, he finds himself smiling. Honest to goodness grinning.
The thing is, he knows what the answer is going to be before he says it, as soon as Phil speaks the words out loud. As soon as he makes the suggestion that this could be something real, tangible, permanent. Techno knows exactly what he’s going to do, and Phil knows it, too, because his encyclopedic knowledge of Technoblade’s next moves extends well beyond the battlefield.
“They’re staying, aren’t they?” Phil repeats. It’s softer this time; he fixes his gaze firmly back onto his casserole.
“Yeah,” Techno sighs. He thinks about the first day Tommy burst into the store, the way he worried about him walking home through the thunderstorm, the different ways they could make space for four new bedrooms. “Yeah, they are.”
1.
When Tommy wakes up, he feels absolutely miserable.
That’s the only way to describe his current state of being. His throat is raw and scratchy, and his head won’t stop spinning, and he feels shaky in the way that only comes from hunger and dehydration. His eyes won’t focus, or rather, the world won’t come into focus, everything distant and fuzzy. He leans over the side of the bed and, for a terrifying moment, thinks he’s going to throw up, stomach and throat clenching against absolutely nothing.
In his current (fairly pathetic, if you ask him) state, he barely registers the sound of a bowl skidding on the hardwood floor. Someone slides it under his head, onto the patch of ground he’s currently aiming for, as he tries to regain his composure. The bowl presses into his lap once he curls into a ball on the bed. Gentle hands brush his hair back, away from his face, and he leans into them with exhaustion.
“It’s alright,” Wilbur says, voice gentle. Tommy’s always loved hearing his brother speak; there’s an odd, almost musical quality to it. “You’re okay, Toms. Take some deep breaths for me, okay?”
“Big Dubs,” he says after a moment spent trying to remember how to function, “I feel fuckin’ terrible.” Tears well up in his eyes at the admission, and he doesn’t even have the energy or patience to try and wipe them away.
Wilbur laughs; it’s a little watery. “I bet you do. You had all of us worried sick, d’you know that? I had to send Tubbo and Ranboo to the store so they would stop sitting here and stewing in it.”
He made them worry about him, all of them. He upset them, and it feels like a personal failure somehow, a betrayal from his own body. Tommy ducks his head down to his chest, eyes fixed on his lap. “Sorry. ‘m sorry. Didn’t mean to.”
Wilbur sighs, climbing up into the warm space next to him on the bed. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s not your fault. I’m always going to worry about you when you get hurt. We all are. Nothing to be done about it.”
Tommy still feels bad, his back and legs and arms aching, every part of his body heavy from the strain of moving. He feels weak, scared, childish, but he knows Wilbur will never judge him. So he presses his face into his brother’s chest, grips the back of his shirt, and sobs. He only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days in blurry, pain-streaked memories. After a few minutes, when his tears have dwindled to slight hiccups and sniffles, Tommy sits back up.
“Here,” says a voice, pressing a bowl of something hot into his hands, and it takes him a moment to place it.
Technoblade. They’re in a house, instead of huddled under a bridge, which should have been his first clue, but now they’ve bothered him for who knows how long, and Tommy’s still sitting here, burdening him, crying like some sort of—
“Stop that,” Wilbur and Techno say at the same time before looking at each other with surprise.
Tommy lets out a weak laugh. “Am I really that obvious?”
“You don’t need to worry,” Wilbur says, pushing his hair back behind his ears. “We all just want to make sure you’re alright. No one’s angry at you for being ill.” Behind him, Techno nods his agreement.
“What happened?” Tommy asks. He really only remembers having a bad cold, and he thinks… he passed out somewhere? Maybe?
Wilbur helps him lay back into the pillow nest, which they apparently constructed around him at some point. “You started sounding a lot worse, and you couldn’t breathe well. You passed out on Ranboo, who freaked out, and as soon as I got home, it was pretty obvious we had to head somewhere. I couldn’t carry you the twelve miles to Niki’s, though, and Tubbo remembered you telling him all about this place at Ranboo’s birthday. So,” Wilbur concludes, shrugging as he gestures towards the room they’re in.
“Oh,” Tommy says. It’s all he has the energy for. There’s a moment of blank silence, in which Techno fiddles with the rings on his fingers, and Wilbur assures himself Tommy’s still there, and Tommy observes the room. He’s never been in the upstairs part of the sewing shop before, but it looks mostly like he thought it would; the wooden floor, the faint crackle of a fireplace, the smell of cooking food floating through the house, the piles of soft blankets and furs, the various trinkets stacked on the table, a single framed photo of Phil and Techno sitting on the nightstand. Both of them, looking more or less the same, stand proudly in front of their store with a sign that proclaims its grand opening.
Wilbur clears his throat, and Tommy’s attention jumps back to the present. “While you were out, Techno discussed a few things with us, and we’d like to run them by you.”
“I have, uh, a question,” Techno says, continuing to move his rings. “I guess. Or, like, a proposal, maybe— an inquiry, perhaps—” With each new word, Tommy rushes to an even worse conclusion. Maybe they’re being forced to work here to repay the debts he has no doubt incurred, or maybe he’s forcing them into an orphanage where they’ll be separated from Wilbur, or—
“Sorry,” Techno says, wincing apologetically. “Kind of bad at this. I talked to Wilbur, like he, uh, like he said. Phil and I have been thinking about a lot of things. I know Wilbur’s working his hardest to raise the three of you, to provide you with everything you need. But he’s not that much older himself, in the scheme of things, and I know you don’t have anywhere stable to go home to— I know that, Tommy. Trust me, it took a while to get Tubbo and Ranboo to admit it,” he says when Tommy opens his mouth to protest. “And it’s been… a nice few days. We’ve certainly got the space, and Phil and I could use a little deviation from routine every once in a while. Not good for two old men to sit around and make crafts all day. Dulls the senses.” He shuts his mouth, opens it again. “So I guess what I’m saying is, if you would like to come live here— all of you— there’s a place ready and waiting. No catch, nothing owed, no strings attached. We just want to make sure you’re safe.” He takes a step back, speech apparently over.
Tommy’s head spins, and it’s not just from the pneumonia. He could— they might— if he said yes, they could—
He glances over at Wilbur, who nods at him encouragingly. “Raccoons,” he mouths, a code word they made up years ago, when things first started getting hard and Tommy was still too young to understand it. They’re safe, he’s saying. They’re good. They won’t hurt us, I promise.
Tommy thinks about it, and once he lets himself start, it’s all over. He imagines what it would be like, to live here, to have somewhere to come back to every night. He imagines showing Techno and Phil each new project or hobby, both of them listening to him while they worked. They’d all close up the shop together after working there during the day, taking measurements, Tubbo getting frustrated as he tries to learn how to hem properly. He imagines Wilbur performing outside the storefront, earning tips as he plays the songs Tommy hears him sing to himself sometimes.
They’d sit by the fire when it rained, they’d take trips to the store when they ran out of tea, they’d learn how to bake Phil’s famous walnut loaf. He could find out how Phil likes his tea and what Techno looks like when he’s embarrassed. He could stop worrying so much about food and shelter every single day of his life. He could settle down.
It’s all horribly, heartrendingly domestic. Tommy knows, he knows this isn’t going to last, but he wants to let go. He wants to let himself have this one thing, for however long he’s allowed to have it, because the prospect of turning it down sounds too painful to survive. He’s here, now, Techno waiting patiently on his answer like he wants to hear it, like he cares about what Tommy has to say. No matter what happens next, he knows what has to happen in this moment.
“Yes,” he says, his voice small. Then, because that isn’t very Big Man of him, he clears his throat and says, “Yes, I would. Want that. If you two do.”
Techno smiles at him, small and real. “Great. Phil’s cooking eggs, I think, if you want some.”
“I… alright.” He’s still not sure what to do with all of the raw emotion swirling inside of him, but luckily, he doesn’t have to. Tubbo and Ranboo pick that moment to burst into the room, screaming his name and launching themselves onto the bed.
Tubbo thumps him lightly on the back of the head. “We thought you were dying on us, idiot!”
“Dramatic as always,” Ranboo agrees, but Tommy can see the worry in both of their eyes.
Tommy scoffs, infusing a little bit of his usual bravado back into his movements. “You think a little cold is gonna be enough to take me down? Think again, because the unbeatable Tommy Innit remains invincible for another day.”
“I watched you drool on yourself in your sleep, like, at least twenty separate times,” Wilbur says with an unimpressed look.
Tommy gasps melodramatically and picks a pillow out of his nest to whack his brother with as the other laughs. He ignores the way his sore muscles protest; the slight pain is for a worthy cause. Besides, the more he sips whatever Techno handed him, the more energized he feels. “Traitor! Betrayal! You’ve picked your side!”
“It’s a cruel world here at the sewing shop, to be sure,” Techno says drily, the ghost of a smile darting across his face. “I’m pretty sure they also got some pictures.”
“Exploiting your beloved brother in his time of weakness!” Tommy continues, and he’d probably keep going for at least ten more minutes, except Phil walks through the door with a tray of assorted breakfast foods.
“I made everything Tubbo requested, which is to say, I made literally every food known to man,” Phil says, setting the tray down on a trunk in the corner of the room. It hits Tommy just how much he’s starving, having only eaten various potions and medicines for the past few days. There’s fresh strawberries, cantaloupe, blueberries, containers of whipped cream and chocolate chips, pancakes, waffles, biscuits, French toast covered in powdered sugar, and eggs in every possible form: scrambled with garlic and chives, boiled, deviled, over-easy.
Ranboo bites into a pumpkin muffin sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon, tail wagging happily. “Tommy, you literally have to try this. They’re so good.”
“I would kill a man for this muffin,” says Tubbo.
“Please don’t,” says Phil. Tubbo sticks his tongue out at him.
“And,” Wilbur says, grinning with excitement, “we saved some other stuff for you, too.” He pulls out Tommy’s bag with its worn leather straps, reaches deep into it, and begins to pull out container upon container of food. Ranboo reaches for one filled with honey, as if he knew it was going to be there, and grabs a knife to put some on his half-eaten muffin.
“I knew it!” Techno says from the corner of the room, sounding vindicated. “I knew your bag was enchanted! Phil didn’t believe me, but I saw you stuff a whole lunchbox in there!”
”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy says as Wilbur pulls a gallon of apple juice from the knapsack.
Ranboo nods sagely. “Probably getting senile in your old age, I think.”
Techno puts his head in his hands and groans. “Why did we agree to this, Phil? Why did we let them in the door?”
”They’ve grown on us like a fungus, mate,” Phil says, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically before offering him some hash browns.
As they sit there, continuing the easy conversation, it starts to rain. Techno looks happy— it dawns on Tommy that it’s odd he knows enough about Techno to discern when he’s happy— sitting by the window and staring out at the puddles on the street.
Tommy never liked rain; it always made things harder. It meant they had to find somewhere to stay dry. It meant the roads were going to be soggy, and moisture would sink into all their possessions.
But as he looks around him, at the three brothers he’s always had and the two he’s just gained, he thinks maybe he could learn to like the rain. After all, he’s got a lot left to learn.