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Dying from an explosion is a funny thing on the SMP.
Well, not really. In fact, there’s nothing really humorous about it. But Ranboo has always coped with the traumatic via humor, not that that's a trait unique to only him. But it does explain some of the casually morbid ways he goes about addressing the horrible things that have happened to him.
Point being: when someone dies on the SMP, it very seldom leaves a scar. Scars are reserved for the ghosts who have slipped through the coding, with translucent, desaturated skin, and a myriad of mental baggage to match the physical. Scars are the still dripping stab wounds that grace the stomach of a former president’s specter, or the slash in a father’s chest as he gives his life over in favor of his child’s. But that’s a little too far ahead.
The exception to this is burn scars. Isn’t it funny how that works?
Ah yes, Ranboo thinks to himself, gritting his teeth against the searing pain that threatens to lull him back to unconsciousness. This is peak comedy.
Ranboo lets out a tremulous breath, hands gripping into fists as he fights the agony that consumes his body like white fire. Was pain supposed to linger like this after a respawn? Or was it just burn scars? Was this how Tubbo felt when he got his own burn scars?
Oh, Tubbo.
While Ranboo hadn’t truly forgotten how he’d gotten his burns, he hadn’t quite acknowledged it yet, either. He’d been awake for barely a minute, anyways, and a good portion of that minute had been spent biting back the whimpers of pain stuck in the back of his throat, like acid. Ranboo had always been good at holding his tongue, but doing so had never caused him pain before. He hadn’t opened his mouth during the blast, had he?
The watery image of Tubbo, already smeared with the panic of the moment, lay just behind his eyelids, his eyes glassy with tears and hand gripped tightly around the ladder rungs, pale and clammy. He looked down at Ranboo, the primal fear beginning to seep out of his eyes, before he gave him a warm smile, tinged with relief and affection. Like the vice grip that had caught his lungs had been lifted, and Ranboo had been the one to do it. It filled him with a sort of pride to see him like that.
Ranboo wasn’t a stranger to meaningful looks from his husband. Hell, he even enjoyed the eye contact that could come with it, a gift he only found he could share with Tubbo and Tommy. But this glance felt so much fuller and so much more relieving than the others. It just made Ranboo all the more resolute about what he would do next.
Upon another wave of pain, the burn scars adorning Tubbo’s right cheek grew more prominent in his mind than ever. They burned behind his retinas like an oversaturated polaroid, and he belatedly mourned that his husband ever had to experience this kind of hurt. No one with a heart like that should ever have to endure that kind of hurt.
He hissed in pain, a tinge of static frying his vocal chords and a buzz of adrenaline sparking in his clenched fingers. Ranboo had long trained himself to ignore his Enderian half’s urges to poof away at the slightest sign of hostility or conflict. Or maybe it was safer to say that his own contradictory nature made sure it was impossible to do so. Despite this, the urge to lurch up and warp out of existence was strong, and the inability to do so compounded his feeling of helplessness.
He gulped another breath. The smell of evergreen and the memory of baked cookies lingered in his nose and mouth, the familiarity of it almost enough to rid the vile taste in the back of his throat. But not quite enough.
He was in their Snowchester mansion. Of that he was fairly certain. And, if he was correct about that, he would be laying in his and Tubbo’s massive bed. He was trapped under a cat’s cradle of blankets, signaling that it clearly hadn’t been made yet. A small part of him fretted about staining the sheets with his blood. Was he bleeding?
Ranboo strained, sharply propping himself up by his elbows in an attempt to look at himself. His skin stretched and tugged uncomfortably in certain places as he did so, only affirming the damage he’d already been feeling in his boiled nerves.
Yep, He thought to himself intelligently. Those are burns.
No shit, bossman, Tubbo’s voice rang out inside his head, and he would’ve laughed had he not been in so much pain.
Looking down at himself, he was… a mess. His Wilburger uniform was in tatters, and between the tears, he caught peaks of angry skin, raw and gleaming under the fabric.
Oh, he was absolutely staining the sheets.
He knew Tubbo wouldn’t care, knew he would be more concerned for his health and new burns by miles (or kilometers, if he were being realistic and true to Tubbo’s vocabulary), but it would just be another problem to add to the pile. He hadn’t even apologized for making him cry yet, and here he was, staining their sheets? What kind of a husband was he?
He tried to grit his teeth again as he sat up, only to find he hadn’t even stopped doing so since first waking up. He couldn’t grit his teeth any further. He couldn’t clench his fists anymore. Was there anything left for him to tense that hadn’t been that way already?
Swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, he let out a groan, fighting not to buckle over. He rocked on his haunches, feeling like an allium in the wind, snapped at its stem and barely managing to keep its structural integrity. But he’d be damned if he didn’t have at least a little bit of spine left to his name.
He collected himself, taking sharp breaths in and out, the breeze of it biting at torn lips. Ow, ow, ow.
Distantly, he registered the sound of a door slamming against the wall, and found himself wondering, with the force of the sound, if the handle would leave an indentation upon impact. Belatedly, he realized that meant someone was in his house.
Ranboo’s head spun. The carpet at his feet tickled the burns in all the wrong ways. Had he been barefoot before he died? That didn’t seem right...
The sound of a door being thrust open sounded again, this time much closer. Close enough to make him wince. Whoever opened the door took a loud enough breath for Ranboo to hear, and he tilted his head as minimally as possible to see who it was. But, if he was honest with himself, he already knew who it would be.
Tubbo stood swaying in the doorway, looking like he had taken a 5 mile sprint in ten minutes. Knowing his bull-headed, determined nature, it wasn’t too outlandish of a thought, either.
Ranboo knew he looked rough, had seen it himself, but something in Tubbo’s expression seemed to break when their eyes met. The last time their eyes had met, Ranboo had been so sure that what he was doing was the right thing, that he’d gifted Tubbo the relief on his face, freed him from the confines of the pressure plate, the ghost of a yellow concrete box, and the phantom of a rocket launcher to the face. Now, looking at how heart-broken he seemed at Ranboo’s condition, he wasn’t so sure.
“T…Tubbo…?” Ranboo asked weakly. Oh, he definitely had a split lip.
Tubbo rushed, stumbled, over, hastily kneeling at his feet and scanning his face frantically, eyes tracing a nonsensical line that Ranboo couldn’t follow along his cheek. “Oh- oh god-“
Tubbo reached out instinctively, almost like he was about to hold his face, only to halt abruptly, expression twisting painfully. “Oh, Jesus, Ranboo-“ His fingers spasmed, as if feeling his pain along with him. And, if Ranboo had any grasp on how traumatic memories worked, he might’ve been.
Ranboo forced himself to chuckle, desperate to relieve some of the tension. “I… I’m so sorry, I think… I think I’ve stained our sheets.”
“Wha-“ Tubbo looked at him like he’d grown an extra pair of horns, before bursting out, “Who gives a shit about our sheets, you literally just-? You just died in an-? You’re literally covered in burns, oh my god, Boo-“
Tubbo gave Ranboo’s face another frantic scan, before popping back to his feet and rushing over to their bedside table. Ranboo swayed again, gripping his eyes shut and watching the colors flash and snap like fireworks behind his eyelids.
Ow, ow, ow.
“Ranboo, I’m-“ Tubbo’s voice shook somewhere to his right, and Ranboo opened his eyes again, tilting it in an attempt to meet his husband’s gaze. Tubbo’s back was to him as he rummaged through the drawers, clearly searching for something important, yet elusive. “I-I’m going to need you to take your shirt off, okay? You have burns there, right?”
Ranboo nodded woozily, before remembering Tubbo wasn’t even looking at him. “Yeah… Yeah, I do.”
The apron was the easy part. Which wasn’t saying much, because moving anything felt like stretching an already taut rubber band, one well on the way to snapping. But Ranboo managed. The tie was alright, knot slipping loose despite the heat in his fingers as he did so. The real issue presented itself with his button-up, the pressure of the buttons stinging his fingertips and sparking their way up his arms. He winced, determined not to make a sound, but was unable to help the traitorous warble that slipped by his throat.
Tubbo audibly ceased his rummaging, and Ranboo could see him turn worriedly out of the corner of his eye. He shut the drawer, returning to Ranboo’s front with a plastic jar gripped in his right hand. Before Ranboo could take a proper look at it, only catching the text ‘-eam’ in bold red letters, Tubbo set it to the side, looking Ranboo in the eyes. “Do you want me to do it? Would it be easier?”
Ranboo was almost overwhelmed with the worry in his expression. It took his heart in its grip and squeezed it, and he swayed yet again, moved that a person could care so much about him, that anyone could even look at him in such a way.
As if seeing him lose his grasp, Tubbo’s hand shot out to catch his shoulder, and despite the frantic-ness of the movement, laid the support on him as lightly as a feather. It still stung against his skin, but Ranboo appreciated the gesture more than he could describe, or at least describe at that very moment. His brain felt very scrambled.
“I think…” Ranboo swallowed, throat feeling dry. “I think that would be a good idea.”
Tubbo nodded understandingly, eyebrows pinched, before continuing on the job Ranboo started. Every once in a while, the fabric would brush his raw skin on his chest, and Ranboo would grip his hands harder into the sheets, and despite being determined to never make a sound, Tubbo always seemed to notice his discomfort. His brows were furrowed in concentration, making quick work of the buttons whilst being so careful not to irritate his burns more than he had to. Certain that he was in good hands, Ranboo closed his eyes, taking deep, circled breaths, counting in his head and trying to trick himself into thinking the pain wasn’t real, that it was just neurons firing in his brain. It only helped a little bit, but a little bit still went a long way.
After a couple moments of ringing silence, Tubbo said, “There,” sounding as if he himself were releasing a breath as well. “I’m going to take this off, okay?”
Ranboo only nodded, steeling himself.
He felt Tubbo grab the collar of his shirt, carefully peeling it from his burned shoulders and down his arms. It was a weird combination of sensations, the heat of the burns paired with the cold of the air, and Ranboo would be lying if he said he was okay with it. Had he been feeling better than he had been, he might have made a smart remark on the subject. But he was, to put it eloquently, feeling like shit.
As soon as his shirt was off, Tubbo tossed it to the side, leaning over to grab the plastic jar he’d grabbed from the bedside cabinet. Ranboo now realized the label read ‘Emergency Burn Cream’.’
Tubbo looked at it for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, no, no, I need cold water- no no, not cold water, cold healing potions, first, I, uh-“ He got to his feet again, leaning to take a step away, before catching himself, casting another glance at Ranboo, as if hesitant to leave his side.
“I need to go get cold healing pots, okay?” He started, looking a little overwhelmed. “To cool the burns down. A-and clean rags, l- which are downstairs, and-“
“Okay,” Ranboo replied, giving his husband what he hoped to be a comforting look. “I trust you.”
Tubbo’s expression crumpled again, as if the sentiment hurt him. Seemingly unable to help himself, he leaned over, bumping his forehead gently to the top of Ranboo’s, lingering for a moment before pulling back and rushing back out the door, footsteps echoing sharply down the expansive halls of the mansion.
Ranboo sighed, limbs ringing and heavy. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing and once again entertaining his brain with the funky colors and movements that came from behind his eyelids. He felt his own heart rate reverberating through his whole body, angry and stumbling and generally unpleasant. He tried to focus on the light rustling of the evergreens outside the mansion, tried to imagine the snow that had accumulated on their branches tumbling to the ground. He almost wished he could go lie in that snow, find some relief from the heat bubbling on his skin. But getting outside would be a whole other can of worms. Not to mention that he was under no delusions that the snow would be clean.
Wait… was Michael home? He should’ve been home. He must’ve heard his dads rushing around and talking in worried tones, right? If he was curious enough, the first place he’d look would be the bedroom.
Only one thought breached the dull thudding that possessed Ranboo’s skull - Michael was not going to see this.
Swept up by new strength, he lurched to his feet, wincing as the carpet dug further into his irritated soles. Huffing and shaking it off, Ranboo steered towards the door, wincing with each calculated footfall. As fast as he could manage, he grabbed the handle, shutting the door as lightly as he could. When he heard the final click of the mechanism, he sighed with relief, dipping his head and leaning his horns against the wood paneling. Michael was safe from this, for now.
His feet continued to sting.
After a while of breathing, swaying, and leaning, Ranboo heard footsteps approaching from the hall again, and before Tubbo could reach the door, Ranboo called out. “Tubbo?”
He heard him falter for a moment, before gently opening their bedroom door and looking up at him incredulity and concern. “Ranboo, you shouldn’t be on your feet, you should-“
“Is Michael here?” Ranboo interrupted.
“I- no, we asked Tommy to watch over him today,” Tubbo told him, a ‘remember? ’ clearly on the tip of his tongue.
Ranboo let out a breath, filled with relief despite the twinge of despair at forgetting an important piece of information yet again. “Okay… okay, good, I didn’t… I didn’t want him to have to see me. Right now.”
Tubbo’s expression softened. “I know, big guy. He’s safe with Tommy right now. You’re good.”
Ranboo took another breath, nodding, before finally noticing the ice bucket of healing potions in his husband's hand, and the package of fresh rags under his arm. Remembering that his husband had gone to get those to treat his burns, he stepped out of the doorway, wincing as he was rudely reminded of how wrecked his feet were. He limped back over to the bed, Tubbo at his side, gingerly sitting at its edge again.
Ranboo watched as Tubbo made quick work of the rags’ plastic packaging, reaching in and grabbing one, before uncorking a potion and pouring it's contents on the rag. Ranboo, being hydrophobic, couldn’t use cold water to soothe his burns. While the healing potions still contained water, they worked as their name intended to imply - heal. So, it would be a little tingling at worst, and leagues better than what plain water would’ve done to him.
After a moment, Tubbo wrung out of excess liquid and began to fold it. After forming the rag into a square large enough to fit Tubbo’s entire hand, he placed his left palm along Ranboo’s uninjured cheek, supporting it as he placed the cold compress to the burns on the other side of his face.
Ranboo, despite appreciating the relief of the cold, winced at the abrasiveness and the slight stinging that accompanied it. Tubbo gave a hushed “sorry, sorry…” as he held the rag in place, placatingly rubbing his thumb along his other cheek.
“You’re fine,” Ranboo reassured, trying to block out the sensory overload he was beginning to feel with the texture. Despite being a literal healing potion, the feeling of it on his skin wasn’t exactly pleasant. While Tubbo and Tommy always described the sensation of sparkling soda when using potions directly on wounds, Ranboo felt the experience was more comparable to isopropyl alcohol. So, instead of losing himself to the stinging, he tried focusing on the diminishing heat from his facial burns. The cold really was helping.
After a couple minutes, Tubbo removed the then room-temperature compress from his cheek, dumping the rag alongside his ruined clothes and setting to work with the next rag, which he placed on Ranboo’s neck.
From there, it was rinse and repeat - Tubbo wetting a rag and placing it on a bad burn. Whilst the heat always returned in the minutes following a rag’s absence, it was never as bad as it had been previously. Just one of the benefits of using a healing pot in the place of cold water.
Ranboo offered to do some himself, but stopped when Tubbo looked like he might smack him (if not for the burn scars) for even suggesting such a thing. Disgustingly, Ranboo had to succumb to being taken care of.
The process took all of about 15 minutes. Or maybe 20. Or 30. Time had never been a strong suit of Ranboo’s, and dying in a TNT detonation didn’t do wonders for his cognitive abilities. In the end, he and Tubbo were left with a lovely pile of burnt clothing and slightly reddened rags. Ranboo wasn't sure whether the coloring was thanks to the potions' pink tinge, or courtesy of his own burns.
And, somehow, seeing that pile, was finally what it took for the reality of the situation to sink into Ranboo’s bones.
He’d died. Actually died. And not only that, he hadn’t needed too. No one was supposed to get hurt from that mechanism. It was a way for Wilbur to play his little ego game with Quackity, a way to one-up him, a petty revenge for an action anybody else would’ve taken as a sign of respect. And Ranboo, foolishly, went along with it until someone had to get hurt.
He wanted to believe Wilbur could change. Wilbur had been so touched when Ranboo had shared that sentiment with him, too. The gift that was the room to grow in a world Ranboo felt could be too harsh, too unforgiving. Because why did he deserve to be forgiven if Wilbur couldn’t be? There had to be the possibility of redemption for everyone, there had to be. No one was inherently bad. He didn’t want to think there was a moral line, a point of no return. How could things get better if bad people weren’t even seen as recoverable?
Ranboo didn’t even realize he’d begun to tear up until Tubbo caught his eye, expression shifting from one of concentration to one of horror. “Ranboo…? Dude, don’t- your burns-“
“Tubbo, I’m…” Ranboo stammered, voice wavering. Tubbo grabbed the cuffs of his shirt, quickly wiping Ranboo’s tears before they could reach his already irritated skin. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t listen to you about Wilbur. I should’ve. You had every reason to question his intentions. I let m-my hopes get in the way and people got hurt and… god, I made you cry -“
“Boo, don’t even-“ Tubbo looked unsure of how to respond, glancing between the skin under his eyes and his eyes themselves. “Don’t even worry about that, it wasn’t a big deal.”
“But it was,” Ranboo bowed his head, hoping maybe gravity would do some of the work and drop his tears onto the floor instead of onto his burns. “I’ve only ever seen you cry once, and that was because of Wilbur! I had- I had no right to think I knew better than you about who he was. You knew him for so long, you knew how he could be more than anyone. I’m so sorry I did that. I’m so sorry.”
For a few moments, he was met with silence, before Tubbo sighed, once again taking his forehead and resting it to the top of Ranboo’s hair, the bridge of his nose digging gently into his forehead. “…thank you, Ranboo. W-while I wish you would’ve trusted me earlier, you’re just… so nice. You have such a big heart. You want to show everyone kindness, before even they themselves think they deserve it-“ Ranboo heard Tubbos’ words catch in his throat, momentary, but clear as day to him. “I-I just wish you didn’t have to… to d-die like t-that. I never wanted any-'' Another catch. “-I never wanted anyone else to die like that.”
Ranboo’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. He leaned into Tubbo. “Well…” He considered his next words for a moment, before committing. “…at least we match, now?”
Tubbo sputtered into his hair, letting loose a surprised “hah!” before leaning back to look at his best friend. “We matched before, you dick!” He stated incredulously, reaching out to flick at the wedding band on his horn.
Ranboo chuckled drily, recoiling from the attack as much as his injuries would let him and looking up. “Yeah, but we match better now.”
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” Tubbo stated strongly, impervious, looking Ranboo dead in the eyes. It was a meaningful look, about as subtle as banging two frying pans together in an echoing gorge. But Ranboo hadn’t married Tubbo for his tact, anyways.
Just the fact that he could look him in the eyes was proof enough.
“Well… you may be right,” Ranboo said with barely disguised fondness, itching to reach forward and take his hands, now mourning the burns on his fingers for an entirely different reason.
“I’m always right,” Tubbo grinned. “I’m the ole’ ball and chain, that’s how it works in this relationship.”
Ranboo rolled his eyes so hard, he could almost see the fun little patterns he’d been using to distract himself from the pain a mere half an hour earlier. "God . I hate when you speak sometimes.”
“I know,” Tubbo said, looking all too pleased with himself.
“The things you say concern me on a regular basis.”
“I know!” Tubbo sing-songed.
“Do you truly care so little about me?”
“I’ll be honest, that’s why I do it, bossman.”
Ranboo sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”
“Aww, Ranboo, you knew exactly what you were signing up for when you married me,” Tubbo smiled, leaning over to grab the previously abandoned jar of burn cream.
“I signed up for a killer tax write-off, not the ole’… 'ball and chain'," Ranboo quipped back, sending him a playful glare.
“A ha!" Tubbo exclaimed as he opened the jar, as if he’d won the argument. “So you do agree with me! I am the ole’ ball and chain, I am!”
“Only because you’re being insufferable,” Ranboo straightened up, indignation lacing his tone. “And still, you’re a little too proud of being that, I think-“
“That still means I win though,” Tubbo cackled, dipping his hand in the jar. “Like I said… I’m always right.”
Ranboo could only slump over, managing a static-y growl of displeasure that Tubbo had the courtesy to laugh at.
“Okay, enough, uh… playing around, you need this burn cream,” Tubbo informed him, very tactfully avoiding the term ‘horsing around’.
Then again, Ranboo never married Tubbo for his tact.
—
After 15 minutes of burn cream application, and another half hour of applying gauze wraps sent from hell, Ranboo felt he was fit enough to look like a suburban house burdened by hundreds of rolls of toilet paper on the night of Halloween. Or maybe he was just a straight-up mummy.
Regardless, moving around was a bit of a chore. It already was with the burn wounds free to the open air, but somehow, the layer of gauze made him feel like a 50 year old robot that hadn’t been properly oiled at any time during those fifty years.
After Tubbo was finally able to banish Ranboo from anywhere in the house that wasn’t their bed, he contacted Tommy, asking him to watch Michael for a little longer. After informing Tommy of what had happened, however, they were hard-pressed to keep the tow-headed boy away like they’d hoped. And maybe they were foolish for thinking they could in the first place.
“No, I’m not gonna fucking relax, Tubbo, Ranboo just got himself fucking… blown up!” Tommy’s voice echoed through the communicator, shrill and piercing. “I’m coming over there right now."
“No, Tommy, Michael can’t see any of this!” Tubbo fussed, eyebrows set in a scowl. “He’s too young, he shouldn’t have to-“
“Tubbo, my bud, my pal, I can keep him entertained and help you guys with whatever you need,” Tommy insisted. “You guys need all hands on deck right now, and I’ve got two of those!”
“Wh- All hands on deck would include you watching and keeping Michael away from what looks like a crime scene,” Tubbo retorted, but for all his conviction, looked resigned to the fact that there was likely no talking Tommy out of coming.
“Tubbo, man, please, if I’m not with you guys, I’m literally going to go punch Wilbur in his stupid tory face,” Tommy snapped, sharp as a whip.
Tubbo shared a glance with Ranboo, who was propped up in bed against two downy pillows. A general agreement floated through their exchange in glances. That doesn’t sound so bad.
Tommy, taking the silence to mean just that, huffed and said, “Listen, listen… I promise to keep Michael away from your mummy of a husband and your crime scene of a bedroom. But I am coming over. And if I come, then we can go punch Wilbur together. Yeah?
Tubbo’s eyes lingered on Ranboo’s for a moment. When Ranboo did nothing but give him a helpless little shrug, a clear we can't stop him, might as well, Tubbo sighed, and fondly threatened into the communicator’s mic, “Tommy Innit, if you break your word, I will literally shove a nuke so far up your ass.”
“Tubbo, please don’t project your weird freak shit onto me-“
“I’m hanging up now," Tubbo introjected, ending the connection before giving a fake sob and promptly burying his face in his hands.
Ranboo wheezed from his place in bed, gently clutching his aching stomach. “Dude, is there something you’re not telling me? I had no idea-“
“I fucking clean your wounds, give you chicken noodle soup, and this is the thanks I get?” Tubbo exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Both of you suck, I hate you two so equally, so incredibly much.”
“I’d like to say you knew exactly what you were signing up for when you chose us,” Ranboo cackled, pleased to have been able to give Tubbo a taste of his own medicine.
Tubbo threw his communicator at him. He missed on purpose, of course.
The husbands heard Tommy and Michael coming before they even entered the house, the sounds of laughing, and singing that sounded more like screeching, echoing between the snowy hills of Snowchester. Rising high and clear through the winds of the mountains and snowfall, came choruses and lines, both familiar and not to Ranboo, but the underlying, bone-deep feeling of comfort and home never wavered. He leaned his head against Tubbo, who had moved into the bed next to him to keep him company. Tubbo leaned back. Ranboo would be lying if he said he didn’t miss Tubbo the second he left to receive their son and best friend downstairs.
He was left alone for a while, unsure of what was happening, until he heard footsteps approaching their bedroom door. While he had been expecting Tubbo, the footsteps were distinctly not his. In fact, they were distinctly someone else’s.
“Hey Ranboob,” Tommy greeted, drawing out the y as he stepped through the doorway
“Hey, Tommy,” Ranboo greeted, feigning his exasperation.
“Oh, you look rough, buddy,” Tommy observed, his teasing dig missing it's usual bite. That, and his eyebrows did the worried little crease thing they always did when he was upset. “Like, you look proper fucked up.”
“Thank you, Tommy,” Ranboo huffed back with equal amounts of passion.
“Anytime, man,” Tommy bumbled over, hands shoved into his khaki pockets, flopping unceremoniously onto the bed beside him. He looked Ranboo up and down, not bothering to hide the scan, before remarking, “It looked like Tubs did a good job patching you up.”
“Yeah, I mean… he’s qualified as anyone to deal with this sort of thing, right?” Ranboo asked conversationally.
To his dismay, Tommy’s face seemed to crumple. He sighed, slumping somehow further over his spine. “Yeah. Yeah, he would.”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, before Tommy piped up. “Listen, Ranboo- I mean I didn’t really- you know, I didn’t consider the possibility of, of, Wilbur’s mechanism, well-“
He paused for a moment, anxiously fiddling with his fingers as he stared off into space, wincing. “I... Well, I helped Wilbur build that, and you- I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t- you got blown up, and I never would’ve - never would’ve built it if I knew that would happen-“
“Tommy, I know, I promise I know,” Ranboo reassured, voice dripping with sincerity. “I mean, I helped with the machine too, didn’t I? I didn’t really account for Tubbo interfering either, I’m… about as responsible as you are.”
“Yeah, I- '' Tommy cut himself, his face twisting with confusion. “Wait, what d'you mean Tubbo interfering?”
Oh, yikes.
Ranboo tensed up, fighting yet another wince as the gauze on his burns fought the movement. “Well… Wilbur rigged it so Quackity’s horse would set off the TNT when getting off the pressure plate, right? W-when um, Wilbur came to show Big Q what he’d done, Tubbo had, uh… freed the horse and unknowingly trapped himself on the pressure plate?”
Tommy gaped at him for a second, like a goldfish. Before exploding with, “Wh-what the fuck!? Wha, but- Tubbo’s on his last life and- fucking-“ He opened and closed his mouth several more times, miraculously, at a loss for words.
A pit grew in Ranboo’s stomach, his heart a sinking stone in a trench deeper than the ocean floor. “He… he is. Which was why I kind of… took his place.”
Tommy looked like he’d been punched, looking up at Ranboo with a wounded expression. “What? " He asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.
Ranboo nodded, pinching his lips into a straight line.
Tommy gaped at him, for a couple more seconds before turning his head straight ahead. Over the next few seconds, Ranboo would watch as Tommy’s expression morphed into a glower, eyeing down the landscape painting facing the bed as if it had been the one to exile him.
“Uh… Tommy?” Ranboo asked, feeling incredibly nervous and very exposed, despite having buried himself in a very comfortable sweater.
Tommy set his jaw, before abruptly sitting up and pacing up and down the length of the room, parallel to the bed, all the while muttering angrily to himself. Ranboo only watched, growing increasingly confused and increasingly concerned.
After a couple rounds of that, he came to a stop, taking a shaky, controlled breath, and turning to face the enderman hybrid. Ranboo braced himself.
“Ranboo, you glorious bastard,” Tommy spat. “You did not deserve any of this, but- but-“
Tommy took a breath again. Ranboo braced himself again.
“Man, you… without you, Tubbo might’ve-“ Tommy stumbled over his words, a whole battlefield playing out behind his sharp blue eyes. “He might’ve- died. F-for good. And- you… thank you.”
Ranboo relaxed, softening into his pillows again, relieved. “Of course, Tommy. It was an obvious choice. And, well… it helps that I love him a little bit.”
Tommy mimed a gag. "Eugh, you two are so disgusting, jesus-"
Ranboo snorted at the outburst, trying his best to hide the wince that came from the gesture.
Tommy allowed himself to make one more noise of feigned disgust, before promptly scowling again. “Ohh , but when I get my hands on Wilbur, that rat bastard -“
Despite his harsh words, he seemed terribly conflicted on the subject of Wilbur. Ranboo couldn’t blame him. He’d be a bit of a hypocrite if he did.
Ranboo hadn't known Wilbur very long, despite participating in a highly questionable business venture with him, but he'd heard enough stories, specifically about him and Tommy. While Ranboo always liked to take what he heard with a grain of salt, a theme persisted regardless of storyteller - Wilbur and Tommy were incredibly close. Many skipped the pretense of "good friends" and skipped right to calling them brothers. Even Tubbo, who was Wilbur's own adopted brother through Phil, regarded the duo as more brotherly than they had ever been. But with the happy stories, the triumphs of L'manburg and the strengthening of their bond, also came the haunting stories. Tales of echoing, unhinged laughter in cold, cavern walls. The distant click of a button and the approaching hiss of lit fuses. The stories of a younger brother so dedicated to grounding an older brother too far lost to the heavens. But maybe the heavens was too generous a place for Wilbur Soot.
“Let’s… worry about Wilbur later, okay?” Ranboo asked, eager to move on, sitting up in bed and working to get to his feet.
In two seconds flat, Tommy was by his side, hovering like a mother hen as Ranboo worked himself up. He in equal amounts fussed and avoided touching him, nervous about his instability alongside irritating his wounds.
“Dude, you really shouldn’t be-“
“I just- want to go downstairs, okay?” Ranboo reasoned. “I… really want to see Michael, and it’d be nice to hang out down there, just the four of us. And maybe, like… hot chocolate, or something…?”
Ranboo gave Tommy a near pleading look. Tommy met his eyes head-on, a determined set to his jaw and an immovable cross to his arms. Those qualities were a thin act, however, as mere seconds later, Tommy crumpled under the expression. “Fine, I guess… Tubbo’ll kill you, though.”
“That’s okay, I still have two lives left, anyways,” Ranboo joked.
—
Two flights of stairs and a hearty scolding from Tubbo later, Ranboo found himself sitting on their couch, a quarter-full cup of hot chocolate in his bandaged hands and Wall-E playing on the TV in front of them. Usually, they’d be enjoying the roaring of a crackling fireplace on a night like this, but at this time, almost everyone in the room had some sort of vendetta against burning substances. Tommy’s snoring more than made up for the ambience, anyways.
Tommy himself had curled up on a nearby reclining chair, sprawled out like a menace with a visible hot chocolate mustache above his upper lip. He’d fallen asleep about halfway into the movie, having exhausted himself by dramatically professing his love for Eve mere minutes before doing so.
Tubbo had curled up next to Ranboo, keeping his distance so as to not disturb his wounds, yet still close enough for Ranboo to lean his head on his shoulder if he wanted to. Which, Ranboo was proud to say, he’d exploited many times since taking his place on the couch.
In Tubbo’s arms lay Michael, sleeping as deeply as Tommy, and Ranboo accepted the fact that the two had probably found a way to wear each other out earlier in the day. Which was a miracle on both ends, as far as Ranboo was concerned.
When Ranboo had first seen Michael, he’d already been hoisted up in Tubbo’s arm, the father and son having a very animated discussion about what Michael and Tommy had done that day. Upon seeing his son, Ranboo’d rushed to give the piglin hybrid a kiss on the head, grinning as Michael exclaimed “Hello Boo! Hello mummy Boo!”. Using his lips still pained him a little bit, but it was already much better than when he’d first respawned.
Once Tubbo had worriedly ushered Ranboo to the couch, Tubbo shot a glare at Tommy, and Ranboo couldn’t help but worry if there was a nuke with his name on it.
Ranboo, confined to the couch, could merely watch as Tubbo and Tommy made dinner together - shepherd's pie. Michael made all the important contributions, artistically arranging the meats and vegetables that would go under the mashed potatoes. It was a godsend that none of them started a kitchen fire in the process of making that dish, because honestly, Ranboo didn’t know how he’d be able to compartmentalize fires at that very minute. And while Tubbo had practice, he wasn’t exactly fond of getting burned again, either.
After food was done and hot chocolate was made, the rowdy group settled down with Ranboo on the couch, sipping away at their drinks and making smart remarks as the movie rolled on.
As the two little robots bumped their heads on screen, Ranboo turned to Tubbo, watching fondly as he ran his fingers along Michael’s head soothingly, half-lidded eyes trained on the movie.
“‘Bo?” Ranboo asked, voice drowsy.
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m falling asleep.”
Tubbo turned to him, giving him a tired smile. “Well, you deserve the rest, king.”
“Ah, thank you, king,” Ranboo dipped his head in mocking, yet not so mocking, respect, before yawning as luxuriously as his burned cheek would allow him to. “I think I’m gonna… y’know…”
Tubbo laughed softly, a warm expression on his face. “Yeah. I know. Good night, bossman.”
“G’Night, Tubbo,” Ranboo rumbled, his eyes slipping shut as sleep weighed him down, and, despite the stinging pulses of pain that would still ring through his skin, was able to drift away into a restful sleep - surrounded by his family and heart as full as it had ever been.