Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy may or may not be sick.

Normally, this wouldn’t be as abnormal—everyone gets sick—but considering that he is the world famous vigilante Spider-Man (in his own words), this is slightly weird.

Not entirely weird, though, due to the fact that his immune system has always sucked ass, but still peculiar enough to earn a look of confusion from Ranboo when he randomly leans against one of the gymnasium walls. 

Despite being relatively fit, Tommy’s favourite class has never been physical education. He only tries in it for the sake of graduating, and nothing more.

He puts in what he and Ranboo both equally call the bare minimum. Tubbo and Purpled are the ones out of their friend group that are, somehow, absolutely cracked at P.E. 

Even so, though, Tommy’s never fully stopped during a lesson.

Sure, he’s passed out during a maths lesson, and sure, he’s had a bloody nose or two (or five) during a couple of other classes, but physical education’s always been fairly decent, if you looked past all of the incidents that have happened during the class itself involving him tripping over air. 

“Tommy?” Ranboo puts his hand on Tommy’s forearm, his eyebrows pulled together in concern. Behind him, the rest of the class is still running their laps around the gymnasium, unaware of what’s happening. Tommy does spot Tubbo turning to Purpled with a look of confusion, though. “Are you alright?”

Tommy nods, taking a deep breath. It’s probably not good that it’s shuddering a little bit. Luckily, Ranboo isn’t the one with superpowered spider hearing, so maybe he won’t notice it. 

“‘M fine, big man,” he reassures, running his wrist across the front of his forehead. He holds back a wince. “Just needed a breather, that’s all.”

Ranboo gives him a look of mild disbelief. “You? A breather?” 

Amongst the few people that know Tommy’s Spider-Man, Ranboo is one of them. Him and Tubbo found out before any of the Avengers, including even Mr Soot, did. They’d been elated, but also petrified at the same time. 

“Yep,” Tommy pops the ‘p,’ giving Ranboo a look. “You know, the thing that people do to stay alive?”

Ranboo raises their eyebrow in a mock bewildered way. “Woah, really? You have to do that to stay alive? I had no idea, man. That’s crazy.”

Tommy grins mischievously, turning to side to let out a string of coughs into the crook of his arm. When he looks back at Ranboo, they’re wearing that face of concern again. 

Before they can say anything, though, a hand shakes Tommy’s shoulder aggressively from behind. He turns, frowning at Tubbo, who is glaring at him.

“Why did you guys stop?” Tubbo questions, still shaking Tommy’s shoulder, and thus his entire body. “Are you being little bitches because of physical education again?”

“Tommy’s sick.” Ranboo states. 

“What the fuck?” Tommy exclaims, completely aghast that Ranboo would ever suggest such a thing, even though he knows they’re probably right. “I’m not sick. Sp– Tommy Innit doesn’t get sick.” 

Tubbo and Ranboo both give him a flat look. He grimaces.

“Okay, fine,” he holds up his hands in mock defence. “I might be slightly feverish, but I think it’s because I’m dehydrated. Now will you two stop looking at me as though I’m about to fuckin’ keel over?” 

“That is what you look like you’re about to do, though,” Tubbo retorts, shooting Ranboo a dark look when they elbow him in the ribs. “What? I’m just being honest, man!”

Tommy exhales, rubbing the space between his eyes in annoyance. “I’m fine, guys. Like I said, I only needed a breather and maybe some water.” 

Ranboo, ever the merciful, gives him a sympathetic look. “If you’re certain, Tom. But if you start feeling worse, please tell us this time, okay? I don’t want to look over at you and find you lying facedown on the floor again.” 

Tommy lifts a finger, eyebrows raised. “In all fairness, that was kind of funny.” 

Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that funny. Tommy had just gotten home from a particularly long and strenuous patrol and, upon noticing both Ranboo and Tubbo staring at him from where they were watching a Disney movie on the sofa waiting for him to come home, he had promptly collapsed onto the floor. 

Both of them, despite already knowing who he was in his free time and being quite accustomed to seeing him beat up or otherwise, had completely panicked. They’d been two seconds away from calling Aunt Puffy before Tommy smacked the phone out of their hands and grumbled that he was fine, even though he probably had at least a broken rib at the time.

Whatever. It’s in the past. This is different, and his ribs are very much intact, he thinks. 

“Hey,” Ranboo elbows him, nodding towards the coach on the other side of the room, who is now watching them with a look of ‘I’m coming over there if you don’t get moving soon’ on his face. “We should probably keep walking. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tommy nods, leaning off of the wall. “I’ll get water in a bit and I’m sure the feeling will go away.”

Tubbo shoots him another look of disbelief, but the conversation ends there. 

By the time school’s over, Tommy feels more-or-less dead. 

It’s really just his luck that after PE, he had an extremely extensive lab in biology that took up the entire class time (and even some minutes afterwards, which has caused him to be a bit late for the bus). 

Thankfully, though, he wasn’t the only one late for the bus, so the driver hasn’t left yet. 

Just as he’s about to board it, though, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He frowns, slightly confused, especially since it’s playing the song from Brave which is only assigned to one person in particular’s contact. 

As he moves down the aisle of the bus, he fishes his phone from his jeans and presses the ‘answer’ button. He puts it up to his ear just as he’s jostling himself down into the seat beside Tubbo, who’d been saving the window for him. 

“Hey, Phil,” he says into the phone, settling himself up against the bus window and putting his hand over his other ear so he can hear the man better. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

“Hey, Tommy!” Phil, as always, seems relatively chipper. “Everything’s fine, I was only calling to ask you if you were staying at school late.”

Tommy frowns. “No, I’m on the bus right now, heading home. Why?”

There’s a pause. When Phil speaks again, he sounds rather amused. “Tommy, today’s Thursday. Lab day, remember?”

Tommy about falls out of the bus seat. “What?”

Phil laughs on the other line. “It’s alright, kid, don’t fret. I can pick you up in front of your apartment complex instead, it’s not a big deal. Wilbur might be a bit pissed that you’re late, though.” 

Mr Soot could probably care less, Tommy thinks to himself, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety of Wilbur being potentially angry with him from brewing in his stomach. 

He swallows thickly. “Yeah, okay. That’s fine, uhm… I’m sorry, Mr Phil, I forgot.” 

Phil lets out another chuckle. “It’s no problem, Tommy, really. Do you want me to pick you up food on the way, too? I know how slow your bus can be.”

Tommy flushes slightly. The idea of food does sound really great, even if his head is still spinning from his lab earlier and physical education. But… well, he feels a bit bad about it. As much as he loves it when Phil or Mr Soot get him things, he can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, even if it is something as simple as a Happy Meal. 

Besides, he might get sick in the back of Mr Soot’s car if he smells McDonald’s, which is quite literally the last thing that he wants to do. 

“No, that’s okay,” he says, hoping that Phil doesn’t hear his voice waver. “I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?” Phil sounds mildly concerned. “It’s not a problem, Tommy, really. I know that Wil mentioned you having a big appetite, what with your… growing teenage boy genes and all.” 

‘Growing teenage boy genes’ definitely stood for Tommy’s enhanced spiderlingness. With being radioactive and part spider came the after effects of a large appetite.  

“Really, it’s okay,” Tommy reassures the man, turning to give Tubbo a hopefully reassuring smile at the weird look he’s being given. “I’ll be fine. Thank you though, Mr Phil, I appreciate that.”

“Please, kid, it’s just Phil,” the man responds, sounding exasperated but fond. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, then. If you’re able, tell the driver to go a bit faster, yeah?”

Tommy snorts, looking away from Tubbo’s confused facial expression. “I’ll try.”

—

Even though the bus ride is usually rather tedious, today’s is incredibly short.

Honestly, it feels as though Tommy blinks and the next second, he’s being shaken awake—he’d fallen asleep? That’s weird—by Tubbo, who is giving him another one of those concerned looks. 

“This is your stop, boss man,” Tubbo whispers. Another weird thing, honestly. Tubbo rarely whispers. “Tell your old man hi for me, will you?” 

Tommy blinks, slowly registering Tubbo’s words and nodding.

To other people’s ears, it would sound like Tubbo was referencing Tommy’s father—who does not exist—but to Tommy, he knew that he was in fact talking about Wilbur. Usually when he calls Wilbur his “old man,” Tommy reaches out and socks him in the shoulder blade for his implications, but today he feels a bit too tired to do so.

He gets out of his seat, rising up and stumbling through the aisles. He shifts his backpack onto his shoulders with heavy-weighed exhaustion, his head hanging. For some reason, Tommy feels as though he’s been submerged underwater; his ears are muffled, his head has a whole balloon of pressure inside of it, and his legs definitely feel like they’re wading through the ocean. Not that he’d know very much about that, unfortunately. He’s only been to the beach once, but whatever.

Somehow, he manages to get off of the bus without collapsing onto the ground. In his bleary state of mind, he begins walking towards his apartment complex, only to be peeled out of his foggy thoughts by the sound of a horn honking. Not uncommon in New York, but it is loud enough to make him turn his head.

The sleek, black SUV that belongs to none other than Wilbur Soot is sitting in front of the pavement, awaiting him like a chariot. Tommy can only picture the look on Phil’s face. He feels a bit too groggy to care much, though.

With tired movements, he eventually makes it to the SUV and pulls the door open, sliding into the back seat with practised movements. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Phil greets him kindly from the driver’s seat once Tommy’s settled. “Have a nice day at school?”

Tommy hums, pressing his temple against the cool glass car window. “Mhm.”

“That’s nice,” Phil comments as he begins driving towards the Tower. There’s a moment of silence, and Tommy almost feels like he’s going to fall asleep again, when Phil speaks up once more. “You know, Tom, if you’re too tired for a lab day, I can always tell Wilbur. He’s never going to be upset with you for wanting to rest.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Tommy defends immediately, sitting up properly in his chair and rubbing at his eyes with his palms. Sick, but fine, he thinks. “Really, Mr Phil, it’s okay. Just had a tiring day at school.”

“Ah,” Phil nods in the way an older family member does when reminiscing on a nostalgic memory. “Understandable. Do you want to talk about it?”

Tommy sighs, scooting down in his chair and staring at the buildings passing out the window. Maybe talking would help him stay awake a bit longer. It’d distract him. 

“Sure,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around his torso. “Nothing too interesting happened, though. Nothing like I’m sure you’ve heard from the rest of the Avengers.”

Phil shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m sure whatever you’ll have to tell me is going to pique my interest. It always does.”

Despite himself, Tommy smiles a little. 

“Thanks, Phil.” 

The Tower is a place of both sanctuary and amazement for Tommy. 

On one hand, he can’t think of any place that’s comfier—except maybe his apartment with Aunt Puffy—but on the other, there are always new gadgets catching his eye in the hallways. 

Wilbur’s always designing new things, and Tommy, being his ‘favourite intern’ (quotably, from the man himself, and not from Tommy’s own mind), is enabled to learn about each and every one of them. It’s a dream, really, and Tommy would be more thrilled about it today if he weren’t so tired.

Phil drops him off around the back entrance that employees usually utilise so they don’t have to weave in and out of the mass crowd that tends to gawk at all of the different things in the main lobby of the building.

As Tommy’s getting out of the car, Phil gives him a smile in the rearview mirror and thanks him for keeping him company on the way home.

It’s odd, really. Even though he’d never admit it to anyone but himself, Tommy knows that he’s a constant talker. All he tends to do is talk. Phil’s probably heard the extensive lore and backstory of both Star Wars and Doctor Who by now, and that’s just from simple car rides.

Tommy hadn’t done anything different than what he normally does when in the backseat of Phil’s car, so why was he being thanked?

He decides, even though he feels thoroughly confused, to brush it off for now. He’ll think about it when he’s not feeling so peculiar.

After giving a wave of ‘see you later,’ Tommy turns on his heel and enters the Tower. By now, after all the times he’s wandered through the halls of this place, it’s more like second nature than anything else to get up to Wilbur’s floor level.

The man’s either on the top floor relaxing in the kitchen or he’s in the one directly below it, working tirelessly in the lab. Considering that it’s a lab day and not a movie night day, Tommy presses the button second down from the very top. When he’s requested for access—something he’s always supposed to give, especially when going to a floor that none of the general public’s allowed to—he pulls his lanyard from his bookbag and presses it against the device on the wall. 

It makes a low beep and FRIDAY, the overhead AI, greets him. He gives a small, but tired, smile at the ceiling. Even though the AI can’t technically see it, he still wants to display his gratitude towards its endless help. 

The elevator ride’s relatively short, which Tommy is incredibly grateful for, otherwise he’s certain that he might have fallen asleep during it. Standing up without the support of the railing inside of the elevator is a chore on its own. 

After a few moments, the elevator doors slide open with a ding, and he steps out into a long hallway. A part of him feels a slight sense of calm as he walks through the hall, eyes flickering to either side of it, where rows of tables are lined up in a very ‘Phil had to help design this otherwise it’d look messy’ sort of way.

There’s a particular table, about halfway down the hallway, that has one of Tommy’s plants on it; a succulent he’d dubbed ‘Clementine’ after he’d fallen in love with it at a gardening market Wilbur took him to a few months ago. 

The walls are decorated in photographs of awards and paintings that probably cost more than Tommy’s rent. The only thing missing amongst them all are the framed discs that Wilbur keeps in his personal office, each one in favour of the songs that he’s released. 

Even though Wilbur doesn’t think they’re his biggest accomplishments, Tommy would definitely beg to differ. 

“He’s so fuckin’ cool, right, Aunt Puffy?” Tommy remembers saying to his aunt once years ago. It was long before he’d even known that he’d be bitten by a spider during a field trip—long before he’d ever become an Avenger. 

They had been sat in the living room around the television, watching as a news station played the live performance that Wilbur had put on during the Soot Expo where he’d played All Star on his electric guitar as a funny entrance. 

To Tommy, though, he’d felt floored beyond comparison. 

“He can sing, he can fight bad guys, he can play guitar, he can build big n’ awesome iron suits—” Tommy had been practically skipping around the living room as he spoke, his hands waving to the sides in excitement. “I’m gonna be just like him when I grow up, right, Aunt Puffy?”

Even though Puffy had been a bit standoffish about Wilbur back then—and she still is a bit—she’d, reluctantly, agreed. Tommy knows it was simply so she didn’t crush his younger self’s dreams, but the thought still counts.

Despite many of the negative things that news stations had to say about him, Wilbur always remained Tommy’s idol. And he still is, even to this day—if not more. 

There had always been that saying about not meeting your heroes. Tommy supposes that maybe he was just lucky enough to meet him and still think he was badass. (And maybe a bit of a prick, but whatever).

Tommy lets out a loud sneeze, which breaks him out of his reverie.

He sniffs loudly, blinking furiously to rid his eyes from how they’ve begun to water like they always do after sneezing.

Shaking his head, and distantly hoping that Wilbur hadn’t heard him sneeze and is now freaking out (seriously, the man loses his shit over a minor scrape Tommy gets during patrols), Tommy continues down the corridor.

At the end of the hall, Tommy has to press the card at the end of his lanyard to a device on the wall again, which signals with another loud beep that the door to Wilbur’s lab is now unlocked. 

He opens it and steps inside, immediately feeling slightly overwhelmed by the overbearing smell of oil and grease. Not that Tommy isn’t used to it by now, but today it seems like there’s an excessive amount.

Maybe Wilbur’s working on another one of his suits? That’d be exciting. Tommy always loves watching him work on those, even if every single piece is about as meticulous as Sam’s extensive research paper on atomic matter. 

Strangely, though, amidst the papers strewn around the workspace and clutter, there is no sight of Mr Soot.

That’s… not normal, honestly. Usually, the man is somewhere in the very heart of it all, assembling some new project he’s working on with grease staining all the way up to his elbows. 

Tommy blinks, confused as he sets his backpack onto the floor by the front entrance of the workshop. 

Then, a loud crashing sound interrupts his train of thought, and he swivels around to find none other than Wilbur Soot himself shaking a big sheet of metal that must’ve fallen onto his foot. 

He’s wearing one of his favourite band shirts and a pair of paint-splattered jeans (definitely from that one time he’d picked up art for a few days before deciding that it wasn’t really his forte).

“Fucking— stupid shit lying everywhere,” Wilbur says in a grumble, holding his coffee mug (The Only Billionaire Ever is written across the front in Tommy’s handwriting, a gift to him that he’d made in pottery class as a joke) up into the air so its contents don’t spill.

The man kicks the metal pieces aside before looking up to give Tommy a massive grin. “Oh hey, Toms! What’s up, kiddo?”

Tommy presses his mouth together to hold back from snorting. “Hi, Mr Soot.”

“Wilbur,” the man corrects with an exasperated sigh. He’s finally freed himself from the scrap metal hell—the very one that Tommy is beginning to realise that the man had knocked over in the first place—and is now heading towards him. “How many times do I have to keep telling you not to call me ‘Mr Soot’? It’s too professional, eugh. Makes me feel all old n’ shit.” 

“Mr Q thinks it’s funny.” Tommy comments, which makes Wilbur roll his eyes even further. 

The both of them know that isn’t actually why Tommy continues to call him that—being as polite as he could manage was drilled into his head ever since he was a child—but the bit is still funny. 

“Quackity thinks that anything involving my torment is funny,” the man grumbles, shoving a rolling chair out of his way so he can get to his desk. “Besides, what the hell does he know?” 

“Magic, apparently,” Tommy points out, still suppressing a grin. “Lots of it.”

Wilbur waves his hand to the side. “Ugh. Magic smagick. He’s a loser, and a big one at that.” 

Tommy allows himself to let out a giggle, walking over to stand at Wilbur’s side so he can get a closer look at the blueprint on the table. He feels a bit lightheaded, but he ignores the feeling. Just dehydration, surely, he thinks. 

“So,” Wilbur turns his head to look down at Tommy, a small smile on his face. “How was your day at school, kiddo?”

Tommy shrugs, still frowning down at the blueprint as he tries to work out its contents. “Fine, I guess.”

“I heard that Phil had to pick you up from your flat because you forgot it was a Thursday.”

Tommy groans dramatically. “I should’ve known that he was going to snitch on me.”

“Of course he did. He tells me everything,” Wilbur says ominously, but there’s a lot of amusement resting in his tone. He reaches out with his elbow, gently knocking it against Tommy’s forearm. “Are you doing alright there, spiderling? It’s not like you to forget the days of the week.”

That is, unfortunately, true. 

While Tommy tends to lose himself in thought during the summertime, he simply does not have time to forget what day it is during the week. Thursdays are lab days, Mondays and Wednesdays tend to be reserved for after school robotics, and Fridays are lunch-with-Puffy (aka, when her lunch break is extended, and she’s able to pick him up from school and head down to their favourite cafe. It’s one of the many reasons that Thursdays and Fridays are Tommy's favourite days in the week). 

The only times that Tommy tends to ‘lose himself’ are during finals or midterms. Even though he’d normally expect himself to understand which days are which for the sake of what midterms he’ll have on what days, surprisingly, he has not a single damn clue. All he knows is what midterm or final he has on that day: Monday? No, that’s English day. Thursday? Nope! That’s actually Honours Biology day. 

Tommy grimaces slightly to himself. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, big man,” he tries, getting closer to the desk so that he can find some way to change the subject. “Just tired, that’s all. Had a particularly strenuous day.”

Wilbur makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I get that. We can postpone today’s lab day then, if you’d like—”

“No!” Tommy interrupts immediately, looking over at Wilbur with wide eyes. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “I mean- sorry, I uhm, I’d like to continue with the lab day.” It’s one of the few things during the week that I actually get to look forward to. 

There’s something unreadable behind Wilbur’s eyes as he examines Tommy, his head tilted slightly to the right, as though Tommy’s some particularly interesting essay on engineering. 

“Alright,” Wilbur says after the pause, reaching out to pat Tommy gently on the shoulder. “Let me know if you get tired though, okay? We can always take a break. Hell knows that I need them, too.”

Tommy nods, giving a small smile. “Yeah, yeah- ‘course.” 

Wilbur returns the smile before looking down at the blueprints on the table. He takes a breath and puts his hands on his hips, taking on that posture he has whenever he’s about to go on a long-winded rant about something he’s interested in. (It’s one of the many, many things that multiple people within the Avengers have pointed out to him and Tommy as reasons they must be related). 

“Here’s the plan for today, then,” he claps his hands together, turning with a slightly wild grin towards Tommy. “You ready?” 

“Always,” Tommy responds, wearing a grin that closely matches Wilbur’s own.

—

Tommy starts to feel dizzy again. 

He’d been feeling slightly better, at first, when Wilbur had insisted that he take a ten minute break during the half hour mark to have a cup of water and one of Wilbur’s famous apple-and-kale smoothies (that he’d definitely learned from all those cooking videos Phil watches). 

Sure, there were coughing fits every now and then, paired with the occasional sneeze, but the most he got from that was a weird look from Wilbur. He tried to chalk it up to pollen being in the air, but he isn’t too sure if Wilbur believed him. He did drop the subject, though, so that was a perk. 

Now, because Tommy truly does not have the best luck, it’s starting to return to him—the aching feeling in between his ribs, the throbbing in his temples, and that extremely odd feeling in his head and body. The one that makes him feel as though he’s floating, sort of like that one time he’d asked Quackity to show him one of his magic tricks and the man had waved his finger around, making him lift up into the air. It was awesome (even though Wilbur might’ve had a small heart attack upon walking into the Avengers meeting room and finding Tommy floating five feet in the air). 

Tommy had thought that maybe, if he just avoided it, it would go away. Unfortunately, that’s not how you solve problems. 

Adding even more to his unfortunance, Wilbur Soot is a force that cannot be reckoned with. And by that logic, it means that when he begins to think that something really is wrong with Tommy, he won’t shut up until he figures out what it is. 

Tommy’s head has nearly fallen to the side for the third time as he’s working on a part of the large device—a new hand for Wilbur’s suit, which had recently experienced a failure out in the field after a particularly obnoxious opponent with green slime for its powers disabled the iron suit’s repulsors—when Wilbur finally speaks up about it.

“Hey,” an elbow nudges Tommy, and he turns, blinking up at Wilbur in confusion. The man’s watching him with that weird expression again; all eyebrows furrowed and nose wrinkled. His cheek is smudged with grease, and his hair is wild, which makes Tommy resist a laugh. “What’s up, Toms?”

Tommy pauses, letting Wilbur’s words register for a few seconds before humming. “Huh?”

“What’s up?” Wilbur repeats, setting the screwdriver he’d been holding down onto the table. “You’ve almost fallen asleep on me twice here, kiddo. Did you not get enough rest last night? You know, Tommy, I’ve tried telling you not to go patrolling on weekdays—”

“I didn’t go patrolling last night,” Tommy interrupts, hands lifting in mock defence. “I promise, big man, I just…” he slowly lowers his hands, averting his gaze. “I had a lot to do today, that’s all.” 

Wilbur raises an eyebrow, looking unconvinced. “Do I need to check your suit’s camera to verify that?” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, putting his chin into his hand. He knows that he’s probably—no, most definitely—getting grease onto his face, but he’s too exhausted and used to it to care much.

“You can if you’d like,” he mutters, “But I didn’t.”

Wilbur stares at him for a few moments, before sighing. He runs a hand through his fringe, only proceeding to mess it up more than it already had been. He looks like he wants to say something more about this topic, maybe bring up a couple other times where Tommy lied to him about patrolling or otherwise, but instead he simply stands up.

Tommy scoots back in his chair, feeling a bit taken aback and confused, until Wilbur claps his hands together. 

“How about some cookies then, huh?” He asks, smiling. “We can take a break from this until next week. Wash up, bake some cookies, maybe watch a movie until you have to go back home. How’s that sound?”

Tommy makes a face. “But we were making really good progress on the hand, Mr Soot. We still have enough time to finish up some more adjustments before I have to leave.”

“Nope,” Wilbur pops the ‘p,’ walking over to Tommy and offering him his hand. “Let’s go, up and at ‘em. We’re making cookies now because I said so.”

Tommy’s nose wrinkles, but he takes Wilbur’s hand anyways, knowing that any argument he tries to muster up will just fall flat. When it came to winning arguments, Wilbur reigned supreme. 

“Fine, jeez,” Tommy mutters, stumbling over his own feet as Wilbur pulls him towards the kitchen. His head is spinning from how quickly he’d gotten up, which is probably what’s making his ability to walk even worse, but he’s lucky that Wilbur knows he’s naturally clumsy (and is, hopefully, chalking it up to just that). “Are they at least chocolate chip?”

Wilbur hums, letting go of Tommy’s forearm to open the fridge. Tommy moves away from him to lean against the kitchen counter instead, in dire need of some support so he doesn’t completely keel over. 

“Let’s see…” Wilbur bends down, examining the contents of the fridge. Unlike the one that he keeps in the top level of the building, this fridge is stocked with snacks and goods needed to make smoothies—an array of different types of food that are typically required during the midst of a ‘brainstorm session’ where the idea of making anything that requires a lot of brainwork is impossible. “I had Phil go to the store a few days ago, it looks like he got… snickerdoodle, peanut butter, and double chocolate chip.”

Tommy perks up. “Double chocolate chip?” 

“Yep.” Wilbur cranes his head over to look at him, a grin on his face. It’s an expression that is a rarity with Wilbur.

When Tommy was younger and saw him on the news occasionally, the man never smiled. When he did, Tommy could always tell that it was fake. Not once did he ever seem genuinely happy to be doing what he was.

One of the very few times that Tommy swore he could see Wilbur’s genuine smile back then was during his Expos, when he looked actually excited to be discussing things he had interest in. 

Wilbur’s voice breaks through Tommy’s train of thought. “Those are your favourite, right?” 

“What?” Tommy blinks, then nods. “Oh- yeah. They are.”

“Great,” Wilbur pulls the package out and shuts the fridge door. “Will you do me a favour and get the can of PAM out of the cupboard? I had a non-stick pan, but I used it earlier this morning to make pizza rolls.”

Tommy snorts, already turning on his heel to get the cooking spray out of the cupboard. He’s memorised where nearly everything is in this kitchen after months and months having spent hours in this room. 

“Pizza rolls?” He questions, aghast. He has to stand up on his tippy toes to reach the top cupboards, which is unfortunate. Maybe he should convince Wilbur to start stocking things in the lower ones instead (even though those are primarily used for spare parts). “I don’t think those even stick to pans to begin with.” 

“I know,” Wilbur’s saying, but for some reason his voice sounds extremely distant. Tommy reaches up further, still unable to quite grab the PAM… if only he had a stool. No, he can’t ask Wilbur for that. He’d never hear the end of it. “But I was tired, and you know, I’m not exactly a morning person…”

Wilbur’s voice fades off into the distance, instead replaced with a ringing in both of Tommy’s ears. That’s odd, but not abnormal. Tommy decides to ignore it, instead leaning forward and hoisting himself slightly onto the countertop until he’s properly grabbed the can of PAM.

Triumphant that he was able to retrieve it without asking for Wilbur’s help, he spins around and holds the can out for Wilbur to see. The man is watching him with an amused expression from where he stands by the oven, but for some reason, it falls flat almost instantly. 

Tommy barely has time to ask what happened before his vision goes black.

Tommy comes to due to the sound of a crackling flame. 

It’s an incredibly odd, out-of-place noise that is the main reason that he opens his eyes when he does. If it were up to him and not entirely to his instincts that scream ‘Hey, that doesn’t sound right,’ then he would’ve left his eyes closed. 

The first thing that he notices is that he’s not at home. Although, that probably should have been obvious, considering the fact that the last time he checked, he doesn’t have a fireplace in his flat.

If he did, it’d probably be some cause for concern when it came to fire hazards. It was already bad enough that his fire alarm tended to go off at random times throughout the month for no reason at all. 

The room that he’s in, however, is not unfamiliar. He’s spent many nights in it before, curled up on the exact same sofa he’s currently sprawled out on, but those times were always filled with laughter and noise.

Tonight, it’s empty and quiet, with only the fireplace crackling giving him any sort of company.

It’s funny, he thinks. He hadn’t even known that fireplace worked. He thought that it was just for show, like many of the other random things he finds in Wilbur’s Tower. He’d even asked him once if the thing worked, only to get a resounding ‘I don’t know, I’ve only got it because it added more of a flair to the living room.’ 

Tommy had rolled his eyes back then, but now, he’s just confused. 

He slowly sits up, wincing a bit at how the pounding in his temples only worsens. That’s probably not good. 

He runs a hand along the fabric that’s been draped over him, feeling a pang of warmth when he recognises it as his blanket.

It’s Doctor Who themed, with a giant photo of the TARDIS plastered on the centre. Tommy had seen it in a Target advertisement online once and had practically lost his shit over it.

He hadn’t expected to find the blanket lying over the back of the sofa the day after. When he’d asked about it, Mr Soot had simply smiled into his morning cup of coffee.

“Tommy?” A voice startles him and he turns, nerves on edge. He calms, though, when he notices that it’s only Phil, dressed in green pyjamas, standing in the doorway between the living room and the Avengers’ kitchen. 

Usually Tommy’s spidey sense lets him know when there’s somebody nearby. It’s strange that it didn't happen this time. Maybe he really is sick. Fuck. 

“Hey, Mr Phil,” Tommy whispers, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Jesus, how long has he been out? Probably not very long, considering the fact that he still feels exhausted. “Wha’s goin’ on? Where’s Mr Soot?”

Phil hums, leaning against the doorframe. He’s got a weird look on his face.

“He’s in the other room chatting with your aunt,” he says. 

Tommy’s eyes widen a fraction, his hand already moving to throw the blankets off of his legs. “My aunt? What- is everything okay? Is she hurt? Was there an accident at the hospital—?”

“Tommy,” Phil interrupts, hands held up. He’s moved a lot closer to Tommy now, standing only a few feet back from the sofa. “Calm down, kid. Your aunt’s fine.”

Tommy blinks, hand frozen in place from where he’d begun to throw his blanket onto the ground. “She is? Then why’s he calling her?”

Phil grimaces, as though he’d very much rather not be the one having this conversation. “He’s calling about you, actually.” 

Tommy’s heart sinks in his chest. He deflates a little, leaning back against the armchair of the sofa. Had he done something wrong? In all honesty, Tommy can’t even remember how he got onto the sofa in the first place. 

Shit… did he fall asleep before him and Wilbur could even work on their project? No, that doesn’t sound right… he remembers working with him on it, but it’s a bit blurry. His head still hurts. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, fidgeting with the fuzz on the blanket. He pauses a moment, then whispers in a quieter tone, “Did I disappoint him?” 

Phil flinches back as though he’d been pinched on the arm. “I- what?”

“Did I disappoint him?” Tommy repeats, avoiding Phil’s eyes. “I, uhm… sometimes, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I mean- I do, I just- Mr Soot’s a lot smarter than I am, and sometimes I can get things wrong—”

“No, Tommy, no,” Phil’s quick to interrupt. “Mr Soot isn’t angry with you, nor is he disappointed. In fact, I’d say he’s the opposite of both of those.”

Tommy frowns, looking up at Phil now. “What?”

A small, but strained, smile crosses Phil’s face. “He’s worried about you, Toms.”

“Worried?” Tommy’s frown deepens. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tommy flinches at the sound of Wilbur’s voice, head turning. The man has just walked into the room from the hall, hair tousled in a way that tells Tommy he’d been anxiously running his hands through it. He’s also exchanged the dirtied Los Campensinos! T-shirt that he’d been wearing earlier for a fuzzy yellow turtleneck and grey sweatpants. He looks… decidedly not happy. “Maybe he’s worried because you fainted in the middle of his kitchen.” 

Tommy watches him, unsure of whether he should feel concerned for his own safety or confused. “I- what?”

Wilbur sighs. He moves his hand up to pinch the space between his eyes, having to manoeuvre his iconic circular glasses out of the way to do so. 

“We were about to bake cookies,” Wilbur begins, crossing the room to begin brewing himself another cup of coffee in the kitchen. Tommy might be wrong, but it looks as though the man’s had a little more than his normal ‘five cups a day’ tradition. “You went to get a can of cooking spray out of the cabinet and then dropped right onto the fucking ground.” 

“Wil-” Phil tries, a grimace on his face.

Wilbur shoots him a dark look that makes him close his mouth. It’s one of the very, very few times that Wilbur is the one who’s silencing Phil rather than the other way around. 

For some reason, it only puts Tommy more on edge, especially when Phil takes this as a sign to leave the room with only an exhale of defeat following him. 

“I-” Tommy blinks furiously as the memories rush back. Ah. That dream he’d thought wasn’t real had happened, then. He’s suddenly wishing that Phil had stayed behind to be a buffer. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Wilbur sighs again, pulling his mug from the coffee maker. He turns to level Tommy with a look. This time, Tommy can see something behind his mask of carefully crafted disappointment; worry. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were sick, Tommy?” 

Tommy looks away, moving so that his knees are pressed up against his chest. His body complains at the movement, but he ignores it. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. 

“You don’t know,” Wilbur repeats, sounding tired. 

The conversation ends there for a minute, leaving Tommy feeling as though a house of shame has just collapsed onto his shoulders. 

He takes a shuddering breath, setting his chin on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“Tommy-”

“Really, Mr Soot,” Tommy whispers, hugging his knees closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t- I wasn’t sure if I really was sick, I thought maybe I was just dehydrated and- you know, I didn’t know for certain if I could even get sick because I’m Spider-Man now, and Spider-Man doesn’t get sick, so maybe I…”

He trails off, unsure of what more to say. His eyes sting a little bit, but he swallows the lump that’s growing in his throat. The last thing that he needs to do is cry over something like this. 

“Toms?” Wilbur’s voice is much closer now, and once again, Tommy is slightly startled that his spidey sense hadn’t made him aware of the man moving. When he looks up, Wilbur’s kneeling down beside the sofa, his eyebrows pinched together in thought. 

He reaches out, gently wiping a tear away from underneath Tommy’s eye. When he speaks again, he sounds softer, almost… horrified, in a way. “You’re crying.”

Tommy shakes his head, backing out of Wilbur’s hand and reaching up to press his palms to his cheeks. “No, I’m not. I sneezed, so now my eyes are all watery.”

Wilbur gives him a deadpan look, but it’s heavily corroded by the swirl of guilt in his eyes. “Tommy, I would’ve heard you sneeze.”

“It was a silent sneeze.”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment, before humming. He stands, moving so that he is sat down in front of Tommy on the sofa. 

He turns, setting his hands on his knees and taking a breath. He doesn’t say anything for a good minute, so Tommy looks back at the weirdly placed fireplace on the other side of the living room.

“Tom, can…” Wilbur takes a deep breath. “Can I hug you?” 

Tommy startles, swivelling his head around to the man as though he’s just been burned. “Huh?”

Wilbur looks rather uncomfortable, but as he does with every topic of conversation, he does not back down.

“Can I hug you?” he repeats, examining Tommy’s face. “It’s okay if you don’t like hugs, or if you don’t want one, but—”

Tommy sneezes into the crook of his elbow, which makes Wilbur cringe slightly. 

“Sorry,” Tommy whispers in apology, feeling sheepish. “To answer your question, I do want to hug you, but…”

He gestures towards himself and gives a dramatic sniff through his nose, indicating how sick he is by the congestion that sounds whenever he takes a deep breath. As expected, Wilbur’s face contorts with disgust even further.

However, instead of backing off like Tommy thought he might, Wilbur leans forwards and pulls Tommy against his chest. 

“Sickness can fuck right off,” Wilbur mutters overhead, tugging Tommy close. “I only get sick if I say so.”

The hug is so out of nowhere and bewildering that Tommy genuinely has to sit there for a few moments, processing the very fact that he is currently leaning against Wilbur, before it finally clicks. Wilbur hugged him. He’s hugging him.

His eyes sting again, so he turns his face to hide it in the fabric of Wilbur’s comfortable sweater. He had never realised just how soft it was. 

Wilbur’s arms wind around his back, pulling him close as he settles his chin on top of Tommy’s head. Somehow, it isn’t awkward, not like the many other times that Tommy’s gone to hug him (on instinct alone) and found that each time only ended in an inconvenience. He took it as a sign from the universe that maybe Mr Soot doesn’t like hugs, but maybe he was wrong. 

As if to answer his question, Wilbur gives him a squeeze. 

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur whispers overhead. Another rare thing to hear from Wilbur were those words. It wasn’t entirely abnormal, but it was still unusual nonetheless. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like I did. Especially not when you’re sick. You’re already going through so much, kiddo, and…” he shakes his head, his arms tightening slightly around Tommy. “I’m sorry. I’m not really good at this whole ‘emotions’ ordeal.” 

Tommy goes to remark something like ‘That’s always been obvious,’ but he decides to hold his tongue for once. Instead, he burrows his face further into Wilbur’s jumper. 

“I care about you,” Wilbur remarks quietly. His hand has begun to move up and down Tommy’s back comfortingly. It reminds Tommy a bit of when Aunt Puffy holds him after a particularly rough day at school—she always rubs circles into his back while he tries to remember how to breathe. “A lot, actually. I know I don’t always show it, and I’m well aware of how the whole ‘Wilbur Soot doesn’t have a heart’ thing is extremely hilarious to those that work in the media, but… it’s not true. When it come to you, or Phil, or- fuck it, even the rest of the Avengers, man. It’s different.

“When I saw you pass out in that kitchen, I thought that you were hurt, that maybe you had gone off patrolling during school hours and I hadn’t known about it,” Wilbur continues. “I know how you are with being polite and not wanting to bother people, but Christ, Toms. You scared the shit out of me.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, even though his thoughts are practically screaming at him. 

This is probably one of the very first times that he’s ever heard Wilbur be this genuine with him. Normally, it’s ‘I don’t give a shit’ this and ‘Maybe if you’d been better’ that, and sure, Tommy can always see underneath all of that asshole-ry that Wilbur puts up, but this time… it’s clear as day.

Unfortunately, Wilbur does not take Tommy’s silence as shock, but rather as stubbornness. Or maybe, even that he’s still upset with him. Not that Tommy ever was to begin with. 

“Talk to me, kid,” Wilbur urges, sounding stressed. He gives him another  gentle squeeze. “I know I shot you down back there, and I’m sorry, but please— speak to me. I don’t know what to do when you go all silent like this.”

Tommy clears his throat, hopefully ridding it from whatever lump had been growing in there again.

Even though he’s only known Wilbur for a little while, Tommy feels as though he can read him like a book. Maybe not entirely—the man can be very confusing—but only slightly. 

The same tends to go for all of Tommy’s friends.

When Ranboo’s upset, they tend to shut down. Their eyebrows furrow and they curl in on themselves, content to lose all form of thought and mindfulness to whatever voice in their head is telling them that they’ve done something wrong. With Tubbo, it’s the opposite—he gets loud and in your face about things until he’s eventually calmed. 

Aunt Puffy is the emotional sort; anger and sadness come to her much easier than anyone else Tommy knows. It’s not difficult to tell when something has bothered her. 

With Wilbur Soot, however, things are different. When he gets frantic, he decides automatically that he needs to fix something, whether it’s some one or some thing. If he can’t fix it, that only makes him worse. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says finally, his voice quiet. He can hear Wilbur’s breathing underneath his ear, a shuddering breath after the next. “For, uhm… for everything. For crying, for- I don’t know.”

Tommy can tell that Wilbur’s already gearing up to tell him to stop apologising (something that has become a tradition in their relationship), so Tommy continues before he can say anything. “But most of all, I’m sorry for not telling you that I was sick. In- really, in all honesty, I kinda just forgot?”

Wilbur’s expression falls again, eyebrow raising. He pulls back from the hug to level Tommy with a look. “You just forgot that you were sick?”

Tommy smiles up at him sheepishly. “Like I said, I didn’t even know that I could get sick—”

“I know, Toms. I know,” Wilbur sighs, pressing his face into his hands. He shifts, letting go of Tommy entirely and rising from the sofa. His tone, to any other person, would probably sound disappointed, but Tommy knows him well enough by now to hear the traces of amusement underneath. “Jesus Christ, kid. What am I going to do with you?” 

“I dunno,” Tommy pulls the blanket over his shoulders once more so that he’s wrapped in what Tubbo had once dubbed a cocoon. He watches, feeling only vaguely crestfallen that Wilbur’s not hugging him anymore, as the man bends down and picks his forgotten coffee mug up from the floor. “Maybe you could make me some hot chocolate?”

“Nuh-uh, no way,” Wilbur waves his finger in disapproval, turning to give Tommy a frown. “Just because you’re a little bit off the hook now doesn’t mean you can start ordering me around, spiderling.” 

“But I’m sick!” Tommy complains, tossing his head back against the back of the sofa in a flair of dramatics. “You can’t deny a man hot chocolate when he’s sick, Mr Soot!”

“See, if you would have told me that when you first got here, then maybe I would have made you hot chocolate,” Wilbur says, giving him a raised eyebrow look akin to that one video of the Rock that Ranboo finds so funny. “But now, nope. Nada. Zilch. No hot chocolate for you.”

Tommy huffs, burying himself further into his blanket. “If Big Q were here, he’d make me hot chocolate.”

Wilbur scoffs, already walking into the kitchen. “Quackity doesn’t even have to do anything to get you hot chocolate. He can just make it appear out of thin air, the absolute asshole.”

“You really need to work your issues out with him,” Tommy says, before letting out a loud and rather sudden sneeze. He can hear something clatter in the kitchen. He must’ve startled Wilbur, too. “He’s not that awful of a guy. Seriously.”

“You only like him because he shows you magic tricks made for kids' birthday parties,” Wilbur retorts. There’s another clatter, but this time, Tommy can’t pinpoint its reasoning. “I, personally, think he’s absolutely irritating. And an egotistical prick.”

Before Tommy can even say anything, though, Wilbur adds on, “And yes, I know that’s hypocritical coming from me. But in my defence, there can only be one asshole billionaire out there and it’s me.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples again to try and coax the migraine back off. “I dunno how to tell you this, Mr Soot, but there are a lot more billionaires out there who are assholes than there are ones that aren’t.”

“None of them are as cool as me, though,” Wilbur says, tsking. His voice grows closer as he continues to speak. “I’m the best of them all. Wanna know why?”

“Why?” Tommy questions, facial expression contorting when he receives a flick in the back of the head.

Tommy turns his head over his shoulder, watching as Wilbur takes a seat rather fluidly onto the sofa once more. He’s carrying a large food tray that they usually use for movie nights to hold the mass amount of bowls containing snacks. 

Instead of popcorn and chocolate covered pretzels, there are two mugs sitting on top of the tray. There’s also a very obvious bottle of medicine sitting amongst the two mugs that Tommy tries to blatantly pretend he does not take notice of. 

Wilbur smirks, holding one of the mugs—one of Tommy’s favourites, a mug with a painted dog on the front—out for the kid to take. 

“Because I’m Iron Man,” he responds with a shrug, as though he’d been entirely nonchalant about it this whole time. “And as Iron Man, I am hereby requesting that you pick out a movie for us to watch.” 

Tommy frowns, warming his hands with the mug clasped in between them. He feels a distinct wave of relief wash over him—a peaceful sort of happiness resting akin to the blanket settled on his shoulders.

“A movie?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Wilbur sets the tray onto the table and grabs the medicine bottle from it. He holds it up in the air, shaking it a little. Tommy grimaces. 

“Shouldn’t I be getting home to Aunt Puffy, though?” Tommy asks, internally recoiling at the potential look on his aunt’s face when he eventually has to walk in through the front door. If Wilbur is scary, then Aunt Puffy is terrifying. 

Wilbur shakes his head, uncapping the medicine and pouring some of it into the clear plastic cup that comes with it.

The medicine must be new, Tommy thinks. It’s strange that Wilbur didn’t get him some sort of pill medication. Does he somehow know that Tommy prefers liquid? 

“I called your aunt a little bit ago,” Wilbur confirms, squinting at the medicine cap in the darkness to make sure it’s filled enough. “She said that you were allowed to stay over here tonight.”

“On a school night?” Tommy questions, incredulous. 

Wilbur hums, holding the medicine cup out for Tommy to take. Tommy’s grimace only worsens, but he decides not to argue on this one. 

A silence fills the room as Tommy downs the medicine in the cup in one swig, his face filled with disgust. He sets it down onto the coffee table when it’s empty and leans back into the sofa cushions with a shiver. At least it’s not bubblegum flavoured, though. Those are the worst. 

Wilbur reaches forwards for the television remote and then leans back, clicking the TV on. He only flicks through the different streaming services for a few seconds before pressing on Disney .

“First of all, you can spend the night here whenever you want, even if it is a school night,” Wilbur says suddenly, not even glancing over at him as he shifts through the different Disney and Pixar movies. “The only difference would be the fact that I would be waking you up in the morning instead of Puffy, which I’m sure is one of the last things that you want.

“Second of all, it isn’t a school night for you anymore. I’m not letting you go to school sick, what do you think I have, a death wish?” Wilbur shakes his head, shuddering. “If the parents got wind of me letting you go to school with a cold, they’d ruin my reputation, and you know that I can’t let anything diminish the public’s eye of me.” 

Tommy knows that is one of the least true things that Wilbur has spoken, which is definitely saying something.

The man doesn’t care about his reputation. Really, he never has. The only one who seems to get thoroughly upset about the long list of skeletons in Wilbur’s closet that are inevitably revealed by irritating reporters is everyone but Wilbur.

Even Tommy on occasions has laid into people for spreading false rumours about Wilbur. One would think that people would shut the fuck up about things he’s done after he became Iron Man, but Tommy supposes not. 

Plus, Wilbur isn’t even fully acknowledged as one of Tommy’s emergency contacts. He’d never tell the man this—God forbid he ever finds out, that would be a field day—but it’s true. 

The parents would only blame Aunt Puffy. Tommy would rather avoid that instance for as long as he can, though. 

It’s happened a few times beforehand, with people from the school board claiming that Puffy’s late night shifts at the veterinary clinic gave Tommy all sorts of diseases which he could pass on to their children at school, when it was never true. 

“They weren’t even from the school board to begin with—they were just dignified parents with too much money that thought they were important enough to be on the school board.” Ranboo had grumbled to him one evening while they were having a sleepover. 

For some reason, they’d been particularly frazzled about the ordeal, having heard about all of the inside comments from their parents, who were also a part of the school board.

Luckily, though, Ranboo’s and Tubbo’s parents alike had always been a fan of Tommy and were quite good friends of Puffy’s. They were some of the few that had actively advocated on Puffy’s behalf.

“Okay, fine,” Tommy reaches over, snatching the remote from Wilbur’s hand aggressively. “No school. But like you said, I’m picking the movie that we watch tonight.” 

The corner of Wilbur’s mouth twitches. “Of course, Toms. I did tell you that you could, anyways.”

“Good.” Tommy takes a sip of his hot chocolate as he clicks on Lilo and Stitch. He can hear Wilbur groan beside him—he’s made him watch this movie multiple times already. 

Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t hear a verbal complaint. 

Instead, Wilbur reaches over and, slightly awkwardly, pulls Tommy into his side whilst muttering something along the lines of dumb child. 

Tommy shoots him a glare before sneezing into his elbow again. “Bitch.”

Wilbur makes a face. “I already regret hugging you.”

“What the fuck?” 

“You’re going to get me sick,” Wilbur mutters despite jostling Tommy closer. “I can’t add catching a cold to my list of things that I have to deal with this week. I have a lot of meetings I have to attend, you know.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, taking another comforting sip of his hot chocolate. “You’re the one who’s hugging me, idiot.”

Wilbur gasps, faux-offended. “‘Idiot?’ I’ll have you know that’s probably… the second time I’ve ever been called that in my life.”

Tommy just smiles to himself, leaning his head against Wilbur’s side. 

“Sorry, big man,” he apologises quietly. 

Wilbur sighs, but it’s more fond than anything this time. “We’ve really got to do something about that apologising problem of yours, Toms.” 

Tommy hums, feeling slightly smug. “Sorry.”

“Tommy, I swear to God, if you apologise one more time, I’m not going to allow you to work on the arm project anymore.”

Tommy’s eyes widen. “What the f-” he pauses to let out a string of coughs. “What the hell, Mr Soot? We’ve been making such good progress with it!”

“Exactly, so quit apologising.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, a small curl of warmth appearing in his stomach. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but Wilbur beats him to it.

“And if you say you’re sorry for saying sorry,” the man interjects, reaching over to flick Tommy in the face jokingly. “I will ground you.”

Banning Tommy from working on the arm project was one thing, but grounding him entirely? What the fuck? 

“That’s-” Tommy begins, flabbergasted. “You can’t do that.”

Wilbur smirks, continuing to watch the movie that’s playing instead of looking over at him. “I could, though. Didn’t you know that your aunt gave me permission to ground you whenever I wanted?”

“She-” Tommy sighs, bringing his hands to his face in horror. “That’s too much power. She definitely didn’t do that. That’s terrible. You’re going to use that against me constantly.”

Wilbur’s smirk only widens. “Definitely. You know to stop crossing the line now, spiderling, otherwise I’ll sentence you to twenty-four seven dishwashing.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy. That’s so awful.”

“You wouldn’t have time to patrol,” Wilbur points out.

Oh. Okay, maybe that really is awful.

“Arrogant prick.” Tommy grumbles despite curling up against Wilbur’s side further. The exhaustion is starting to hit him again, seeping further into his bones. 

Wilbur hums, an arm wrapping around Tommy’s shoulders lightly. “That’s what they say in the news.”

“Ignore the news,” Tommy mumbles, closing his eyes. “They suck.”

Wilbur sighs like a man who has seen too much. “I know full well how shitty it is.”

Tommy hums, eyes still closed and mind slowly shutting down. “Mhm. Think they tried to dox me once.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Tommy has nearly fallen asleep, when the sudden “What?” coming out of Wilbur’s mouth in a hiss startles him back awake.

Ah. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. 

Whoops.