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Wilbur hadn’t given much thought to why Tommy always wore long sleeves. At first, it had seemed practical—he was a street kid, a runaway. Long clothing like hoodies and sweatpants kept him warm, protected him from the bite of wind, and could be repurposed in a pinch.
Wilbur had spent enough time in the underbelly of the city to know that life out there was brutal. Layers were armour, another barrier between your body and the world.
Besides, Tommy always said he got cold easily. It wasn’t unusual to see him wrapped up, even when the weather was milder, and Wilbur hadn’t pushed him on it.
He thought of it as one of Tommy’s quirks—another thing that made him, well, Tommy.
The kid always seemed to have his hood pulled up, his hands buried in his pockets. Maybe it was a comfort thing. After all, who could blame him?
Considering the world they lived in, filled with crime, superheroes, and villains—Wilbur being among them—the streets were rougher than most could imagine.
So Wilbur let it lie.
Until the call came.
It had been late. The air in the city had that heavy, oppressive weight to it that only came at night, when the streets were quiet, and everything felt dangerous.
Wilbur had just been finishing a job, his hands still dirty from it, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d barely registered the sound, thinking it was just another update from one of his crew.
But then the voice came through. A soft, broken sound, barely more than a rasp.
“Wilbur?”
Tommy’s voice, rough and pained, cut through him like a blade.
“Tommy?” Wilbur’s heart stopped. He dropped everything, the world around him fading as panic flared. “Where are you? What happened?”
Tommy’s response was almost inaudible, a few breathy words choked between coughs. “Will- …” a choked sound came through the speaker. “H-help-.”
That was all Wilbur needed to hear.
He was out the door before he’d even processed it, his legs moving on instinct. The streetlights blurred as he ran, his mind racing faster than his feet. Techno, who had been with him that night, immediately followed, his usually calm demeanour tight with concern.
Wilbur barely noticed, his thoughts entirely consumed by Tommy.
They found him in the alleyway, crumpled against the cold, unforgiving brick of a building. The sight was worse than anything Wilbur could’ve imagined. Tommy’s arm was twisted at a horrifying angle, the bones jutting in ways that should’ve been impossible.
Burns, angry and red, marred his skin, curling from his shoulder down his side. Blood and dirt caked his face, the light in his eyes dim as he fought to stay conscious.
Wilbur skidded to his knees beside him, his hands hovering over Tommy’s battered form. His fingers trembled as he reached out, brushing hair out of Tommy’s face. “Tommy, oh my god—Tommy, what happened?”
Tommy barely stirred, his head lolling weakly. A soft whimper escaped him, the sound of pure agony.
Wilbur’s stomach clenched painfully. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? We’re gonna get you home, I promise.” His voice shook, the desperation thick in his throat as he turned to Techno. “We need to move him—now.”
Techno didn’t say a word, already kneeling beside him, his hands gentler than anyone would expect as he assessed Tommy’s injuries.
With a nod, Techno moved to support Tommy’s broken arm, and together, they lifted him as carefully as they could. Tommy let out a small cry of pain, and Wilbur’s heart cracked, but there was no other option. They had to get him somewhere safe.
As they carried him through the streets, Wilbur kept whispering reassurances, soft promises, anything to keep Tommy grounded.
His voice was a shaky murmur of affection, broken by the tears that threatened to fall with every breath.
“You’re okay, Tommy. I’ve got you. No one’s gonna hurt you again. You’re safe now.”
The journey back felt endless. Tommy’s breaths came in sharp gasps, his body shivering against the cold as his head lolled weakly against Wilbur’s shoulder.
Every now and then, he’d let out a soft whimper, and it took everything in Wilbur not to break down on the spot.
They moved as fast as they could without jostling him too much, but it still felt like an eternity before they finally reached home.
Once inside, the gravity of Tommy’s condition truly hit.
The hoodie he was wearing—the one that had always seemed like a harmless comfort—was stuck to his skin, the fabric fused to his burns. Wilbur felt a wave of nausea rise as he stared at the mess of blood and melted cloth.
He could barely breathe through the thick fog of panic clouding his mind.
“Tommy,” Wilbur murmured softly, kneeling beside him, trying to find the right words. “We—we need to get this off you, okay? We have to help you.”
Tommy’s response was instant. His eyes, glazed with pain and fever, went wide with terror as he shook his head violently. “No—no, please don’t,” he sobbed, his voice barely more than a breath. “Don’t—don’t take it off, please!”
Wilbur’s heart shattered. He reached out, cupping Tommy’s cheek gently, wiping away the tears that had started to fall. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But we need to take it off, baby. We need to help you.”
But Tommy’s breathing only grew more frantic, his body trembling in Wilbur’s arms. “No, no, no, please—” His voice was so broken, so desperate, that it almost destroyed Wilbur.
“I can’t—” Wilbur’s voice cracked, tears now freely falling down his face. He couldn’t do it. Not when Tommy was pleading with him like this.
Techno, calm even in the face of all this, gently placed a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “I’ll do it,” he said quietly. “You just stay with him.”
Wilbur nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and pulled Tommy closer, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead. “I’ve got you,” he whispered over and over again, his voice trembling. “I’ve got you.”
Techno worked quickly, cutting away the fabric with a steady hand. Each snip of the scissors felt like a knife twisting deeper into Wilbur’s chest, especially when Tommy whimpered, the sound so broken and pained.
But Techno was careful, working around the burns as best he could.
And then the hoodie came off.
Wilbur’s breath stilled in his throat.
Tommy’s chest and stomach were a canvas of scars—long, jagged lines crisscrossing from his shoulder down to his hip, each one a violent reminder of the hell he’d lived through.
There were gunshot wounds, old and faded but still horrifying. And slashes—so many slashes, as if someone had taken a blade to him over and over again.
The scars from the stitches were uneven and rough, clearly done by a shaking hand. Tommy had patched himself up. Alone.
Wilbur couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.
“God, Tommy…” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Techno had frozen beside him, his usual stoic mask cracked with something darker—rage, grief, guilt. But he said nothing, only reaching for the healing potions with a quiet resolve.
Wilbur tightened his hold on Tommy, his tears falling into the boy’s hair. “No one will ever hurt you again,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I promise you. I promise, my baby. My sweet boy.”
Tommy whimpered, his body shaking in Wilbur’s arms as Techno began tending to his burns, the potions doing their work. But even the magic couldn’t erase the scars.
It felt like hours before Techno finally sat back, his work done, though Tommy would still need time to heal.
Wilbur hadn’t moved, hadn’t let go, his arms wrapped protectively around Tommy as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
“He’s okay now,” Techno said quietly, his voice softer than usual. “But it was close.”
Wilbur just nodded, his voice lost somewhere between his panic and his grief.
Techno stood, ruffling Tommy’s hair gently before giving Wilbur’s shoulder a squeeze. “He’s family,” Techno murmured, a rare softness in his voice. “We look after family.”
Wilbur gave him a weak smile, watching as Techno left the room, leaving him alone with Tommy once again.
As the door clicked shut, Wilbur pressed another kiss to Tommy’s forehead, holding him as close as he dared. “You’re safe now,” he whispered into the silence. “You’re safe.”
~~~
Once the room was quiet, the low hum of the city outside barely registering through the heavy walls, Wilbur found himself unable to move. He held Tommy close, his arms wrapped protectively around the boy’s frail frame as if letting go would mean losing him forever.
Tommy’s breathing had evened out, the exhaustion pulling him into a deep sleep, but the damage still lingered, the echoes of his sobs and fevered whispers haunting the air.
Wilbur couldn’t stop staring at Tommy’s face, pale and sunken against the pillow. His chest ached with every shallow breath Tommy took, the memory of those scars burned into his mind like a brand.
Those jagged, violent lines. The gunshots. The slash marks. The crude stitches, evidence of how Tommy had tried to save himself, alone in some filthy alley.
A soft breath caught in Wilbur’s throat, and he pressed his lips to Tommy’s hair, tears he’d fought to hold back slipping free again. The heat of them fell onto Tommy’s scalp, and Wilbur bit his lip, feeling the weight of everything crashing down all at once.
His kid.
His baby.
How had this happened? How had Tommy endured so much without Wilbur even noticing? He’d prided himself on being there, on watching out for the kid, but now, looking down at Tommy’s scarred body, he felt nothing but shame.
Shame and guilt and a deep, fiery anger toward every single person who had ever laid a hand on him.
Wilbur’s chest heaved as he buried his face into the crook of Tommy’s neck, his grip tightening, careful not to disturb the still-healing burns. “I’m so sorry, Tommy,” he whispered, his voice shaking with the weight of his emotions. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Tommy stirred faintly, a soft, sleepy noise escaping him, but he didn’t wake. The kid was utterly spent, his body too drained to respond.
Wilbur swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe as he gently shifted his position.
He curled his body around Tommy, tucking the boy closer to his chest, his arms winding more securely around him as if to shield him from everything that might come next.
His chin rested on top of Tommy’s head, and he listened to the faint, steady beat of his heartbeat, a reminder that for now, Tommy was here, safe in his arms.
But Wilbur couldn’t shake the image of Tommy out on the streets, hurt, bleeding, terrified. He’d been so broken when they found him, barely clinging to life. And Wilbur hadn’t known. He hadn’t known.
The thought of it—Tommy out there, scared and suffering, with no one to help him—ripped Wilbur apart inside. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
Never again. Wilbur’s mind screamed the words, burning them into the very core of him.
Never again would he let this happen. Never again would he let Tommy get hurt, let him slip away into the shadows where Wilbur couldn’t reach him.
From now on, Wilbur would keep Tommy close, always close. He’d never let him out of his sight again. Not after this.
He couldn’t.
He would protect Tommy—keep him safe, keep him sheltered from the violence that had already stolen too much from him. No more pain. No more fear. Wilbur would be his shield, his armour.
He would stand between Tommy and the world if that’s what it took.
“I’ll never let this happen again,” Wilbur whispered, voice breaking on the promise. His arms tightened around Tommy, fierce and protective, and he pressed a kiss into the boy’s tangled hair. “I swear, Tommy. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you like that again. Not while I’m still breathing.”
Tommy shifted in his sleep, unconsciously curling into Wilbur’s chest, his body seeking comfort even in his unconscious state.
Wilbur’s heart clenched painfully at the sight—this small, fragile boy who had already endured far more than anyone should have.
His fingers traced over Tommy’s hair gently, soothing, though the boy didn’t stir. “You’re safe now,” Wilbur murmured softly, his voice a low, broken rasp. “I’ll keep you safe, always. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
For a long moment, Wilbur simply held Tommy, his heartbeat slowing as he breathed in the familiar scent of the boy’s hair, still clinging to that faint, reassuring rhythm of his breathing.
He felt the tension ease from his body just a fraction, enough to let the exhaustion creeping through his bones settle in.
He was so tired.
His whole body ached with the weight of everything—fear, guilt, anger, relief—but he wouldn’t let go.
He wouldn’t let go of Tommy. Not tonight. Not ever again.
Wilbur closed his eyes, his face still pressed into Tommy’s hair, and let the warmth of the moment wash over him. He kissed Tommy’s forehead one last time, a silent vow lingering on his lips.
“You’re mine,” he whispered into the darkness. “And no one is ever taking you from me again.”
~~~
The sun had barely set, casting the room in that faint blue twilight that made everything feel a little softer, a little safer. Wilbur sat on the edge of Tommy’s bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
The room was quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Techno stood by the door, arms crossed, his usual stoic expression betraying nothing—but Wilbur knew better. Techno was just as worried, just as tense.
Tommy sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped around himself, staring at his knees. He looked so much smaller than usual, lost in the oversized hoodie he had refused to take off since the night they’d found him half-dead.
The scars, the burns, the bruises—they were healing, but not fast enough. And now they needed answers.
They had waited long enough.
Wilbur cleared his throat softly, glancing over at Techno before turning his full attention to Tommy. “Tommy,” he began, keeping his voice as soft as he could.
He didn’t want this to feel like an interrogation. He just wanted the truth—needed it, for Tommy’s sake. “We need to talk about what happened. About who did this to you.”
Tommy’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and Wilbur saw it—the way he clammed up, pulling tighter into himself, refusing to meet Wilbur’s eyes.
His arms tightened around his chest like he was holding himself together, as if letting go might cause him to unravel.
Wilbur’s heart ached, but he pressed on, leaning in a little, his voice warm but pleading. “You’re not in trouble. I swear, you’re not. We just want to know, Tommy. We need to know who hurt you so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
For a moment, it looked like Tommy was going to say something, but then his lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head, avoiding Wilbur’s gaze altogether.
He curled up tighter, the bed creaking beneath him as he huddled into the corner.
Wilbur’s chest tightened, and he opened his mouth to try again, but Techno’s voice cut through the room, low and calm, but with an edge that immediately made Tommy glance up.
“You’ve got two choices, kid,” Techno said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his arms uncrossing. “You tell us what happened. We deal with it the right way—no trouble for you, and Wilbur here gets to fuss over you for a month, maybe slaps a tracker on you so he can breathe easier, but that's it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the usual calm giving way to something sharper. “Or, we find out ourselves. And when we do, we’ll live up to the whole ‘villains’ label they like to slap on us.”
Tommy’s eyes widened as Techno continued, his voice growing more pointed, more dangerous. “And then Wilbur gets to keep you inside for however long he thinks is necessary. And you, of all people, should know how possessive phantom hybrids can get.” He glanced pointedly at Wilbur, who instinctively straightened, caught off guard by the directness.
Wilbur opened his mouth to argue—he didn’t want to scare Tommy like this—but he saw the look in Techno’s eyes.
Beneath the stern tone, there was worry. Techno was pretending to be irritated, but Wilbur could read him like a book. His brother was just as scared for Tommy, just as desperate to keep him safe.
And, deep down, Wilbur agreed. He didn’t want to do this, but they had to know.
So, instead of objecting, Wilbur pressed his lips into a firm line, silently giving Tommy a nod, signalling that he was standing with Techno on this.
They couldn’t protect him if they didn’t know.
Tommy’s face fell, his arms tightening around his stomach as he looked down at the bed, curling in on himself even more. He bit his bottom lip, hesitating for what felt like forever before finally letting out a trembling sigh. His voice, when it came, was small—barely a mumble.
“...Blaze did it.”
The words hit Wilbur like a punch to the gut. His heart seized, rage bubbling beneath the surface as every fiber of him screamed to hunt Blaze down and tear him apart. He wanted to rip that bastard’s spine out, wanted to make him pay for daring to lay a hand on Tommy.
But he didn’t even twitch, keeping himself calm. Tommy didn’t need to see that rage right now. He needed Wilbur to be gentle.
Swallowing his fury, Wilbur slowly reached out, cupping Tommy’s cheek with a soft touch, his thumb brushing over the boy’s flushed skin. “Why, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, his voice a soft, soothing murmur, despite the storm raging inside him.
Tommy sniffled, his lip trembling as his arms unwound just a bit, and he leaned into Wilbur’s hand like a lifeline.
He rubbed at his eyes, his voice thick and raw with unspoken emotion. “I… I used to know Blaze,” Tommy admitted, barely more than a whisper. “We… we ended on bad terms. He thought I hurt Dream, so…”
Wilbur’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. Blaze? The second-highest-ranking hero in the city? How the hell did Tommy know him?
How did they have bad blood between them? Tommy was a runaway, a street kid, a civilian—or rather, a civillain.
But he wasn’t an active member.
And he definitely hadn’t interacted Blaze before, not while Wilbur had him living here.
And yet…
It didn’t matter. Not right now. They’d deal with it later. Right now, all that mattered was Tommy, here, in his arms, still breathing, still safe—for now.
Wilbur’s fingers stroked gently over Tommy’s cheek as he pulled the boy closer, his heart breaking at the sight of Tommy’s teary eyes and trembling frame. “You did the right thing, Tommy,” Wilbur whispered, kissing the top of his head, his voice filled with quiet gratitude. “Thank you for telling us.”
Tommy rubbed at his eyes again, curling into Wilbur’s chest, seeking comfort in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Wilbur wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, keeping him steady as he looked over at Techno.
Techno’s expression had darkened, his jaw clenched tight, but his eyes—his eyes were filled with cold, calculated fury.
His hand curled into a fist at his side, the knuckles white. He met Wilbur’s gaze, and that was all the communication they needed.
Blaze had just moved to the top of their list.
Techno ruffled Tommy’s hair, gave a slight nod to Wilbur, then turned on his heel, leaving the room without a word, his coat brushing the doorframe as he disappeared into the hallway.
Wilbur stayed where he was, his arms wrapped tightly around Tommy, pressing his lips to the boy’s head once more.
He didn’t speak, didn’t need to.
He just held him, keeping him close, knowing that from this moment on, they wouldn’t stop until they made Blaze pay.
No one hurt their family and got away with it.
~~~
Techno stood in the dark room, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on the figure slumped in the chair before him.
Blaze, one of the city’s most celebrated heroes—the number two hero—was bound tightly, his head hanging forward, groggy from whatever concoction Techno had given him.
He was slowly waking up, blinking in confusion as he tried to make sense of where he was.
Techno watched with cold detachment, his gaze never wavering, his heart a glacier of disgust as he took in the sight of the man who had nearly killed his little brother.
Blaze’s eyes finally settled on Techno, and the instant their gazes locked, Techno could see it—the moment of recognition, the flicker of fear that rippled through Blaze’s expression as his situation dawned on him.
Tectonic.
The name alone was enough to send fear down the spine of most heroes. His reputation was bloody, brutal, merciless. Thousands of bodies lay in his wake, heroes and villains alike.
Though now, with Theseus—his runt, his baby brother—things had changed. The endless killing had lost some of its appeal, his brutality... lessened.
For Theseus’ sake, Techno had tried to be more measured, more deliberate in his methods. But standing here now, staring at the man who had nearly ended Tommy’s life, he felt none of that restraint.
Only cold, sharp anger.
Blaze shifted, his body tensing as the haze cleared from his mind, his eyes widening when he realized exactly who was in front of him. His lips parted slightly, a flicker of panic darting across his face before he gritted his teeth, attempting to put on a brave front.
“What do you want, Tectonic?” Blaze growled, his voice low and strained.
Techno didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, his boots heavy on the concrete floor, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He leaned down, looming over Blaze, his massive form casting a shadow over the hero.
With deliberate slowness, Techno rested one large hand on Blaze’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make the hero flinch. Blaze had good reason to be afraid.
He knew what Techno was capable of.
But this wasn’t just about intimidation. Techno wanted answers. And he had all the time in the world to get them.
He leaned in closer, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Does the name Tommy ring any bells for you, Blaze?”
Blaze’s body went rigid, the tension in the air crackling between them. His eyes darted up to meet Techno’s, wide with recognition, and Techno could see it—Blaze knew exactly who Tommy was.
He could see it in the way the hero’s throat bobbed, in the way his breathing quickened, his facade of confidence cracking.
Blaze swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not telling you shit,” he spat, though there was a tremor in his voice, the bravado fading just beneath the surface.
Techno’s smirk spread slowly, a dark gleam in his eyes. That was the answer he’d been hoping for. It would be so much more satisfying to break him.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
~~~
Techno entered the dimly lit room, his heavy footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor. His gaze immediately fell on the two figures curled up on the couch—
Wilbur, sitting with his back propped against the armrest, and Tommy, nestled into Wilbur's chest, sound asleep.
Wilbur’s hand was combing gently through Tommy’s hair, his touch delicate, as though afraid to wake him. There was a soft, almost serene smile on Wilbur’s face, a quiet tenderness in his gaze as he watched over the boy they had claimed as their own.
At the sound of Techno entering, Wilbur’s head tilted up, his shoulders relaxing as he caught sight of his brother.
Techno gave him a small nod in acknowledgment and moved to sit beside him, carefully lowering himself onto the couch. The quiet hum of the room continued, punctuated only by the soft breaths from Tommy, whose chest rose and fell peacefully.
Wilbur shifted, leaning into Techno's side as if seeking comfort. Techno welcomed him easily. No matter how old they got, he would always be Wilbur’s older brother, and he would provide that strength for him.
Tommy remained curled in his arms, undisturbed. Keeping his voice low, Wilbur murmured, “What did you find out?” His hand never stopped its soothing motion through Tommy’s hair, his focus now split between his sleeping brother and Techno’s report.
Techno’s eyes briefly flickered down to Tommy before he answered, his tone as measured as ever. “Do you remember Blight?”
Wilbur’s hand froze mid-stroke, his brow furrowing. “Yes,” he muttered darkly, the name stirring something unpleasant in him. “Dream’s sidekick. He was always a pain in the ass. What about him?”
Techno let the silence stretch for a moment before answering. “Well, you’re currently holding him in your arms.”
Wilbur’s face went slack for a moment, processing Techno’s words. His eyes darted down to Tommy, his expression shifting from confusion to something more disbelieving. “…We met him a year ago and two months ago. He was thirteen.” His voice was soft, strained, as if he couldn’t fully comprehend the revelation.
Techno nodded, his face grim. “Which means, best case scenario, he started in the hero scene at nine.”
Wilbur’s grip on Tommy tightened instinctively, his protective instincts kicking in. The boy stirred in his sleep, a small whimper escaping his lips, and Wilbur immediately loosened his hold, guilt flashing in his eyes as he resumed stroking Tommy’s hair to soothe him.
“I stabbed him.” Wilbur’s voice was barely a whisper, but the horror in his tone was palpable. “I smashed him into a building, strapped explosions to his suit- I broke his jaw and Tommy knows I’m Weaver—”
“Will.” Techno’s voice was steady, cutting through the spiral of panic beginning to take root in Wilbur’s mind. “Clearly, he holds no ill will. Look at him. It’s in the past.”
Wilbur’s breath hitched, his gaze fixed on the boy in his arms, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.
Techno wasn’t wrong—Tommy had never treated him any differently, never once showed any sign that he harboured resentment.
But knowing the truth, knowing who Tommy had been, what he'd gone through, made Wilbur’s chest ache with regret.
“We just need to… adjust,” Techno continued, his voice taking on a more pragmatic edge.
Wilbur furrowed his brows, glancing up at Techno, apprehension creeping into his features. “If- if Tommy was raised a hero- Gods, please don’t tell me Dream…” His voice cracked slightly, the thought of Dream having some hold over Tommy making him visibly sick.
Techno shook his head firmly. “No. As far as I can tell, Tommy’s hero worship is genuine. He only knew Blaze under the mask, nothing more.”
Wilbur frowned in confusion. “Then why did Blaze attack him? What about the injury Dream had?”
Techno’s expression darkened slightly. “Tommy’s power malfunctioned. It was during a panic attack, and Dream was injured because of it. Blaze thought Tommy had intentionally hurt him and took matters into his own hands.”
Wilbur's lips pressed into a firm line. “Did Blaze tell you that?”
Techno shook his head again, his expression unreadable. “Dream did. He still owed me a favour.”
Wilbur sighed, his hand absentmindedly running through Tommy’s hair again. The boy shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, and Wilbur felt his heart swell with affection. This poor kid had gone through hell—starting his life as a hero at nine, facing unimaginable trauma, all while hiding under a mask.
“Is Blaze…?” Wilbur’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, not wanting to finish the thought. The rage he’d felt earlier, the need for retribution, was warring with his need to keep Tommy safe, to not make things worse for the boy.
Techno’s gaze softened just a fraction as he answered. “Alive. Tommy wouldn’t like it if we... finished him.”
A small smile tugged at Wilbur’s lips, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You’ve gotten soft,” he teased, his voice lighter now, though there was still a weight in his words.
Techno rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Look who’s talking.”
Before Wilbur could respond, Techno flicked his forehead, drawing an exaggerated scowl from his little brother. “Shut up,” Wilbur muttered, though the smile that followed was warm, a silent thank you for Techno’s restraint—for knowing that keeping Tommy safe meant more than satisfying their bloodlust.
As Wilbur settled back into the couch, pulling Tommy closer into his arms, he glanced up at Techno once more. They shared a quiet look, a silent promise passing between them. Tommy wouldn’t have to worry about Blaze anymore.
They would make sure of it.