Work Text:
"Do you have anything to do as an outlet?" Puffy asks him one day in their now weekly therapy sessions.
Or, trying for weekly- sometimes Tommy guiltily reschedules and makes himself busy, and then the next session always starts with Puffy reminding him it's okay to reschedule if you need to, but you should remember that this will help you and you aren't any less for needing it.
He managed not to reschedule this week, despite the inescapable feeling that he was just making shit all up in his head and that coming here and sitting and talking about his feelings was a waste of time.
It wasn't, as Puffy kept reminding him, but forgetting is always easier than committing things to memory.
Puffy's leaning forward, tap- tap- tapping her pen against her desk, head tilted slightly. She does that a lot, he's noticed. Listening actively. He won't admit that it feels nice to have. "Like, something that you can do as a distraction or something that calms you?"
Tommy shifts in his seat on the other side of the desk, trying to think. "Something to distract me? I mine a lot of stone. It's not- I mean, it doesn't calm me, but I'm not thinking about other things when I'm- you know."
Puffy hums in the way that tells him she's about to correct him on something that he didn't even know was wrong. "Let me ask you this. When you finish collecting a pile of stone, do you feel satisfied and proud of yourself? Do you feel accomplished and more relaxed?"
Tommy's nose wrinkles. He doesn't. He normally looks at the stone he's collected that day and feels a clawing anxiety to keep going despite the ache in his arms. He normally looks at his work with disdain, thinking Wilbur would want more, Wilbur needs more, this isn't good enough. He normally sits there, covered in dust and dirt and exhausted beyond anything, and wishes he had enough energy to cry the way he wanted.
"Not really," Tommy answers slowly. "Just- tired really. Normally want to fucking keep going."
Puffy hums again and pens something down- they'll be talking about that next session, no doubt.
"But-" Tommy blurts, surprising himself. Puffy looks up encouragingly. "But, I used to- I mean I did have something like that. A while ago- fuck, a long time now- I did some sewing. Most of the time I was mending clothes during the war, or in Pogtopia, but still it made me all calm and shit like you said, so it's- it's good right?"
"Yes," Puffy nods, smiling, still encouraging. Something tight in Tommy's chest eases. "Yes, that is good. If sewing is something that helps take your mind off your anxieties and grounds you and makes you feel accomplished afterwards, then that means it's a good coping mechanism."
"But I thought those were bad?"
"Well, some can be," Puffy admits. "Unhealthy ones. Ones that hurt you or make you feel worse about yourself than when you started. Those are the ones that we should avoid. But sewing is a good coping mechanism- in fact, whenever I start to feel anxious I crochet. The repetitive motions help ground me in the present."
"And you think sewing will do that for me?" Tommy asks, a bit skeptical. "Really?"
Puffy tilts her head, smiling. "How about we give it a shot and see? The worst that can happen is there being no effect, yeah?"
"Yeah, and maybe a couple of ugly sweaters."
Puffy laughs. "Who knows, maybe ugly sweaters are what we all need."
…
Tommy goes home that day, digs through all his chests- all the way down to the bottom, past armor and stone and planks of wood- to find a small beat up metal tin. He pops it open, wincing at all the dents and rust.
Inside are three rolls of thread- red, blue and black- and two dull needles.
It’s not much, mainly because Tommy continued to sew out of necessity rather than as a hobby, so collecting colors and different types of needles or other tools wasn’t high on his to do list. Even still, it’s enough for him.
He’s just trying this out for now. Like Puffy said. It might not even work. He shouldn't get his hopes up.
…
“What are you doing?”
Tommy looks up at Quackity, who’s peering at Tommy’s hands from a good couple feet away. He’s been making the point to only stand on what he’s deemed his land as a show of dominance or whatever little mind games him and Wilbur play with each other. Quite honestly, all it ever does is backfire on Quackity because anytime Tommy's had enough of him, he'll just walk away where Quackity can't follow. Sometimes he'll even do it in the middle of Quackity's sentences, just because it annoys him.
Quackity cranes his neck to see, and Tommy resists the urge to curl his shoulders down and hide his work from view.
“Nothing,” Tommy says, way too quickly. “Your mom,” he amends defensively.
Quackity’s eyes widen, his eyebrows going up. "I certainly fucking hope not."
“Sorry,” Tommy apologizes. That was just uncalled for. “I’m a bit- I dunno. Just some sewing. Fucked up my pants on all the stone, so I’m fixing them.”
“Oh. You’re sewing again.” He says and Tommy has an abrupt realization.
Quackity was there in Pogtopia with him and Wilbur and Technoblade and Niki. Not the whole time, of course, but much longer than Tommy initially remembered.
Suddenly Tommy can very vividly picture Quackity, shot with an arrow, tearing his cloak, needing it fixed. Tommy can remember staying up late, with Quackity by his side, carefully threading the ripped seams closed. Tommy can remember the way Quackity’s eyes lit up, the way he grinned and went oh, our pequeno reparador, thank you, can remember feeling proud of himself for days after.
Quackity sits down in the grass across from Tommy. He’s still absurdly far away, but now, somehow he feels closer- less threatening at Tommy’s level and sitting with his legs crossed like he’s a school child.
“Yeah,” Tommy says, throat suddenly tight. He misses Big Q. A lot. “Yeah I am. Puffy says it’ll help with shit. I don’t know.”
“What type of shit?” Quackity asks, And he sounds innocent enough, but- no.
He doesn’t answer.
“Well," Quackity says when it becomes clear that Tommy doesn’t want to elaborate, “either way it's good. I’m glad that you’re working on things- really. I- I know how hard it can be to do shit like that so- yeah. Takes a lot of guts to ask for help. Takes even more to listen to it when you get it.”
Tommy nods slowly.
“I've got thread in Las Navadas if you wanted. If you needed some-"
"I'm not joining Las Navadas Big Q," Tommy says tiredly. "I've already explained and I'm not gonna leave-"
"No," Quackity exclaims, cutting him off. "No, no, I- I'm- this is free. You don't have to join Las Navadas for something like this. Think of it as a gift. I'm genuinely glad that you're feeling better. And that comes with no conditions. Just some thread."
Tommy squints at him for a moment, thinking, waiting. But Quackity's expression remains open and genuine, not a hint of dishonesty.
"Okay," Tommy says slowly. "Better not be shit though."
A grins cracks over Quackity's face. "Of course not Tommy, who do you take me for?"
…
The thread is good- golden, a bit thicker than what Tommy is used to using, but still fantastic.
The first thing he does with it is fix up Quackity's suit jacket. He weaves gold into the frayed cuffs and embroiders coins into the dark fabric. Quackity deserves to feel rich, Tommy thinks. Quackity deserves to have after going so long without.
He leaves the jacket somewhere where Quackity will find it, and isn't expecting much of a reaction. But a couple days later, when Tommy gets back to work building Wilbur's territory, there's a small basket with more gold thread, measuring tape, and shiny new scissors.
A thank you. No conditions.
…
He used to do a lot of sewing, for a lot of people.
Before all the wars, he did it for fun- obsessed with the idea of repairing something so delicately, of pulling something back together with one string in the right place. He'd take Tubbo's shirt, always popping buttons, and carefully fit them back on stronger, or Fundy's hat, always getting blown off his head, and patch it up better than before.
Sometimes he'd challenge himself, trying to work with wool and knitting needles, or crochet hooks- making blankets and scarves and sweaters and socks. When the holidays rolled around, he remembered watching his friend's faces carefully as they opened his presents, trying to gauge just how well he did.
He remembered memorizing that Wilbur liked sweaters with animals on them, colors that are soft and light, complementary; that Niki liked careful embroidery- something that showed craftmanship and care; that Jack liked bright blankets with cool patterns, something he could show off to people proudly.
Along the way, his fun became a necessity, as war after war was declared, as resources grew scarce, as people became less giving. All the facts he'd memorized about his family- that Wilbur wore thick wool socks when he was cold, or that Tubbo liked to pile scarves around neck rather than use a hat- went to waste.
…
"Cyan would go best with that."
Tommy would really fucking appreciate it if people didn't start random conversations with him while he's in the middle of a project, cause it was his fingers that got the brunt of it.
"Shit-" He curses, shaking out his hand and putting his pricked finger into his mouth. "What the fuck, man?" Tommy glares up at Niki, his voice coming out muffled.
Niki doesn't look guilty. "Cyan would go best with that color scheme." She repeats.
Tommy pauses, silent, still glaring. She doesn't budge, in fact, she moves to raise an eyebrow, waiting. Tommy sighs, pulling the finger out and shaking it again.
"Cyan? With orange?" Tommy asks, more curious than skeptical.
At his tone, Niki seems to soften. "Yeah, when I used to run the dye shop, cyan flowers with orange always made a good contrast. The tiger lillies and the forget-me-nots."
Tommy hums, "forget-me-nots always were your favorites."
Niki's eyes widen slightly. "Yeah, they- they were. I didn't think you'd remember." Tommy shrugs and Niki looks away. "When I'd put them in the windows sales would go up. And not just sales, but more people would come into the shop. Ask about the flowers, the dyes. It was nice."
Tommy lets the silence settle onto them and is pleased to find it comfortable.
"You should start it again," he says suddenly. She squints at him. "The dye shop. I think it'd be nice."
"What, so someone could come and blow it up?" Niki scoffs, "no way."
Tommy frowns thoughtfully, looking down at the dirt under Niki's feet. "I've- recently I've been seeing Puffy. She's been helping me with shit. It's actually really nice. But one of the things she's told me is don't let the threat of the past keep you from the happiness of the future. I don't want anyone to fuck with my decisions anymore, especially not myself, you know? It's why I started the hotel before, it's why I'm still farming. I've still got a life to lead, even with all the shit that's happened to me. So do you Niki."
She's quiet for a moment.
"Puffy's good for you." Niki determines. She turns on her heel and starts to walk down the prime path. "But don't tell me what to do."
Tommy blinks. Then he nods, not bothering to watch her go.
…
Friend died only a few weeks after Ghostbur did.
It was the result of someone else's irresponsibility, unlike Ghostbur's death, which was all on Tommy. For a long time after that prison visit, Tommy would wake up- if he ever went to sleep- with Ghostbur's shaky voice echoing in his head, with all the fear and panic of that moment stuck in his chest, weighing him down.
When Friend died, Tommy just sighed, too exhausted to grieve, and booked an early appointment with Puffy.
He remembers sitting in her office, hands clenched in his lap, avoiding looking at her patient, open expression. He remembers the way she slowly prompted him into opening up, helping him admit aloud that Friend was the only piece of Ghostbur he had left and how he at least wanted to keep that part of him safe but he failed. He remembers her eyes turning sad and sympathetic- and then her going, grief is a terrible and wild thing that can't be truly understood. No matter how many people study it. It effects everyone in different ways, and brings about a ton of urges, some not so healthy. Speaking from experience, I know that people mainly want to listen to the unhealthy ones. What I suggest is letting yourself feel that pain, letting yourself feel that hurt, and finding a way to express that safely.
She had him write a list of ideas- of things he could do instead of not think about it. Which was his plan at first- just to not think about it until he had to. But looking back he could see how that could he considered unhealthy.
At the top of his list, with all of Puffy’s endorsement, was to make something to help remind him of Ghostbur. Something that will carry his memory. Something that Tommy can have to keep Friend with him even though he's gone.
The blue wool has been sitting in his enderchest since Friend's death. He couldn't part with it, no matter how much space it took up. That night, Tommy goes home, pulls it out and fumbles around with his knitting needles until he's blinking the sunrise out of his eyes and exhaustion is making his limbs too heavy to move. Any time that he isn't spending farming or building with Wilbur, he's knitting his own blue sweater, and even when it's finished, he embroiders purple and green flowers into the sleeves because he doesn't want it to end.
It's been a while since he felt like he was able to indulge on something he wanted- he thinks maybe Puffy would see this as progress.
When it is finished completely, and Tommy can't find some other part to add, he slides it on. There are some places where he messed up; the button to button loops are a little crooked, and one of his pockets is significantly bigger than the other and it's way too big- the sleeves coming down over his palms and the hem dipping below his waistline, but he doesn't care. The second that it's on, Tommy falls in love with it.
It's his- something he made. Something of Friend's and Ghostbur's that he can keep close. Even gone they're keeping him warm.
In it, Tommy can almost imagine kneeling down next to Friend and saying hello, reaching out with two open arms and burying his face in the blue fluff. He can imagine looking up from his one sided hug to see Ghostbur on the other end of the leash, smiling and alive, hands stained blue.
It hurts in the same way that it helps, and Tommy guesses that sometimes that's life. Hurting and healing all at once.
…
There's a knock on his door a few weeks later. He shuffles to it, and peeks out, curious.
Niki is standing there, out of most of her armor except the chest plate and she's holding a small chest. She looks vaguely uncomfortable, but determined, like she felt she had to do whatever it is that she is about to do.
Tommy hopes it isn't kill him. That would really suck.
"Tommy," she greets, then unceremoniously shoves the box into his hands. Tommy fumbles, trying not to drop it. "I- I'm still not very fond of you, and I think you know that. But I took your advice. The dye shop is open again. And- and I think it'll be good."
Tommy's eyes widen. "Oh, that's great Niki! I'm- that's good. I'm glad."
"Yeah." She pauses. Then goes, "come by some time. Maybe we can set up the display case together. You know, since you don't completely suck at color pairing."
"Maybe," Tommy says, and Niki leaves. He waits until she's gone before opening the box and looking inside- it's full of dye, orange and pink and red. Blue and cyan and grey. Enough that Tommy could complete any project he imagined. Enough that Tommy wouldn't have to even set foot in Niki's dye shop for a while.
He still goes, of course.
He sits there by the counter watching as Niki tries to pair lime green off with another color. He yells out brown just to piss her off and is delighted when all she does is throw a halfhearted glare at him over her shoulder. Then, because Niki still hasn't kicked him out, he proposes bright pink and magenta and moves in close to watch as she arranges the flowers in the pot.
It works, the bouquet going in the window, and Niki rewards him with a small case of pink, which later Tommy will take home, use to dye some wool and turn into a sweater for her.
And it goes on like this, a little game of give and take, until all of sudden, one day they're friends who run a dye shop together and talk color theory when they're bored. They're friends who have lunch together and start new projects together and sit in the sun side by side when it's hard to remember to breathe.
...
The walls are so fucking close, and they're hard stone and there isn't a single crack in them. The heat is sweltering and not only does it make it hard to want to move, but it also makes it hard to pull a whole breath in. There's no space, but Tommy still keeps himself tucked back in the corner, as far away as he can. He keeps his eyes down, but even still, it doesn't matter. No matter where he looks, even if he shuts his eyes, Dream's voice floats over to him, teasing and taunting, poking and pulling, laughing, having the time of his life.
There's no escape. There's nowhere Tommy can go where that mask won't follow. He'll never be safe.
Tommy gasps, shooting up and throwing himself out of bed. He can't form a full thought other than get out, get out, get away, so he stumbles out, almost tripping in his blanket in his haste to get out the door.
The cold evening air hits him, but he still feels like he's overheating. Like he's burning up from the inside. Like he's stuck in that prison with nothing but heat and dream and pain and-
One time, Tommy had gotten the courage to ask, "what do you do when you have nightmares?"
Puffy hummed and hadn't given Tommy a look of pity, or asked him to elaborate like he feared she would. She just thought about her answer like his question wasn't weird. And maybe it wasn't.
"When I have nightmares, usually I'd suggest going and finding someone that you trust to talk to about them. Someone who is willing to listen and calm you down. But you asked me what I do when I have nightmares, not what you should do."
Tommy nodded.
Puffy shifted, folding her hands. "What I do is I try my best to differentiate between the dream and reality- grounding techniques- so I can help my brain further realize that I'm safe. And then I end up finding somewhere else to sleep for the night because it's more than likely that my brain won't let me sleep where I was just scared."
"Brains are so fucking rude," Tommy groans and Puffy laughs.
"Sometimes." She admits. "But even then, they deserve our kindness."
Before he knows what he's doing, he's walking down the prime path. He's moving half on auto pilot, with the sole purpose of finding his next safest place as per Puffy's advice. He can't entirely picture where that would be, but the air gets colder and colder and soon snow is crunching under his feet.
Showchester. His second safest place is with Tubbo and Ranboo. Of course.
He knocks on the door and waits, shivering now, having forgotten his sweater.
He remembers shivering in the prison- so hot that he thought he was cold, so scared that he thought he would die, and then, of course, he-
The door opens and Tommy focuses on Tubbo's mop of brown hair peeking around the wood. When Tubbo sees him standing there he opens the door wider.
"Tommy, hi, what are you- dude, where is your coat?"
Tubbo reaches out, curling a hand around Tommy's arm and pulling him inside. It's warmer inside, but just enough to be comfortable. It's still cold enough in snowchester to keep Tommy present. Out of the heat of the prison.
"Sorry," he's saying, still frazzled from his sleep- or lack of, "Sorry, I should've come another time, or fucking- I don't know, you're probably busy-"
"Tommy, shut up." Tubbo says. Tommy's mouth clacks shut. Tubbo hums, observing Tommy, probably taking in all the trembling, the feverish flush, the mused hair. "You'll stay here." He decides finally.
"Wh-what?"
But Tubbo seems done with talking and instead pulls Tommy further in the house, to their living room. Tommy has no choice but to follow or trip on his own feet.
"Ranboo is asleep, and he just put Micheal down, so we'll have to be quiet but that's alright." He says, and then gently nudges Tommy to sitting on the couch. "I'm gonna go get you some warm clothes and water and then we can talk, or just sit together. How does that sound bossman?"
Tommy hesitates, then nods slowly. "That sounds- yeah. Please."
"Good. I'll be right back."
He leaves and Tommy is left there looking around the living room. It's clearly made with Micheal in mind- the carpeted fluffy rugs all over, the coffee table with rounded edges, the basket filled with toys. There's another basket to the other side of the couch, this one with big balls of yarn instead of toys. Tommy peeks over to the doorway where Tubbo disappeared to and strains to listen- it doesn't sound like he's on his way yet. It wouldn't hurt just to have a little look.
He digs through the basket, running his hands over the purple yarn and then the black. He sticks his fingers inside the ball of white, marveling at its softness. It's thick and chunky, made with much larger strands than the ones Tommy has at home, and he wonders if he could possibly hand weave these together.
He figures there's no harm in trying to figure it out, and besides, he'll have it all unraveled before Tubbo comes back. He won't even know.
Of course, just as Tommy actually just gets the hang of it, he hears the floorboards creaking, signaling Tubbo's arrival. He's elbow deep in yarn that he probably isn't supposed to be touching, so it's no shock that Tubbo stops still when he sees Tommy.
"Sorry," Tommy says preemptively, rushing to untangle himself and unravel the tragic beginnings of a blanket he's got. "I shouldn't have-"
"No, dude," Tubbo puts a glass of water down on the table and a pair of folded clothes on the arm of the couch. "It's okay. Ranboo and I have been trying to figure out what to do with that yarn for, like, weeks now. And come on man, you know that anything that's ours is yours."
Oh. Tommy did not know that actually.
He ducks his head, red now. "Fuck you Tubbo, you can't just say shit like that."
Tubbo smiles knowingly. "I love you too Tommy. But here are the clothes- the pants are Ranboo's so they might be a little long. Cause, you know, he's taller than you-"
"-Not really- "
"-and the sweatshirt is one of my old ones. Just let me know if it doesn't fit, or the house is a bit too cold or whatever and we can fix it."
"I- Thank you," Tommy says sincerely. Tubbo nods.
"Now," he goes, sitting next to Tommy. "Tell me what the hell you're doing, cause to me it looks like you've just gone and gotten yourself stuck."
Tommy tells him how it works, talks to him about chaining and patterns and slipknots, then unravels what he's worked on to show Tubbo how to do it. Tubbo makes a joke about not letting Tommy take the yarn home so that he visits more and stays longer and then Tommy realizes it's not a joke when he mentions how Ranboo might like to learn.
"You should stay," Tubbo says again when they have half a blanket between them and Tommy's changed into the warm pajamas. He's sleepy now. If he stayed at home and tried to sleep there he wouldn't be. Puffy was right. "We want you here."
"Maybe," Tommy says, tucking his toes under Tubbo's leg. "You'll get sick of me."
"Never." Tubbo says firmly. And Tommy believes him.
…
He goes to church the next day, just for something to do.
He hasn’t been in a while- finding himself less inclined to believe in anything big and spiritual when his day to day made him want to curl up into tight ball. But nowadays, he wants to brush the dust off, get back to prayer. Something quiet and routine, just for himself.
The halls are empty, the holy land deserted. Tommy doubts that he's the only one to feel iffy about religious practice since everything that's happened.
He takes the whole morning- sweeping the steps, mowing the lawn, sorting through the basement chests. Niki comes by with some food, and helps him update the books and reorganize the donation boxes. When they take a break, it's to sit on the lawn in the shade, drinking fresh lemonade and breaking bread.
"It's beautiful here," Niki says, "it feels beautiful."
Tommy nods, mouth full, a little preoccupied. "Th's good- you m'de th's?"
Niki looks at him, exasperated, but fond. "Yeah, I've been baking. It's like your sewing and stuff. Makes me feel good."
Tommy swallows, grins. "Pog, this is way better than anything I could bake."
"I could teach you."
"Yeah?"
Niki shrugs, causal. "If you wanted."
"I- I would, yeah."
"Alright, if only to stop you eating all of my food. You're like a bottomless pit."
Tommy doesn't provide a response to that other than reaching for more bread.
They do more work after lunch, moving things and decorating, adding flowers and such. But in the middle of Tommy wiping down the windows, he gets an idea.
"Niki?"
There's the sound of a box thumping against the floor from the other room. "What? Did you get stuck on the ladder again?"
"No, no. Question for you." He hears footsteps and turns, careful not to fall. She stares up at him, a hand over her eyes, shielding from the light. "I was wondering," he continues, "what if we dyed these windows?"
Niki's hand comes down slowly as she processes. "Dye the windows...like stained glass?"
"Yeah, that. Stained glass. That'd be fucking sick wouldn't it?"
"It sounds cool," she agrees slowly, "it also sounds like another one of your arts and crafts projects that I'm going to have to oversee the end of."
"What? When have I ever-"
"Bonsai tree farm that ended up being just a lot of planting and very little bonsai-ing."
"Okay, but-"
"Potato stamps that just ended up just being a waste of food and ink."
"Ah, well that one was-"
"The fifty folded paper frogs that are still in my desk drawer down at the dye shop."
Tommy goes quiet, wincing. Okay, he might have- maybe he abandoned some projects. Just some.
"Okay, I could see how you'd think- but no, this one is different. This is-" Tommy turns back around, looks at the church windows going up, up, up. He remembers building these windows, forging the glass, gathering the stone, making the plan. The way it felt to make something with his own two hands, the way it felt when it was used after, the way it felt when it was respected. "This is for the church."
Niki is quiet, then she sighs. "Alright Tommy, okay. What color then? This will take a while."
...
"Sometimes," Tommy starts confessionally during one of their meetings, because he can- because Puffy always listens and hasn't betrayed his trust yet. "Sometimes, I'm grateful for the wars. For what I went through. For what it taught me. Even if it fucked me up."
Puffy tilts her head. "Wording." She reminds him lightly.
"Oh, uh- not fucked me up. Hurt me. Yeah, hurt me."
Puffy hums approvingly. "That's a very mature thought process to have. Can I ask why you believe that?"
"I think I learned a lot about people," Tommy says slowly. He's thinking of Eret's glasses reflecting fire-light in the control room, thinking of Wilbur yanking away from soft touch and shuttering himself away under Pogtopia, thinking of Dream standing over him in Logstedshire, teeth bared. "I learned a lot about what they could do. About the ways that they could hurt."
"Mm, we learn more about humanity in times of war than in times of peace." Puffy says. "But a lot of the decisions we make when under stress are not our true selves, right? I've made decisions that I've regretted. As I'm sure you have too."
Tommy nods.
"We all need to learn to look at each other and ourselves with a forgiving lens." She continues. "As we change and grow and heal, we must not forget- others may be trying to do the same."
…
"Where are you going?"
Tommy stops. Turns.
Wilbur is blinking at him from bed, stirred awake by the creaking floorboards of their fort. Shit, Tommy thinks. He hadn't meant to-
"Uh, church." Tommy says. "The holy land."
Wilbur rubs a hand down his face, sitting up, too awake to go back to sleep. Tommy feels awkward now, like he got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
"People still worship around here? They believe in a higher power when the world is- like this?"
Tommy shrugs a little. "Not really. But I want to make it so they can some day."
Wilbur frowns at him, looking at Tommy like he's never seen him before. Tommy thinks of Puffy- thinks of other people may be trying to do the same.
"Do you- Uh- do you want to come with me?" Tommy asks. "Most of the heavy lifting was done last week. So it's just making it all shine and shit. I could use the company."
For a moment, Tommy thinks Wilbur will decline. Thinks he'll say something that will jab like daggers at Tommy's gentle offer. But then his expression shifts.
"Alright, sure," Wilbur says, and then gets up.
Tommy waits for him to get dressed and then walks from Fort Big down to the Holy Lands with Wilbur at his side. It's weird being with Wilbur, walking around with him. It's like layering every memory on top of each other and having them all play at the same time- like deja vu and nostalgia mixing together into something heavy.
It's weird, and good, and bad all at once. Confusing, but Tommy's been confused before. He's always worked through it.
They get there and Tommy pushes the doors open and guides Wilbur over to the back where he's already gathered the glass panes and crafted brushes of varying sizes.
"What the hell is this?" Wilbur asks, squatting next to the many dye samples cups.
"Well, me and-" Tommy stutters a little, Niki's voice coming into his mind- don't tell him that I'm helping with this, I want- I want to confront him on my own time- I deserve to. "Uh, I. Me and I, we've been fucking working hard."
"Me and I?"
"Credit where credit is due." Tommy says, trying to sound arrogant. He hopes Wilbur doesn't think too much of his slip. "But yeah, I had this idea to stain the glass. Make it beautiful. I was looking through samples and I figured a deep blue-ish purple would be the nicest."
"But there is no purple dye." Wilbur says, raising an eyebrow at him.
Tommy goes over to the shelf, pulls down a large can of red, drops it in front of Wilbur. "I know. We have to make it."
Wilbur stares for a beat. "Okay Tommy, no need for all the dramatics."
"Oh fuck you."
Tommy gives him the blue can, tells him it's four parts blue and three parts red. He shows Wilbur the way to pour the dye so it doesn't splash back up in your eye, shows Wilbur the way to mix it so it doesn't marble, shows Wilbur the way to store it so it doesn't bubble. They work until they've got at least seven cans of purple stored away and their hands are stained with color.
It's mid-morning by the time they take a break. Wilbur complains, wondering how something so simple as dye mixing could make his back ache, Tommy listens, primed with a joke about his age, but then Wilbur reaches up a hand to swipe against his forehead. Tommy stops, staring at Wilbur's hands. At his fingers, stained blue.
Tommy swallows the joke. Looks away. "Come on Wil, let's start the next part. We- uh- we can use brushes now."
Wilbur falters, probably confused at Tommy's tone change, but he sighs like he's being drug down a road against his will and follows.
Tommy pops the first can and shows Wilbur the way to get an even coat, shows him how important it is to make sure it doesn't pool in the corners, shows him how long to wait between coats so it's opaque. He has to look away when Wilbur reaches for his own brush to try, but manages to get his head screwed on right enough to help Wilbur hold it.
They paint in an almost comfortable silence for a while, until Wilbur breaks it, asking, "So why do you do this? We both know that nothing lasts on this server."
Tommy bites back the instinctual response of you're telling me, and takes a breath. "A lot of shit gets destroyed here, it's nice to just make something. Even if it won't last. I'm sure you know."
Wilbur's expression shutters. "I already told you- L'manburg could have been anything. It didn't matter. Not for what it was."
"Sure." Tommy says lightly, recognizing a defense mechanism when he sees it. Protecting yourself from grief. He remembers when Wilbur first came back, remembers how he felt hearing him say that he didn't care about their nation when they both fought and died for it- back then Tommy didn't understand what he was looking at. But now, he can see it. He thinks that nowadays he sees a lot more of Wilbur than Wilbur is comfortable with. "Yeah, but even still it feels good to just create. Especially if it's something useful."
"What's the use of stained windows?"
Tommy is quiet for a moment. "Beauty. And then maybe with beauty, hope."
They don't finish all of it that day, but Tommy takes their first pane and roasts it so the dye stays down. It's an accomplishment- the color being perfectly mixed and coming out spread even. By then, looking at Wilbur's stained hands hurts less, partly because the pain is offset by the small satisfied smile Tommy sees Wilbur hide when they leave.
Later, when they're back at Fort Big and Quackity and Wilbur start up their latest round of antagonistic flirting-that-isnt-really-flirting-but-kinda-is and Quackity mentions the dye, Wilbur just throws up a blue middle finger. Quackity cackles, calling him a smurf-ling.
When he turns away, annoyed, Quackity catches Tommy's eye and his expression softens into a grin. Tommy smiles back, wondering whether Quackity's truly glad you're feeling better extends past Tommy.
He hopes so.
...
Tubbo's plan of keeping Tommy close with the promise of yarn is actually working.
He's sitting on their living room floor, carefully balling up a new yellow so he can start on a sweater. He's not sure who for just yet- maybe Wilbur would like it. Maybe he'd hate it. Things are still tentative and new.
Ranboo is sitting across from him- well, laying- staring up at the ceiling. Tommy hasn't asked him what the hell was wrong yet, unsure of where was overstepping. And besides, Tommy's had lots of days where laying on the floor was the only task he could do. He wouldn't knock anyone feeling the same way.
Tubbo left only a half an hour ago after lunch, leaving the two of them to watch over Micheal while he napped. So for now, it's just the two of them in comfortable silence, and Tommy is waiting. Patiently. He's being patient. He is.
Tommy gets it all rolled up and begins to chain, thinking about the way that Puffy always gives him ample time to speak on his own terms. It always made him feel nice- not rushed. So no matter how impatient he is, he bites his lip.
He gets his beginning chain and up to two rows finished before Ranboo shifts.
“Tommy?”
Tommy pauses, trying not to look too relieved. “Ranboob?”
And Tommy was right about something bothering him, because Ranboo’s nose doesn't even wrinkle the way that it normally does when Tommy calls him that.
“Have you- have you ever been scared of yourself?”
Tommy frowns, processing, then grins. “Scared of myself? What, like, how strong I am? Or how big I am? I don’t think scared is the word I would use, but-”
“No, no.” Ranboo says. “No, like, um. Um- hm. This is- this is hard to explain. I don’t-”
Tommy stops, shifts closer, dropping his yarn. “It’s alright Ranboo, just take your time. I’m listening.”
Ranboo doesn’t look directly at him, but his gaze flickers over Tommy’s face. Tommy keeps his expression as gentle as he can, eyes fixed on Ranboo's collar.
"Sometimes," Ranboo whispers, sounding pained, "I lose myself."
Tommy tilts his head.
"You- you know how my memory isn't the best?" He asks, folding his hands together only to unfold them again. Fold and unfold. Fold and unfold. "Usually I get cloudy. Where I know that something happened, but miss out on some details, or what someone said. But sometimes it just- goes dark. And I can't remember anything. No clouds, no fog. Just nothing."
"Oh." Tommy goes. He reaches out, touches Ranboo's knee. "That sounds rough."
Ranboo shrugs. "I just- I never know what I do. Not for certain. And that scares me."
Tommy frowns thoughtfully. "You worry you might hurt someone?"
Ranboo nods slowly, ducking his head low, like he thinks Tommy would cast him out of his own home. Like this has been a heavy weight to bear. Like this is the most complex problem in the world.
But for Tommy, it's very simple.
"I'm not scared of you. And I know you. I know that you would die before hurting those you consider your family. Whether you're aware of it, or not." He says, tightening the hand on Ranboo's knee- the next best thing he can get to direct eye contact. "Tubbo and Micheal are some of the safest people on this server. Any threat that tries to reach them will be coming from outside. And it will not get in."
"You sound so sure." Ranboo sighs. "How?"
"Because whatever it is has to get though me and you." Tommy turns his hand over, palm up. "And we love them. So we will win."
Ranboo hesitates and then relaxes, putting a gentle paw into Tommy's. Trusting him.
…
He holds a church service when the windows are all finished. It's small- not many people having responded to the flyers Tommy put up all down the prime path. But it's enough for Tommy just to see someone other than himself, Niki and Wilbur in the pews.
Puffy comes and compliments all the stained glass with a knowing look, having borne witness to the sheer amount of red and blue fingers in their sessions. Niki shows up with Jack at her side, and he gives Tommy a glare before getting distracted by the free post-prayer bread. Wilbur comes and stands in the back, put off by what he calls the ritualism of religion, but trying for supportive.
(Quite frankly, he just looks constipated, but Tommy appreciates it nonetheless.)
Tubbo and Ranboo come in holding hands. They huddle together off to the side, Ranboo reading passages from their Terms out to him in a whisper. Quackity comes, but doesn't stay, instead dropping money in the donation box and aggravating Wilbur a bit before ducking out. He gives Tommy an approving thumbs up though, and Tommy won't admit to it making him warm.
For a moment, he thinks that'll be everyone, and he's gearing up to begin, when Sam walks through the door.
It catches Tommy completely off guard- almost sending Tommy spinning into a panic. He has to duck behind the pulpit and hastily name five things he can see and four things he can touch before his breathing gets too quick to control.
Thankfully, Sam just stays by the door, even as Tommy gets himself together and starts to leads everyone through prayer and psalm. In fact, he looks as anxious to be there as Tommy is to see him, and weirdly, that sets Tommy more at ease. The service comes to a close and Sam still doesn't move from his place by the door, not even to grab three pieces of bread like Tommy sees Jack Manifold doing.
It's only when Niki passes around the donation box, that Sam moves to put something inside before leaving.
Tommy itches to see what it was, because it didn't look like a diamond, but he controls himself.
He talks to Puffy about their weekday worship hours, and gives Tubbo a book of Terms for their bookshelf in Snowchester. He gives one to Wilbur as well, just to piss him off, and then tells him he can't swear on the holy lands when Wilbur tries to retort. Of course, that's a dead lie, because Tommy created these lands, but it seems to slip Wilbur's mind because he just says he's gonna throw the book at Tommy's stupid friggin' face before storming out.
Tommy nearly dies right then and there, actually.
Soon enough, everyone is gone and it's just him and Niki. She wordlessly passes him the donation box and watches as he opens it. He feels frantic, brushing aside diamonds and pieces of gold until he finds it. A small piece of paper and a pouch.
He unfolds the paper, ignoring his trembling hands.
Dear Tommy,
I hope you're well. You look well.
I want to apologize- once, I promised that I would protect you, help keep you safe, and I've failed to do so. I'm sorry for that. One day I hope I can regain your trust and live up to our contract the way you deserve.
Quackity mentioned that you started sewing, and I thought these would help.
-Awesamdude
Tommy refolds the letter, his hands shaking harder now, his vision all blurry.
"Tommy?" Niki asks, concerned, "Are you- what's wrong?"
He ignores her, reaching for the pouch. He pulls it open and shakes the contents out into his open palm. Pins and needles spill out, all different sizes- upon first teary-eyed glance he spots a tapestry needle and a straw needle and a quilting needle. They're colored differently as well, with thin strips around the base of the handle to help differentiate them from one another.
They're beautiful, especially in comparison to the one lone needle that Tommy's been using since before Pogtopia. It's like Christmas came early.
But the note- the note was just-
He remembers the contract, remembers Awesamdude must protect Tommyinnit written on a line. He remembers the way Sam smiled, like he would stand by it, remembers the way it felt when he didn't.
He didn't think Sam remembered. He didn't think Sam would care. He certainly didn't expect to get an apology.
"Tommy," Niki says again, sounding uncomfortable. "Are you crying?"
Tommy sniffles, scrubs at his face with the back of his free hand. No more crying. "Fuck you."
She relaxes. "Okay." And she waits while he pulls himself together. He tucks the needles back in their pouch, slips the note carefully into his pocket, drops the pouch in after. He presses his hands to his eyes and takes a long breath.
He's alright. Everything is okay.
When he opens his eyes again, he feels lighter, steadier. Niki is there, watching him carefully. The church is standing brilliantly. Sam's note is in his pocket, and it promises a future.
Whether good or bad, he'll have to be alive to see. He thinks good. He hopes good.
He sucks in another breath. "Am I fucking losing it or did I see Jack Manifold take a whole tray of bread earlier?"
Niki blinks. Then she laughs. "No, no, he did. Don't worry, next service I'm making him bake the bread."
"Prime help the churchgoers, then, seriously. They might all die."
…
Ranboo is not himself right now and Tommy can tell.
It's in his eyes- the widened pupils, the copious amounts of eye contact that would make everyday Ranboo skittish. He's also more vocal, making little chirps and coos instead of his normal nervous stutters.
There's also the fact that before Tommy was in Snowchester, he'd been at working at Fort Big until Ranboo came by, all touchy and growly, not letting up until Tommy was in his home, sitting on the living room couch.
So yeah, that's how Tommy's day has been.
"Alright big man," Tommy says to the Ranboo that is sitting across from him just staring intently. "You've got me here. What is the occasion? If Wilbur finds out I've played hooky he might hook up with Quackity just to spite me."
Ranboo's head tilts. He opens his mouth and-
Woah. That wasn't English.
"Uh, sorry, say that again for me?" Tommy asks. "I wasn't expecting- what was that, Ender?"
Ranboo blinks twice. Then, slower, he makes the noise again.
It's a click-krr, kinda purred.
A couple months ago him and Tubbo bugged Ranboo into teaching them some Ender- they said it was because it was one of the coolest languages on the server, but really it was because Tubbo mentioned hearing Ranboo speak it under his breath sometimes, repeating phrases to no one, practicing as so not to lose it. They figured that would be easier with people to practice it with.
The lessons were slow going because they were all so busy, and Tubbo's never been the best with his words, and for some reason Ranboo refused to teach Tommy Enderian swears- but Tommy thinks he's picked up enough to carry himself through a conversation.
Click-krr. All soft and gentle.
Tommy repeats it back to Ranboo, throwing a questioning lilt onto his voice. Ranboo purrs happily, nodding.
Click-krr , click-krr , He goes.
Okay, Tommy thinks. This is important then. Click-krr is good.
"Is that why you've brought me here? For click-krr?" He asks.
Ranboo nods again, and then he's speaking some more, too quickly for Tommy to dispher. There's click-krr , and war-cluck , and raa-hiss . And then Ranboo is standing, moving, taking the blanket laying on the arm next to him and coming closer, throwing it clumsily around Tommy.
Tommy blinks.
click-krr , Ranboo says, sitting next to him. raa-hiss . taa-krr .
"Hey, taa-krr , that's me!" Tommy says. "I'm taa-krr . And if krr is the Y, then- click-krr . Something ty, yeah?"
Ranboo pats at Tommy's shoulders. Encouraging him to wrap up with the blanket like Tommy looks cold. Almost like Ranboo wants Tommy to be warm.
Oh.
Oh, Tommy knows what click-krr is.
"Ranboo, click-krr . It's safety innit?" He asks, throat tight. Ranboo purrs. "And I'm- I'm willing to bet that raa-hiss is home. Or nest. You- you want to protect me. Keep me safe."
Ranboo click-krrs again, nodding, eyes big. Then he leans forward, butting his head against Tommy's shoulder the way that Tubbo does when he wants to show affection.
"Oh Ranboo, you bitch," Tommy laughs wetly. Ranboo pulls back and Tommy can't help himself.
He reaches out, holds Ranboo's face in both hands and pulls him in so their foreheads are pressed together. Tommy closes his eyes and Ranboo chirps, confused, but after a moment his hands come up to rest over Tommy's and Tommy nearly sobs.
"Family," Tommy whispers, eyes still closed.
cha-krr, Ranboo goes, and without a single doubt, Tommy knows what it means.
…
Tommy stays there on the couch with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Ranboo at his side for the rest of the afternoon. Mainly because if he tried to get up, Ranboo would start to fret, and Prime, a sad Ranboo was actually torture to look at, fuck him for his stupidly big Endermanian eyes.
But thankfully, the art supplies has only doubled since Tommy's started coming by more often, so Tommy has something to do. He's been trying to figure out the difference between all his new needles while doing a gift for Sam, and it's been terrible, but learning is a process.
A long, slow, annoying process.
For the most part, Ranboo seems pleased by Tommy's sewing, up until he accidentally pricks himself- then Ranboo is whining and pawing at the gloves Tommy's making like they're going to kill Tommy. Tommy rushes to calm him, but decides, yeah, he's had enough of failing at sewing for one day.
"Here, let me show you something." Tommy says, leaning over and getting the basket of big yarn. "Uh, ter-hiss. Teach. I'll teach you how to arm-knit."
Ranboo warbles, tilting his head again, listening.
Tommy shows him how to cast the first stitch, and carefully pulls Ranboo's arms through a slipknot so they're matching. And then Tommy keeps looping until he's got more stitches. Ranboo seems fascinated by the repetitive motions, and chirps joyously everytime Tommy's gotten another loop done.
Before Tommy knows it, it's dark outside and he's got the beginnings of a blanket over both his and Ranboo's laps. It's a million times better than the one he started oh-so-long ago with Tubbo. He's pretty proud of it, and wants to keep going, but it's been a long day. Ranboo is leaning back, eyes still on Tommy as Tommy's hand motions slow.
Ranboo clicks and hisses at him, rounding it off with a purr. A gentle push to sleep. Tommy listens, gathering up their half creation and dumping it into the basket for another time.
"I might as well sleep," Tommy grumbles good-naturedly, "since you kidnapped me and all. I ought to get good mileage out of the napped part of this deal."
Ranboo click hiss purrs again and leans forward to cup Tommy's face, startling him.
cha-krr, he says, then pulls Tommy's head down to bump his mouth against Tommy's curls. It's a crude imitation of a human's version of a kiss to the hair, but it makes Tommy all warm anyway.
"Aw Ranboo," Tommy flushes. "You suck. I love you too. Please do not mention this in front of any of the hot ladies I speak to on the daily. I beg of you."
Ranboo turns over, pulling a blanket over himself.
"Ranboo? Ranboo. You aren't going to mention this ever again right? Right ?"
…
Ranboo wakes him in the morning, asking frantically, in english, what happened? What did I do? Oh prime, I'm sorry- are you okay?
And Tommy just smiles, reaches up to pat Ranboo's face. "I taught you to arm-knit and you taught me Cha-krr," he says.
Ranboo blinks, getting warm.
"Oh." He says.
"Yeah. Oh." Tommy nods, tucking the moment, along with all the others, in his chest, next to his heart.
"I didn't hurt you?"
"You wouldn't," Tommy says. "All we did was knit."
Ranboo seems even more miserable at that. "You taught me, I- I don't remember it."
"That's alright," Tommy shrugs. "I'll teach you again."
"And what if I forget again?"
"Then I'll teach you until you remember. And I'll keep teaching you after that." Tommy says. Ranboo's eyes get all watery and Tommy stands. "Now come on, you can explain to Wil why I went missing the other day- if he hears it from me, he might throw the Terms at my face again."
…
"I have something for you," Tommy says later that week, sitting in his spot, in his chair, across from Puffy.
"Oh? For me? Tommy, you don't have to-"
"Oh trust me, you're going to hate it."
Puffy stops, smiling fondly. "I doubt that. But alright."
Tommy opens his inventory and pulls it out. It's wrapped as carefully as he could've done it with his shaky hands, and it's the best paper he could find- the one he used on all those badly done origami frogs that are now living in Niki's work desk at the dye shop. He looks at it for a moment before handing it over, across the desk.
"Here."
Puffy takes it slowly, watching Tommy carefully. He fidgets a little, nervous as she gently unwraps it.
"You've, uh, you've helped me a lot this year. With so many things." He says, his leg bouncing up and down. "And I couldn't figure out how to thank you, so I made you this."
She gets it open enough for the gift inside to unfold, and she gasps. Puffy reaches in and pulls the sweater out marveling at its softness and warmth. One sleeve is cotton candy pink with little blue flowers on the inner wrist, and the other sleeve is a light blue with pink flowers- the hem and collar are lavender, with little light green leaves embroidered all around. The body is a pure white, with just a single golden sun in the middle, the thread catching the light and shimmering.
"You were right about ugly sweaters being all we need," Tommy continues, less nervous now. "They, and you, helped me make it where I am now, so thank you."
"Oh, Tommy," Puffy sighs, running her hands over the careful knitting, the mindful embroidery- the patterns of trial and error and effort. Of healing. "I had no doubt that you've make it here. Not a single one."