Chapter Text
In one moment, Tommy is being beaten against an obsidian wall. His head is banging against something solid as Dream repeatedly assaults him. His jaw aches from a punch but he can't even groan about it because it hurts to breathe. He's on the ground now but Dream just continues kicking him. He’s been hit but, even worse, he’s now being moved. He’s being shoved, kicked, towards flowing molten metal and rock. Terror chokes him up but he can't move.
His skin makes contact with the lava.
Tommy’s eyes are dry despite the pain that should otherwise have him tearing up. His eyes are dry because everything’s too hot and he can feel his sweat evaporate into nothing. This is his very last life, Dream’s truly killed him after everything, he's been beaten half to death and now he'll be burnt the rest of the way— he’s dead, fuck—
Tommy’s senses open up into a void of nothing. It's so empty and lifeless that it should be boring or relaxing but it isn't. He vaguely hears Wilbur’s voice excitedly greeting him for only a moment before he’s stumbling back onto the prison’s floor. His back still stings and his arms weigh down his sides. Tommy gasps out and his natural reaction to seeing Dream again is to back away and get as far as possible.
Dream steps closer to him, following Tommy’s movements. Tommy can feel pressure pushing down within his ears and the smell of the lava just a few steps away has him violently flinching. He needs to get out of here, where’s Sam? He just wants to relax with Tubbo and listen to tunes.
“So? How was it like?” Dream asks. He’s looking at him with a slightly amused head tilt. There is nowhere for Tommy to go. His tongue is too big for his mouth and his throat is a dry desert. He can’t speak. Cotton balls in his mouth, Wilbur would call it.
“Tommy?” Dream’s morbidly curious voice starts again. His name sounds tauntingly musical coming from Dream, “—What did final death feel like?”
The mention of the word “death” has Tommy shivering uncontrollably. Why is he here?
“—I was worried the book wouldn’t work…” Dream continues.
Tommy’s eyes focus on the cracks and texture of the ground. He’s huddled against the corner as Dream squats in front of him like he hasn’t just pulled him through states of existence. Tommy swears he can hear Dream’s smile in the man’s voice. Tommy wants everything to be quiet. Dream’s questions keep coming.
“How did it feel when you died?”
What? Dream is actually insane—
“Did it feel good?”
No! What kind of fucking person asks that—
“I gave you some time, I was hoping you would answer some more questions… ''
Tommy can hear Dream’s tone becoming less gentle and more impatient, more demanding. He almost wishes he were back in the void. There’s too much stimulus, too much white noise from the crying obsidian and sizzling from the lava.
“Tommy… should I have left you longer? I really was hoping you’d be more informative.”
And with those words, Tommy is forcing himself to look up at Dream. Dream’s mask sits apathetically on the bastard's face. Tommy can’t bring himself to look at the eyes of the mask, so he settles on it’s unnerving, drawn-on smile.
“…I was dead.” Tommy eventually gasps out. He glances away. He flinches once again when Dream’s hand falls onto his head. Tommy can feel tenseness in his very bones as Dream ruffles his hair faux good-naturedly. A hysterical laugh bubbles from Tommy’s throat. Dream chuckles with him, darkly amused. Dream suddenly leans forward, closer. He seems to inspect Tommy, seemingly taking careful note of his status of living. Dream shakes Tommy by his hair.
“This is amazing! You know what this means, Tommy? Tommy, look at me—”
Tommy reluctantly moves his gaze up onto Dream’s eyeholes. With Dream this close, Tommy can actually see Dream’s eyes. It’s the first time Tommy’s ever seen them, what with them usually being cascaded by shadows or thin black fabric. His eyes are vibrantly green.
“This means I’m a God, Tommy!”
Dream’s hand tightens in his hair and Tommy feels the strain on every single strand as Dream forcibly pulls his head up. Dream stands and Tommy is brought along with the movement.
“When you get back next time, you’ll be answering all my curiosities, alright? Oh, and ask Schlatt if he knows where his body is.”
Tommy doesn’t understand what's happening as Dream drags him over to the lava. He can vaguely hear Dream muttering strange words. Words that feel electric despite being said under a breath. It must be magic. They might be enchantments. For what, though?
“Mutare praeteritum et sanare animam…” Dream murmurs. “… Arctissimum cutis simul mollit ictu.”
Tommy tries to latch onto the strange words Dream is whispering. Mutare praeteritum? Animam? Just when Tommy feels the burning again, his mouth forms a few sounds, his mirror neurons kicking in at the last moment.
“Mutare Praeteritum? Mutare praeteritum-” Tommy echoes back the strange words. He hears Dream yell something at him before he’s practically thrown.
Prickling pain blooms behind his eyes. A shimmering sheen, not unlike the rippling enchantments on a powerful chest plate, fills Tommy’s vision as his blood literally boils and his skin blackens for the last time.
In the next moment, Tommy is sitting up on something soft. The sounds of mobs groan and rattle outside and his breathing quickly turns uneven. Before he knows it, Tommy is hyperventilating. His eyes finally mist up and crying quickly follows. His hyperventilating lapses in and out of sobs.
His arms are lighter now, though they still feel sensitive. The blanket his skin touches sends shivers down the back of his neck. Blanket? Tommy roughly wipes his eyes and attempts to figure out where he is. Why is he in a bed? It’s not dark wherever he is. He registers a torch hung on a wall opposite to him before he registers the familiarity of the wall.
Despite his attempts, his eyes endlessly fill with tears and his throat and nose clog up. He moves his hands from his face and raises them to his head. He slides his fingers through his hair and grasps onto it tightly before pulling. His hair feels shorter for some odd reason but the pain is familiar. He screams, loud and roughly. It bounces off the walls around him. He pulls harder at his hair. It feels nice, no, it feels familiar. Yet it burns in an entirely different way than lava does.
That last thought has Tommy doubling over into deeper panic. He hears a wooden door creaking open and someone running into the room. A high-pitched, terrified whine leaves him as someone grabs his wrists and brings them down onto his lap.
“—son? Tommy? Tommy what’s—”
Tommy's eyes widen at the voice and his head snaps in the direction it came from. He takes in the features of Philza, of Wilbur’s killer. He’s stopped screaming, Tommy notices. Tommy’s mouth is pressed into a thin, unimpressed line as he slowly cements Phil’s face in the forefront of his mind.
“Toms’?” Wilbur’s voice sounds so real and close. It’s less soft than how he sounds as Ghostbur. Tommy must be close to the void then. He wonders if Phil can hear Wilbur too.
Tommy tries ripping his wrists away from Phil’s grip but Phil’s too strong. Tommy looks away from the man’s face and back down at his hands. They look so soft, too soft, next to Phil’s. Almost like they’ve been shrunk down. Tommy’s shoulders begin to shake as he starts rocking back and forth.
Phil relaxes his hold. He keeps one hand over Tommy’s wrists as he uses the other to gently grasp Tommy’s chin. Tommy shuts his eyes as Phil carefully turns his head to properly face him. Phil’s comforting words have no meaning in Tommy’s mind. They seem to flow in one ear and out the other. The words, they’re soft but they’re lies. They’ve got to be.
When Tommy finally opens his eyes and sees Phil, he sees red. Anger from not just at Phil, but at Wilbur and Techno and Dream and everyone. Tommy just feels so pissed.
Tommy smashes his forehead against Phil’s and quickly takes advantage of his surprise. Scrambling out of the bed, Tommy lunges at Phil and tackles him to the ground. There’s no sense in any of it, really. Tommy just needs to see him hurt.
Tommy’s hands find their way onto Phil’s throat and something vicious in him screams to squeeze. To make sure Phil will never kill Wilbur, to make sure Phil never enables Techno’s anarchy plots. Phil deserves this. He should be dead.
He only stops when wind gusts unexpectedly. Memories of running and jumping away from danger spin through his mind’s eye. His stomach heaves and bile rises up in his throat as he jumps away from Phil and his large, white wings. Wings that were closed a few moments ago but are now stretching out and flapping slowly but with enough force to push air against him. That's not allowed. Dream banned flight and wings of all sorts. And didn't Phil's wings get permanently injured by Wilbur's explosions?
The cool air has Tommy curling up all over again. His fingers grip at his elbows, nails digging into his skin, as he crosses his arms protectively over his chest. Phil’s angry now. Tommy can’t win against the Angel of Death. His back hits the bottom side of his childhood bed frame.
His childhood bed frame?
Tommy looks back up into the room, eyes wide. All the overwhelming noises and sensations push to the back of his mind as he takes in the room. His childhood bedroom. His room in a house on a server far, far away from the Dream SMP server. The walls are all wooden and he has paintings hanging on one wall, shelves on another. He looks up at Phil, his dad. He looks younger and less filled with contempt for him. A younger, alive Wilbur stands frozen in the doorway behind his father.
He’s suddenly hit with an overabundance of exhaustion. He’s been through a lot. He’s tired. His legs and arms turn into sand bags and fall limp. Tommy’s eyes roll back in his head and he faints.
Philza is no stranger to the sound of screaming. He’s been on countless missions and quests that have taken a wrong turn. He’s dealt with babies having tantrums. He’s been present for a few births.
He’s intimately familiar with screams of anguish and terror. He’s sliced through mobs and players alike. He’s gotten mostly over it too, he’s not as innocent or weak as he first started out. Phil has grinned back at enemies.
There is something inherently wrong in hearing a child scream in terror though. It’s the middle of the night and Phil is in the midst of organizing some bookshelves when he’s interrupted by a screech upstairs. Noone’s in the upper stories other than his twenty-years-old son Wilbur and fifteen-year-old son Tommy.
With forced calmness, Phil quickly makes his way upstairs. With every step taken, his hearing can more clearly pick up the sound of heavy breathing and whines. Phil further hastens his pace as he pinpoints the sound as coming from Tommy’s bedroom.
Phil hears Wilbur confusedly and tiredly asking what’s wrong from the top of a second set of stairs, stairs that head up into Wil’s personal loft. Phil ignores him in favour of pulling out a sword and opening Tommy’s door. He’s greeted with the sight of Tommy doubled over with hands pulling at his blond locks.
The screaming is worse now that he's in the actual room but Phil is relieved when he sees that there’s nobody else. The windows are properly shut with no signs of breaking or entering. Dropping the sword near the door, Philza rushes towards Tommy and pulls the boy’s hands away from his scalp.
“What happened, son? Tommy? Tommy, what’s going on—”
Tommy’s head snaps toward him. A chill goes through him as his son looks at him with darkened eyes. The screaming has stopped abruptly as Tommy seems to focus through Phil. Memories gather up to the forefront of his mind. Memories of his other son, Techno, staring at him before whispering strange things about blood.
Phil sends a quick look to Wilbur and wordlessly commands him to stay out of the room. Tommy isn’t that intimidating. He’s just a teen and has a history of being generally harmless. The coldness in Tommy's expression still has Phil shifting to hide Wil from line of sight despite Tommy’s said history.
Tommy tries to tear away from his grip but Phil holds them steady. Phil exhales when Tommy’s gaze is finally off of him. Gently, Phil asks Tommy to look at him. No response.
"Was someone here? Tommy, you're safe. I promise," Phil says. He just wants Tommy to calm down. He doesn’t understand why Tommy is in such a state. Maybe this is a normal thing? Phil isn't usually home long enough to notice things like this.
Phil reaches out with one hand to shift Tommy’s chin towards him. Tommy looks at him again but with a less telling expression this time. Almost blank. Tommy’s eyes fall closed. Somehow, Tommy’s grimace with tightly shut eyes feels worse.
Tommy’s eyes shoot open. Phil suddenly finds himself on the ground with a throbbing pain on his forehead. There are small fingers pressing and grasping his throat. Despite their small size, the thumbs press into his neck. They block the exact spot needed to render him without oxygen.
A tightness forms at the back of Phil’s head, the sort of tightness that precedes light-headedness. Phil looks up at Tommy and is momentarily shocked to see Tommy staring back with a venomous, desperate expression. Tommy’s mouth is moving but hardly any sound escapes him. Phil is able to pick up part of a murmur.
“—should be dead—”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Phil twists and extends his wings out and sends a few powerful gusts. The sudden influx of air seems to shock Tommy, and Tommy is soon stumbling back and away from him. Flapping his wings behind him gently, just enough to have air hit Tommy’s face—not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt— and ground him. Tommy has always loved rushes of air. Phil has had to catch him jumping from heights far too often.
But Tommy’s not calming down, he’s just turning back into the defensive. Arms around his knees and back hitting against the side of the bed. Tommy’s eyes are wide and unseeing as he looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time or as if he’s seeing something against the walls and in the corners.
Phil is just about to use his wings to engulf the poor boy into a hug when Tommy unceremoniously falls unconscious. His boy falls limp against the bed and Phil is able to see Tommy’s pale skin covered in scratches. Phil closes up his wings and takes a moment to steady his breath.
One of Phil’s hands raises to touch confusedly at the light bruising on his throat. Tommy attacked him. Behind him, Wilbur finally unfreezes and steps into the room. Phil stands still, looking down at his unconscious son as Wilbur rushes to said son’s side.
Something dark brushes at the back of his mind and Phil swallows the urge to tell Wilbur to stay away from Tommy. He keeps in an order to stand behind him in case Tommy darts awake and attacks him. But that’s impossible. Or should be. Despite all of Tommy’s fanfare and dramatic displays, Tommy doesn’t physically hurt people with harmful intent. Tommy’s having a bad night, that’s all. A bad night because of what, Phil doesn’t know.
His hand reaches into his pocket, fingers clasping around a smooth communicator. He pulls it out. With his eyes still locked on Tommy, Philza types out a quick message. Wilbur hisses angrily at him in response to seeing Phil just standing there. Phil sends the message before pocketing the communicator.
Phil gets closer to Tommy and shifts onto his knees. Wilbur is silently inspecting the red and raised skin on Tommy’s arms. All of it fresh, all of it from Tommy grasping desperately at himself with his nails. Phil vaguely registers Wilbur crying as Tommy doesn’t wake up. Phil can tell that Tommy is breathing at the very least.
Tearing his gaze away from Tommy’s arms, Phil presses two fingers against a pulse point on one of Timmy’s wrist, just in case. There’s a pulse. That’s fine at least. He tells Wilbur this but Wilbur seems hyperfocused on the small injuries left on Tommy.
“Are you going to do anything?!” Wilbur suddenly shouts at him. Wilbur’s eyes are on Tommy as he yells at Phil.
“Get a potion or something! He’s hurt—” Wilbur continues, panic lacing his voice.
Hardening his heart and forcing himself into calmness once again, Phil shakes his head in the negative. He carefully pulls Tommy towards him and picks him up, much to Wilbur’s annoyance.
“So this isn't normal? You go get a potion, I need to make sure he’s alright.” Safe to be around, you mean? Phil’s traitorous mind hisses. “—I’ll bring him to the living room.”
"No, it's not normal! Tommy's never had a," Wilbur stutters, "— a night terror like this before! The closest he's gotten to a night terror is getting startled awake!"
Scowling, Wilbur goes to fetch some potions for his brother.
Wilbur isn’t an idiot. He knows that whatever just happened is not normal. It worries him. He doesn’t know why Tommy attacked their dad. Just yesterday, they were all shearing and processing wool together. Everything was fine. And then for the evening, Wilbur went out to get some trades done at the village. Everything seemed fine at dinner, and Wilbur had gone to bed soon after. Tommy was fine.
What happened? Someone must have broken in, Wilbur thinks. But that doesn’t line up with the shut windows and normal bedroom. Wilbur took stock of everything he could when he was there and nothing was out of place.
Wilbur finally finds a few potions of healing. He’s been in the basement for only a few minutes, yet he wants to check on Tommy again. With a half-minded thought, Wilbur pockets a regeneration potion too. He glances at the negative potions for a moment before leaning over and picking up a slowness potion. It might be useful for calming Tommy down if he’s hyperventilating again.
Wilbur’s experimented with potions before, without Phil knowing. A potion of healing with a few drops of slowness basically creates a calming draught. It’s not stable enough to be stored or used often, but it’s the basis for a potion that Wilbur has been trying to create. He has a theory he needs to test regarding the subversive effects of mixing glistering melon and magma cream.
But enough about his stupid project, Tommy needs help. With everything securely packed into his inventory, Wilbur heads his way back upstairs.
He won’t admit it, but he’s glad to see Tommy carefully laid down on a couch in their living room. If there's one thing Phil can do as a father, it's first aid. It’s still late and Wilbur still has those little bits of tiredness from being awoken so abruptly but he’s focused and aware.
Phil sits on a chair near the couch, his gaze on Tommy’s serene face. But then Tommy’s face twitches and Tommy’s brows furrow. They relax just as quick, but it’s worrying nonetheless.
The adrenaline from earlier is finally slipping away from Wilbur. He heads over to the two and silently hands Phil one of the healing potions. Like clockwork, Phil uncaps the cork and pours small amounts over Tommy’s arms. The scratches heal up and Wilbur releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
As Phil motions to lift Tommy’s head, Wilbur intercepts with a hand and sends a half-hearted glare at his dad. Phil only rolls his eyes before backing away and letting Wilbur do it.
Gently, Wilbur sets Tommy’s head up on the couch arm and carefully presses the rim of the opened potion to Tommy’s mouth. Luckily, Tommy opens and Wilbur is able to tilt the rest of the potion in. Tommy, though unconscious, easily swallows it. Immediately, the redness in Tommy’s face fades down. Tommy’s occasional twitches disappear and soon Tommy is in a relaxed sleep.
With Tommy asleep. Wilbur stands and grabs his dad’s arm. He pulls Phil out of the room and into the kitchen, away from Tommy.
“What happened? What did you do to him?” Wilbur asks accusingly. Phil raises an unimpressed eyebrow and shakes Wil’s arm off of him
“I just put him on the couch, Wilbur. He fainted on his own.”
“I’m not asking about that, Dad. I’m asking why the fuck this happened in the first place! Were you not watching him when I was out?”
Phil’s expression turns offended at the accusation. He crosses his arms and glares at Wil who immediately glares back.
“We didn’t do anything today! We did our chores together this morning and when you went out to the village, Tommy and I just fed the chickens before working on dinner. I didn’t do anything to him, Wil.” Phil says. He rolls his eyes at Wilbur’s obvious distrust.
“Seriously, kid, nothing else happened today. Why can’t you just trust me?”
Wilbur scoffs and leans against one of the counters, his own arms folding in front of his chest in the same way Phil does. He glances back into the living room and his eyes soften at the sight of his little adopted brother. Wil breathes out and calms himself.
“Sure. Fine. Nothing happened. 'Sorry for thinking you did something during the one time you’re around.’ How am I supposed to trust you with Tommy when you’ve only been around for, what, half of his birthdays?” Wilbur asks. He rocks slightly in frustration and stops himself as soon as he notices.
Phil huffs and scowls. He’s heard this sentiment time and time again.
“We need to get money somehow. Your little excursion out to the village hardly brought home any emeralds. I care about this family, despite what you may think.” Phil responds evenly. The guilt at constantly leaving them behind gnaws at his heart. Phil enjoys going out on quests, and Wilbur knows it.
Wilbur ignores Phil’s words and just stares. Wil sends another glance at Tommy before forcing his focus on Phil.
“Prove you actually care then. At least put off your next mission until we figure out what’s going on with Tommy. Got it?” Wilbur demands. His words are sharp as is his eyes. He’s always had a special sort of protectiveness over Tommy.
Phil looks back at Tommy. A soft, concerned expression on his face.
“Of course I’m going to stay.”