Chapter Text
The worst part about scaling the side of an apartment building half past three AM with a bullet lodged between his ribs is that it probably isn’t the worst thing Tommy has done.
It is, however, shaping up to be the last.
He hasn’t stopped bleeding since he’d picked himself up off of the gritty, cracked concrete behind the boutique on seventh street which is… not ideal. Usually, any injuries he earned on his nightly patrols would heal just enough for him to make it across fourteenth district and back through his apartment window so he could put himself back together on his bedroom floor.
Now, he’s not even sure he’ll get that far.
“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the brick as he clings to the wall.
His fingers are rubbed raw from climbing, and the thin tendrils of green ivy sneaking out from the ends of his fingerless gloves are the only thing keeping him from falling. He can feel more of it winding around his legs, digging into the mortar of the bricks, trying to push him up.
Tommy brings a booted foot up and winces, trying to secure a foothold. Ivy snakes under his boot, pushing and pushing and supporting. Just that short movement has his head spinning, and he is painfully aware of the amount of blood soaking through his undershirt.
(Distantly, hazily, he laments the amount of scrubbing it’s going to take to get that out of the fabric.)
“Come on,” he breathes, voice wavering. He looks up, head feeling particularly heavy as he cranes it back to get a look at the window above him – maybe a meter away from his shaking hands. He can do it. He has to do it. “Just a little–”
He cuts himself off with a grunt, preserving his energy to try to bridge the unbridgeable distance. His head spins, and– fuck. That hurt. Is he concussed? Probably. Double fuck.
He really, really should sit down. It’s a shame that he’s nine whole stories in the air. If he falls now – which is looking more likely by the second – the only thing that would catch him would be hard, unforgiving concrete.
The thought makes him swallow hard, and the bolt of fear gives him the burst of energy he needs to get his bloody fingers around the thin windowsill. His next breath comes a fraction easier as Tommy pulls himself up, muscles straining. His arms are going to ache like a bitch tomorrow – well, if he makes it that far.
He drags his clumsy fingers onto the glass, bracing his palms against it and pushing.
His heart skips a beat when the window doesn’t give. Dread washes over him, turning his blood into ice. No fucking way it’s locked. No fucking way he’s that unlucky tonight of all nights.
The glass wiggles – Tommy remembers how to breathe. He pushes harder, gritting his teeth. His bandana, fastened over the bottom half of his face, presses uncomfortably against his mouth, damp with blood. The glass slides up an inch, then the rest of the way.
If Tommy wasn’t so utterly exhausted, he might cheer. As it is, it’s all he can do to boost himself up that last, agonizing distance.
He feels the last of his power drain right as he manages to hook an arm through the window. His ivy shrivels, and falls away from him with a soft rustle.
“Fuck you,” he grits out victoriously to the universe as he tumbles inside, too out of it to attempt to catch himself. His limbs go leaden immediately, and he collapses into a messy heap on the floor. He laughs deliriously under his breath, blinking hard at the blurry white ceiling. “I win these.”
Or maybe not.
Victory tastes like thick, heavy copper on his tongue, and his eyes are already threatening to slip closed. He clings on to the last of his slipping lucidity and tries to push himself upright. Tommy might be new to the whole vigilante-scene, but even he knows that if he falls asleep now – now when his side is still bleeding freely, powers too depleted to attempt to fix it – he’ll be well and truly fucked.
(And then they’ll find you, whispers that cruel voice in the back of his head. They’ll wake up in the morning and find you and they will know. And they will hate you as they grieve.)
Bile climbs up his throat. Tommy gasps quietly as he sits up, hands flying out clumsily to balance himself. He squints into the blackness of his room, and it’s– it’s really dark in here. He thought he’d left a light on but maybe not. In any other circumstance, he’d just summon a ball of light to the palm of his hand but, well.
Tommy gets upright and instantly staggers. He thinks he’s sort of going the right way, towards the first aid kit tucked under his bed, but he’s clearly wrong, because his hip bumps into something and glass shatters. Tommy freezes, swaying on his feet.
His brain is working overtime to try to orient himself – what the fuck did he just knock over? A cup maybe? Tubbo was always on him about hoarding glasses in his room.
Does that mean he’s by his desk?
Tommy takes a tentative few steps forward and collides into something both soft and firm. It’s enough to topple him; he drops onto his knees and falls further into it. Forehead pressed against the thing, he frowns, hands sliding up testingly over what is unmistakably a sofa, and– okay.
He… he’s a little out of it, admittedly, but he does not remember there being a sofa in his room.
It is soft though. He slumps against it, easing himself down so he’s leaning his back against it, legs out in front of him. He doesn’t even have enough energy to pull himself onto it properly but even sitting on the floor with his back against it feels great. Or better, at least. He doesn’t feel too great in general.
And since when did breathing get so difficult? Tommy doesn’t remember that either. But his lungs contract with a rasp and he coughs, chest shaking. The fit ends quickly, and his eyelids droop. Maybe it won’t be that bad to fall asleep here. A brief repose, to catch his breath. Just this once.
Five minutes, Tommy promises himself lethargically. Five minutes then back up.
He exhales, muscles loosening as tension seeps out of him. That seems like a good deal. Five minutes. He can– he can do that. Everything’s gonna be just fine if he just… takes a second to rest. Even the heroes rest, sometimes. This is okay. Pog, even. It’s fine.
It’s what he tells himself, anyways, as his eyes slip closed.
⋆⋆⋆
It’s almost cruel – the way that the one time Techno lays himself down for bed at a somewhat decent hour, someone breaks into his apartment.
His first thought is that retirement made him slow, because he doesn’t hear the intruder until he hears the glass break. Then, his eyes are snapping open, awareness flooding him instantly. The voices clustered at the back of his skull awaken with him: an indistinct choir of restlessness and hunger that grows louder as he stands and catches a strong whiff of blood.
Paranoia has its virtues – by the time Techno makes it out of his bedroom, he’s wielding twin silver blades. Incessant, the voices push and shout and claw and–
Come to an unprecedented halt as he rounds the corner into the living room.
Techno freezes, blinking at the crumpled form in front of his now-heavily-bloodstained couch. What…?
He steps closer, feeling strangely exposed with the voices’ unusual absence. They’re there – of course they are. But they’re quiet.
Techno doesn’t like loud, but the quiet is almost worse.
He steps forward, faint moonlight glinting off his knives. It draws his eyes up to the window: wide open with blood streaked across the glass and sill like a macabre fingerpainting. Wind pushes against the curtains and that’s what makes it click.
Did– did this guy break into his home through the window? Of his eighth-story apartment?
For a moment, all he can do is stare – very, very faintly impressed.
Then, the scent of blood slams into him again and he snaps out of it. The voices churn again, not a shout but a nudge. Techno listens, approaching the crumpled form. He deposits the knives on the floor as he crouches down – his instincts are telling him it’s safe, and his enhanced senses point to the same conclusion.
Techno nudges the guy’s shoulder, inspecting him carefully. He’s clad in red and white – not the type of clothes he’d expect to see on a burglar but then, he wouldn’t expect a burglar to be able to get in through his window so–
Not a burglar, hisses a voice, rising above the muddled amalgamation that had retreated to his nape. Look.
And Techno does, wondering why the voices are acting up and then discarding the thought to inspect the guy properly.
Blonde, he charts, hurt. Then, the pieces start to click together in his mind: the attire that looks less like a burglar’s garments and more like a uniform, the bandana that is fastened poorly over his face – not even hiding his eyes – and the edgy fingerless gloves. He knows what he’s dealing with. Hero– no. Too scrappy. Vigilante.
The voices murmur in agreement and he frowns, appreciating the unusual commentary even if he doesn’t need it.
The guy stirs, a quiet groan of pain cutting through the silence. Techno looks down, following the shining trail of blood on the floor up to the guy’s side, which is drenched in barely-visible crimson. Techno reaches forward without thinking, palms pressing over the fabric.
The guy jerks as Techno touches him, eyelashes fluttering. Techno presses harder, feeling totally lost. He doesn’t know why a vigilante has ended up in his apartment, but it’s probably not anything good.
However, Techno can’t just… not do anything. If he dies here, not only will that be a whole mess, but Techno won’t be able to find out why exactly he’s here.
(And if the sight of an injured vigilante reminds him too starkly of, well, himself, then that’s between him and the voices.)
“Alright,” Techno grunts, sliding his hands behind the guy’s hands and beneath his knees. “Up you go.”
The vigilante whimpers, and it makes Techno wince, sympathy panging through him almost foreignly. He tries not to jostle him, but he has to move fast if he wants to help him – and he does. Perhaps this is some sort of divine intervention. Nobody needs a normal sleep schedule. Certainly not him.
The guy is light, almost too light. Techno gets him onto the couch easily, grateful for his semi-night vision that is saving him from having to run to a light. The voices are starting to clamor again, acting independently even as they magnify his own worry.
He doesn’t need his powers to tell him this is bad. How the guy managed to get all the way up here is beyond him, even if most superpowered people had some sort of enhanced healing factor. Then again, adrenaline had its perks.
Bracing himself, Techno lifts the bottom of his jacket, then his undershirt, and grimaces.
Bullet wound, he identifies instantly – and ouch: he’s been shot enough times to know it hurts. The skin around it is red and inflamed, blood leaking sluggishly down his side. Techno slides his hand behind the guy’s back, feeling around and finding only smooth skin where an exit wound might be. His grimace deepens.
Blood manipulation and cell regeneration – it’s easy enough to use those facets of his abilities on himself when they happen automatically, but it’s much harder and infinitely less effective to use them on another person. Techno manages, focusing on shifting the blood to get the bullet fragments out first and foremost.
The guy lets out a strangled gasp, back arching as Techno’s powers struggle to do their work. He stays asleep throughout, which doesn’t surprise Techno in the slightest. It’s not a pretty injury.
A short eternity and an endless litany of hitched breaths later, it’s done. Techno pushes more power into his fingertips, attempting to knit the skin together as the last of the bullet fragments drop into his palm. His power resists – Techno has always been better at breaking things than fixing them.
Techno leans back, exhaling. The voices are dim and pulled-back as he tries to orient himself with where to go from here. Undoubtedly, he’ll need the first aid kit for the rest of this. And pain meds. And maybe a Xanax for himself.
He huffs, pushing himself up to his feet. He casts a scrutinizing gaze over the unconscious vigilante – fast asleep and no longer gasping out pained noises – before retreating into the bathroom to fetch his collection of medical supplies: particularly the suture kit.
It’s only because of Phil that he has one at all, because apparently relying purely on his abilities wasn’t “the best idea, mate.” At the time, Techno had rolled his eyes but begrudgingly accepted it. He’d inflicted his own paranoia on his oldest friend enough times to return the favor and entertain his antics.
Now, as he heads back into the living room to play nursemaid to the intruder on his couch, he considers himself grateful – and then wonders what karmic chain of events he’d participated in to land himself in this position.
Techno showers, changes, gets most of his living room in order – the blood on the window and the couch will have to wait – and is on his way to falling back asleep in the hours that it takes for the vigilante to regain consciousness. It’s only right that the moment he starts to drift off, the vigilante wakes with a loud gasp.
Techno straightens in the adjacent armchair, watching the guy struggle upright and instantly look around, eyes squinted as his drowsy gaze slides slowly over the room. Techno had turned on a lamp, thinking it might help, but the way the guy winces away from the soft gold light – gloved hand flying up to shield his eyes – he thinks he should’ve abstained from doing so.
“Tubbo?” the guy rasps.
He’s looking straight at Techno now – and Techno will admit that he freezes up, brain lagging.
Tubbo? Is he supposed to know what that is?
“Heh?”
The vigilante blinks again, and that’s when Techno notices the uneven pupils.
“Tubbo,” he repeats. “Where’s–”
He cuts himself off with a gasp, clutching his head. That’s enough for Techno to stand, retrieving the bottle of water he’d purposely left on the end table – once he had picked it back up anyway – and reaching out to the guy.
“What…?”
“Here,” he grunts, twisting the cap mostly off. The guy blinks at him before clumsily wrapping his hands around it. Techno nods awkwardly. “Drink that.”
Through the concussed fog, he’s clearly trying to think. Dehydration must win out because he pushes up the bottom of the bandana and tries to bring the bottle to his lips – tries, because his hands are shaking too bad to let him drink. Techno’s hand shoots out instinctively, stabilizing his hands. Relief rushes through his blue eyes as he drinks.
The voices hum in approval. Techno frowns.
The vigilante downs most of the bottle before he pulls it away. Some of his energy must be restored because he looks up at Techno curiously as Techno’s hand falls away.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Techno will be the first to admit that he has never had the most tact, but even he winces when the first thing out of his mouth is, “You owe me a new couch.”
The vigilante looks at him for a minute, eyebrows furrowed above his mask. He’s looking more and more concussed by the second.
“What?” the guy slurs, blinking hard again, blue eyes hazy.
“I asked how you were feeling.”
Liar, snickers a voice in the back of his head, rising above an equally as insufferable chorus.
Techno resolutely ignores it.
“Like shit,” the vigilante coughs out. His left hand comes down to hold his side, fingers skimming under the edge of his hoodie – because that’s what he fights in, Techno had come to realize – and brushing over the fresh bandages. “Did you–” He stops, and Techno frowns when he sees the guy’s eyes widen: laser focused on the front of his hoodie. “Wait.” Techno obliges. “Are you– is that Bloodlust merch?”
Techno stops. “What?”
“Bloodlust,” the vigilante manages. “Coolest–” he coughs again. “Coolest guy ever. Killed many people. Probably got so many bitches. Is the fuckin’ icon of icons–” His face, or what Techno can see of it, scrunches up. “Well, except maybe for Crowfather, he’s pretty fuckin’ sick–”
“Okay,” Techno interjects, incredibly out of his depth. “You’re done. Lay back down.”
“Huh?”
Techno presses his palm against the kid’s sternum with just enough force to push him back down on the pillows, not that he objects. “You are talkin’ way too much for someone whose pupils are two different sizes. Back to sleep.”
“Fuck you,” the guy croaks even as his eyes are already drooping shut. Techno internally groans. “I’m– I’m the man and the best. I can do what I want.” He coughs again, eyes managing a spark of heat. “Bitch.”
“You’re a home intruder,” Techno drawls out, seriously questioning every decision that has led him to this point. “I don’t want to hear it.”
The guy squints, confusion flickering over his tired face. “This is m’ house.”
A home robber too, then. Lovely. “This is, in fact, my apartment, actually.”
The guy squints, drowsiness burned away by hot accusation. “Did you kidnap me?”
Techno thinks he could be hung off the side of a helicopter by his ankles and still be less thrown off than he is now. “Heh? You broke into my apartment!”
The guy sinks against the pillows, eyelids drooping as the exhaustion slams back into him. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you when I wake up.”
Techno resists the urge to groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”
The guy nods, self-satisfaction oozing off of him even with his eyes closed. “Pussy.”
Techno sighs.
“Where am I?”
Techno, coming back in from the kitchen with a hastily-made peanut butter sandwich on a plate, will admit that he startles.
Not because he’s scared, no, but because when he looks over at the couch, the vigilante is awake – far sooner than he probably should be – sitting up, and pulling his mask off of his face.
His mask – as if he is not injured in a stranger’s apartment that he was (possibly) attempting to rob.
“Do you have zero survival instincts?” Techno asks, voice threatening to pitch up into disbelief, even as he feels a thin layer of panic wash over him. “Put your mask back on.”
The guy blinks, looking down at his lap where he is holding the bandana then back up again, and Techno goes very, very still because–
He looks so young.
The vigilante that crash-landed into his apartment a measly eight-ish hours ago can’t be older than seventeen, Techno is sure of it.
Techno will admit that his very first instinct is to wish, desperately, that Phil was here.
He’s equipped to handle a lot of things. But a child? And a vigilante-robber at that?
“Whoops,” the kid says. Then he sees the plate in Techno’s hands and his face – his bruised, painfully youthful face – lights up. “Is that for me?”
Techno hands him the plate wordlessly. The kid’s hands are shaking as he lifts the sandwich to his mouth, tearing off a bite ravenously. He– he doesn’t even hesitate.
Jesus Christ.
“Quit staring at me,” the boy demands after a moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Techno drawls dryly. “Am I supposed to not watch the guy who broke into my home?”
The boy’s eyebrows furrow, and he swallows his next bite. “I didn’t break in, dickhead.”
Techno glances over at his window, where he hadn’t had a chance to wipe the blood off the outside of the glass. The boy’s eyes follow the direction of his gaze and he frowns, recognition washing over him.
“Oh, is that– huh.” He takes another bite of his sandwich then glances up at Techno bashfully. “What, um–” He coughs awkwardly. “What floor are we on, right now?”
“Eighth.”
Panic flickers over the boy’s face. He sets his sandwich down, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Fuck.”
Techno almost laughs. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling more of: delirium, disbelief, amusement, or some combination of them all. Things suddenly make a bit more sense.
“I take it you didn’t mean to wind up here,” Techno guesses, relief blooming in his chest.
This is good. This means Techno can deliver him up to the correct floor and wash his hands of everything. This is great.
The boy laughs awkwardly, and it breaks into a chesty cough. He rubs his chest, pain creasing his face.
“No,” the boy admits. “I didn’t… I was coming back from patrol and must’ve…”
He trails off, brows scrunched and eyes faroff. He brings his sandwich up and takes a slow, contemplative bite.
“You are a vigilante then,” Techno confirms, skimming over his costume. “I figured.”
The boy’s eyes bulge, and he almost drops his sandwich. “You’ve heard of me?”
Techno hesitates, uncertain if he has the guts to crush this kid’s hope. He does.
“No,” he answers bluntly, only feeling a little bad when his face falls.
“...Are you going to call the cops?” he hedges carefully.
That is a good question.
Part of him thinks he should, if only because less than eight hours ago he was coaxing a bullet out of the kid’s side. Crime-fighting was a dangerous occupation – Techno would know. Before he was Bloodlust, he was a low-level vigilante just like he presumes this kid is.
He’s positive that he had triple the amount of survival instincts that this kid seems to have, but that doesn’t mean he necessarily should have been taking on armed robbers and making drug busts for free at the ripe age of sixteen. But at least he had a functional, protective uniform and the ability to walk off most of the injuries he’d ever earned. This kid is… woefully less prepared.
For both of their sake, Techno should call somebody to get him sorted out.
However.
Techno can tell from his body language that turning him in might not be the best option either. The kid has gone from loose and relaxed to stiff and jumpy, coiled like a spring. His eyes flicker over to Techno’s window like he’s ready to jump out of it should Techno move an inch. Considering that he’d climbed through it, Techno wouldn’t be surprised.
“No,” he finds himself saying eventually.
The boy bites his cheek, eyes two pools of distrust as he skims him over. “Oh. Why not?”
Techno sighs. “Are you going to stop fighting crime if I do?”
Techno doesn’t even have to hear whatever response the kid plans to muster up, because he hesitates, and the intent to lie is written so starkly on his face that Techno wants to laugh again.
“Thought so,” Techno huffs. The voices flurry, stirring. “I know better than anyone what it’s–”
Techno stops, tripping over his mistake. The voices groan, magnifying his own idiocy as if he didn’t realize the possible implications of what he’d almost said.
The kid must not be completely obtuse because his face changes. “You do?” The next few moments feel like a trainwreck – a collision in motion – as the kid’s face splits into something questioning, then recognition, then pure awe. Techno, realizes belatedly, that at the very least he should’ve changed out of his hoodie. “I fucking knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re Bloodlust.”
“...Who?”
Techno cringes before he’s even done saying it, flinching away from the screech of his own personal choir that chuckles like hyenas. If what he’d said earlier wasn’t a death knell on his identity, then this–
“Did you just– you’re wearing his merch, man,” the boy deadpans. Then, face brightening again, “Or– your merch. Holy shit.”
“I’m not Bloodlust,” Techno counters quickly, standing. “You’re concussed. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The boy’s face is incredulous. “Are you trying to gaslight me?” He exhales, breath shaking. “I’m getting manipulated by Bloodlust. This is the best day of my life.”
“I’m not–”
“And he’s wearing his own merch. What the shit?”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, kid.”
The boy leaps to his feet, face instantly greying out as he wobbles. That doesn’t stop him from launching into a rant, movements too animated for someone who had literally been on the brink of death not too long ago.
“I heard you in the kitchen, talking to yourself,” the boy counters. Techno opens his mouth to interject but the boy continues. “You thought I was asleep but I was pretending to make sure you weren’t a wrong’un. And at first I thought, well, maybe he was just thinking out loud. But then you said, and I quote ‘What do I feed him, Chat?’ And who the fuck was rumored to be able to talk to mythical voices? Bloodlust. Yeah, that’s right I know the lore.”
Techno feels hopelessly, hopelessly overwhelmed. How was toppling the entire Hero’s League easier than dealing with a concussed vigilante in the middle of his living room? He needs air. No, he needs Phil.
“Kid,” he tries, reaching out, and–
“And then I saw the hair–” Techno winces. “And then you said that–” He winces again, feeling Chat clamor loudly against his skull. “And then I saw the merch and it all came together.” His features screw up as he flashes Techno a lopsided smile. “It’s a real dickish move to wear your own merch, you know. That’s the kinda shit Tories do, man.” His eyes widen, and he whirls around in his pacing, staring straight at Techno. “Not that it matters! You can do what you want Mr. Bloodlust sir.”
Techno sighs. “Look, kid, I can’t–”
“Don’t– look, I’m Tommy – your biggest fan!” He pats his pockets like he’s searching for something but comes up bare. “Can I get your autograph?”
Techno flounders, reeling. First things first: “I’m– don’t tell me your name. Jesus–”
“It’s okay!” Tommy assures him, even as he sways on his feet, arms swinging wildly. “Really! You’re my biggest hero, man. You’re the reason I wanted to do this shit in the first place!” He gestures to his vigilante getup and suddenly his expression is softening, and his voice drops into something quiet: soft and hesitant with youth. “Please tell me I’m right.”
Techno resists pulling at his hair, but the urge is short-lived. Somehow, maybe it’s the fact that someone is actually calling him his hero – him whose hands break instead of build – that’s all it takes for him to crack.
What’s the worst that can happen? He’s Bloodlust, for crying out loud. There’s nothing a maybe-sixteen year old can do that would actually threaten him.
“I’m– okay. You got me.”
Tommy blinks, shakes, and then his face grows disturbingly serious. “I’m going to pass out.”
Techno instantly grabs his shoulders, pushing back towards the couch. “Not happenin’. Sit.”
Tommy just nods reverently, letting himself be guided backwards until–
“Are those knives?”
He twists out of Techno’s grip and lunges for the floor. Techno has a distant memory of setting them beside the couch and almost groans. Luckily, he doesn’t have to fight Tommy for the knives because the second the kid is walking on his own, his knees give out and he lurches towards the ground.
Techno swears and catches him, worry coursing through him. This is awful. This is horrible. How has his night devolved into this hell of a morning?
“Take it easy,” Techno tells Tommy, whose fingers dig into his hoodie as he lowers him onto the pillows. He can’t help the bite of admonishment from slipping into his tone: “If you pulled your stitches–”
“I have Bloodlust stitches,” Tommy half-slurs breathlessly. “Poggers.”
“You are so concussed,” Techno grumbles. “C’mon, there ya go. Yep.”
Tommy sags against the pillows. Techno drags a blanket over his shoulders, resisting the urge to fret. The chorus of spirits prodding at him isn’t helping.
They’re a nuisance on the best of days but today they are particularly persistent – and it’s not even to kill things. Techno sighs.
Now that he’s laying down again, some of the color has returned to Tommy’s face, which is good.
“I don’t know much about other people’s powers, kid, but I’m guessin’ you have some sort of healin’ factor?” Tommy nods lethargically which is about what Techno expected, but it’s a relief to hear. Phil is the same way, as are most enhanced people. “That’s good. I tried to heal you up when I got the bullet out, but even then I estimate it’ll probably be a day or two before the stitches dissolve, and longer for the pain to go away. Your concussion might be the same, or a bit slower, dependin’ on how good your body can heal itself.”
“A few days usually,” Tommy chimes in. Then, his face grows sober and concerned. “Wait.”
Techno braces himself.
Tommy swallows, eyes wide. “Are you going to kill me?”
Techno blinks, thrown off. “Heh?”
Tommy watches him carefully. “You know the whole, ‘If I tell you I have to kill you?’ Is that shit, like – I mean–”
Techno huffs, almost managing a grin. “After spendin’ all this time patchin’ you up? Nah.” Techno crouches down, putting himself eye to eye with the kid. “I do need’ta know if you’ve got anywhere you usually go.”
Or anyone, he thinks privately.
Tommy winces and tries to cover it. “Uh, well, usually I just patch myself up in my room.”
Techno’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “By yourself? Do you live alone?”
“Kind of.” At Techno’s look, he amends, “I don’t live alone, big man. I have roommates.”
Something about the way he says it puts Techno on edge. “They don’t know about your little hobby, do they?”
Tommy shakes his head mutely before: “Nah,” he says. “They don’t even like heroes. Vigilantes included.”
You included, Techno interprets.
Tommy must read his silence as some sort of judgement because he straightens, face hardening ever so slightly as he wraps Techno’s blankets protectively around his thin shoulders. “Hey, you can’t give me shit for it, alright? You’re Bloodlust–” The reverence that seeps into Techno’s moniker is almost intolerable, like a harsh beam of sunlight on his eyes. “–and you fuckin’ live alone, don’t you?”
Techno purses his lips. “Yes.”
“And you’re fine,” Tommy points out.
Techno pauses, considers that, because yes, he is.
But he also can’t help but think of Phil, who he’s barely seen in months, who made him promise not to wall himself in when the dust settled, to not be a hermit. Techno will admit that he hasn’t exactly done any of that.
“Very,” he says eventually.
The voices beg to differ; he lets them.
He stands, curtain of pink hair falling over his shoulder.
He can feel Tommy’s eyes on him as he grabs his twin blades in one hand, preparing to turn back towards his bedroom to put them away. He’s passing by the couch when a bruised hand shoots out, grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie. Techno turns, and Tommy’s expression is painfully unsure.
“Uh, sorry if I said something wrong, man,” Tommy says, eyes flickering over Techno’s face. “I figured– I mean you were a hero–”
He trails off awkwardly, looking lost.
Techno flashes him a tight grin, the corners of his mouth barely upturning as he studies the beat-up boy in front of him and wishes he didn’t feel like he was looking in a mirror.
A hero, Techno thinks. Depending on who you ask.
Unbidden, the voices push forward, briefly taking his thoughts and amplifying them, swirling around his skull in cold whispers.
Reverence, one sings, You looked at them in reverence too, and they forsook you, used you.
You offered your help and they objectified you.
You don’t know reverence anymore.
Do you wish to see his die too?
The voices settle. Techno tears his eyes away from Tommy’s face.
Quiet bleeds into the gap of their conversation. Tommy’s gaze drops, bandaged fingers dropping away from Techno’s sleeve to fiddle with loose threads on the blanket draped over his lap. From the window, wind rushes past the curtains, drawing out a whispered conversation between the linen and the breeze.
The loudest silence of all comes from the conglomerated energy at the back of Techno’s own skull.
He’s as good as a vessel of chaos and yet, he is alone in considering the idea forming slowly in his skull.
(In the end, he doesn’t know why he does it.
Maybe it’s because it’s early and he’s tired, or maybe it’s weakness, spilling out of him in the absence of being a hero anymore.
Maybe it’s because there is only one other person who has ever been able to turn the chaos of his mind into something contained and tranquil.
Or maybe it’s just because Techno’s lost his own mind. But–)
“It’s fine,” Techno tells him, voice ringing faintly hollow even to his own ears. “But next time you come crawlin’ through my window for help, don’t get blood on the couch.”
Tommy nods diligently. “Yeah, sorry about that, I–”
He stops. Inhales quickly. Stares at him, eyebrows raised a fraction and lips parted.
Techno’s face is purposely schooled into a solid mask of indifference as he stares back. His skin crawls almost uncomfortably in anticipation. He knows what he said, even if he isn’t sure why he said it – he knows what he’s offered: an olive branch, extended tentatively between them.
“Next time?” Tommy echoes, lilting up into something high and pitchy.
“I was a vigilante before I was Bloodlust, y’know,” he starts carefully, watching Tommy nod even quicker. “I know how it can be.”
(The words burn holes in his tongue as he contains them: Throwing your neck out for civilians who throw you to the wolves in reciprocation, standing over your picked-at bones with bland expressions.
Revered by those protected by him; reviled by those in fear of him.
Only as treasured as the headlines allowed him to be.)
Techno has no clue what Tommy’s relation is with the media, with the people – hell, he doesn’t even know what name he goes by in costume. He could be the media’s darling and Techno would be offering his trust out on a silver platter for no reason.
(So were you, hisses that unholy medley. They worshipped you like a god and when the time came, they crucified you like one.)
“What I’m sayin’ is, if you happen to get yourself into more trouble than you can handle, I would probably not kick you out if you came knockin’ on my window.”
Tommy’s eyes are saucers, two spiral galaxies brimming with infinite wonder and light.
“For real?” he asks, as suspicious as he is breathless with wonder.
“For real,” Techno echoes dryly back. “I’ll come up with a way for you to return the favor.”
He thinks of Phil, and a promise unfulfilled, and figures: this counts as socialization, doesn’t it?
Tommy chokes for air.
With growing amusement, Techno considers that maybe offering himself up as tentative mentor (not nursemaid, shut up Chat) might’ve been something he could’ve suggested when the kid wasn’t so incapacitated but it’s fine. Techno has always been as impulsive as he is calculated. He can’t say he’s surprised that he’d had an impulse and followed it – with a head as chaotic as his, sometimes it was less exhausting to give in.
“This– you won’t regret this, Mr. Bloodlust– Mr. Lust? Is it–”
“Technoblade.”
If it’s even possible, Tommy’s eyes bulge further. “Techno?” he squeaks, and Techno nods, lips twitching. “Technoblade? Thanks, Technoblade. Seriously, you won’t regret this, I’m like– the fuckin’ coolest vigilante in the district–”
“Are there many?”
Tommy hesitates. “Well–”
Techno snorts, shaking his head. The voices start to feed off of his sudden burst of merriment, clamoring to join him. For once, their chaos feels more like the pleasant roar of a lively bonfire and not the throbbing ache of a twisting migraine.
“Don’t stress yourself out, kid.” Too late, he thinks with a sharp sliver of amusement. “Still gotta climb back to wherever you came from.”
“Right,” Tommy agrees, nodding too quickly again. “I might finish my sandwich, and then–”
“Take your time,” Techno says, walking back towards his bedroom with a dismissing wave. “We should probably talk anyways.”
Tommy’s voice follows him into the room, “I love talking! Talking is fuckin’ poggers. I can talk!”
I think I’m starting to get that, Techno thinks.
It’s approaching noon when Tommy declares himself just well enough to crawl back to wherever he meant to go. He hangs off Techno’s window sill, wearing a pair of borrowed sweats and a limited edition Bloodlust hoodie. It’s too big for him, but he was vibrating with excitement when Techno begrudgingly offered it to him in lieu of the torn, bloodstained pajamas – sorry, super suit – that he was wearing, and now the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as he crouches on a two inch ledge and prepares to do… whatever he’s going to do.
“Don’t fall to your death,” Techno advises, crossing his arms. “That’s bad for the property value.”
Tommy squints at him. Techno’s heart does not jump when he lets go of the window frame and leans back to salute with one hand.
“Tommy Innit never dies,” he announces proudly.
“That’s my slogan.”
Tommy coughs. “Right.” He stands, and Techno would be worried about him being seen had this side of the apartment not been facing a brick wall, and had Tommy not done something with the light to shadow his escape – Techno will have to ask him about that. Tommy pauses, gloved fingers curling around the window frame as he looks back. “Does this mean I’m best friends with Bloodlust?”
Techno’s lips quirk. “Not even close.”
“Well,” Tommy says, straightening. His smile returns, totally unbothered. “We’ll get there.”
“Don’t hold your breath on that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy grumbles, before the smile bounces back like elastic. “See you around, Mr. Blade!”
For your sake, I hope not.
“It’s Techno!”
Tommy throws him a final grin before pulling his bandana up over his mouth and flinging himself into open air. Techno catches a glimpse of a curling vine before Tommy is gone and the window – glistening clean and blood-free – is ushered closed by the wind.
In the absence of the kid, Techno sighs, falling back into his armchair as his energy drains out of him all at once. The events of the past few hours slam into him hard enough to leave his teeth rattling: the sleep deprivation he’d been staving off making itself abundantly clear even as the voices buzz incessantly like a hive of ants released in his brain.
“Shhh,” he hisses to the air, eyes shut. “I’m thinkin’.”
The voices obey, dissipating into softer whispers, and Techno relaxes, sinking into the worn leather. He almost wants to laugh as the past few hours settle firmly into him.
For better or for worse, he’d committed himself to sort of-helping a teenage vigilante with a spirit too bright for his costume. Techno just wishes he could tell which it is – better, or worse.
He sighs again before opening his eyes. He’s tired enough to doze off in the armchair, but he knows when he wakes up, he’ll have regretted not dragging himself into his actual bed. So he gets up, yawning as pink hair tumbles down his shoulders, reminding him to braid it again soon.
Techno makes it halfway across the living room before he stops, eyes landing on something in the middle of the room, and–
Shit.
He’d forgotten to have Tommy clean the blood off his couch.