Chapter Text
They find him sometime between too late and too early in the same alley the last guy left him in. He’s taking a breather, thank you very much, slumped against a brick wall. He’s fine. Everything hurts, and he’s not really sure how long he’s been sitting there, but he’s not a child, he’s a hero, he’s fine.
But when three of the most notorious villains in the city (state? country?), the three leaders of the widely feared Syndicate, kneel down around him, expressions softened with worry and sharpened with a rage Tommy knows is not directed at him, he can’t help but feel like a little kid. He can’t help but want to be held and protected and cared for.
So when the man in the boar skull mask reaches out a hand, movements slow like he’s approaching a wounded animal, Tommy allows the coddling.
He knows he’s a mess, but if he didn’t, he’d be able to tell by the way a spark lights a wildfire fury in the garnet red eyes tracking over his face as he tilts it up with gentle fingers under his chin.
“Who did this to you?” the Blood God growls, low and dangerous. And anyone in their right mind would be afraid, would be shitting their pants, but Tommy just flicks his eyes to the floor and mumbles that it doesn’t matter.
Echo hums softly, brushing his fingers gently over the bruises coloring Tommy’s cheek, stopping at the gash over his eyebrow before carding through his hair. Tommy doesn’t mean to lean into the touch, he knows these men are dangerous, are deadly, but he can’t help but feel safe, wrapped up in their brutal care.
His chin is still held lightly by the Blade and Echo seems to find as much comfort in the rhythmic movement of his fingers through Tommy’s hair as Tommy does.
“It matters,” the Angel says, soft and lilting, the beak of his mask angling down slightly as he tilts his head, tinted lenses reflecting Tommys face back at him, “It matters because no one gets to touch what’s ours.”
“No one gets to touch you, Toms,” Echo vows and god knows Tommy should be afraid, but he isn’t, he isn’t, so he tells them the name and he knows it’s a death sentence.
And he knows he should care more—he knows it should bother him so much more—because Tommy is a hero, Tommy is supposed to save people from the bad guys. He’s not supposed to get people killed, not even the bad ones. He’s certainly not supposed to lean into the bad guys’ touch or curl into their arms because he’s exhausted or send them on hunts after someone who hit him a little too hard.
“Your ribs are broken, Tommy,” the Blade says softly, the sound of it rumbling against the ear Tommy has pressed to his chest, and god why are the villains always so careful with him? Why are they the first people in so, so long whose touch doesn’t hurt? “And while I don’t think you have a concussion, it looks like you hit your head hard, kid. That’s not ‘a little’.”
“Not to mention how thin you are,” the Angel adds, only half directed at him now and dripping with genuine concern. “When’s the last proper meal you had?”
At Tommy’s shrug, Echo’s hand pauses, only resuming in response to Tommy’s displeased whine. “Toms, darling,” he starts and Tommy sighs because nothing good happens when he starts with the pet names, “are your parents not feeding you?”
Echo’s hand very deliberately does not falter as Tommy replies, but Tommy can feel the tension in the Blood God and the three exchange looks over his head that are almost loud enough he can hear them.
“Don’t have parents to feed me, big man. I’m not a child, I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” He grumbles, but for the first time in a long time, Tommy doesn’t even try to cover the obvious lie. He thinks maybe he doesn’t have to, not here, not with these people he thinks of first when he thinks of ‘family’.
The Angel makes a soft wounded sound and the Blood God rearranges him so he’s cradling him close to his chest when he stands. And Tommy, Tommy should fight, should be afraid of these men who have so much blood on their hands, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead he presses closer to the Blade’s steady warmth, counting his heartbeat out, pretending this isn’t such a monumental betrayal made without hesitation.
Instead, when Echo says, “Sleep, Toms, we’re going home,” Tommy trusts him, Tommy listens, drifting off in the safety of the Blood God’s arms.
– ✧ –
When he wakes up, there’s late afternoon light streaming in through unfamiliar blinds in an unfamiliar room. He should be afraid, but the pillow underneath his head rises and falls with soft, even breathing. He should be afraid, but there are familiar arms wrapped around him and he couldn’t feel safer if he tried.
“Welcome to the world, kid,” the Blood God says from the doorway. Only when Tommy looks up, he freezes because he’s not wearing his mask.
“Blade,” he starts, panicked, half tempted to cover his eyes like the man forgot he had a face that was linked to a secret identity and a hero in his spare bedroom (except there’s framed newspaper clippings of Tommy’s accomplishments hanging on the walls and the quilt is bright red and it looks like somebody’s room—no, it looks like his room and he’s not awake enough to process that yet, so he shelves it for now).
But he’s interrupted by an amused, “Techno.”
Tommy blinks. And then blinks again.
“What?”
“My name,” the Blade—Techno, apparently, says.
This, of course, in no way stops Tommy’s panic. “Wh- You- What, no, man, you can’t just- just tell me your name!!”
He gets a huff in response to his incredibly sound logic which just makes him even more concerned that it was Blade- Techno who had the head injury instead of him.
“Why not? You’re in our house, you’ve got a room, you might as well know my name.”
And, well, ha, okay, okay. So. Tommy has a room. In their house. Tommy knows the Blood God’s name, has seen- is currently seeing the Blood God’s stupid face. He needs a minute. Just one minute to process without-
“Wilbur,” says the sleepy voice behind him. “There. Now you know both our names.”
Tommy whips his head around to stare incredulously at Echo- Wilbur now. “What the fuck?!”
Echo’s mask, a pretty porcelain thing like something out of an opera or a masquerade, is gone too, leaving just- Wilbur. Soft, sleep rumpled Wilbur. The dark, glittering makeup that’s usually beneath his eyes is wiped clean as well and the only proof it was ever there rests in what clings told his lash line.
Fucking hell. They’re both in pajamas. Two of the most feared villains in the- fuck, probably the whole goddamn world and they’re in fucking pajamas.
Techno’s not even in respectable pajamas. His are sky blue fuzzy sleep pants decorated with cute little pig faces. Wilbur’s in normal sweatpants at least but his t-shirt is some obscure band no one has ever heard of. God, they’re fucking dorks. They’re the scariest fuckers Tommy’s ever seen, but they’re fucking dorks. And massive softies.
“If you’re done freaking out,” Techno drawls, amusement clear in the dry tone, “Phil made pancakes. It’s like four in the afternoon, but he’s excited, so,” he gestures vaguely behind him, “food.”
Tommy decides to freak out over the Angel of Death being named Phil later in favor of climbing off of Wilbur for pancakes.
“Hi, mate,” the Angel of fucking Death greets, standing in the kitchen with an apron tied around his waist and flour on his hands. “Chocolate chip or blueberry?”
“Okay what the fuck,” he asks laughing. “Did I die? Is this hell?”
Wilbur scoffs loudly from behind him, ruffling his hair as he passes. “That’s so rude. I know Phil isn’t that great of a cook, but he’s not that bad.”
“Good news, Tommy, Tech, you get more pancakes. Wilbur, you can starve.”
And so breakfast goes on with only minor chaos. It’s the middle of the day, it’s a kitchen table of villains and a hero amongst them. Tommy allows it to happen, allows himself to get swept up in it all and pretends it won’t end soon.
Only it doesn’t end. It doesn’t and doesn’t and doesn’t and then it’s three weeks later and Tommy’s helping Phil with dinner and can’t stop the question from spilling over his lips like a glass shattering in peaceful silence.
“What’s going on?”
Phil stops, briefly, to look over at him, confusion mixing with concern. “We’re making mac and cheese?” he answers but it lifts like a question because there’s a weight in the air now that Tommy put there and Phil doesn’t seem to know where it’s coming from.
“No, I mean with everything—the room, the rides to school, the,” he cuts himself off, gesturing broadly at the rest of the house. “What’s- what’s going on, Phil, I don’t fuckin-.”
Understanding blooms and then Phil softens impossibly, turning his whole body to face Tommy. “I’m sorry, I should’ve- Tommy, I want to adopt you.”
And Tommy, fuck, Tommy didn’t expect that. He doesn’t- He-
He sits down. On the floor. Phil laughs lightly and kneels in front of him, hands brushing away tears that Tommy didn’t know he was crying.
“You alright, mate?”
Tommy looks up at him. “You want- me,” he asks, eyes too wide, voice too small. “You- Me? A hero? A loud, annoying-“
But Phil just tugs him into a hug, and presses a kiss against his hair. “Oh, Toms, of course we want you. Of course we do.”
And they prove it, over and over again. They drive him to school every morning and pick him up every afternoon. Phil packs his lunch and leaves stupid little notes in it that Tommy pretends to find annoying. Wilbur plays his songs at Tommy’s request and never lets him go more than a few hours without a hug whether he likes it or not. And yeah, maybe he does. But he’s not gonna fucking say it, he’s got his pride after all.
They don’t stop him being a hero, they don’t try to corrupt him or force him to their side. And Tommy doesn’t snoop through their drawers to find their blueprints and plans, only showing up when he hears the police radio mention the newest bank robbery.
Tommy tries to stop them and they try to stop him stopping them both because that’s their jobs and they don’t need people realizing the connection. But when it does happen (and it does), the Syndicate saves their little golden hero with a viciousness anyone in their right mind would tremble at. Tommy, though, Tommy just steps over one of the bodies with a slight grimace as he’s led out of the newest warehouse to be bundled in a getaway car and taken home.
Home, Tommy thinks, smiling into his brother’s chest. I’m finally home.