Chapter Text
Family of three. Get the menus, swipe three rolls of silverware from the bucket, slap on the widest customer-service smile possible. Lead the way through pulled-out chairs, over the crunchy carpet and through the seats to the open booths. Tommy grins, a Splenda smile, and says: "I'll be your server today."
The diner is a quaint, cozy little place. Tommy had gotten the job simply by virtue of knowing the manager– Quackity, a senior when Tommy was a freshman, who’d taken him underneath his wing in the theater department and shown him the ropes. When Quackity had been promoted and they needed new hires, Tommy had been first in line. Pink and blue color schemes line the walls, black and white tiles on the floor in the kitchen with bright red, shiny, vinyl booths in the main dining area. Tommy weaves through tables and chairs packed to the brim with patrons and takes the orders, practiced and polite. The moment he steps behind the counter, though–
“Jesus fucking christ,” Tommy swears, slamming down a tray full of dishware and sliding it down the line to the dishwasher. “That woman at table seventeen is a bitch.”
“Language,” Bad says scoldingly. Tommy scrunches his nose at him and flips him the double bird just as Niki comes through the doors.
“Tommy,” she says. “Table eight wants a refill on coffee– wow, okay, rude.”
“Those weren’t for you!” He argues, and she laughs, a bright ringing of bells shining through the noise of the kitchen.
“Coffee,” she insists, and Tommy backs his way out of the kitchen, bursting out behind the counter. Niki is busy and he can already hear the door chiming, so he just turns and glances towards the glass. The diner is set up sort of strangely– a bar counter sits across from the entrance, and Tommy has to look over the patron's heads in order to see the new arrivals. It’s a busy Saturday morning– he doesn’t have time to really get a good look now, so he just snags a coffee pot and makes his way to the end of the counter. Niki is usually hostess, but Tommy picks up the slack when he can.
“How many?” He asks, coffee in one hand and fingers digging through the wrapped bundles of silverware already.
“Three,” a voice says, sounding mildly amused and patient. Tommy glances up.
He meets the eyes of a man with golden-brown hair, curled over his eyes. A long mouth, stretched into a smile. Behind him are two other men– one shorter, with blond hair like Tommy’s, and the other pink. Whatever. Tommy won’t judge. He’s not allowed to dye his own hair but he doesn’t fucking care what other people do. Actually, it kind of looks cool. He bites back the compliment.
“Follow me,” he says. He has to tip his head back slightly to address the guy with brown hair in front, but before he can start to lead them to an open booth, the guy shakes his head.
“We’re just gonna go grab the booth in the corner,” he says, gesturing to the far corner of the room, right under a window. Not… the seat Tommy had planned, and smack dab in the middle of his section, but– “You seem busy. Come over whenever you’ve got a moment.”
“Might be never,” Tommy risks a joke, but hey, one more table won’t kill him, right? “Thanks, though. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, ” the men says, and Tommy gives him a tiny salute with two fingers as the group heads off towards the corner. It’s odd, but too odd– might be friends of Niki’s or Jack’s or Quackity’s, honestly. They get people like that sometimes. Or just presumptuous bastards. They also get those. Tommy doesn’t have time to care. Tommy’s got coffee to pour.
He honestly forgets about that table entirely for a few minutes. He’s got other things to worry about, like the woman at seventeen and the coffee at eight. And the side of home fries he forgot for table two, and then an orange juice for six. And then finally, finally, when he gets a second of a break to think, he remembers.
Only for Niki to jump right in.
He’s in the back, sliding a ticket across to Jack as he works the line and fumbles for his pen and booklet when she nudges up beside him, sliding yet another ticket to Jack herself.
“Hey,” she says, all accent and grace and composed. “The booth in the back corner– I’ll take care of it.”
“What?” Tommy glances over at her, brows furrowing, his mind going a hundred miles a minute. That’s why he likes this job– it goes fast, and so does he. A hundred things to think about a second. “It’s my section.”
“You’ve got your hands full,” she says, but it’s a weak excuse and Tommy blinks.
“I was literally about to head over now,” he says. “Did you already take their order?”
“No,” Niki says, “but let me handle them, okay?”
“What, do you think one of them’s cute or somethin’?” Tommy teases, leaning down to grin at her and watching as her face screws up.
“Ew, no,” she counters, reaching up with one hand to shove him away with a palm to the cheek. He makes an affronted noise– god, he loves Niki. “I have a girlfriend, Tommy.”
“I know, and you talk about her all the time.” Jack is waving at the both of them from behind the line. Tommy pays no mind, instead leaning up against the stainless steel and pinning Niki in his gaze. “I got the booth, Nik.”
“I’d really rather if I dealt with them,” Niki says quietly, and there’s something about her voice when she says dealt . Something deeper. A mystery to dig his fingers into, something about the way her eyes go vacant for a second as she takes a plate of eggs from Jack and Tommy staunchly ignores him. “I know them. They’re… weird.”
“They’re weird? Like, what kind of weird?” Tommy ducks around the corner, still ignoring how Jack is trying to get his attention. “Like the child predator type weird? Or the, you gotta be flirty to get more tips, kind of weird?”
“Just… weird,” Niki reiterates, piling another plate of eggs onto her arm.
“If it’s the latter, then I should really be taking them,” Tommy tells her, snagging an order ticket off the line and tossing it. “I mean, I’m a big man, and you’re–”
Niki turns, pink hair pulled up so tight against her scalp Tommy could probably see the outline of her skull. She fixes him in her gaze, sharp and curious. “I’m?” She prompts.
“A girl,” Tommy finishes lamely. Then, as she finally moves away from the food station– “Look, I can handle them, okay?”
“For one,” Niki says through gritted teeth, and Tommy follows behind as she heads out behind the counter. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t handle things.”
“That is not what I meant–”
“Two, like I said, I know them. They’re not going to– hit on me, or anything, okay? So stop doing that thing where you–” Niki stops and places a plate down in front of a customer at the counter, then another, then another in a quick row. She flashes a smile to them all, and then turns back to Tommy. “That thing where your head gets all scrunchy,” she says, reaching up and smoothing the space between Tommy’s eyebrows with a thumb. “I will take over that table. You will not complain.”
Tommy bats her hand away and glares.
“Like hell I won’t,” he says. “I will complain the most. I will be the most fucking complain-y, and you will be begging me to stop by the end of the day. Begging. I will be worse than all the Karens in the world. Don’t test me, Niki Nihachu, I can do a perfect impression. Perfect!”
“I don’t doubt you can,” Niki says, turning away from him to grab a coffee pot. Tommy sees his out, and as she keeps talking, he backs away slowly. One foot behind the other, until he’s a good few feet away and she still hasn’t noticed.
“Okay thanks Niki!” He calls out, watching her head whip around and eyes widen as she notices the booklet and pen in his hand. “I’ll-take-care-of-it-thanks-okay-bye!” All said in one breath, no time for her to argue as he bounds backwards and into the throng of mid-morning breakfast goers. Chatter fills his ears as he watches her face go red and then slump in defeat, and Tommy grins as he whirls around. Shit. He forgot water, but he can always get that for them later if they want. The booth in the back is currently his only new table, so it’ll be fine. He blatantly ignores the stares from the woman at seventeen as he passes by and instead heads right to the back corner, where he can see the brown head of hair over the back of the booth. God, that guy had been tall. Kind of freakish, honestly. Tommy comes to a stop at the end of their table and puts on that award-winning smile, all teeth and flashing blue eyes he knows makes people think he’s younger than he is.
“Sorry about the wait,” he says kindly, and two heads snap to attention, while the pink one stays looking down at his phone. “Busy morning.”
“We can tell,” the blond one says, and Tommy flicks his pen against his notepad without losing his smile.
“Let me guess,” he says, before anyone can start to order anything. It’s a game he likes to play with tables, and Niki had said these guys were weird– either he’s about to get ripped a new one, or they’ll laugh and play along. He points his pen at the blond. “Two sugars, one cream.” Then at the brown-haired guy. “You prefer milk, not cream, but prolly almond or oat ‘cause you’ve got issues. I’d say oat, because you look the hippie type.” And then while those two are still spluttering, he turns to the one with pink hair. He looks up, meeting Tommy’s gaze and– woah, his eyes are almost red. Brown, sort of maroonish. Cool. Tommy licks his lips and then nods. “Black,” he says. “You take it black.”
Silence, except for the ambient noises of people chatting. The pink haired guy doesn’t break eye contact with Tommy. He refuses to stop smiling. It’s kind of unnerving.
“Actually,” the pink one says. “I take four sugars, two cream.”
“Damn,” Tommy says. “Cavity central, okay.”
“He got two out of three,” the blond says. “That’s not terrible.”
“How the hell did you pin the oat milk?” The brown one demands, leaning forward on his elbows with a wide grin that’s leaning into a laugh. Tommy smiles back. Okay, so they liked it. Good.
“Your glasses,” he says, gesturing with the pen. “Everyone with round frames is some kind of hipster, hippie type.”
“He’s got you there, Will,” the blond one says, leaning back in his seat and laughing. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Tommy want to laugh with him, but he bites his tongue before he can. “Damn.”
“Now that coffee orders are out of the way,” Tommy says lightly, still smiling but a bit softer now. “What can I get for you guys?”
“Not going to guess?” The pink one drawls. Tommy shakes his head.
“I’m not as good with food,” he says. “Only coffee.”
“In that case,” the brown haired one interrupts– what had the other one said, Will? His name was Will, probably. “I’ll get the spinach and mushroom omelet, cheddar, with whole wheat toast.”
“Home fries?”
“No, thanks.”
The blond smiles when Tommy looks at him. “Pancakes, strawberries. Side of bacon.” Tommy scribbles it down and finally, turns to the pink one again. He’s staring at Tommy again with those reddish eyes, and so Tommy stares back, unblinking. There’s silence for a moment, and then the man lifts his chin a bit.
“All-American,” he says. “Eggs over easy, rye bread, bacon.”
“Got it,” Tommy says, scribbling it down with ease. He gives them all another award-winning smile once more, flashing it around the table as he tucks his notebook into his pocket. “I’ll get that right in for you. You guys want water?”
“Please,” the blond says, and Tommy nods. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he says gracefully, and then dips from the table. Back through the weaving mess, he snags table seventeen’s check as he goes and sneers at the tip. What a bitch. His service is perfect. When he gets to the line and slips the ticket over for the food, snagging a coffee pot and three mugs, Niki is glaring at him lightly.
“What?” He asks, slipping a handful of creamers and sugar into his pockets as he prepares to go back over. “I told you I got it handled.”
Niki just sighs, long and blubbering through her mouth and nose, and Tommy grins as he turns away.
The rest of his shift flies by without incident. He brings the supposedly “weird” table their coffees and keeps up to date, joking with them and laughing every time. He’s rewarded at the end of it with a crisp thirty bucks tucked under the blond one’s coffee mug, and Tommy grins as he pockets it and feels the paper between his fingers. Niki scolds him that day as he hangs up his apron, something about listening and not sticking his nose into places where it doesn’t belong, but he shrugs her off and shoves his arms into his jacket sleeves and gives her a hug before he heads home.
It’s only afternoon when he slips through his front door and into the hall, which means that Dream’s still at work and Tommy’s got time to himself. Blessed, even though he’s got homework and shit to do. Working is exhausting, and he’s been at the diner since like 4:30 this morning. So he crashes into bed without even kicking off his sneakers and sets an alarm clumsily for an hour, and closes his eyes. It’ll just be a quick nap. A nap, then he can do his homework and make something to eat before Dream gets home. Just an hour.
And, well.
Tommy wakes up to a hand in his hair and cold floor stinging against his face.
“Wake up,” Dream says, and Tommy catches himself with an elbow and a wrist, wincing as it stings. “Your alarm has been going off since I walked in the door.”
“Ow,” Tommy grimaces, glancing up at the dress shoes in front of him and then up further, until he meets Dream’s gaze. He’s on the floor– still in his work clothes, and his alarm clock is beeping and he’s hazy with sleep but he can see that outside there is a setting sun. He bites back his instinctual ‘oh shit’ and scrambles to his knees. “I’m– sorry. Sorry.”
“When did you get home?” Dream asks, and shoes clip against the floor of his bedroom as Dream moves, rounding the bed to slam his hand down on his alarm clock and stop the incessant beeping. Holy shit, he’d really just slept through it for like, five hours.
“Um,” he says, and then scrabbles to stand, fighting back the exhaustion still lingering in order to get an answer out. Dream hates it when he can’t answer. “One?”
“And what time is it?”
Tommy’s eyes flick to his clock. “Four-thirty.”
“Three and a half hours.” Dream turns back to him and shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Really, Tommy?”
“It’s Saturday,” he says, toeing off his own shoes and kicking them under his bed with a shuffle. He watches as Dream tracks his movement, but doesn’t reach out or scold. His scowl just worsens a bit. “I thought, uh. I thought I would wake up.”
“Clearly.” Dream gestures. “You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers, dropping his eyes to the floor and waiting. Dream huffs. He swallows. “Did you… just get home?”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“How was work?”
“It was long. I’m assuming you didn’t make anything to eat.”
“There’s… leftovers. In the fridge. You can have them.”
“I think I’ll just make a sandwich. People suffer when you fuck up, Tommy. Homework?”
“It’ll get done.”
“Good.” A hand lands on his head and ruffles, and Tommy gnaws on his lip. “Do you work tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Afternoon.”
“Don’t bother coming to breakfast, then.” Dream’s always been the one to make breakfast– he makes breakfast, Tommy makes dinner. It’s how things work, usually. Usually, when Tommy doesn’t fuck up their routine or one of them is working, late or early. He cringes as Dream steps past him, fingers curling around the knob on his door. “Sleep in, since clearly you need it.”
“Dream, wait,” he says, turning around as the older man begins to shut the door. “I’m really sorry–”
“You’re always sorry, Tommy,” Dream tells him simply, and then shuts the door with a resounding slam. He stares at it, the grain of the wood traveling up and down. There’s the spot where Dream put his hand through the door and they had to patch it. There’s the spot where when Tommy was thirteen, they’d gotten into a screaming match and in the ensuing fight, Tommy’s fingers had gotten slammed in between the frame and door. He’d broken three of them. At the bottom some of the wood is cracked from where Tommy had kicked it when he was twelve. And of course, just under the handle is one big empty space, a hole through the wood where there used to be a lock. Not anymore. If Tommy were to lean down and put his face up to it, he’d be able to see right through. He has before.
From outside, he hears the sound of a deadbolt as it clinks shut.
Well. He had math homework to do anyway. Dinner is for posers.
Birds, chirping. Birds chirping right in his ear, stupid motherfuckers, can’t they see some people are trying to sleep–
A pillow lands on the floor with a muffled thump, Tommy reaching up to scrub at his eyes as he glares at the window.
His alarm clock reads half past eleven. When he slinks out of bed to the door, he finds it unlocked. The rest of the house is thankfully quiet and empty as he shuffles into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He’s got time before work, so cleaning and eating and brushing teeth and pulling on new socks is in store. By the time the clock on the cream-colored stove reads twelve-thirty, Tommy’s stuffing his feet into his shoes and slinging his backpack over his back and heading out into the sun. An apple between his teeth that crunches and crushes satisfyingly, juice dripping down between his fingers that he licks away and launches the core into the woods. The diner isn’t far– a short walk away from where he and Dream live in the suburbs, through downtown to the other end of the main street. He passes by a few shops as he goes and swings into the convenience store– it’s the one he’s been going to since he was eight and had moved here, with it’s friendly face at the register and selection of various goods to purchase, like candy and chips. Tommy snags a protein bar and a juice and slams them onto the counter, Sam giving Tommy a smile as he does.
“Good morning, Tommy,” he says kindly. Everything Sam does is kind. Behind him is the pharmacy, and after Sam says good morning there’s a squeal from behind the shelves.
“Hi Tommy!!!” Ponk calls out, “Good morning!”
“‘Ow do,” Tommy says back. “It’s afternoon, I think.”
“We both know you barely just got up,” Sam teases, and Tommy grins. Sam and Ponk are his favorites and they know it (Tommy had only been nine when they’d gotten married, and hadn’t been allowed to go, but they’d given him an invitation anyways and saved a flower vase for him. He’d kept it in his room long after it had wilted).
“Shut up,” he says, leaning onto the plastic counter. “I gotta get to work, hurry up and ring me up, Sammy-boy.”
“Sure thing, Tommy-boy,” Sam says, and the cash register dings as he does. Tommy slides over a ten. “When you workin’ til?”
“Nine,” Tommy says. “We’re kinda short staffed.”
“If I see anyone looking for a job I’ll send them Q’s way, then,” Sam says, and slides Tommy’s items back to him one-by-one. There’s a TV above Sam’s head, blaring the local news station. Something about a woman’s body found by a roadside, a suspected trucker, blah blah blah. Tommy gives it two seconds of his attention before glancing back at Sam.
“Yeah?” He asks. “Thanks, big man.”
“Anytime.” Sam salutes him, and then slides over his change. “Tell Niki I say hi.”
“Sure!” Tommy stuffs the change back into his pocket with a smile– below the rolling news bulletin the clock says it’s 12:49, and so he’s gotta go if he doesn’t want to be late. “See you!” With a jingle of a bell, the door shuts behind him, and Tommy tears into his impromptu breakfast before bolting down the street. The diner comes into view as he turns the corner, and for a moment, mouth half-full and heart well on it’s way to satisfaction, life is good.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Tommy stares down at his shoes, now soaked in coffee and drinks, and the ever-spreading stain on the carpet below him. Glasses lay strewn across the floor, shattered and broken, indistinguishable from the cubes of ice around them. Tommy takes a step back, and every eye in the establishment is on him, he knows it. After all, he’s the idiot that just dropped a whole fucking tray of drinks all over himself. Thankfully no patrons, but Tommy is already feeling the flush of embarrassment on his ears and neck. There’s a hand on his shoulder and then Niki is there– oh bless fucking Niki– and Skeppy is too, with a towel for Tommy’s front and people start talking again. The silence is broken and chatter resumes, Tommy staring angrily at the floor so he doesn’t look angrily anywhere else.
He’d landed wrong on his wrist last night, he knows it. It keeps aching and twinging with pain, and he’d thought it had been okay but when he’d picked up the tray and had to shift, stumbled– it had given out on him with a sharp whip-like knotting ache. He’s holding it now in one hand, Skeppy clumsily patting his shirt around them both.
“Are you hurt?” Niki asks gently, appearing in front of him.
“No,” Tommy says, then shudders through a breath. The entire room feels tight. It’s like he can’t breathe, and his heart is racing, and– oh shit. Fuck. No no no.
The door jingles. People come in. Niki can see the panic before Tommy can even verbalize it and turns him away. Over the sea of eyes glancing at him, Tommy sees a familiar trio of heads just by the door. He barely has time to process three sets of questioning eyes before Niki is nudging him into the back, past the line and past the dishwasher, into the stock rooms and the big door to the freezer. Tommy focuses on it, the frost creeping around the edges of the window, and tries to breathe. It’s coming stuttery and off-kilter, but it’s coming, and his jackrabbiting heart is calming some as Niki’s hands press firmly against his shoulders and arms.
“Fuck,” he manages to say through the violent shaking in his entire body. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Niki says, because this is not the first time Niki has seen this, unfortunately. It’s great for Tommy now, because she is so fucking comforting and her hands are warm and confident against his shoulders, the pressure a blessing. But later-Tommy will be mortified by how he sinks into it, head against her temple and eyes closing as he shakes.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. Honestly it’s just to be contradictory.
“It was just a few glasses,” Niki says quietly. “We can get them for 49 cents. Not even a huge deal.”
“Fuck,” Tommy says quietly. “Shit. Piss. Balls.”
Niki laughs warmly. “Does that make you feel better?”
“Yes,” he says honestly. “Yeah. Cock and balls.”
“You are awful,” she mutters, but it’s in that way that means she doesn’t mean it. Slowly, the feeling returns to Tommy’s hands and the shaking subsides. Niki keeps pressing on his shoulders, voice low and soft, and when he blinks them open again she’s watching him with a tiny smile on her cracked but glossy lips. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he says. His mouth is dry. “I, uh–”
“Don’t apologize,” she cuts in quickly. “It’s fine. Are you okay?”
Tommy takes stock of himself. His fingers are all attached. The front of his apron and uniform are still kind of wet and sticky, and so are his shoes. He can hear the ambient sounds of people talking and dishware clinking in the dining room beyond, and lets out a shaky breath. He’s fine. The panic is mostly gone, and his heart is still beating fast, but no longer racing like it was.
“I’m good,” he decides. “I, uh. That was shitty of me. So sorry.”
“I said you’re fine,” Niki tells him, sighing, but she’s still smiling. “I’m glad you’re okay. Think you can get back out there?”
Tommy takes stock of himself for a second time. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I’m good.”
“You can go home if you need to–”
“No.” God, no, home would be a thousand times worse. “No, no, I’m good. Piss and shit and cock and balls. It’s all out of my system now, see? Totally fine.”
“Why don’t you take five minutes,” Niki says anyway, brows furrowing. “A breather.”
“Nah,” he says. “It’s busy out there. I’m not leaving you to fend the wolves off yourself.”
“Tommy–”
“I’m fine,” he insists, and maybe it comes out sharper than he means it too. Niki frowns now, all worry and concern. “Seriously. I’m poggers.”
“Poggers.”
“Super poggers.”
Niki shakes her head at him, laughing slightly, and lets go of his shoulders. Tommy breathes out the tiniest of laughs. “Fine,” she says. “Fine. But I’ll remake the drinks. You go take orders and refill coffees. Check in on your tables. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am,” Tommy says, because he can at least take that. No more heavy lifting, at least not right now. He’s content to just step back out behind the bar and scan his area, Niki behind him and glasses clinking. Skeppy’s gotten most of the glass already apparently, the broom in hand as he scans the ground and Bad coming by with a smile and a comforting little pat to Tommy’s shoulder. He switches out his apron real quick– aw fuck, his notepad is ruined – and pats himself down the best he can before heading back out. There had been people, he thinks, walking in just as he’d been led into the back. A quick scan of the room confirms that, and it’s the back booth, the one from yesterday. Same three heads of hair, same three sets of eyes that flicker his way as he makes his way up to the table. Shoulders back, smile on. Tommy’s good at pretending everything’s fine.
“‘Ow do, gentlemen,” he says, channeling boisterous and cacophonous and all the other SAT vocabulary words he can think of that mean loud . “What can I do for you today?”
The diner two days in a row is a little strange, but Tommy’s not going to call them out on it. Maybe it’s a family thing. Besides, they do have regulars that come in every day, but that’s usually just in the morning and only single people. This is a whole group and as he scans them, yep. Same as yesterday. Blondie, the tall brown haired one he thinks is named Will, and the pink one with red eyes.
“Hiya, mate,” the blond one says. “How are you?”
Oh, so they’re the polite kind of customers. Tommy hums.
“Could be better,” he admits, because every time he takes a step his shoes squelch with a watery mixture of soda. “And you?”
“Good,” says the blond one.
“I’m Wilbur,” says the one– oh, so it’s Wilbur and not Will. Tommy squints.
“Wil,” the pink one groans. “Really?”
“What?” Wilbur turns to face the other, gesturing with one hand. Two days and Tommy already knows that Wilbur is loud in his personal bubble– hands flying everywhere, rocking back and forth, shifting constantly. Case in point: he scoots all the way to the end of the booth and grins at Tommy. Tommy smiles back. “We already know his name. Tommy. Seems rude, doesn’t it? Almost invasive.”
Hm. Tommy is definitely not wearing his nametag. It had been on his other apron, the one currently soaked with drinks. He glances down and back up to check, and Wilbur must catch the look.
“Oh, we saw it yesterday,” he explains. “Personally I think servers should have the option to stay anonymous. It’s really quite rude, to get to know their names and have them never know ours. And someone could just look you up and boom! Stalker. Never liked name tags.”
“You’re a priss,” Tommy has decided. He turns to the pink one as Wilbur stutters, left gaping at where Tommy had been standing before he shifted a foot to the left. “How can I help you?”
“Technoblade,” the pink one says– oh, for fuck’s sake. Tommy scowls, finally letting his smile drop. “All-American, please. Over-easy, rye toast, bacon.”
“Sure thing.” Tommy scribbles it down. “Technoblade’s a weird name.”
“It’s his gamer tag,” Wilbur supplies helpfully. Tommy suppresses a snort of laughter as Technoblade goes the tiniest bit red in the face, and then he turns to the blond one.
“I apologize for my sons,” he says before Tommy can even open his mouth to ask what he wants. “And following the theme, my name is Phil. We used to be regulars here, years ago. Back when they were younger.”
“Oh yeah?” Tommy asks, raising a brow. Regulars. Maybe that’s how Niki knew they were weird.
“We just moved back into the area,” Phil says apologetically, smiling at him in a way that looks sad. Although, with his downturned eyes, Tommy thinks the man just might always look sad. “So unfortunately we might be regulars again.”
“Wonderful,” Tommy grits out. He shoves a smile back on his face, and he finds it… isn’t that hard to do. Phil smiles back, and Technoblade has pulled his head from his hands and Wilbur is glaring across the table at him. “What can I get you?” He asks.
“Banana pancakes. Home fries,” Phil asks. They had been good tippers yesterday– Tommy nods, then closes up his notepad with a flourish and stuffs his pen away.
“I’ll get those right in!” He chirps, and Wilbur blinks as Tommy starts to turn away, reaching out. His hand hovers between them and Tommy slows, only for a second. His shoes are still squishing. Ew.
“Hey, wait!” Wilbur says. “What about me?”
“You’ll be having the Tommy special,” Tommy informs him, glancing back over his shoulder and giving all three of them his wide, Splenda smile. “Starve.”
And with that, he flees back into the kitchen so he can peel his socks off.
He doesn’t let Wilbur starve, truthfully– he recalls what the man had ordered yesterday (a mushroom spinach omelet) and puts that in for him. He busies himself in order not to face the trio for a while, bussing other tables and stacking dishes into a bin to carry back to the dishwasher, but he can’t avoid them forever. He can feel their eyes on the back of his head, and soon enough, Jack is ringing up their ticket and Tommy is sliding their plates onto his arm. Careful, careful– it’s all that’s ringing through his mind as he makes his way through the tables to the back booth.
“All-American,” he says, then slides Phil’s plate over to him, and then finally places Wilbur’s down. The guy looks down at it, then up at Tommy.
“I thought I was going to starve,” he says, and when Tommy finally gains the courage enough to look at him head-on, he’s smiling. Just a tiny quirk of his mouth, but enough.
“I decided mercy,” Tommy informs him.
“At least he didn’t drop it,” Technoblade cuts in, and Phil sighs as Tommy feels his ears going extremely red. Stomach sinking, pure fucking humilation.
“Techno,” Phil says scoldingly, and Wilbur snorts.
“What?” Wilbur asks. “It happened, like, right as we walked in–”
“Enjoy your meals,” Tommy grits out, and then turns on his heel (no longer squishing so much) and stalks off. His eyes burn along with his chest, that same kind of panic rising up whenever he thinks about it too much. Of course they’d bring it up– it’s not humiliating enough for it to just happen, but for them to take a dig at it, well. He’s scowling by the time he reaches the line, and Jack Manifold whistles at him, which makes him scowl harder.
“Fuck off,” he says.
“Someone’s angry,” Jack says. He’s got a spatula in one hand. Tommy wishes he could pry it from his fingers and whap him over the head with it.
“My shoes are wet,” Tommy says, dragging his words out and letting his voice get all slow and patient . “And one of my tables is full of little bitches, and I am having a frankly, terrible day.”
“So sorry to hear, mate,” Jack says cheerfully. “Want some bacon?”
Tommy’s stomach growls aimlessly. “Yeah,” he says. “Actually, yeah.”
“I’ll ring you up a plate,” Jack says and Tommy watches him duck down in order to get something sizzling on the grill. He leans against the cool metal and presses his forehead into it, watching aimlessly.
“You good?” Niki calls as she ducks into the back.
“Fine,” he calls back out.
“Okay, good,” Niki says. “Quackity’s on his way.”
Tommy lets out the most unholy noise. “Kill me,” he requests. “Please?”
“Sorry,” Niki laughs, and then the door swings shut with a squeal and Jack hums, sliding a plate of bacon out in front of him. Tommy reaches up, ignoring how the meat burns his fingers and leaves greasy stains on them as he shoves it into his mouth. Ow, hot. Worth it.
“You’ll be a’ight,” Jack says companionably. As Skeppy passes by behind him, he slaps Tommy on the back and nearly chokes him.
“I hate you,” Tommy says cheerfully, swallowing through his mouthful of meat and shoving the rest into his mouth. He’s got tables to serve.
He ignores the trio in the back until their plates are clean and eyes aren’t looking at him– none of them look at him, honestly, and he’s glad for it. He can focus on other things, like wrapping silverware and refilling coffees and orders full of hot dogs and fries and burgers. It’s the lunch wave, and while some people order breakfast still others are more interested in other foods. By the time two-thirty rolls around, Tommy’s served a gazillion different dishes and not spilled another drink. Quackity’s also arrived, ducking into the back before Tommy even gets a chance to say hi, too busy with his tables. Then things start slowing down, and people start leaving and finally, finally he manages to slip the check to the back booth. He’s in and out, a clean operation, smooth navigator– Tommy slips them the check, comes back a few minutes later to empty seats and clean plates and another $20 tip on top of their change.
Well. At least they didn’t stiff him or some shit. He slips it into his pocket without hassle.
Two-thirty turns to three, turns to four, turns to five. A dinner rush, and then six, and then seven. Less people, emptier tables. The stain on the carpet where Tommy had dropped the glasses is lighter now, but still damp. His shoes are still uncomfortable. The sun has set and outside is dark, the lights of cars driving by and street lamps casting golden shadows onto the walls of the diner, lit bright by fluorescents.
And then:
“Hey Tommy,” Q says, and his fingers still where he’s wrapping up silverware in napkins. “How’s it goin’, man?”
Oh boy. Tommy turns, and Quackity is leaning against the counter with a smile.
“Hey, Q,” he says, plastering a smile on his face. “You know.”
“Hell yeah,” he says. “Long day?”
“Long day,” Tommy nods, glancing back down and finishing up the silverware. He sets it aside. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to check in on you,” he says. “Niki said you had a panic attack earlier.”
“I wouldn’t call it a panic attack, now,” Tommy argues, turning to lean his butt against the counter and cross his arms. “That’s a bit much. Really, a bit much.”
“Dude, it’s cool.” Quackity shrugs. “Everyone fucks up sometimes. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy says. “Really. Why is everyone so fuckin’ concerned?” He’s a little relieved for sure. Q isn’t reaming him out– not that he thought he would, but still. Quackity is his boss, even if he was a friend first.
“Hey man, just wanted to check in. It’s my job.” Quackity holds his hands up, and then reaches out to pat Tommy on the shoulder. “I’ll hang around tonight if you want?”
“Jack and I should be fine.” Closing wasn’t fun, but at least he didn’t have to do it alone. Quackity stares at him and Tommy stares back, before finally heaving a sigh.
“Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure you’re fi–”
“I’m fine!” Tommy nudges his hand away, grinning and spreading his arms wide. “Peachy!”
Quackity regards him, and then sighs. “Alright. Okay. Okay! I’m takin’ you off the schedule for tomorrow, though.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Tommy grunts, shoving down his pang of disappointment (more time at home, then. Great) and instead shrugs it off, gnawing on his lip. “Sure.”
“I know you want hours, but it’ll be good for you,” Quackity continues, and Tommy zones out. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to pay attention. Q’s lips keep moving and he asks something and Tommy just nods– he’s tired. He’s so fucking tired. So he just nods and agrees and smiles until finally Quackity stops talking, claps him on the shoulder, and heads into the back.
For a while, things are quiet. He’s pretty sure he’s watching himself from the outside, running through the motions and getting things done. The hours tick by and people file out– eventually, there is no one left in the building but him and Jack, and Tommy busies himself with various menial tasks. Wiping down glasses, mopping the floor in the back, wetting a rag and wiping down the tables. Stacking chairs.
Eight fifty-six. Tommy tears his eyes away from the clock and down at the bar counter below him, scrubbing stubbornly at a coffee ring like it might make it disappear.
Eight fifty-nine.
Nine o’clock.
The door jingles.
Tommy whips his head up, a snarl already in his throat as he gets ready to tell off whoever just walked in, but it freezes in his throat. Wilbur– one of the trio– has walked back in, a smile on his face and glasses down at the tip of his nose. His hair is low over his eyes. Tommy scowls, snapping back into himself with a jolt and throwing down his towel.
“We’re closed,” he snaps.
“I wanted to apologize,” Wilbur says, and Tommy scowls harder.
“We’re closed ,” he says again.
“I know, I know.” Wilbur sits anyway, wobbling on the bar stool and it’s shiny blue plastic seat. “But I really wanted to apologize for earlier.”
“It’s no big deal,” Tommy grumps, looking away and down at the counter. He trails his hand over it, then keeps sweeping his damp rag over it. It streaks. “Whatever, seriously.”
“It was rude,” Wilbur says. “And I apologize.”
“I’ve dealt with worse,” Tommy says because he has. When he looks up, Wilbur is staring at him with an unreadable expression. “What, bitch?”
“Are you always this rude to customers?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy scowls at him.
“Just the dickheads,” he says. “Ones that stay past closing.”
“It’s nine oh three,” Wilbur says, and Tommy flips him off cleanly. “Do you need a ride home?”
“Excuse me?” Tommy blinks. “I– no. No I do not.”
“It’s dark and late,” Wilbur says. “Are you sure?” Even if Tommy did want a ride, he wouldn’t take one from this fucker. No way. He shakes his head. Jack could give him one if he asked, but he’s not going to ask, because he likes the walk and doesn’t want to explain why Jack has to drop him off a block away from his home.
“Positive,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes. “Get out, please.”
“Alright, alright, I’m going.” Wilbur is smiling, raising his hands in surrender and sliding off the stool. “I’m Wilbur, by the way. Watson-Soot.”
“You said earlier,” Tommy says, eyeing him warily. “Tommy.”
“Tommy…?”
“Tommy Not-In-The-Habit-Of-Giving-My-Last-Name-Out-To-Strange-Weird-Fuckheads.”
“That is an awfully long last name.”
“Yeah, it’s shit to fill out on standardized tests.”
And then both of them are laughing, a smile spreading across Tommy’s face before he can stop himself. He trails off the laughter haltingly, fingers stuttering to a stop as he finishes wiping down the counter and stares at Wilbur. Wilbur, who is still smiling and his shoulders still shaking as he chuckles.
“Goodnight, Tommy,” he says.
“Night.” Tommy watches as the door opens and then shuts, the bell jingling cheerfully. He stands there for a long moment, staring after Wilbur out into the night and just… thinks. Thinks. His mind isn’t even really going, he’s just standing there and staring until Jack Manifold appears at his shoulder and scares the shit out of him with:
“Who was that then, ey?”
Things start to… change after that.
Tommy starts to see Wilbur everywhere. Not out of work– just in. The man comes in every other day now, sitting either in the Watson-Soot booth, as he calls it, or by himself at the bar. Nearly every shift of Tommy’s sees the man coming in around one or two– or, if Tommy’s working a morning shift, ten or eleven. He’s not sure how the man knows, but he does, and so he sees him. Serves him. Occasionally, jokes with him.
Wilbur’s… kind of funny.
And okay, maybe Tommy doesn’t talk to many people outside of work and Sam’s shop, but that’s not his fault. So what if he starts to laugh more at Wilbur’s jokes, if he starts to– gasp– look forward to the man coming in. He’s funny. He’s nice.
He’s really nice. Almost creepily so. He tips Tommy twenty bucks consistently no matter what he orders, and he compliments him on the simplest things. A haircut. A well-timed joke. Tommy has spent enough time with Dream to recognize the insincerity when it’s there, but the thing is… it’s not there. Wilbur is well and truly infatuated, and Tommy is confused until he’s not. Wilbur wants to be his friend. Wilbur, after one comment about how similar they look, wants to be brothers .
And Tommy does too. Family is confusing and wrong and awful to Tommy, but Wilbur is good. He wants to keep him. It’s like finding a dog on the side of the road, Tommy thinks. A good thing in the midst of concrete, steel, and smoke. Wilbur is a dog and Tommy is reeling him in with little quips here and there, treats of knowledge, watching as the praise comes pouring in.
It comes to a head one late night, when Tommy’s working a slow Thursday. Wilbur’s voice is interested, tone content: “What year are you in again?”
“Senior year,” Tommy says, and he’s preening under the attention. He never gets shit like this at home– Dream expects good grades, expects Tommy to be good all the time. Praise from him is few and far between, but Wilbur is just lavishing it on him without a single care in the world. Tommy grins, all teeth. “I’m graduating second in my class.”
“Damn!” Wilbur’s hand hits the table and Tommy barely bites back his flinch, leaning back some and curling his fingers around one another. “That’s aces, Tommy!”
“It’s not first,” he says, drawing back a little. He’s not shy, not ashamed– but it’s worth it to see the way Wilbur’s eyes soften, the way he smiles like he’s trying to tame a wild kitten. Attention. Tommy swallows and pretends like he doesn’t care, avoiding Wil’s gaze and shrugging. “I could do better.”
“Second in your class and you could do better?” Wilbur asks, splaying his fingers out against the cool laminate countertop. His coffee has long gone cold. Tommy thinks about topping it up again, but in the end he doesn’t move. “Do you get scholarship for it?”
“A bit,” he says. “Valedictorian gets a free ride to the state school. Which is why I could be doing better.” Dream would love it if he didn’t have to pay for Tommy’s school– Tommy would love it if he could get by on his own. No more ties back to him, nothing holding him in place. No debts. Wilbur’s eyes are sharp as he surveys Tommy, and after a second he shrugs. “Not that I was planning on college, honestly.”
“Not planning on college?”
“There are better things that I could be doing.”
“Not really, sugar .” Wilbur picks up a packet of Splenda and chucks it at Tommy, laughing when the teenager bats it away with a disgruntled hand. “College would be good for you. You could get out of this town.”
Tommy is still preening under the praise. Maybe he can get a bit more out of Wilbur. “I ‘unno. I don’t think I’d be… good at it.”
“You’re second in your class,” Wilbur says, staring at him with a half-open mouth. “Tommy, you would be amazing .”
Oh, purr. Tommy likes that tone, the reverent sort of admiration in Wilbur’s voice. He continues, unaware of Tommy’s own thoughts. “I was like– fiftieth in my classes. I fuckin’ dropped out of college, in the end. You’re second and smart as a whip and telling me you wouldn’t do good in college? Liar.” The last insult is said fondly, and Tommy just ducks his head and shrugs. Wilbur scoffs. “Puh-lease. Seriously. You’d do amazing. Did you want to go in-state?”
Depends. If it means staying near Wilbur, yes. But there’s another desire in his gut, the urge to run run run away from Dream and never come back.
“Not sure yet,” he says, gnawing on his lip. It’s the truth, if anything.
“That’s fair,” Wilbur hums. “It took forever for Techno to make up his mind.”
Tommy hums back, and then to his utmost disappointment, a car pulls into the parking lot, headlights cutting bright golden beams through the windows as the sun continues it’s slow but steady march up above the horizon. The clock is slowly ticking, and Tommy is almost surprised to find it’s almost 5:30. He’s been talking to Wilbur for an hour, jesus christ. “Welp. Here comes a crowd.”
“A valiant soldier,” Wilbur says. Tommy pauses, lingers– he can see how Wilbur’s gaze drags over him, aching. After a second, Tommy turns, snagging one of the coffee pots from the machines and leans over the counter in order to top off Wil’s mug. Then, without even looking at the older man, he snags two packets of sugar from the container and rips them open, dumping the contents into the drink. Reaches under the counter, just a dash of oatmilk. He plops a spoon in, and stirs. He can feel Wil watching him, but neither of them say anything as he slides the mug over, steaming, just the way Wilbur takes it.
The bell rings. Tommy blinks, and smiles, customer-service voice kicking in before he can stop himself. “Sit anywhere you like, be right there.”
Wilbur is watching him. Tommy shies away from it, but not because he doesn’t like it. Oh no. It’s just more fun this way, watching Wilbur chase.
He’s already Tommy’s. The decision’s been made for him. It’s just a matter of time now until he realizes, and Tommy cannot wait .
It’s probably not healthy.
The thought hits him late one night when he’s nursing a bruise on his arm and ribs, ice pack cold against his irritated skin and staring at the dark wall as he listens to Dream pace in the other room.
(To be fair, he’d deserved this bruise. Deserved the way he’d cried on the floor as every breath had ached, deserved how Dream had shouted at him and told him he was fucking useless. Because he is. Even his paychecks don’t help enough with the bills, the debts. Tommy tries to help but he never quite makes it– Dream sees through the thin veneer he puts up and pulls it down to reveal the truth of Tommy: a clingy, co-dependent bastard who needs and never gives.)
This relationship with Wilbur, the way Tommy’s heart jumps when he walks in– definitely not healthy. But Tommy’s not very well-versed in healthy relationships. He knows what they should be, yes– a take and a give, but Tommy is a taker and he’s used to that. A burden for those who can’t handle it.
He thinks of the twenty dollar bills in Wilbur’s hand, crisp as though he’d just gotten them from the ATM simply for the purpose of giving it to Tommy. Yeah. He’s a taker, not a giver.
But Wilbur doesn’t care, does he? Tommy breathes, chest aching as it moves up and down, up and down, and he thinks. Tommy is selfish. Tommy wants Wilbur. Tommy wants him as a friend, as a brother, and the only thing he knows about wanting is selfishness and possession.
So he’ll make Wilbur his. It’s easy. It’s gotta be easy– Dream does it without hesitation, makes things his. Tommy is Dream’s, at the moment, but Tommy wants Wilbur and it’s all very confusing, so Tommy rolls over and goes to sleep.
He’ll figure it out later. He’s got time.