Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Tubbo goes home after hanging out at Tommy’s place, he takes the subway. The distance is too far to walk, and the streets aren’t the safest. Besides, he’s already paying for that expensive-ass subway monthly pass — might as well use it.

Tommy lives in one of those gigantic apartments only the really well-off can afford, full of rich art and space to roam. Tubbo has always found the place to be quite a bit claustrophobic, honestly, despite it being anything but. He thinks it’s the fact it always looks and sounds so vacant, even though it isn’t. It’s so big that it feels small, unlived in.

One would think that the incident from two months ago would have discouraged him from visiting his best friend’s residence again, but Tommy whined so much about his three-day absence that Tubbo changed his mind. Either way, not showing his face at Tommy’s house anymore would be suspicious, to say the least — and caution never killed anybody. At least he’s putting his subway pass to good use, going back and forth from school to Tommy’s to work to his own place.

The first thing Tubbo sees when he opens the door to the two-bedroom apartment he’s called home for a year and a half is Quackity, sprawled over the couch. There are books all over the kitchen counter and around the coffee table, and neither of them are sure which of them belong to which person. A random children’s cartoon plays on the cheap TV, the terrible audio quality tingling Tubbo’s ears.

“You’re home early,” he points out, letting his backpack fall to the ground by the entrance as he walks further inside.

Quackity groans tiredly, not taking his eyes away from the TV, his dark hair a ruffled mess against his forehead. “Yeah, mandatory rest day or whatever. Couldn’t get a one-day job to do instead in time, so came here straight from class.” He shoots Tubbo a quick glance, looking him over in that attentive way he always does. “Were you at Tommy’s?”

He nods in response. “He wanted help with homework, as usual.” The boy pauses before adding, affection coating his every word, “Also, Tommy’s just clingy.”

The scoff Quackity gives is just as fond. “He really is.” The young man yawns, back to staring at the cartoon. “Do you have work today?”

Tubbo nods again, directing himself towards the fridge. “Double shift, and I’ve got the closing one. I’ll probably be home really late again.”

There are a total of four different rooms in the apartment — two bedrooms, the living-kitchen-dining-room, and the bathroom. Standing next to the counters, Tubbo can still see the top of the other’s head, not shifting one inch from its position against the cushions.

“Again? That’s fucked up. Why does a cafe close at 2 AM anyway? You should sue them.”

“I’m not gonna sue them, Q. I’m gonna stay really quiet, smile really nicely at all customers, and get lots of tips from people who feel bad that a teenager is working at 1 AM.”

Quackity rolls his eyes with a grin on his face, moving from his comfortable spot on the couch to throw a pillow at his flatmate from the other side of the room. He laughs when Tubbo clumsily catches it before it can hit him, the exhaustion that seeps from his every pore dissipating for a moment as they glare playfully at each other.

“Sure, you little billionaire,” he teases, giggling when the other throws the pillow back and it hits him square in the chest. Quackity lets out a tired but happy sigh and then lays back down on the cheap couch that has never failed to welcome his strained muscles. His tone is lighthearted, familiar. “Don’t forget to take your keys, I’ll probably be asleep when you get back and I don’t want you waking me up because you got yourself locked outside again.”

“Oh, come on, that was just once!”

“Three times, Tubbo. I’ve been keeping count.”

Tubbo mumbles in fake annoyance, failing to hold back his own smile. “You suck.”

“Get fucked. Do you wanna watch this bullshit with me before you have to get ready to leave?”

He smiles.

“Of course.”

The truth is that whenever he’s in an anxiety-inducing or potentially dangerous situation, Tubbo likes to mentally take note of his biggest priorities during that exact moment. It helps him calm down, breathe easier, and assess his possible options in a quick, efficient, and disciplined manner. His mom taught him that what feels like a thousand years ago, when he was still small and jumpy and didn’t like movies that had swords because the possibility of violence made him nervous.

A lot of things have changed since then. He isn’t scared of the lost boys from Peter Pan anymore, and he believes himself to have grown up enough to get over most of his other senseless childhood fears. Even then, the “priorities listing mechanism”, like his mother used to call it, proves itself to still be very much useful in calming him down when dealing with more than Peter Pan.

While he holds onto a single string of web that stops him from a freefall of at least twenty feet, his brain comes up with the following list:

1. He’s holding onto a single string of web that stops him from a freefall of at least twenty feet;
2. He’s bleeding. From somewhere. He’s not sure of where that is, exactly (something that, when you really think about it, is a whole problem in and of itself);
3. The guy he was going after still has a knife, and is still very much free and not trying to balance themselves twenty feet above the ground, which immediately gives them some sort of sick and totally unfair advantage;
4. He forgot where he left his backpack, and Quackity’s gonna fucking kill him if he loses another one;
5. He has homework due tomorrow that he didn’t finish because he was too busy at the cafe after coming back from Tommy’s, and, as it frequently happens, the only thing he actually got done while at his best friend’s place was that one level in their video game they had taken way too long to beat.

To put it simply, Tubbo isn’t having the best of times.

This whole Spider-Man bullshit has been blowing up a lot more than he expected it to. At first, it was just him running around his neighborhood and punching some creeps, but it all evolved quite quickly after he started developing his spider webs. They allowed him to move faster and to patrol a lot more spots within the city than just his neighborhood — it took him almost an entire month to be able to make a web fluid strong enough to not drop him face first into concrete, and making the device that released them in the first place was just as hard.

If he could tell Quackity about it, the man would be ecstatic over his resourcefulness. He would even ignore the amount of materials stolen from the school lab to make it possible.

Now there are websites dedicated to marking down his every move, podcasts discussing his actions and how they are slowly but surely lowering the crime rates all over L’Manburg, the most crime-ridden city in the entire country. It’s an impressive feat, apparently.

The media attention is a recent development. Not that that makes it any less terrifying, of course — he hates the feeling of eyes on his skin, tracking him down and shaking him to his very core. It’s almost as if the newfound Spider-Man enthusiasts are waiting for him to fuck up so they can tear him to shreds.

It’s safe to say Tubbo doesn’t sleep well at night.

One of the reasons for that is, obviously, the fact that he gets stabbed every once in a while and bleeds all over the place, like he is right now, as he holds onto a single string of web that stops him from a freefall of at least twenty feet. Another reason is that he runs out of web fluid in the worst fucking moments in the realms of possibility.

Tubbo has two options, at the moment: letting go of the string he’s been holding onto and pray for either a quick death or a smooth landing, or just standing there trying to think of other solutions while the fucking asshole that shoved that knife in him disappears into the night.

Spider-Man thinks he’ll take his chances with the freefall.

And he lands surprisingly well, if you ignore the twist of his right ankle that makes him groan loudly whenever his foot touches the ground. The pain is so overwhelming that, for a second, the stab wound is forgotten. That changes when he starts running in the direction the culprit left — he can pinpoint where he got injured, and he knows for sure he’ll have to stitch himself up with the medical supplies he keeps in his room.

He’s done it once before. It was terribly painful, and he had to bite into a shirt to stop himself from screaming bloody murder and waking the entire building up. Even then, he thanked all the gods he could think of for begrudgingly letting his mom teach him basic sewing, when she was still alive. The movements were easily translated onto his skin, trembling fingers creating messy stitches that would leave the kind woman gasping in horror if she were to ever see them.

It’s better than bleeding out, Tubbo tells himself. It’s better than having to wake up Quackity and ask him to take him to the hospital, better than subjecting himself to all the questions and concerns and worries and scolding. Maybe he should actually pick up sewing as a hobby. After all, it seems like a good skill to have when getting stabbed isn’t that improbable. In addition to that, the ugly dark red hoodie and the even uglier yellow pants he’s been using as his little superhero uniform are full of rips and holes that he keeps procrastinating on dealing with.

One side of his hoodie is soaked with blood as he dashes through the dark streets of L’Manburg, ears and eyes attentive to his surroundings. He catches up somewhat quickly, blessed with speed a little faster than normal ever since his powers first showed up. When he’s close enough for the man to start tightening his hold on the bloodied knife again, Tubbo jumps towards him.

His fist hits them straight in the temple, knocking the man out immediately. Tubbo squats to take the criminal’s phone from his pocket and call the police with the address of their location. Then, he pauses.

There’s a moment when the far-away sounds of cars and Spider-Man’s ragged breathing are the only things to be heard in that dimly lit patch of the city. He leans his hands on his knees, still standing on his hurt ankle, catching his breath before getting back to moving.

Tubbo is tired tonight. He stopped two robberies earlier and this stupid chase should not have taken this long. He can feel the blood sticking to his clothes, and he slowly walks back to the alleyway he hopes his backpack is in, limping slightly. There is barely any more activity at this hour, probably nearing three in the morning. His feet drag against the concrete and there’s a pounding feeling in his head.

The backpack is there, at last, a messy lump standing by a pile of garbage. Spider-Man opens it almost hungrily, holding back a noise of absolute triumph when he finds the extra web fluid he left in it. His hands move as fast as they can to insert the web fluid in the empty web shooters, a soft smile appearing under the makeshift mask that covers his entire face, only leaving out his eyes.

A sense of freedom belongs to swinging his way home, the cold breeze taking the weight and pressure out of his injuries. It’s a lot better than the subway, he believes. If he wasn’t so keen on keeping this whole vigilante thing a secret, Tubbo thinks he would swing everywhere. That would be his only means of transport. Just by that thought, he can hear Quackity’s voice telling him off for being unsafe in his head.

Oh, if Quackity knew. He would lose his mind, probably. Both of them would.

Four windows below, five above. That’s how Spider-Man figures out what window on his building he’s supposed to swing through to land inside his own room, where he can get cleaned up and tidy some things in advance for school the following day.

Four windows below, five above. He always leaves his window open to make sure he’s going through the right one. It’s not even that necessary, it’s more of a precaution — his counting never fails him. Four windows below, five above, and the one between those leads him to the place he’s learned to call his. There’s blood on his side, and his ankle is throbbing, and he’s got a migraine forming, and he feels like he’s about to collapse. Four windows below, five above. He’s so close, he’s so close to peace and rest and healing. So close.

He swings through the open window easily, letting out a disgruntled groan when his feet touch the floor and he has to actively shift his weight so his ankle doesn’t give out . He squirms in the darkness of his bedroom, lights still out. One of his hands touches the stab wound over the hoodie, and Tubbo hisses in pain.

Then the lights are turned on, making his eyes sting with the sudden brightness before they adjust. There is a tense moment of silence in which he and the person by the doorway study each other, one clearly confused and the other too exhausted and pained to process the fact this room isn’t his at all.

Tubbo blinks up at this random concerned citizen wearily, brain fuzzy. Four windows below, five above. Except he can’t fucking count, apparently, because now he’s sure he is on the sixth floor of his apartment building, not on the fifth. Tubbo blinks again. He’s thankful he hasn’t ripped off his mask as soon as he landed inside the room as he sometimes does, which means that, as awkward as this situation is, his identity is still somehow protected.

A shaky breath escapes his lips, and the other watches him, shell-shocked. Tubbo looks around for a second before looking back at this guy whose apartment he has broken into.

“You shouldn’t leave your window open. Anyone can just— anyone can just come in.”

The expression on the other’s face turns from shock and confusion to scorn.

“We’re on the sixth floor.”

“So? You never know. Maybe some robber somewhere has a really tall ladder and one day they see your open window and decide it’s time to put their freak ladder to use.”

“I—,” they shake their head in disbelief, “what?”

“I’m Spider-Man,” Tubbo offers, still pressing his hands tightly to his side through his clothes, trying to convey that he absolutely meant to just swing through his new neighbor’s window, and that he didn’t just fuck up a count of fucking five.

“I— I’m Ranboo?” The stranger furrows his eyebrows, looking him up and down. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

A wave of dizziness takes over Tubbo’s senses, and he only manages to chuckle and smile dumbly under his mask before feeling something thick and warm drip down his skin.

He watches Ranboo’s eyes widen comically as the boy finally catches sight of the growing stain on his hoodie. Spider-Man chuckles again.

“I’m bleeding on your carpet,” he answers simply, as if that explains it.

The whole world seems to spin on its axis faster than it’s supposed to, and Tubbo blacks out.

Chapter Text

When Tubbo wakes up to the sound of panicked pacing, the first thing he does is wonder where the fuck he is. He’s been positioned so that his back rests uncomfortably against the wall right below a window, his neck lolling to the side so that his head touches his shoulder. The mask scratches the skin on his face like it always does, and that’s the only thing that brings him any sort of internal peace. At least his identity is still hidden. Even then, his face scrunches up at the stiffness of the position, at the light smell of blood that reaches his nose, and at the burning pain that shoots up his side and through his ankle.

Clearly not the best conditions to wake up to.

The memories slowly come back to him — being stabbed, falling from a height of twenty feet, swinging into the wrong apartment, blacking out. Tubbo knows he has a higher tolerance to blood loss. He knows most people would’ve passed out earlier, and for longer. His body heals itself quicker, ever since he got bitten by that spider. He’s certain that if he can stitch himself up and just go to sleep, he’ll be much better in the morning.

However, Ranboo, who Tubbo took note of as soon as his vision unblurred, isn’t aware of any of that, and seems to be going a little insane. He walks from one corner of the room to the other, anxiety seeping from his every pore. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Tubbo’s opened eyes, or the way Spider-Man has shifted slightly to be able to apply pressure to his wound again.

He doesn’t usually pass out. However, he got stabbed pretty early in the fight, and moved around quite a lot while more and more blood soaked his hoodie. It’s a little stupid that he had even passed out in the first place (can’t he just bleed a little without his consciousness failing him? For fuck’s sake), but there’s no use worrying over that when he’s still very much injured and his neighbor hasn’t been of any use.

“Ranboo,” he calls, and the boy jumps a few feet in the air out of pure surprise. Ranboo opens his mouth to speak, but Tubbo interrupts him. “Bring me some medical supplies. A clean needle, thread, bandages, rubbing alcohol, all that bullshit.”

His voice is hoarse and the pain hasn’t subsided one bit, but Tubbo believes he was unconscious for a maximum of ten to fifteen minutes, which means that if he treats it now, the scarring on his side won’t even be that bad when the wound heals. If he had been out for longer than that, Ranboo would’ve probably called someone for help, and he wouldn’t still be in the guy’s bedroom.

Or at least he thinks so. Apparently he can’t even count to five, so maybe he’s just wrong.

There’s a lot to be said about the way Ranboo stammers and hesitates before violently nodding and running out of the room. It’s easy to notice that he’s scared, panicking, and in shock. He resembles the type of person Spider-Man has to calm down after saving — afraid and still a little surprised, not yet ready to act. It’s a normal reaction to what is definitely an unexpected situation. It’s impossible to blame anyone for it, even if it’s inconvenient. Sadly, it’s more than just inconvenient right now. Tubbo presses onto his side harder and hopes Ranboo gets his shit together.

He reappears in less than a minute, hands trembling as he holds the box of medical supplies.

“What— What do I do now?” he asks, uncertain and anxious.

Spider-Man uses the hand that isn’t on his side to gesture for the other to come closer. When he does, Tubbo immediately reaches out to take the box from him and open it, moving around the materials attentively. Finally letting go of himself, he picks up the rubbing alcohol bottle with bloodied hands.

Ranboo breathes in sharply, still shaky, and sits in front of him. He stares as Tubbo pulls up his hoodie to reveal the wound. “Oh, that looks bad. Shouldn’t you— shouldn’t you go to the hospital?”

“No, no, I’m good. I’ve done this before,” he mutters distractedly, slowly pressing alcohol-soaked cotton to his skin and biting back a hiss.

His neighbor pauses. “Do you need me to help?”

Spider-Man finally moves to gaze at him properly, his intense eyes the only thing Ranboo can see behind the mask.

“Do you know how to clean and stitch wounds, boss man?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. He can hear the breathlessness in his own words, pain shooting up his body in waves.

“... No?”

“Then how would you help?” Silence echoes inside the tiny bedroom. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Ranboo sighs in defeat as Tubbo gets to work, carefully cleaning his injury. When he’s finally finished, he picks up the needle, puts the thread through it, and moves his hand towards the open gash on his side. His neighbor takes such a sharp and panicked breath that Tubbo thinks it’ll be his turn to look after a passed out guy.

Not the best timing for that, admittedly. That’s the thought that leads him to start conversation as the needle pricks through his skin.

“Are you new in town? I’ve done quite a bit of patrolling in this area, and I’ve never seen you before.”

He does his best to keep the agony out of his voice and fails. Thankfully, the absolute misery and strain in his words as the thread slowly pulls ripped skin back together hides the fact he already knows the answer to his question, and also doesn’t really care.

Even then, he pretends to pay some attention as Ranboo gives him a nervous nod.

“Yeah. My cousin’s lived here for a few months now, but she just recently moved to this apartment. I lived outside of L’Manburg, but then she asked me if I’d like to move in with her and I kinda just… did.”

Tubbo hums in fake acknowledgement, tears stinging his eyes behind the mask as he tries to move the needle as fast as possible while still being precise.

“The city seems nice enough,” the other rambles, “it’s noisier and messier than the one I used to live in but it’s alright, even if I don’t know many people. Even if I just freaked out a few minutes ago thinking I had killed Spider-Man. I knew about you before moving, you know? I saw you on the news a few times and all that. You seem cool. If I keep watching you stitch your own wound I think I might throw up.”

“Look away, boss man,” Spider-Man breathes out, putting so much energy into not letting his hands shake that a weird tiredness takes over the rest of his body, slightly easing the still-existing ache on his ankle.

“Right, right,” Ranboo does, and for another moment silence reigns.

Tubbo works quickly, and soon enough he’s picking up the small pair of scissors and cutting off the remaining string and putting away the needle. He lets out such a relieved sigh that Ranboo looks at him again, sighing himself as he sees him start choosing a bandage to cover the stitches.

They sit before each other in a comfortable silence. Despite the stress of the situation, Tubbo feels like Ranboo is somewhat easy to be around. He’s a bit of an idiot, sure, but he’s nice enough.

“Do you do this often?” The one in question asks, studying his movements.

“Sometimes. It’s not usually this bad,” Spider-Man shrugs, feeling tiredness settle on his bones while the bandage is applied to his skin. He lets out one more sigh before letting go of all the supplies and just sitting for a moment. He studies Ranboo cautiously — the boy is taller than average, that’s for sure. Tubbo also notices how his eyes are of a different color each, same as his hair. He isn’t sure if the white and black hair is just a bad dye job or a natural characteristic, and doesn’t ask either. Tubbo looks away.

If he gets home and Quackity is waking up to leave or somehow still awake, he’s so fucked. With that thought, he picks up his backpack from the floor beside him and stands. Ranboo immediately gets agitated, brows furrowed in concern.

“What are you doing?”

“Going home.” Tubbo answers simply, stretching his body to get rid of the stiffness. When he adds weight to his injured ankle, he quickly notices the pain of it has lessened considerably. The crazy healing spider powers are in effect, he guesses. “I have class tomorrow, king.”

“Shouldn’t you— shouldn’t you rest?”

“I will! At home. Don’t worry about it, I’m Spider-Man! I’ll be fine.”

“Right,” he nods, and then averts his gaze from Tubbo’s, “will you… pass by again?”

Tubbo pauses.

“Honest answer?” Ranboo nods again. “Probably not, big man. It’s a big city, you know? Not a lot of time to pay visits.” He shrugs distractedly, and Ranboo gives him a last nod. “It was a pleasure to meet you, tho.”

“Yeah, same. Good luck on— on the vigilante thing, I guess.”

Spider-Man smiles, and he hopes his neighbor can see it in his eyes.

“Thank you, Ranboo,” he gives the other a thumbs up and then shoves his hands inside his pockets, glancing at the window. “Before I leave, can I please have a glass of water?”

“Oh!” Ranboo seems surprised, but gets to moving quickly, starting his short walk to the door. “Of course! Give me a second.”

Tubbo is left alone. He breathes deeply and throws his backpack over his shoulder. He repasses the interaction quietly inside his head and, before the taller can show up and see him slipping into the apartment below, he jumps out of the window.

“Spider-Man stops two robberies and one instance of sexual assault on a crime-ridden night in L’Manburg. Eyewitnesses confirm the hero was injured by one of the criminals, but never gave up on his target. Mimimimimi. Fuck this guy.”

Tubbo can’t stop the roar of laughter that leaves his mouth.

“Come on, Tom,” he tries, failing to keep the grin out of his face, “he stopped two robbers and a creep! You have to give him that one.”

“He’s such a show off, Tubbo!” Tommy exclaims, gesturing frantically. “He walks around like mimimimimi. I’m Spider-Man. I have cool superpowers. I fight evil. I look like a fucking McDonald’s employee.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, a smile still gracing his lips. “Why does he look like a McDonald’s employee?”

“Red hoodie, yellow pants. Motherfucker definitely works for Ronald McDonald.”

“That’s— no! That’s not even the right shade of yellow, Tommy. Or the right shade of red, for the record.”

Tommy scoffs, placing down the school newspaper on their lunch table harshly before picking his fork up and shoving chicken into his mouth.

Tommy always brings lunch from home. Good lunch, like hot soup in a thermos or nice-looking sandwiches or pasta or even risotto, that one time. The few times he doesn’t, he has money to get just as good lunch from the cafeteria.

It would be unfair and cruel to say Quackity doesn’t try when he can. Most days, Tubbo makes himself a simple sandwich and brings it to school. Every once in a while, Quackity makes him lunch himself, and attaches a little note telling him to have a good day. Those times are few and far between — Quackity works a lot, these days. They’ve been struggling for money ever since Schlatt died, a year and a half ago. Tubbo never complains. He bites into his sandwich.

“You’re just saying that because you’re a Spider-Man stan,” Tommy argues, voice muffled because of the food in his mouth, “the guy is an asshole, I’m telling you.”

“Are you upset you don’t have superpowers?” Tubbo teases. “Is that it, Tommy? Are you a little jealous?”

“I’m not jealous of that bitch!” The indignation in the answer is almost palpable, which makes the entire conversation just that tad funnier. “Spider-Man is jealous of me. I’m so much better than he’ll ever be.”

“Sure, sure,” he rolls his eyes, taking another bite. Tubbo still feels giddy and amused (as if he knows a secret no one else knows. The thought makes him want to giggle) when he changes the subject. “What class do you have after lunch?”

Tommy groans dramatically, throwing his head back in annoyance.

“Class, class, class. That’s all you think about, Tubbo!” Tubbo raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. There’s a pause, and then the blond sighs in defeat. “Fucking— English. What about you?”

“Algebra.”

Somehow, the groan Tommy lets out this time is even more dramatic. “This is so fucked up. How dare they separate us?”

“You say that every time. You’re so clingy,” Tubbo states, laughing loudly when the other loudly disagrees, hands moving wildly to assert a point both of them know isn’t really true.

Because Tommy is clingy, and that’s just a fact. They’ve known each other for around three years and been friends for at least one month less than that, and the clinginess has always been a part of it. Tommy didn’t like him at first, just like he doesn’t like Spider-Man now. The parallels are something Tubbo will definitely remember in passing later and chuckle about.

A beat of comfortable silence echoes around their lunch table before Tommy leans his body forward from his spot in the seat in front of Tubbo’s, staring at his best friend attentively.

“Techno is coming back from that work trip in two weeks, we’re gonna have a nice welcome back dinner at home, just family and close friends. Dad told me to ask you to come. Big Q can come too, if he wants.”

Tubbo stares back for a second and then takes a slow bite out of his sandwich. He furrows his brows as he chews, processing the invite in his mind. Family and close friends. Right. Because he’s family and close friends. Okay.

“In two weeks? I think we can do that, yeah. I just need to confirm with him, see if he isn’t working then.” He pauses, poisonous words of don’t be anyone’s charity case running through his head. Tubbo almost physically shakes himself to drive away the angry thought, looking away from Tommy. “As long as it’s not inconvenient for you guys, obviously.”

“Of course it’s not inconvenient, you bitch.” Tommy mumbles. He seems to almost sense the tension building in his friend’s throat, because he instantly asks something else. “Are you coming to mine so we can play video games this afternoon? You better.”

When he responds, his muscles noticeably relax. “I have work this afternoon, Tommy.”

Tommy’s groans restart, just as dramatic and just as resigned. He almost whines when he speaks. “Again? You already had work yesterday, you had to leave my house early and everything!”

“Yeah, that’s how work usually works. It’s an everyday thing.”

“That’s bullshit. You should quit.”

Tubbo smiles.

When Tubbo goes home after work, he walks. The cafe he’s been working at for over a year now is only two blocks away from his apartment building, and he knows the area like the palm of his hand. Besides, it’s nice to have a few minutes to himself every day, amongst the studying and the working and the worrying and the remembering and the being a nighttime superhero.

He doesn’t have as much peace of mind as he once had, which already says a lot, considering the state he was in when he met people like Tommy and Quackity. After the incident two months ago, his situation seemed to worsen. He supposes getting bitten by a spider and developing superpowers isn’t the most calming occurrence.

Even then, Tubbo goes to school, and he’s in his senior year, and he does his best. His scholarship depends on his grades and he knows a university scholarship will depend on his grades, as well. And he goes to work, because he and Quackity are always short on money, and he helps around the house, because he cares. And now he’s Spider-Man — something he never expected, ever. He’s still unsure of what he’s doing in his life, but he knows the streets are safer, and his mom used to say that you must always use your gifts to help others, and he supposes he is. He supposes he is.

For the second consecutive day, he opens the door to Quackity’s figure on the couch. The young man is sitting, this time. Tubbo lets his backpack fall to the ground by the entrance.

“You’re home early again,” he points out, and Quackity moves his eyes from the history book in his hands to him.

“One of my coworkers is repaying me a shift that I covered for them last month, and I have an exam by the end of the week.” He explains calmly, looking him over in that attentive way he does. As usual, a sense of familiarity makes Tubbo warm. “You’re home a little late. Were you at work or at Tommy’s?”

“Work,” he goes towards the couch and all but throws himself into it, body relaxing as he sits next to the other. “Is your exam a history one?”

Quackity nods tiredly, waving his book around. Tubbo catches the words “History”, “Law”, and “American”. He nods back in silent support, and rests his head against the back of the couch. He closes his eyes, and breathes.

There are a few minutes where nothing is said. Q goes back to reading and Tubbo keeps his eyes closed and pretends that being alive feels easy — their small dusty apartment is home, money isn’t an issue, neither of them gets nightmares, Quackity knows about Spider-Man, and Tubbo doesn’t feel bad about keeping secrets from the one person in his life he trusts more than himself.

God, he’s overthinking again. Maybe he needs to catch more sleep. He clearly needs to catch more sleep. He breathes, and a calm, satisfied kind of exhaustion rests upon him. He can rest for a little — he can rest and then come up with another excuse to why he needs to either lock his door or leave the house for the night. For now, however, he can rest.

His injuries have mostly healed overnight: his ankle was perfect, and the messy stitches had transformed into a messy, puffy, and sensitive scarring process. There was no more blood, and the pain had also mostly gone away. Crazy healing spider powers are the best, genuinely.

Tubbo believes he’s napped for around half an hour when Quackity taps his shoulder, gently waking him up.

“Tubs? Are you awake?” He opens his eyes. “Great. What do you want to get for dinner tonight? I was thinking I could make us a few quesadillas. I can even make extra to drop off at Fundy’s tomorrow, as a thanks for that casserole from last week. What do you think?”

Tubbo yawns loudly before stretching his arms and legs out lazily.

“Sure, that’s a good idea.” He looks around before yawning again. “Will it take too long? I kinda have a lot of homework to do tonight.”

Quackity is already in the little corner they call kitchen when he answers, a proud smile on his face. Look at you, look at how dedicated and smart you are, his tone and expression say. Tubbo feels an edge of guilt press against his stomach. “Yeah, yeah, you and your homework. You can just go ahead and get started on that, if you want, and I’ll make dinner. I’ll leave some quesadillas in the microwave for you and you eat them when you have time. Is that good?”

After clearing his throat, Tubbo forces himself to smile back. Thankfully, smiling at Quackity is never that difficult. He stands from the couch and moves to pick up his backpack from the floor before initiating the short walk towards his door as the other pulls out ingredients from their few cupboards.

“That’s perfect. Thank you so much, Q.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tubs. Good luck with your homework!”

There’s only a nod offered as an answer. Tubbo quickly finds himself in his room, shedding the day’s clothes and searching for the red hoodie and yellow pants on the back of his drawer. He washed them thoroughly in the window of time he had before school and after Quackity’s daily departure, but the holes and tears are still there. If possible, he should probably either buy a new hoodie and a new pair of pants or patch his up. The messy sketches of a spandex thematic suit would have to remain buried within one of his many school notebooks, unseen and useless.

The web shooters are taken from the box he insists on hiding them in and fastened to his hands. He tests them once against the wall before throwing an entire bottle of his web fluid into the backpack he brought from the living room — it’s unlikely he’ll run out of webs tonight, but caution never killed anybody. He picks up his mask, an ugly piece of dark cloth that shows only his eyes. Tubbo puts it on and then unlocks his window.

Spider-Man always leaves his window open to make for an easier entrance. Four windows below, five above — he won't get it wrong tonight. There’s that familiar shot of adrenaline that goes up his spine, common to every night ever since he became Spider-Man. Some sort of willingness, excitement.

The window is wide open, and Spider-Man gives the cold night a quick glance before jumping out.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Tubbo likes to pretend Spider-Man is someone else. Essentially, he knows he isn’t. Tubbo is Spider-Man and Spider-Man is Tubbo and with no Tubbo there is no Spider-Man (and maybe the opposite is slowly becoming true, as well), but something about the anonymity of the vigilante makes it easier to forget the ties between the two of them.

Because Spider-Man is a plethora of things Tubbo will never really be — outgoing, reckless, brave, confident, quick on his feet, fun, charming, and, as much as he likes to disagree with Tommy on it, a bit of a show-off. Tubbo is Spider-Man, sure. Nevertheless, he likes to ask himself — is Spider-Man Tubbo?

If he isn’t, Spider-Man can be so, so much more. Maybe Spider-Man isn’t an orphan, and maybe Spider-Man isn’t struggling for money. Maybe Spider-Man is already in college and maybe Spider-Man has found the love of his life and maybe Spider-Man never doubts if he’s worthy of the things he has, no matter how little or how big they are. Maybe Spider-Man still has Quackity but never lies to him, and maybe Spider-Man was never afraid of Peter Pan. Maybe Spider-Man doesn’t have to make mental lists to feel better.

Creating that dent between those two parts of Tubbo brings him a weird sort of peace of mind. The ability to create an entire new life and past to himself is something he longed for as a kid and it’s something he can have now, even if he’s the only one who will ever be aware of it. Tubbo never minded the secrecy, and Spider-Man doesn’t either. They’re just alike in that way.

Nevertheless, both Tubbo and Spider-Man can feel the adrenaline build up as they swing from one building to another, the cacophony of fire and panic loud in their ears alongside the casual city sounds. Mid-air, Tubbo lets himself take mental notes of his priorities:

1. A whole car exploded like a block away from where he is now;
2. Apparently bows are still in style for ambitious criminals! You’d think that makes fighting them easier, rudimental weapons and all. Surprisingly, it doesn’t! Not when the arrows are made with explosives, at least;
3. He needs to stop this guy before he can blow up any more private (or public, for that matter) property;
4. He’s been too nervous to say anything ever since the first car exploded.

Spider-Man lands right in front of the culprit, shooting out a web towards them too fast for them to be able to draw another arrow.

Or at least he thought so. Tubbo isn’t exactly sure of how he’s able to shoot another web to pull himself away from the arrow aimed at his fucking forehead, but he flinches violently as the explosion of a second car goes off. His eyes widen as he holds onto his web, watching the man nock one more arrow on the bow and prepare to shoot. This time, when Spider-Man shoots his web, it gets caught in the weapon — he pulls it to him, and holds onto the bow for dear life.

They still have the arrows, his brain reminds him, they can just throw them, if needed.

Spider-Man will easily have a solution for that, of course. He’ll find a way to grab onto the arrows as well, or to disable them somehow. He doesn’t know why this man has such a powerful weapon in the first place when they were just robbing a restaurant, something that Tubbo has learned over the last two months is quite a low-effort crime in a city such as L’Manburg. He doesn’t know where such a powerful weapon could be even acquired — maybe it’s a homemade thing, like his web shooters?

“Spider-Man,” the criminal’s taunting voice interrupts his line of thought and Tubbo’s attention immediately turns back to them. The man has blond hair and blue eyes and, if it wasn’t for the lighter shade of their hair and the iciness of their stare, Tubbo might’ve even gotten reminded of Tommy. “Are you hiding from me?”

Admittedly, he isn’t. However, now he kinda wants to — this guy sounds a little scary, and Tubbo isn’t really keen on the entire exploding cars thing he’s got going on. Sadly, hiding is never truly a choice, so he steps forward and into the criminal’s field of vision.

“Who are you?” Spider-Man asks, hands tightened in fists, fixing up his stance between a fighting and a flight position. Tubbo likes giving himself options. He webs the bow to his own back to keep it on him.

The man only laughs darkly before throwing an arrow in his direction with their hand, just like Tubbo feared they would. But, this time, he acts faster. The web catches the projectile in the air, the explosion loud as it happens without the arrow’s mark being hit. He can hear his enemy scoff.

“I was told you were remarkably annoying,” they say, watching him with a look that sends a chill down his spine. When he sees the way the man’s feet move, he shifts into a fighting position. “Prove them right, Spider-Man.”

Tubbo would like to say this fight goes like any other, but it doesn’t. This man with crazy weapons and a bone-chilling voice doesn’t fight like a random robber off the street that just wants some money and a weird dose of self-satisfaction — he fights like a fighter, and that’s admittedly a bit of an issue. It’s clear how much of an issue it is when, as the both of them dance around each other, careful and calculated, the criminal throws the first punch and Tubbo feels his ribcage bloom with pain.

Nothing’s broken, he thinks, but the ugly bruise will most definitely last him a couple days. That realization is what leads him to not even hesitate before ramming his head into the other’s face the minute he gets the opportunity to — the cracking noise their nose makes at the impact is strangely gratifying.

Spider-Man takes the moments he has when the criminal takes steps back and touches their own face to level out his breathing. He straightens his posture and corrects his stance once more, preparing himself for the next punch. The second it comes barreling towards his jaw, he easily catches it and then uses the advantage to hit the man’s rib cage in a little act of selfish revenge.

The man gasps and Tubbo wastes time soaking in the small win before a fist collides violently with his temple, sending him to the ground.

“Annoying is a good word, I guess,” Tubbo’s head pounds as he looks up to the nameless culprit. They stare at him with disgust as they wipe the blood dripping from their now crooked nose with their sleeve. “Stay out of my fucking way, Spider-Man. I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t.”

He can hear the man’s footsteps crunching against the ground when they walk away, leaving him on the floor with a throbbing headache and an aching body. Tubbo stares at the clear L’Manburg night sky while he waits for the pain in his temple to subside enough so that he can get up.

A few minutes later, just as he stands up and starts walking, he hears the police sirens yell at him from a few blocks back, where he’s pretty sure a car is still very much on fire. Tubbo sighs, frustrated and confused.

Spider-Man shoots a web towards the closest building and starts swinging his way to the next part of the city.

Tubbo can barely pay attention to his chemistry teacher’s words, replaying last night’s events inside his head like a mental movie.

That was not a normal weapon. He’s been doing this vigilante thing for little less than two months, and he likes to think he’s seen a pretty wide range of weird shit criminals come up with. From small explosives to poisoned knives to just regular guns to even a very heavy pot that one time, he thought there was not much more creativity to be put on weapons. Obviously, as is starting to become quite a regular and annoying pattern, he was wrong.

He managed to keep the bow, after all. Tubbo believes the guy forgot to rip it from his back, or maybe, for some reason, just didn’t really mind losing it. Either way, Tubbo spent a considerable amount of time analyzing the weapon after getting home, and the conclusion was simple:

It’s a normal bow. A completely regular bow. A weird choice of weapon, yes, but the whole power of it comes from the arrows, not the bow, and he wasn’t able to get a hold of those. He desperately looked for any marks or brandings, thinking that maybe he could trace the weapon to its source, but there were none besides a few messy scratches that seem to have been done by the arrows themselves. Just a slick, high-quality bow. Nothing special about it.

Not that Tubbo knows anything about archery — he doesn’t. However, he did a fair amount of research on the subject, and, from his perspective, it’s… just a bow. It’s just a bow. And that’s somehow more frustrating than if it was a deadly weapon that killed him the minute he touched it.

Because now he keeps thinking about it instead of paying attention to chemistry class, and little paper airplanes keep being thrown at him, and he’s really fucking pissed off about everything.

Spider-Man isn’t supposed to lose fights, and Spider-Man isn’t supposed to not have an answer. This is wrong.

“What do you want?” he almost hisses in annoyance as he turns his head to his best friend, catching the next airplane before it hits him.

“What were you thinking about?” Tommy whisper-yells in return, ignoring his question entirely. “You seem distracted.”

No shit, he wants to say. He holds back his frustration.

“I’m tired, I kinda wanna go home,” he easily deflects and then asks again, “what do you want?”

“Have you asked Big Q about dinner at my house? It’s in, like, ten days now.”

Tubbo hasn’t. He wants to hit himself when he remembers he’s forgotten about asking Quackity about dinner during the last four to five days. He sighs.

“I haven’t, sorry. I’ll ask him as soon as possible, I promise.” Tommy frowns, so Tubbo keeps talking. He maintains his voice low so as to not be called out by the teacher. “I’ve just been really busy with homework and at the cafe, and he’s busy too, you know how it is. University and all.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but Tubbo can see his explanation was good enough. “Excuses, excuses. Tell the beanie-wearing bitch to make some time for me because he doesn’t have a choice! You both will definitely be there.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes back to him. “Sure, sure.”

“Mr. Underscore, Mr. Minecraft.” They both jump in surprise at their teacher’s irritated voice. When Tubbo turns to meet her stare, it burns with anger. Her tone is condescending, and he can feel his face heat up with embarrassment. “Is there anything you’d like to share with the class?”

Tubbo has known Tommy for over three years now, ever since he first got admitted with a scholarship to one of the best schools in L’Manburg. It’s supposed to be this institution for brilliant, incredibly bright kids. Everyone knows most of the students are just rich and average. Some of them are rich and below average. Tommy is sadly the latter.

His brothers were brilliant students, though: incredibly bright and incredibly loved and incredibly worthy of pride from family members and teachers alike. It’s a bit complicated, Tommy’s family history — the expectation for the three of them was to be below average, seeing how they were all adopted from questionable homes and not the first nominations to a genius competition. Only one of them met that expectation. Tubbo supposes it must sting a little, especially when everybody knows Tommy and his father and his older brothers and everything they were (and are) capable of achieving. Tommy is just a bow while his brothers are explosive arrows. The pressure can’t be light.

Tubbo’s family history is complicated, too. It’s easier because no one knows about it, not like people know about Tommy.

“Not really, ma’am,” the blond’s response brings a few chuckles out of their classmates. The teacher’s stare burns angrier.

“Maybe you should ask your brothers how to behave in class, Mr. Minecraft,” her comment is icy and mean-spirited and Tubbo furrows his eyebrows in discontent at it, “it would do both you and your grades some good. As for you, Mr. Underscore,” the glare she sends his way carries so much disapproval he feels his stomach drop. “I expect better than to indulge your friend’s bad habits.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he mumbles. Tommy copies the action, unamused.

Spider-Man wouldn’t accept this kind of treatment, his brain tells him.

Maybe not. But I’m just Tubbo.

The class continues.

There’s a certain ease to routine. An ease to picking up dirty dishes and cleaning tables and sharing inside jokes with coworkers and keeping on the same customer service smile for way too long.

Tubbo likes his job. He does. Amongst everything happening in his life, it feels so human to just go to that little cafe and be a teenager with a part-time job — there are no secrets, no painful past, no spider bites. There’s just Tubbo, and the stupid apron he loves complaining about, and the regulars that leave him tips every week, and the little television put up on the wall that is always on the news channel. There’s an ease to this part of his life.

“Tubbo,” he turns to look at his manager, “can you stay at the register for a bit? I’m going to go take my break.”

He moves to the spot behind the counter without complaint. He takes orders and throws a napkin at his favorite coworker while he’s distracted making said orders and it’s a slow day and Tubbo can breathe.

“So,” Karl wastes no time in coming over to lean against the counter beside him as soon as he has no more orders to finish up, “are you abandoning me again or did you get any closing shifts this week?”

He rolls his eyes in amusement. He hasn’t had a single shift with Karl before this one in the last two weeks, and he’s missed him. “I have homework, Karl.”

It’s true, kinda. In the same way telling Quackity he has the closing shift before swinging through L’Manburg is true, kinda, because he does have the closing shift every once in a while.

Karl Jacobs has worked at this cafe for maybe a couple days longer than Tubbo has — which means that when Tubbo got hired, none of them had any friends within the staff. The bonding was inevitable.

Not only that, but Karl is just genuinely such a nice guy. Tubbo found him easy to talk to ever since they first interacted, over a year ago, when Tubbo was still deeply craving to meet people who didn’t greet him with “I’m sorry for your loss”. The entire job had been a breath of fresh air at the time. It’s nearing two years since Schlatt’s death, and the fact that most of the staff never got to meet that man in the first place still feels like a breath of fresh air.

(Schlatt’s heavy presence still hangs over his shoulders when Tubbo is himself, poisoning his thoughts and sabotaging his actions.

He doesn’t like to talk about it.)

“So do I, nimrod.” his coworker complains with a teasing smile on his face. “Is school alright?”

Karl is in university just like Quackity is, if he remembers correctly. Something about filmmaking, Tubbo believes. He seems to enjoy it dearly, and never fails to gush about classes or projects if he’s given the chance. Tubbo likes to hear him speak about it — it feels so human to hear someone else tell you about the things they love. There’s an ease to that feeling that he wishes he could let go of, because he’s growing to dislike the ease of the things that pertain only to him.

“Yeah, school is alright,” he answers, fidgeting with a loose button on the register. “Just a lot of homework.” And that’s also just kinda true, but he keeps it like that.

Karl hums and nods in acknowledgement. “I’m glad, I’m glad,” he leans his elbow on the counter and holds his head up with his arm, staring mindlessly at the news channel playing on that television. “What about that cousin of yours? The one that lives with you?”

Tubbo always has a slight moment of confusion whenever he’s reminded of that particular lie — because Quackity isn’t really related to him in any way except for when Tubbo tells people he is, since saying cousin is so much easier than explaining whatever the hell Quackity actually is to him. At least the meaning of “family” is kept.

“He’s doing alright too. Working a lot, studying a lot.” He also redirects his stare towards the television. “What about you? How’s university been?”

That’s enough to prompt Karl into his usual excited rambling, giggles and enthusiastic movements accompanying his every sentence. Tubbo can feel himself relax inside his skin at the familiar conversation, the familiar environment, the familiar routine. Tubbo likes his job.

The doorbell rings when a new customer comes in. Tubbo straightens his back, puts on a smile, and waits for them to get to the register while Karl goes back to his place by the coffee machines and whatnot. He takes the order calmly and spends the few minutes Karl spends preparing it glancing at the television put up on the wall.

That’s when the ease disappears.

Images of Spider-Man running after the man with the bow and leaving behind a completely ruined car paint the screen, followed by images of that second car being hit by an explosive arrow and erupting into flames. They usually keep the TV volume low enough to not disrupt the customers, but Tubbo reads the close captions with furrowed brows:

“Spider-Man: a hero or a villain? Many people question the efficiency, morality, and even legality of L’Manburg’s beloved vigilante after last night. Two cars were destroyed by a criminal’s weapon during a chase conducted by Spider-Man no longer than twenty four hours ago, without anyone to pay for or even respond to the damage. To make matters worse, the masked hero didn’t even manage to actually capture the criminal responsible. Now, citizens wonder if Spider-Man should really have the power to just run around their streets, committing violent acts and getting private and public property ruined. Others want the police to actively act upon stopping Spider-Man.”

There is a collection of moments where Tubbo just watches the soundless figure of the same news anchor he sees on that TV everyday speak. Static rings inside his head and, for just a second, he can’t react.

Spider-Man isn’t supposed to lose fights, and Spider-Man isn’t supposed to be considered a villain. Spider-Man can’t be a bad guy. Spider-Man can’t be a bad guy. Spider-Man can’t be a bad guy. He doesn’t want to process this information, and he wants to pretend this is one of the stressful scenarios his mind plays to him sometimes when he can’t really sleep, but he’s unable to.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Spider-Man was created to help others, for Tubbo to do the good deeds he isn’t strong enough to do as himself. Spider-Man is a plethora of things Tubbo will never really be, and Tubbo is proud of what he’s created. Spider-Man isn’t a bad guy. Spider-Man isn’t a bad guy.

1. The news channel is questioning if Spider-Man is a bad guy;
2. The police might fucking start going after him, apparently;
3. He can’t breathe right;
4. No one inside this cafe will understand why this is such bad fucking news for him or why the thought of Spider-Man being seen as a villain makes him hurt;
5. Karl is calling his name.

“Tubbo.” he hears, and turns to his coworker. Karl stares at him with concern, already given the customer their order. “You good?”

“Yes,” he answers automatically, trying to slow down his own breathing as the news anchor speaks so quickly he can’t keep up with the close captions. “Just got distracted.”

It’s true, kinda. Karl doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it go, and Tubbo grips onto the counter as tight as he can.

He was scared something like this would happen. He’d considered it before, the possibility of Spider-Man getting backlash. It’s terrifying. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want his make-believe character to be tainted by mean-spirited words in the news.

Tubbo breathes in and out, slowly. This is just one segment from one news channel, and it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just because one stupid news anchor said it, it doesn’t mean he’ll start being chased by the cops, or that everyone will hate him forever, and that all his work means nothing. It’s fine — this is fine.

Tubbo breathes in and out, slowly. The doorbell rings again as another customer arrives. He straightens his back and puts on a smile. There’s ease in routine. Nothing is going wrong.

Chapter Text

The apartment across the hall from the one Tubbo lives in often smells like vanilla and cinnamon. He noticed it the first time he ever set a foot inside the place, and quickly decided he liked it. Weeks later, Fundy would tell him that he set some cookies on fire by accident and the smell just stuck everywhere and never really left. Quackity thought that was the funniest shit ever, and the little anecdote is still sometimes mentioned whenever the three of them have dinner together, an event that seems to be quite frequent nowadays.

Fundy already lived across the hall when Tubbo and Quackity moved in — he also didn’t have a story to tell. He never asked where Tubbo and Quackity were from, or how they were related to each other, or why they looked like they had just returned from war when they first arrived. Tubbo and Quackity never asked why Fundy is always alone. It’s a good system they’re all very satisfied with.

Now, they cook extra food for one another and call it “leftovers”. It makes Tubbo feel warm.

The television propped up on Fundy’s house shows the same images he saw at work the day before, turning his stomach in knots and making the fish cooked by his neighbor look a tad less appetizing. He can’t even pay attention to the conversation going on around him as he listens to the news anchor’s words, rehearsed and sickeningly-sweet.

“As of yesterday, the media pressures the authorities into acting against the crimes committed by Spider-Man, L’Manburg’s masked vigilante. Despite his good deeds, citizens worry the costs outweigh the benefits after two cars were destroyed and a fire was started during one of the hero’s fights. The authorities in question have yet to speak up on the matter.”

“That’s a little stupid, isn’t it?” Part of his brain takes note of Fundy’s words as he watches the images play out again. “Like, they’ve been saying nice shit and glamourising him for days and days, and now they’re coming for his ass out of nowhere. Can’t they just leave him the fuck alone? It’s not like there isn’t more important shit for the police to sort out.”

“To be fair, he’s legally not allowed to do what he’s doing,” Quackity shoots back, law student brain in action. Tubbo’s body tenses up. “That’s why he’s categorized as a vigilante.”

“Maybe,” Fundy’s tone is annoyed, “but he’s still done more for L’Manburg in a month and a bit than the police has for years, hasn’t he?”

“That’s not the point, though. Not for a Court of Law.”

“Fundy, what were you saying about inviting more people next time we have dinner together?”

Both men turn to stare at Tubbo after his abrupt interruption of their discussion with the last topic he could recall being talked about before he saw Spider-Man on the news again. For a second, Fundy furrows his brows, almost as if trying to remember what the fuck Tubbo’s talking about, and then his eyes light up.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah! Some woman and her younger cousin moved into the floor above ours.” He pauses, hands fidgeting. “They seem nice, so I thought we could invite them over. Welcome them into the building and whatnot.”

Quackity hums distractedly in response and then completely moves his attention away from the television. Tubbo sighs in relief.

He’s not a fan of his family talking about him while he’s in the room without them knowing it’s him in the first place.

…That sounds completely insane even to Tubbo himself. He’s not—it doesn’t matter. Moving on.

“Have you talked to either of them?” His roommate asks, and Tubbo goes back to focusing on the TV.

He didn’t expect the news to still be talking about Spider-Man today, but he probably should have. He knew they were all waiting on the edge of their seats for him to fuck up, and fuck up he did — at least he can find solace in the fact there were no injured or dead people at the scene of the crime. No one was hurt except the fucker who punched him in the ribs. That guy definitely got a broken nose.

But they also definitely deserved it, so Tubbo doesn’t care. He’s a little happy about it, actually. In fact, he hopes their bitch ass will have a crooked nose forever.

Okay, that’s a little mean. Spider-Man shouldn’t be mean or whatever.

Besides, Spider-Man shouldn’t interfere with the time Tubbo spends with the people he cares for. He tunes back into the on-going talk — now on Quackity’s latest work anecdote, the type of stuff that always brings a smile to his face. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. There’s a storm brewing on the other side of every TV screen, but he can ignore it for now. He can leave it for when he’s not himself. Everything is fine.

Spider-Man is very much used to jumping out of windows. It’s one of his specialties, he’d say.

Now, however, he’s falling out of one that’s around two stories tall — which is inconvenient, to say the least. And how did he get here? Why is he scrambling to shoot a web that’ll not let him fall on his face?

Well, you see, that’s because nothing ever works out for Spider-Man. The world is definitely out to get him, it’s written in the stars, and the stars will only stop when his body is unable to heal the scarring anymore, which is why he can’t take a break or relax or hesitate. It’s totally fate’s fault and he’s allowed to whine to himself about it as much as he wants.

Overdramatic self-pity aside, this is the second time in a week he’s confronted by a person with absolutely batshit weapons.

It was a fun little office robbery — shit he’s good at dealing with, shit he does daily, with no fire or explosive arrows throwing him off his rhythm and into nervousness. He arrived at the scene after seeing suspicious movement through a now completely smashed window while swinging by, and recognized the building as a very well-known office one. Somewhere with lots of money he’s passed by a thousand times, and that never has anyone in it at that time of the night.

So he swung in through an open window on the side of the room opposite to where the criminal was, and they had a fucking trident. Weird weapon choice, sure, but theoretically easy to counteract. He shoots a web, pulls the trident away, and stops the criminal. Simple work until the moment he had the trident in his hands and was forcefully dragged by it to stand next to said criminal, who proceeded to kick him out of the closest window. Nice move, criminal.

Magnets, Tubbo believes. There are probably magnets on the trident, and its owner can activate said magnets somehow to bring the trident back after throwing it. It might only work in close proximity, but who knows. Tubbo would have to do a more thorough analysis of the weapon itself to be sure. It’s still impressive work, and he would’ve probably been gushing over the engineering of it all if he hadn’t just almost broken his nose on concrete.

Either way, Spider-Man pulls himself back into the office with his webs, careful as to not cut himself on the spiky glass, the only thing that remains of what used to be a perfectly good window.

He and the robber exchange brief glances while he stands upright by the window he just crawled into, right next to the bag of stolen money the man left on the floor to increase his movement possibilities. “I think you need anger management classes. You can’t just kick people out of windows! It’s so rude!”

Spider-Man ducks the moment the criminal tries to hit him with the trident, the sound of the weapon hitting the air above his head ringing in his ears.

“Therapy, have you tried therapy? Peaceful conflict-solving online courses?”

The secret here is definitely magnets, yeah. Tubbo can both see how they are used to decorate the trident and its counterparts on the robber’s gloves, now that he’s close to them. It’s smart, and something he was actually thinking of implementing on his web shooters at some point, in case they are pulled off his hands in whatever way during a fight. It’s good to know it works, even if he’s not the one doing it.

He manages to dodge two more blows before the criminal uses the trident to trip him up, sending him straight to the floor. An annoying ache takes over his tailbone, but it’s gone in a matter of seconds as the freaky spider healing powers take place. Spider-Man can feel his knuckles rip against the edge of the other’s weapon as the man uses the trident to stop his punch — he shakes the blood off his hand and, without hesitation, kicks the man in the chest, violently throwing him onto his back.

He holds the robber’s dominant hand to the ground with his foot, leaving the trident laying nearby. For a second, Spider-Man has the upper hand. In the next second, the criminal calls his trident with his other hand and slashes at his thigh. Tubbo steps away out of surprise and pain, giving enough space and opportunity for the man to get off the floor and stand up. Once again, Tubbo and the robber stare at each other. Blood drips down his leg, staining the fabric of his pants.

“You are really rude, man. First the window stuff — already a red flag, in my opinion — and then this? Not cool at all.”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

Tubbo feels an uncomfortable chill at the sound of the man’s voice, annoyed and aggressive, almost growl-like. It’s slightly more high-pitched than the one from the blond with the bow, and, under the ski mask the man wears, Tubbo can see strands of brown hair — not the same person, obviously. Besides, the man with the bow was covering only the lower half of his face.

“Not really, no. Are you ever not a criminal?”

They let go of the trident as they move to ram with their shoulder into Tubbo, practically body slamming him towards the window. He struggles for a moment before regaining his balance and barraging himself back at the criminal, inches away from being thrown out the window a second time, effectively getting them on the floor again. Tubbo opens his mouth to say something stupid like “Shut up and stay down!” when the trident flies back to the man’s hand and proceeds to be shoved into Tubbo’s leg, the one already stained in red.

Tubbo falls to his knees, and finds that he can’t quite get up again. His body needs a few seconds, maybe even a couple minutes to heal enough for him to move. He tries, and tries, and can’t move. It’s nerve-wracking. The wound is too deep.

He watches as the criminal stands up and snickers at his figure, adjusting their grip on the trident.

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to kill you, insect,” the man spits, a look of superiority on their face. “Maybe consider shutting up next time.”

They pick up the forgotten bag on the ground, and prepare to leave. Spider-Man’s heartbeat quickens, panic running through his veins like fire. He tries again, but his left leg is too weak.

1. His yellow pants are now red;
2. His leg hurts. A lot. He’s gonna have to stitch himself up again;
3. Spiders are not even a fucking insect, they’re arachnids, and he doesn’t have time to tell this guy that, which is incredibly upsetting;
4. He can’t lose twice in the same week, he literally can’t. How can he be Spider-Man if he keeps failing on doing the one thing he’s good for?

Before he can overthink it, Spider-Man shoots a web towards the man’s head and pulls it, banging the side of their head on the wall. The noise is loud and bone-chilling, as is the sound of the criminal falling to the floor as they pass out. Tubbo stares attentively, a bad shiver going through his spine while he waits.

The robber’s chest moves as they breathe. Tubbo almost cries in relief.

Minutes pass and Tubbo stays put. Slowly, his leg regains strength, and he’s able to put weight into it. Tubbo limps to the man’s body, ripping the trident and the gloves from their hands. He hisses as the wounds on his thigh sting, but still takes his phone from his left pocket and presses down numbers to call the police. The blood soaked up to his pocket, he notices — there’s blood on his phone. Perfect. Truly amazing, and not annoying at all. Tubbo huffs in frustration.

He leaves through the window he was previously thrown out of, swinging his way back before the police sirens reach his ears.

There are magnets all around his room. There’s a few on his desk, others on the floor, a couple on his bed. When Tubbo first started disassembling the trident and gloves he took from the same criminal that fucking slashed his thigh open and then stabbed it a couple hours ago, he imagined there would be a few magnets in them.

“A few” was an understatement. It even feels counter-productive, the amount of magnets that keep coming out of both the gloves and the trident. He’s pretty sure a couple of really strong ones would do the job, but here we are.

And there’s also the electric part — a button to activate the gloves’s magnets that then call the trident to its owner. The work is truly impressive, carefully made and incredibly well-done. Tubbo is glad he was able to bring it home because he can now replicate the system on his web shooters just like he wanted. With less magnets, surely.
He sits before his desk, moving the lower half of his body as little as possible. He closed his wounds with messy stitches as he usually does and, even though he can almost physically feel the skin and tissue coming back together, he knows it’s best to not move around too much in risk of making everything worse.

A quiet cheer leaves his mouth the moment he’s able to pull the last magnet out of the trident. He reaches his arm out to put it with the others on the corner of his desk.
That’s when he sees it, unquestionable and unmissable.

A trademark. A line and two dots — it looks like a crooked smile, almost, and Tubbo would’ve dismissed it as a weird scratch if he hadn’t seen it before.

He jumps on one foot to his drawer, from where he pulls the black bow from a couple nights ago. There, right by the spot where one would nock the arrow, positioned so it looks like something made by the arrows themselves. The same crooked smile, hidden from the eye, simplistic enough to be ignored.

Tubbo all but throws himself back on his chair, pushing the trident aside and knocking a few magnets from his desk in the process. He holds onto the marked magnet so tightly his bruised and open knuckles turn an ugly mix of white and red, eyes shining as he opens up his laptop and searches about a trademark like that in a thousand tabs with a thousand different strings of words. From “crooked smile weapons” to “two dots one curved line tridents”, Tubbo tries to cover every possible way anyone has ever described this symbol he can think of.

Curiously, he finds absolutely nothing. Not even a lost post on an obscure forum. Nothing.

He thinks he’s seen that smile before, though. He recognizes it from somewhere, it’s familiar. He’s just not sure how.

Nevertheless, Tubbo will find out. Now he knows that there’s a brand, somewhere or someone to blame for these weird ass weapons that keep taking him by surprise, somewhere or someone turning the streets of his hometown dangerous and crime-ridden, and he’ll get to the bottom of it. He knows he will.

Quackity suddenly opens the door, eyebrows furrowed. The two roommates stare at each other, and the world seems to stop spinning. Time pauses. Tubbo forgot to lock the fucking door.

Quackity’s eyes travel through the mess of magnets everywhere, and at the trident on top of his desk table. Tubbo thanks every god there is for the pajama pants that hide his stitches, and for having closed the drawer the bow resided in.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds. The world doesn’t spin. Tubbo notices he’s hidden his bruised hands behind his body.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Tubbo thinks over his options carefully, and then goes with what is probably one of the dumbest ones.

“Science project?”

Quackity looks deep into his eyes, expression somewhere between serious and confused.

“Did you just fucking say science project?”

“We’re supposed to design make-believe weapons for the theater club,” he explains hurriedly, letting go of the magnet he still held onto for dear life and flinching violently when it bangs against the table. Quackity watches as he all but squirms in his place. “I decided to combine magnets with mine to make it cooler, and the physics teacher is helping me and letting it be part of my grade. So, uh, science project!”

The world doesn’t spin. Time pauses. Quackity seems to roll his words over in his mind, processing his poor excuse of an explanation. Tubbo’s heartbeat is so fast he thinks he’ll fucking die.

Q sighs in frustration but his body relaxes. “Tubs, you can’t overwork yourself like that, alright? I just arrived from work and saw your lights on and it’s two in the morning — you have class tomorrow! Come on, go to bed. You can finish whatever project this is later.”

Tubbo supposes he should feel relieved now. He supposes he should be happy Quackity believed him and go to sleep easy.

Yet guilt overflows through every pore of his body, because no one else trusts him like Quackity does. No one else would believe such a sorry lie, but Quackity does, because Quackity always gives him his faith and trust and friendship and love. Tubbo usually gets joy from that. Now, he feels guilt. He isn’t worthy of it, he isn’t worthy of any of it.

“Right, I will,” he shoots Q an apologetic smile, “was work okay?”

The young man leans against the doorframe, exhaustion seeping from his figure. “It was, yeah. As okay as it usually is. Was school alright? Did you work today?”

Tubbo nods to both questions. “Worked in the afternoon.”

A comforting hum leaves Quackity’s lips, a soft smile taking over his tired face. “I’m proud of you.”

The world spins, but it does so slowly enough Tubbo feels his chest hurt in slow motion. For the first time in quite a while, he wants to cry. His throat aches from the effort he puts in to stop himself from spilling every secret he’s held in his tongue during the last six to seven years, from before and after Spider-Man.

Tubbo smiles back.

“Thank you, Q. I’m proud of you too.”

They exchange another meaningful stare, and then Quackity turns his back to him, ready to leave. Tubbo’s mouth works faster than his brain.

“Wait, Q!”

The other pauses and turns to look at him again, eyebrows furrowed once more. “Yeah?”

Tubbo struggles to find the words. He struggles to say how much he’s sorry for every lie he’s ever told and for every excuse he’s ever made. He struggles to share how much Quackity and everything he’s ever done for him mean to him. A silent apology dies on his tongue as have a thousand others before.

“Tommy invited us to have dinner at his place in, like, nine days or so,” he all but chokes out, “Technoblade is coming home from a work trip, and they’re making dinner to celebrate. They want us there.”

Quackity ponders on the information for a moment.

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs. “I can do that. Do we have to bring anything to the dinner or…?”

Tubbo snickers. “Just ourselves, I think.”

“Just ourselves?” Quackity snickers back, rolling his eyes playfully. “Good to know, good to know.” He sighs. “Goodnight, Tubs. Remember you have school in the morning, you need sleep.”

A nod is given in response.

“Okay. Goodnight, Q.”

The door shuts behind the other softly. Softly, the way they both learned to close doors and cupboards to avoid flinches and shaking hands. Tubbo leans his elbows on the table and hides his face in his arms, magnets laying around him. He bites back a shaky breath.

He doesn’t like lying, not to Quackity. Never to Quackity. Tubbo has never minded spitting out lie after lie — he became quite good at it, actually, as he grew up. But he doesn’t like doing it to Quackity, not Quackity who has taken care of him for years and trusts him like no one else ever will.

He limps to his bed and the stitches on his leg throb, as do the bruises on his knuckles. He pushes the magnets on top of his mattress clumsily to the ground, and then lies down.

Tubbo closes his eyes.