blood will have blood
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Tommy sits down next to him. He rests his head on Tubbo’s shoulder, like he used to—when things were simpler, when they were back from war but in no danger, when Soot was still just a name, not a legacy or a burden or a wedge between them two. Before Tubbo was injured, before he was laying in bed and laughing bitterly about escaping a war without a scratch and then coming home to a grenade. Before Tommy woke up every night with his bed soaked in sweat, before nightmares left screams on the tip of his tongue.
But as much as things have changed, they have not changed that much. “I trust you,” Tommy says, the same way he did in 1917, six years ago, when they were both still trembling teenagers who had trouble loading their rifles, “to make the right choice. Wil—Wilbur made you his successor for a reason. He knew that you’d do what was best for the family. No matter what.”
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In which Tubbo does what's best.
Series
- Part 1 of blood will have blood
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“Alex?” Tubbo asks, a sudden, heart-stopping tremble to his voice. He sounds, frighteningly, his age. “You can drive, can you not?”
“I can,” Alex responds. Tubbo is watching the painting like he’s waiting for it to move—for Ivan to leap out of the oil and bash his head in as well.
“Will you take me to church?”
Alex, despite his Catholic upbringing, has not been to church in a very long time. And he’s never heard Tubbo himself speak of religion with anything but scorn. In his time around so many veterans, Alex had eventually figured war made zealots or atheists of men, and nothing in between.
“Yes,” he says anyway, “of course.”
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In the eye of a storm, there is but one small spot of peace. It is March 4th, 1923. Tubbo and Alex go to Church.
Series
- Part 2 of blood will have blood