Chapter Text
Tommy jerks, stomach clenching as he becomes aware of the filthy water he’s half drenched in, one hand twisting to push himself off the ground as he dry heaves against the inside of his mask before a miserable shiver crawls down his spine.
“Your arm is broken.”
He collapses back, head hitting bricks, dirty water spreading damp through his jeans as he stares dully at the Villain who tilts his head, bird like, on his haunches on top of a dumpster, skin flickering blue, a precaution, wary despite the absolutely atrocious state Tommy’s in.
It makes his bleeding lip tug up despite himself as he snorts. “No shit.”
The Siren, one of the most feared Villains in L’Manberg, maroon beanie crammed down, face covered by a mask that slots all the way up his nose, golden brown eyes not veering from him.
His enemy. Current, former - Tommy just don’t know anymore.
What happens when a Hero isn’t a Hero anymore? It feels like the shittiest time to find out, the power dampener clamped tight around his wrist, put there by the man who had saved him, had given him a home, a place, an identity-
Only to tear it all away from him.
“You’re bleeding.”
“If you’re just here to state the fucking obvious feel free to swan off and do that elsewhere,” Tommy grumbles as he huffs a tired sigh. “Or, ya know, if you’re here to kill me, don’t drag it out because I don’t have the patience for it.”
Siren shifts, a look Tommy can’t be bothered to understand flashing briefly before his shoulders roll into a shrug.
“You saved my life.”
I know, Tommy thinks, lips drawing back in an ugly grimace. It ruined mine.
“I felt like I owed it to you to not let you die in a dirty alley, at least.”
“Thanks,” Tommy scoffs.
Its dark, the moon barely visible in the clouds above them.
“I’ll be on my way then,” Siren hums, hand rising in a jaunty little wave, form flickering in-front of Tommy’s vision until there’s nothing there. “Favour repaid and all that,” a ghostly echo whispers against his ear.
It’s just another shitty day in a shitty city.
It’s been twenty-three hours since Tommy lost everything.
-
Tommy stumbles into his apartment, door kicked shut behind him, uncaring of the dirty water he’s tracking inside with squishy sneakers as he yanks the bathroom door open, hand already grasping at his hoodie to get it off.
His arm is stiff, wrapped in thick plaster, a last favour from Dream before he’d been quite unceremoniously kicked out of the tower, and it takes a frustrating amount of swearing to get it off and drop it down in a watery puddle at his feet.
His jeans follows after a rough wrestle to get the goddamn button open and fuck, maybe he should just not pay the water bill because he’s not spending four weeks of this every time he needs to take a fucking piss.
His t-shirt is, thankfully, less of an issue as he bends over to let gravity to the last of the work with a shiver that crawls up his bare back as he straightens out, one hand yanking his beanie off to let it fall uncaringly to the floor.
His mask is still on his face, a metallic contraption with filter for smoke and toxins that slots over his jaw and up over the bridge of his nose, and his hand gingerly frames and presses down on the hidden slots that releases with a low rush of air to allow him to pull it off.
He knows he should keep the plaster in place but there’s a vicious need to get every last piece of Dream off him which makes him sink his fingers into it, squeezing until it cracks, tearing it off with nails that bends, pinpricks of pain crawling up his arm, familiar and comforting as the last bit clinging to the curl of his thumb drops to the white floor.
He stares down at it for a long moment before raising his head to stare into the small mirror in the cramped bathroom.
He looks like shit.
His blond hair is flat and grimy, wet in spots where dirty alley water had crept through both his hood and hat, and he’s more bruises than flesh courtesy of the Angel of Death who’d taken him for a tour before Tommy managed to sink his knife into the man’s side.
The slam to the ground in the aftermath is the reason his arm dangles splotchy red and useless at his side, swollen from the break beneath his skin, and he twists to look at his back which is ugly and dark around the knobbly white press of his spine.
Most of it will fade with time, he knows, but there’s a deep line on his thigh that will need to be doused in alcohol before he stitches it shut, grit clinging dark to the edges from the dirty alley water, and he knows he hadn’t been doing himself any favours with that detour.
There’s dark spots beneath his eyes, mouth flattened in a downward turn, and he turns his head as best as he can to comb away his hair, trying to get a good look at the wound responsible for the blood running in a crusted line down the side of his face.
“Could be worse,” he tells himself, voice rough and scratchy before huffing a tired breath and turning on his heel for the shower.
-
Huddled beneath a thick blanked from the unceremonious cold shower – and was going to have another conversation with his landlord about that because fucking hell – Tommy sits with one foot hauled up on the low table in front of his couch, a cooling cup of ramen steaming beside it as he hooks the crooked needle into his flesh and tugs roughly to draw it shut.
It’s shitty work – he’s never been the best in the first place and his left hand is ridiculously weak where he tries to press the wound together as he works and he soon gives up, knotting and pulling the best he can to leave it in a wonky line before flopping back, staring up at the ceiling.
He has some money saved, thankfully. Enough to at least get him through the next three months, if no Villain manages to sniff him out before that.
The morning paper lies discarded on the couch beside him with black bold headlines:
RED CHAOS: HERO OR VILLAIN?
There’s a blurry picture beneath it, Tommy in full Hero-regalia crouched protectively over Siren’s unconscious body, gun raised and cocked against the Number One Hero who stands visible only in side-profile with his green hoodie and white masked face with that stupid smile.
Dream. His friend, his mentor, his saviour.
And Tommy had-
He breathes out through clenched teeth and drags his foot off the table before he leans forward and snatches up his cup of noodles, squeezing it gingerly between his knees before reaching for the chopsticks, snapping them between his teeth before poking it into the broth, giving it a swirl.
The apartment feels cold and empty and it’s entirely of his own making.
-
Life goes on.
Tommy stuffs his Hero suit, freshly washed, beneath his bed with his mask on top and pretends that his heart doesn’t ache as he shoves it out of sight before straightening out, grimacing as his joints pop.
“Already creaking like an old man, Tommy? You’re only sixteen.”
He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly before he lumbers over to his wardrobe, yanking out one of the many hoodies Dream had bought and hid in his apartment during the years he’d known the man.
His mentor had always had a peculiar way of caring, lofty and teasing affection, pokes and gifts snuck in and left to be discovered when he least expected it.
Tommy loathes gifts. Dream hadn’t given him much choice, feigning surprise when Tommy would shove it into his face, all teeth and demands to take it back.
Dream had fooled no-one.
Tommy had kept each and every one.
It’s the only decent kind of clothes he owes past t-shirts and jeans, all of them dark in colour to hide eventual bloodstains.
He stares at the obnoxious orange thing in his hand, twisting it clumsily to look down at the raccoon on the front of it, cradling a cola with Trash Panda written in a scrawl.
He brings it up to his face, burying burning eyes into the fabric as he hunches over himself.
-
RED CHAOS: HERO OR VILLAIN?
Last night the famed sidekick of the Top Hero Dream was arrested and brought in for questioning.
A photo has been seen circulating from a brave civilian who stood to see the former-Hero level a gun against his mentor, by all appearance protecting Siren, one of the leading members of the Syndicate-
“He’s been released from his service.”
“Red Chaos is no-longer a Hero."
-
“Are you looking for workers?” Tommy demands gruffly, one hand in his pocket, the other dangling at his side, wrapped in white bandages beneath the orange fabric.
There’s a white band aid over his nose, ears red from the cold, and he misses his jacket which still hangs on a crook in Dream’s apartment.
He tries not to look pathetic as the tall green haired man lowers his book to peer up at him.
It had taken him nearly a week to pick out a place that he felt decently optimistic about not being kicked out off the second he took a step into it.
Sam and Fran’s, a small café nestled in with red bricks among its darker neighbours, a white wolf-like dog painted in broad strokes with a happy grin on the sign.
There’d been a bell that rang as he stepped inside and the furniture is mismatched but comfortable looking, couches and armchairs instead of stiff chairs, and there’s sandwiches, hot beverages and all sorts of sweet things he doesn’t really recognise behind a glass counter.
He shifts uncomfortably as the man hums, folding his book closed and sliding it aside to give him his full attention.
Golden eyes, a sclera of black, dark green splotches against his skin, a hybrid of some sort Tommy had decided as he watched the man close his store up one evening.
“I’m Sam, the owner of this place,” the man tells him and there’s a smile on his face.
“I don’t have any prior experience,” Tommy blurts out, shoulders hunching a bit defensively. “And no education but I can read and write and math and shit.”
Sam blinks at him and Tommy tries his best not to scowl.
“What’s your name?”
He flushes dark red. “Tommy,” he gets out. “Just- Tommy.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Tommy,” Sam says warmly and Tommy shifts in discomfort. “It’s only really me working here,” Sam tells him. “And Fran,” he says with a gesture towards the large white pool of fur at his feet, eyes momentarily soft. “I’m sure we can find a place for you here as well.”
A part of him wants nothing more than to turn his back right there and then, to give up on this shitty endeavour because Tommy doesn’t do people but-
He needs a job. His funds will only last him so long and he refuses to go back to the streets.
“I appreciate it,” he bites out and bows his head, just like Dream had taught him to.
-
Tommy has always been quick on his feet, fast to pick things up, one of the many reasons that had endeared him to Dream in the first place. He was easily distracted but if he wanted to learn he’d be damned if he didn’t.
Which is why he’s quietly cursing out the shitty coffee machine after scalding his fingers, mouth twisting in a mulish grimace that just barely gets smoothed out as he turns to place the cup of ready espresso on the small waiting plate which then gets transferred to the small tray Sam had given him when he’d realised his arm was broken.
The man hadn’t remarked on it, more than a steady look that offered an ear if he wanted it, and Tommy had only just kept himself from snarling.
The scent makes his nose wrinkle as he lifts it up, coffee and sugary sweetness in the shape of a green frog beside it, because Sam, for some reason, liked baking all sorts of odd things in the shape of animals.
Tommy had been forced to try out a blueberry thing in the shape of a bunny just the other day and he’d tried very hard not to feel guilty when he bit its neck off.
Barbaric is what it is but he finds it hard to say as much when Sam looks all hopefully at him.
He delivers it to the woman with pink hair working quietly at one of the tables and receives a distracted smile that he nods sharply at before ambling back and slouching down on the chair behind the counter.
Sam and Fran’s, Tommy is quickly coming to appreciate, is not a people crowder. Quite frankly he has no idea how Sam keeps it afloat but for all he knows it could just be money invested into a hobby to have something to do. Sam favoured clothing that made him increasingly decide that it had to be the answer to it. Easy, comfortable, but pricey, the same kind of shitty flex that made Dream’s hoodies ridiculously soft for all that they didn’t look much.
Tommy knows more about clothing than is firmly reasonable for someone who has never bought a shirt in his life.
It had been part of the job, after all.
He blows out a sigh, staring blankly out the café window, bored out of his mind.
-
The power dampener on his wrist is a constant reminder.
It’s silver, strangely warm from the power Bad had layered into it, meant to keep it from breaking, meant to keep him from ever-
He opens his eyes one night in his kitchen to find himself with a knife half-buried into his wrist in an attempt to tear it off, skin slick with dark red blood that drops to pool on the tiles at his bare feet, blade ruined and not a scratch to be seen on the metal.
He washes the knife, stitches the wound shut, wraps his arm up, and climbs out on the roof to stare out over the city that had been his protect.
-
Tommy meets Wilbur on his second week of working at Sam’s, the man tall enough that he has to duck his head as he lumbers inside, the motion well familiar, clearly one of Sam’s regulars judging by the way he halts, staring at Tommy as if he’s something foreign.
Tommy scowls back at him.
“You’re new,” he greets, voice smooth, eyes searching past him for Sam who is working in the back. “I didn’t know Sam hired a child to work for him.”
“Fuck you too,” Tommy bites out, unimpressed. “Order or get the fuck out.”
A curly brown fringe, round glasses on the tip of a pointy nose, gangly like a string bean in a loose yellow shirt, a delighted grin slowly blossoming on his face as his eyes focuses on him with new interest.
Tommy’s first impression of Wilbur is that he’s a fucking weirdo.
-
“There are tables right there,” Tommy hisses as Wilbur drags a chair across the floor to take a seat next to the counter in an easy comfortable sprawl.
“Coffee, black please.”
Tommy twitches, eyes narrowing, but- he’d rather not try his luck with distracting Sam during work hours and he turns with a string of curses to get the noisy coffee machine working, cup shoved into place and fingers firmly out of place as it hisses and splutters.
“You have a filthy mouth for a child,” Wilbur comments as he pries a laptop from a rough-looking leather satchel, placing it on top of ridiculously long legs, ankles folding together. “What does Sam think about that?”
“Sam doesn’t care as long as I don’t curse out costumers,” Tommy snips as he shoves the cup at the other, one of their ugliest, orange and pink splotched with something that might have been a duck on the side.
“And I’m not one?” Wilbur asks, one eyebrow rising.
“You’re a bother,” Tommy says with feeling. “And a moron.”
“Mouthy gremlin.” The light of the screen casts an odd shine on his face in the low muted light of the café and Tommy resolutely turns his head to ignore him.
Sam calls the light cosy. Tommy shuts his mouth and offers no comment on it even as he has to squint to read the buttons of the contraptions he’s been left to juggle.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Wilbur asks after thirty minutes of blessed silence, Tommy having slowly eased from his tense position only to snap right back as he turns to the other.
It’s Tuesday, early school hours, not that Tommy knows anything about that beyond extra patrols in school districts.
“Don’t have any,” Tommy grumbles when he keeps staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer.
His skin itches and crawls at the attention, and he’d rather be left alone, but Wilbur can’t take a fucking hint even as Tommy keeps slamming them into his face. Repeatedly and with increasing frustration.
“Aren’t you like, fourteen?”
“I’m sixteen,” Tommy hisses, the fingers on his good hand curling tight. “And it’s none of your fucking business!”
Wilbur tilts his head, a strange look glinting in his eyes, and it feels judgemental even though Tommy knows it isn’t because Wilbur softens, something almost gentle in the curl of his smile.
“Working hard, huh?”
“Fuck off.”
-
Tommy is getting tired of noodles but after two disastrous attempts at following cooking videos and a limp boring salad that taste of too much vinegar and lost money he resigns himself to it.
He tries not to feel like he’s choking them down where he sits, perched on his roof, the wind cold around him.
The first snow of December flutters gently through the air, white against a backdrop of dark buildings with windows light, neon signs blinking and flittering in the distance at the main streets where life is richer, people more crowded.
A single building stands out among them, tall and marble white, twisting in a curling spiral.
Dream had asked him, on more than one occasion, if he wouldn’t prefer a place closer, or even inside the tower, but Tommy had denied him each time. He’d felt more at home in the streets he’d grown up in, the alleyways filthy, the people those society cared little about, starving while the rich people feasted on gold covered steaks.
Tommy had clawed his way out of nothing to stand at the top of the world and he’d lost it all in a single night in a betrayal against the only man who’d looked twice at him, who had seen something in the starved orphan with hollow eyes, teeth bared in a bloody snarl.
Dream had saved his life and Tommy’s first instinct had been to bite him.
He hadn’t been the Number One Hero then. He’d just been Dream, clever and opportunistic, rough hands manhandling him, gentle hands wiping tears from his cheeks when he woke up disorientated in the middle of the night, teasing ruffles of his hair and a grounding palm on his shoulder as he was taught his letters and numbers and then so much more.
The world slowly opening up to him under Dream’s patient and guiding hands.
On more than one occasion Tommy had looked at himself in the mirror and wondered that if, maybe, perhaps, they did look a bit like brothers. That maybe Sapnap’s teasing jabs and George’s dry humour had had a bit of truth to it as Dream merely smiled and never denied.
Both blond, tall, eventually at the same height at six foot three, and Tommy had been proud as he stood at Dream’s side for his first mission.
Red Chaos was the name the world had bestowed upon him, and Dream had laughed as he dragged Tommy down against his chest in a rough sprawl back against the couch, squeezing him tight after their first official mission together.
Tommy had done good and Dream had been proud.
He’d felt invincible, chest impossible warm, cheeks red and eyes bright as Dream didn’t let go, one arm remaining loosely wrapped around his shoulders to keep him there, his voice bright as he weaved together future plans.
“I’m going to be the Number One Hero, Tommy. I’m going to change this world and its broken system,” Dream had whispered into his ear when he was nearly asleep, adrenalin burning out from his system to leave him sleepy. “And you’ll be right there at my side. We’ll be unstoppable.”
Two years later Dream is the Number One Hero and Tommy sits alone on a roof in a dark blue hoodie, grimacing around a mouthful of cold noodles, snow swirling around him and heart impossible empty.
-
Tommy doesn’t go looking for trouble, there’s no point with the bracelet around his arm, he’s no good when his enemies have powers and he’s struggling to get a fucking coffee machine to work, left arm weak and taking too-long to heal.
But trouble has always had a habit of finding him which is why, when he makes a right turn on his way home late at night after locking up the café after a hasty short call from Sam who’d hung-up before he could confirm, he halts and stares but doesn’t panic as he tilts his head to look up at the Blood God.
The Villain is ridiculously fucking tall, one arm stretched out, the other bent to press a hand tight against his side where too much blood is spreading to stain the fancy white shirt, the pink boar mask on his face rising and crimson eyes locking onto him.
Tommy knows he doesn’t look dangerous. He’s a sting bean in a too big hoodie that’s dark green, a dinosaur bent over to try and reach the oars of his boat with little theatrical tears spilling down from its eyes.
He has no idea what kind of mood Dream had been in when he picked it up but he clings to the remnants of what they were with a childish sort of want in a world that feels large and empty without the man there to reach back and grasp his hand.
Tommy’s starting to wonder if he’s being haunted by the Syndicate as the ally of the man who’d torn his life apart with his very existence takes one step forward, mouth parting before he quite unceremoniously collapses down on the cold ground.
The snow flutters, clinging to the dark red cloak on the Villain’s shoulder, and Tommy drags a tired hand over his face.
“This is a bad idea,” he tells empty air.
-
Hauling the Villain back to his place is an effort of sheer stubbornness and muttered curses as he stumbles through his door, shoulder hunched from the man’s weight, hand bunched white-knuckled in sleeves to keep the man’s arms tight against his chest, his feet dragging.
Thankfully, and perhaps not so thankfully, the snowfall had picked up, covering their tracks quicker than Tommy could make them but leaving him trembling, fingers frozen stiff.
He’s never been more thankful for the small shitty elevator of his apartment complex. The thought of having to take the stairs made him want to cry.
Half-frozen stiff he twists to drop the man down on his couch, bending to haul booted feet up with a shove before slinking to his door, closing it and locking it tightly shut, straightening his shoulders with a groan, spine popping and aching.
Blood God is still unconscious when Tommy ambles back into his living room with a bowl of hot water, a bottle of plain vodka, and his sewing kit, a bright green apple clenched between his teeth.
He snaps down on it with a crunch, catching and depositing it aside on the table next to the things as he sinks to his knees and tugs the elegant but sturdy once-white fabric up and out of the belted pants, grimacing at the deep wound at the man’s side, blood wet and dark which was not good.
Tommy would have been inclined to be more worried if it wasn’t the Blood God himself sprawled out on his couch, apparently susceptible to blood loss despite his powers.
He reaches for the rag in the water, clean, because he’s not an asshole, and starts wiping away at the blood staining pink skin.
Blood God’s powers are strange. Tommy had seen the man take a sword meant for Siren, seen it pierce his shoulder all the way through, his steps never faltering as he swung his axe to take out the Hero responsible with a crack that had echoed loud in the sudden silence, broad shoulders heaving and grin wide as the boar mask turned upon them.
He's dangerous. The only one who could go up one-on-one with him and not end up knocking at death's door was Dream which had branded him with a FLEE ON SIGHT order at the tower.
Tommy wrenches the bloody rag out in the water and wonders why he feels strangely small as he takes a swig of the vodka before drenching a new rag with it, the alcohol burning through him with a grimace as he pried the wound open to make sure no dirt or shrapnel was in danger of being stuck.
He threads the crooked needle and bends over before getting to work.
-
Tommy wakes to a hand pressing down over his mouth, instinctively stilling as he becomes aware of the quiet but heavy breathing behind him.
He’d fallen asleep leaning against the couch, not bothering to do more than wash his hands and trade for a new hoodie since Blood God had bled all over his, the TV muted on some sort of nature documentary, and Tommy watches a bunch of giant guinea pig-like creatures happily threading water.
“Where am I?” the Villain breathes out harshly into his ear, hand lowering to his jaw, coming dangerously close to wrapping around his throat.
“In my apartment, dickhead,” he snips. “Hauled your heavy ass here and stitched you up so you better be fucking thankful.”
There’s silence for a long moment and then a shift of movement behind him, hand sliding off his face as the Blood God presses into a sitting position, dirty boots hitting his poor carpet, Tommy’s head tipping back to stare up at the ferocious pink boar mask that promises death.
He feels nothing but tired as he looks up at the Villain who stares back, gaze unreadable.
“I would have been fine.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t call the fucking Heroes on you,” Tommy snorts. “You were ripe for the picking, fainting like an idiot where anyone could stumble upon you.”
“And why didn’t you?” Blood God challenges.
And the thing is, Tommy doesn’t know. He’s not a Hero anymore but he lived and believed in what Dream stood for, resented everything the Syndicate wanted to be, but he feels lost and alone, the ground yanked from beneath his feet, a restless boredom as one day counts out after the other.
“We don’t kill, Dream!” The words he’d snarled out as he cocked Siren’s gun at his mentor, hands shaking, heart loud and desperate in his chest, pleading with his eyes for the other to step away, to laugh and tell him that he hadn’t been about to that it’s all just a misunderstanding, Tommy. “That’s your first rule! Or did you forget?”
Dream’s powers had exploded against him and Tommy had pushed back with everything he had and was, curling around Siren as best as he could as the world fractured and broke around him.
If Dream had been wrong did that mean the Syndicate-
“Good deed of the month.” Tommy flashes his teeth. “Easy karma, big man.”
A disbelieving huff but Tommy doesn’t particularly care as he shifts, right hand pressing down to heave himself up. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?” the Villain asks him, blood red eyes studying him, and Tommy’s skin crawls even as he shrugs.
“Yeah.” He fishes it out from his pocket and throws it over. “You want something to eat?”
“Heh?”
-
The Blood God looks impossible out of place inside his apartment, the cup of instant ramen small in his large hands, but Tommy had hauled the kettle from his kitchen and dumped the cups down before folding his legs up and they both eat in a stretch of strangely companionable silence.
He’s turned the volume up just enough to hear the narrator talk fondly about the intelligence of crows when there’s a sudden loud bang and Tommy swears, dumping his cup on the table as he scrambles up.
“You better not break my fucking door!” he hollers as he slides into his hallway. “I don’t have fucking insurance you pricks!”
There’s a silence as Tommy twists the lock and yanks the door open.
Siren and the Angel of Death both stare at him and Tommy scowls at them both.
“It’s three am, my landlord is going to be fucking pissed.”
“He’s okay,” Blood God calls as Tommy shoves his hand in his pocket and curls his fingers tight. “A bit of an idiot though,” he tacks on as he steps up behind him, a hand settling on his shoulder and tugging him back, head tilting, looks exchanged as the door closes shut behind the Villains.
“We were worried when you didn’t respond,” Siren says with a spread of his hands as Tommy locks eyes with the blue of the Angel, his dark wings gleaming where they rustle behind him, black as the night, capable of turning into deadly projectiles at a whim.
They’re strangely pretty, softer than Tommy’s ever seen them, almost like they’re real feathers and not a omen of death.
Blond hair curls to frame his jaw, green and black ensemble wrapping around him, that ridiculously ugly green and white striped bucket hat lowered down to cast a shadow over his eyes.
Like Siren there’s a mask over his face, covering the rest of his features from sight.
“Who’s this?”
Blood God shrugs. “My savior apparently." His tone is mocking.
“Next time I’m heaving you into a dumpster,” Tommy bristles, tugging out of his grip and stepping back, back brushing against the wall before he turns and leans his shoulder against it.
“Don’t be rude,” Angel chides and there’s a curious look of consideration on him that makes Tommy want to crawl beneath his covers and not come out for days. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” he grumbles, because he has a feeling not answering is a bad idea.
Siren’s golden brown eyes shifts momentarily to him before his head lowers, remaining a step behind the Angel of Death, towering over the shorter man and yet, he feels smaller, it’s in the way the Angel stands, relaxed and confident, self-assured in his power.
The bracelet around his wrist burns like a brand against his flesh.
“Well, thank you, Tommy,” the Angel tells him and Tommy has a feeling he’s smiling. “I suppose we owe you a favour.”
“You owe me nothing,” Tommy growls defensively. “Just fuck off.”
He waits for the other shoe to fall, they’re Villains after all, the worst of the worst, the bad gritty seeds of society, everything the Heroes stood against.
But there’s a heavy hand scuffing over his head, almost like a tousle, gone before he can do much more than jerk in shock as the Blood God steps past him.
“Don’t get into too much trouble,” the man tells him before he throws an arm around Siren and leans his weight on the other man to a curse as skinny legs bent, one hand fumbling to get the door open as he stumbled out with them both, complaints hissed to a low laugh.
The Angel of Death remains for a moment longer, head tilting, bird like with a rustle of his wings, and Tommy narrows his eyes into a glare, lips drawing back to flash teeth, all wounded animal and false bravado.
His head dips with a tug at the brim of his hat.
“Goodnight, Tommy.”