Chapter Text
Techno’s only really unconscious for a handful of minutes.
Or he assumes it’s a handful of minutes. It doesn’t feel like a very long span of time, when he manages to blink his eyes open again. He’s still on the concrete floor, his head tucked into the space of Phil’s neck, Tommy’s hands holding onto his fingers. Wilbur’s also back, with the medkit half-opened on the ground. There’s bloody gauze on the floor.
Didn’t he just leave to go get the medkit? He swears that was literally just a few seconds ago. How long did Techno blink?
“You back with us?” Phil asks over him, jostling him a bit in readjusting where he’s still holding him up. It shifts Techno’s arm, which nudges at the gash currenting sitting over his shoulder, which is a whole lot of ouch that he’s not willing to deal with, with the factor of adrenaline now gone in the wind. His head flops back down onto Phil, and Phil’s hand pats frantically at the back of his spine, voice going a bit worried. “Hey. Hey. Techno. Stay with us for a sec, hey-”
Tommy’s twisting at his fingers, and Techno knows it's Tommy without even giving a glance because Tommy’s got very little hands, and they’re very persistent in being annoying when the occasion calls for it. Techno can feel the way he tugs at his middle finger, nearly popping the knuckle, and then he feels him grab his way up Techno’s arm, seemingly trying to get closer-
“TECHNOOOOO!” Tommy screams, not quite into Techno’s ear, but, eh, close enough. Technoblade is wide awake now. Not willingly, but he’s awake now.
“Mate.” Phil deadpans, Techno seeing Tommy lean back with something very self satisfied, almost victorious.
“He’s up now.” He tells Phil, and then he goes back to hand-holding duty, settling into a spot right by Techno’s leg, practically leaning over his thigh. The gesture helps, Techno won’t lie. Knowing that the kid is there, and safe- that’s good enough for his emotional state to sit easy.
His physical state, though. Not doing too hot. Wilbur is wrapping up his wound the best he can for the sake of at least slowing the bleeding down, and the entire ordeal makes Techno wish he bashed in that zombie’s head a bit more. Just for reciprocity’s sake.
“You know, this is a great time for some drugs, I think.” Wilbur says, as soon as he’s finished up tying the bandages the best he’s able to. It’ll do until they’re back at the apartment, and not here, with a literal audience of zombies standing right outside the front doors. Wilbur digs into the medkit and produces a bottle of pain reliever pills, shaking it and finding relief at the noise of it being at least half-full. “What do you say, Techno? Drugs? You up for drugs?”
“I think I’m dying.” Technoblade mutters, staring at his own bandaged shoulder like it’s betrayed him. “I’m losing my hearing.”
“No, Tommy just burst your eardrums. You’re fine.” Phil reassures, willing Techno’s good health into existence.
“Take drugs.” Tommy insists, sure that hardcore drugs (a bottle of Advil) will be the solution here. “Wilbur, give him drugs.”
“Do we have any water or anything?” Wil questions, leaning towards the supply bags.
“Just give me the drugs.” Technoblade holds his hand out, and Wil deposits the pills right into his palm, giving only a slight look of judgement when Techno swallows them dry. The judgement then shifts into worry as he quickly packs the medkit up, Phil taking Techno’s arm and putting it over his shoulder so that he can help him to his feet.
“Alright, you can walk, yeah?” Phil asks. “Your legs are fine. You can walk a bit.”
“I’m fine. I’m peachy.” Technoblade nods, trying to stand on his own, and then having a moment of realization in which if Phil were not here right now, he’d probably plummet to the ground and take that as his grave. “I’m the pinnacle of health.”
“Oh, you look like it, for sure.”
“Gimme your other arm, I’m helping.” Wilbur says, Tommy having to let go so that Wil can take Techno’s weight with Phil, holding him by the elbow rather than putting his arm over his shoulder, not wanting to strain his injury.
“I can walk.” Technoblade insists, but both Wil and Phil have magically gone deaf, and it doesn’t seem to matter that this is a torso injury, Techno is getting two people to help guide him to the staircase whether he likes it or not.
“What about the bags? The stuff.” Tommy reminds, following close at Phil’s side, hand holding onto the edge of his shirt, hardly bothered about the couple of blood stains that still sit wet.
“We’ll come back for it.” Phil assures.
“Tommy, would you get the door?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy runs ahead, assigning himself to door duty, holding it as wide open as he can as Techno is led into the stairwell to head back up to their apartment.
“So, we can all agree-” Wilbur starts, his voice echoing as they head up, Technoblade almost stumbling for a second on the step, both Phil and Wil carrying him up. “No more heading out until Techno’s completely healed?”
“No more heading out.” Phil agrees. “This was enough of a scare to last for a couple of weeks.”
“A couple weeks-?” Techno chokes out.
“I think we’ve got enough supplies to sit comfortably for a bit, anyway. It’s a good thing we’ve got medicine now. All that really matters is making sure Techno’s injury doesn’t get infected or anything.”
“It’s a scratch. It’s- I’m not going to be bedridden in healing.” Technoblade argues. “We still have to deal with the horde-”
“Horde’s not going anywhere.” Wilbur says simply.
“You’re going to bedrest.” Phil insists, Tommy opening the door ahead of them to let them into the hallway. He then runs across the hallway to let them into the apartment, and Wil lets go of Techno to let Phil move through more easily, both him and Techno making a beeline for the couch.
“Don’t get blood on the cushions.” Techno warns as Phil helps him down. Floof circles around at their legs, pressing close to Techno’s knees. He sniffs questioningly, and looks up with big, wide eyes.
“You’re the one bleeding.” Phil replies, hearing Wil call Tommy back from the front door.
“Tommy, come help with bringing the stuff up.” Wilbur says, Tommy hovering by the kitchen’s entryway, attention focused on Techno and on the way he’s petting over Floof’s head, the dog seeming to know that its owner is hurt and in need of comfort.
“No, no, I’ll go with you. Tommy, you stay with your brother, we’ll be quick.” Phil says, and Tommy nods, feeling Phil’s hand brush over his head as he passes by, heading out into the hallway with Wil. They leave the door open behind them, and Tommy turns his head to their fading voices before then turning back to Techno, feeling a sinking, scared feeling at seeing the bandages over his shoulder. It probably hurts a lot. It looks like it hurts, Techno wincing a bit in leaning down to pet Floof's face a bit better.
“Want me to help take off your shoes?” Tommy asks, realizing that Techno would probably struggle on his own. Technoblade looks up at him with an easy nod, fingers still scratching behind Floof’s ear.
“Sure.”
Tommy kicks off his own shoes and flings them in the vague direction of the front door, uncaring for how they land right onto the kitchen tiles. He sits beside Floof and bats away the dog’s attempts at licking his face, instead pulling apart Techno’s laces and scrunching his nose for the way there’s zombie guts sticking to the edges of it.
“Gross.” Tommy says, throwing Techno’s boot to the side, quickly pulling at the laces of the other one. It gets stuck for a second, and Tommy frowns in needing to pick at it so that the knot will come loose.
“Yeah, you should probably wash your hands.” Techno suggests, Tommy making an agreeing noise, tossing the other boot to be with its friend, and then hopping to his feet to quickly run over to the bathroom to clean off his palms. He’s gone for only a minute, and he comes back with a wet rag, holding it out to Techno with a waiting look.
“For your hands.” Tommy says, and Technoblade falters for a moment in reaching out to take it. He pushes up the sleeves of his shirt and wipes down the worst of his arms, blood splatter still bright red on him, soaked through some of the layers. Tommy glances away towards the bedroom and tugs at Techno’s good arm, trying to put it over his shoulder like how Phil did earlier.
“What are you doing?”
“You should go sit in bed. And change your shirt.”
“Right.” Techno says, and he gets up, a bit too tall for Tommy’s strategy in helping to work. He settles for wrapping his arms around Techno’s middle instead, as if trying to keep him steady as they go to walk to the room. “I can walk.” Technoblade tells him, but Tommy only holds on tighter, shaking his head earnestly.
“I’m helping.” He says, taking Techno through the hallway, through their open doorway, Floof walking along at their heels.
“Okay. Thank you.” Technoblade says, not quite able to argue against that. His throat feels a bit tight. He thinks there might be something in his eyes. Maybe the terrible emotion of overwhelming love, who knows.
Tommy sits Techno down onto the edge of their bed with a very careful air, Technoblade feeling like it’s futile to point out now how his legs are perfectly fine, if only a bit shaky for the entire situation at hand. It’s his shoulder that’s got a gash in it, but that’s not important now. What’s important is telling Tommy to go look for a clean shirt for him, letting the kid dig through the closet while he sheds off some of the extra layers he had tied on for heading out into the horde.
“Tommy, Techno!” Phil calls out from the living room, and Techno calls back, setting aside his dirty scrap cloths to the ground.
“We’re in the room!”
Wilbur walks in first with a supply back over his shoulder, and his attention goes to Tommy first, the kid yanking at a shirt to try and get it off the hanger. “Why are your shoes just in the middle of the kitchen?” He asks, putting the bag down to the side, against the wall. Phil follows in and does the same with the bags he’s holding.
“Because I was helping Techno with his shoes.” Tommy says simply, throwing a new shirt over into Techno’s direction. It lands barely onto the edge of the bed. “There. Clean shirt.”
“We probably should rewrap the wound a bit better before you put that on.” Phil advises, Techno nodding in agreement. Tommy frowns with a furrow of his brows.
“Wil already wrapped it, though?” He asks, looking to Wil for an answer.
“Not my best work.” Wilbur shrugs. “I was just trying to stop it from bleeding while we moved Techno up.”
“Stitches might be in order.” Phil warns, heading back into the kitchen to grab the medkit that’s been left on the counter by Wil.
“Stitches?” Tommy repeats, looking dreadful.
“You can do stitches?” Wilbur asks, sounding relieved.
“I need more drugs.” Techno mutters, already not looking forward to more poking at his wound again. Floof appears by his knees once more, as if sensing his distress, poking his snout into Techno’s palm.
“Oh, yeah, we should probably wait a bit more to let those kick in properly.” Wilbur says, Tommy moving to join Techno on the bed, sitting at his side. “Would- I’m going to get you some more, actually.”
“Please do that.” Techno says, watching Wil walk out the door to go get those pills in where Phil’s sorting through their medkit.
“Dad’s gonna give you stitches.” Tommy says, but with the way it tilts up a little at the end of his sentence, it sounds more like a worried question.
Techno turns his head towards the kid, holding his arm out so Tommy can grab at him. “Yeah.”
“Does he have to?”
“Well, it’ll make me get better faster, so.” Technoblade tilts his head. “Yeah.”
Tommy purses his lips together like he’s trying to prevent a frown, trying to look brave. “I’ll hold your hand for it.” He says, although maybe that’s going to be more for his sake than Techno’s. Either way, his fingers curl around Techno’s own once more, and Technoblade finds a relief in the gesture.
“Okay.” Technoblade says, swallowing back the fond urge to weep uncontrollably. He has such incredible self control.
Wilbur comes back with more pills, and a glass of water to go along with it. Techno takes it gratefully, and drains every last drop in his cup as Wil and Tommy stay sitting with him, waiting for the drugs to have time to kick in, Phil eventually coming back so that he can look over Techno’s wound. It’s not terribly deep, nothing so life threatening, but Phil still cleans it and stitches it up the best he’s able, with Tommy gripping Techno’s hand with a death grip through the entire thing. Wilbur pats Techno gently on the back and tells him he’s doing great, although, the words might be more for Tommy than Techno, considering.
By the time Phil’s declared Techno’s wound taken care of, bandages wrapped a bit more properly this time around, Technoblade’s gained a bit of a drowsy weight to his limbs, the pure relief of everything turning out fine and everything being fine now hitting him like a rag of chloroform to the lungs.
He changes clothes, as does Phil, and they leave the worst of the blood-stained outfits to the corner of the room, dirty laundry kept as a problem for later. Techno rests on his back with a pillow under his weary head, Phil sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, Henry the stuffed cow sitting very politely over his chest, at Tommy’s insistence that he take it for comfort. Tommy himself sits by the other side of Techno’s hip, hands fumbling and yanking at the blanket over Techno’s legs, trying to smooth it out into something right.
Wil comes back into the room with another glass of water, setting it at the nightstand beside Techno. “Is there anything else we’re missing? I feel like we’re missing something.” He says, and Phil looks away from where he had been looking at Techno, seeming considerate for a second.
“I mean, technically, we’ve got to go through all that.” Phil says, waving a hand over to the supply bags still sitting up against the wall. “But that could be a later issue.”
“Fair.” Wilbur hums, moving around the bed with full intention of going to sit beside Tommy.
“Wilbur.” Tommy says, stopping him in his tracks. “Aren’t you going to sing to him?”
“What?” Wil blinks. “You- You want me to sing to Techno?”
Technoblade makes a similar questioning noise, head turning over from where he definitely was not falling asleep.
“Well, yeah.” Tommy frowns, giving a look at Wil as if he’s being a fool. “You always sang to me when I got sick and I was in bed.”
“I’m not exactly sick.” Techno points out, waving a hand half-heartedly through the air, his other hand resting over the top of Henry the plush cow’s head. “A shelf fell on me. Not sure if that demands singing.” Phil rolls his eyes at the way Techno says that.
“I demand singing.” Tommy says, shooing Wilbur off and away from the bed, so that he can go get his guitar. “It’ll make you better, like the stitches.”
“Alright. If it makes Techno better…” Wilbur gives in easily, walking out from the room to go retrieve his guitar. When he comes back, he takes his spot at Tommy and Techno’s side, scooting up so that he can lean back against the headboard. “Any requests?”
Tommy shrugs his shoulders “I dunno. Sick songs.”
“Yeah, a sick song.” Techno repeats. “Sick as hell.”
Phil snorts gently, scooting up closer to Techno’s side. “Why don’t you play the one you’ve been trying to teach Techno?”
Wil hums. “That one’s easy enough.” He says, and he begins a slow sort of strumming, Techno closing his eyes and resting his head to the side, feeling Tommy tap his fingers against his knee to the rhythm of the song.
He supposes the sound of it does help, a bit.
Over everything, the sound of not being alone is what Techno’s most glad for.
---
When Techno does stir, much later on, it is to an early, early morning, and the sound of Tommy talking outloud to both Phil and Floof.
“It’s not for you.” Tommy complains, Techno blinking his eyes open to the light colors of the sun, his shoulder aching and the whole of him sore. “Stop sniffing at it, it’s not for you.”
“Floof.” Phil calls, still sitting at Techno’s side, patting his hand down at the side of the bed. “Come here. Stop that.” Floof seems to pay no mind to being beckoned. He’s much more interested in continuing to bother Tommy, judging by Tommy’s annoyed whine sounding out.
“What’re you doing?” Techno croaks out, lifting a hand to rub at his face, a yawn breaking out from his throat. He drops his hand back down beside him and accidentally hits Wil, who only gives a small grunt, somewhat awake, but refusing to get up.
“I’m looking at our stuff.” Tommy answers, Techno hearing the zipper of a bag, a clink of what must be a can being set aside. “Dad’s helping me sort it.”
“I’m more just watching, really.”
“You’re helping.” Tommy decides, and then he makes another complaining noise, probably towards Floof being too curious and sticking his snout where it doesn’t need to be. “You’re not! Shoo! Go!”
Techno stares up at the ceiling for a moment, listening to Tommy go through the supplies they’ve brought back, reading out random brand names of old cans of food. He moves to try and sit up, and Wil makes another grunt, hand swiping up to move part of Techno’s hair away.
“Your hair is in my face.” He mumbles, and Techno makes a point to throw more of it in Wil’s direction. Wilbur sputters in offense, rolling away. Technoblade huffs, and then goes to fully sit up, Phil reaching back to help him, his shoulder aching hard in moving. Phil snorts at him once he’s actually up, and Techno pushes back part of his hair with an unimpressed look, knowing full well it must be an utter mess.
“Water?” Phil offers, reaching over for the cup at the bedside.
“Can I get medicine or something?” Techno asks, and Phil nods, getting up from the bed to go do just that.
“And a brush.” Wilbur calls out, pushing himself upright with a yawn, waving around Techno’s rubberband, the thing having fallen off in the middle of the night, with his braid having already been in a rather poor state by the time they were passing out. Techno takes it from his hand, raising his arms up to try and pull back his hair, and finding trouble with his arm, his shoulder wound making it hard to lift it up. He hesitates by wondering if he can even make a proper ponytail with one hand. He’s never tried.
“Uhg, Floof!” Tommy yells, trying to gently push the dog away from where its decided to sit, right in the spot where Tommy was gonna set out the rest of the cans. “Go to the bed or something!”
“Floof. C’mere.” Techno whistles Floof over and the dog immediately perks up, trotting over and jumping onto bed with him and Wil, laying down when Techno pats a hand onto the blankets.
“Of course he listens to you.” Tommy says, face scrunched up in annoyance, his hands gripping a can to his chest. “I can’t whistle.”
“You can always learn.”
“Not now, though.” Wilbur says, shaking his head, not wanting to hear bad, sputtering attempts this early in the morning. “Maybe don’t try learning now.”
Technoblade huffs, a little amused. Phil returns with medicine and a brush, and he returns to his spot on the bed, Techno taking more pain meds as Wil snatches up the brush, scooting up by Techno.
“I thought the brush was for me.” Techno asks.
“It is for you. I’m brushing your hair.” Wilbur says, poking at Techno to get him to sit straight. “I’ll braid it back.”
“You know how to braid hair?” Techno asks, holding out the rubberband to Wil, Wilbur taking it back.
“Eh, I used to put little ones in Tommy’s hair every now and then.” Wilbur says, pulling back some of the more unruly strands over Techno’s shoulders. Technoblade hums for a moment over the act of it, thinking offhandedly of the image of Tommy getting attacked with a brush from the moment he’s woken up, Wil being unable to not fuss as any older sibling would.
…Hm.
Slightly tilting his head back, Techno turns his attention onto Tommy with his mission of digging through their supplies, and he notices properly now how Tommy’s set out all the things into piles, cans put into somewhat neat groups, boxes stacked together. He’s seemingly midway through the second bag, by now, and as Techno scans over the things set out, he realizes Tommy hasn’t yet found something.
“Tommy.” Techno says. “Can you look through the last bag real quick for a certain box? It should be about this size, the color red.” He makes the size with his hands, and Tommy turns his head and takes it in, then looks to the last supply bag with new curiosity. He moves past his sorted groups of stuff and unzips the bag, rummaging through it for the box Techno’s described. “It should also have like- colorful dots on it. Like confetti.”
“Confetti.” Tommy repeats, the word unknown to him.
“Confetti?” Phil repeats, curious now as well. Tommy pulls out a box, seemingly the right one with how Techno grins, and Tommy turns it over in his hands, confused over what it is.
“Yeah, that’s the box. It’s for you.”
“What’s this?” Tommy asks, staring at it in confusion, reading slowly over the words.
“It’s cake.” Technoblade says. Wilbur freezes in where he’s finishing up Techno’s braid.
The box in Tommy’s hands says birthday cake, the certain flavor that Techno thought would be most fitting, considering the occasion and all. Tommy reads over the words with the realization settling in.
“I’m eight.” He says.
“...What?” Phil blurts out. Wilbur suddenly looks rather panicked, his hands frantically tying the end of Techno’s braid up.
“I’M EIGHT!” Tommy screams, realizing it in its entirety. He twists around on the ground, facing the three of them with the box lifted high. “My birthday! It’s my birthday, or- I think I missed my birthday, actually-”
“We missed your birthday?!” Phil asks.
“It has been kinda hectic, in our defense-” Techno tries to say.
“Shit!” Wilbur swears, scrambling to get off the bed to get to his brother. “When was it?! Tommy, when was your birthday?!”
“I don’t know! I stopped counting!” Tommy yells back, just as panicked.
“Time isn’t real, today’s your birthday. You’re eight now.” Techno declares, Tommy looking a bit disappointed for a second, then immediately brightening up, completely over it.
“I’m eight now!” He beams with a smile.
“Happy birthday, Tommy!” Phil cheers, and Wilbur reaches out to his little brother, picking him up off the ground.
“Oh, birthday boy! We’ve already missed on your birthday morning, with special little pancakes as soon as you wake up, and a party hat-”
“Wil!” Tommy giggles, the two of them spinning around for a little bit, Wilbur having to be careful to knock over any of the cans under him.
“But we can make it up! We can get on the cake and then the others can get birthday gifts, and we’ll have a little party, right here, right now-”
“Oh god, what the fuck do I give him?” Phil whispers in Techno’s direction, looking conflicted.
“Hey, don’t ask me. I’ve got mine figured out. He asked for it a long while ago.”
“I’M GONNA GET TO SHOOT A GUN!” Tommy screams.
“You- wait, what?” Wilbur says, and Techno bursts out laughing.