Chapter Text
Tommy had always enjoyed the monotony of baking bread.
The repetition, the exact science of kneading the dough with just enough force for just long enough, the ratio of flour to counter to mixture, he'd memorized all of it ages ago. It was one of the biggest perks of working at Treeside; Niki trusted him fully to make the bread and pastries every morning.
Usually, Tommy would be glad to be at work. He liked it there, taking the closing shift and staying up all night to bake, then leaving just after opening and sleeping while the world was wide awake. Tommy thrived in the silence that fell with dark, when the only noise around him was whatever he decided to make it.
Today was not usually, though, because Tommy's overenthusiastic roommate had come knocking at about three that morning. Tubbo, bleeding heavily from some stupid gash in his leg, gave Tommy a sheepish grin and tried to stay in the alley instead of dragging mud onto Niki's nice tile floors.
It was an easy heal, just a few moments of focusing and taking a breath as the pain pricked at his own leg. It wasn't deep by any means, but neither boy wanted Tubbo to simply bleed out. So, Tommy healed him.
The worst part of healing was just that; the healing. Tommy despised being able to see as tendons and muscles and skin sculpted themselves back together, being able to feel every bit of the sinew as it bonded to itself again, the pain fading as the discomfort of feeling someone's body heal in the blink of an eye replaced it. That was Tommy's first rule for Tubbo-- he didn't care if the boy came to him with stab wounds or large cuts or scrapes, but Tommy made him promise to try to avoid head injuries. Tommy couldn't promise he'd be able to heal those, not if he blacked out from the pain and discomfort the second it hit him. And then he'd be the only one to blame for a friend bleeding out next to him.
Healing sapped his energy, but he'd learned to manage. The boy never got much sleep to begin with, after all.
Tommy looked up when the door chimed, finishing up with the prep work he'd been doing at the cash register. "Niki Nihachu," He grinned, leaning against the glass covering the prop food that Niki had commissioned from her stepson last year. "Bread's in the oven right now, and all the muffins and shit are cooling in the back."
Tommy liked Niki. She'd always been nice to him, being the first person to even hire him. And, for once, Tommy hadn't rejected her job offer-- Niki hadn't been giving him a chance out of pity.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you haven't taken any breaks," Niki raised a brow, leaning on the same counter as Tommy, staring straight into his eyes as if it was a challenge. Tommy shifted a little under her gaze, adjusting the coat on his back. "Tommy-"
"I was busy," Tommy huffed, finding more interest in the props than the staring contest his boss had started. "Anyway, is Foolish coming in today, or are you alone up front?"
"I'm not letting you stay and help," Niki stood without even looking at him, making her way to the back. She knew full well that Tommy would follow on her heels like a duckling.
"But Niki-"
"Tommy, you need sleep," Niki huffed, slipping the top of her apron over her pale pink hair and pulling it up as soon as everything was tied securely. "Real sleep. The kind that you get when Tubbo gets home and you two pass out after hours of talking. Not the kind where you can't stay awake anymore."
"I'll be fine," Tommy waved her off, but they both knew it wasn't true. Niki raised a brow at him, a bobby pin stuck between where her lips pressed into a firm line.
"When did you last sleep?" She asked, sticking the pin somewhere in her mess of hair. Tommy was too busy thinking to notice how the corners of her lips tugged down. "Go home, Tommy, or I'll cut your hours down so you have to."
"No!" Tommy yelled, mind racing. Fewer hours meant less money, and while he wasn't exactly paying rent, he really didn't want to be in that home any longer than he had to. "No, I mean-- Niki, that's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be," She shrugged, brushing past him to check on the bread in the oven and the pastries Tommy had set out to cool. "You're still young, Tommy. I don't like how much you work."
"I'm fine," He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and challenging her to disprove it. "Besides, I don't like leaving you here alone. There's been too many hero sightings recently."
"It's literally my bakery, Tommy."
"And?"
Niki's face went blank for a moment, and she stood up. She put her hands on his shoulders, already getting flour on the coat that covered him, but he didn't mind. Fabric was much easier to wash than what laid underneath.
"If you don't go home and sleep," Niki said, staring into his eyes and daring him to blink. "I'll call Tubbo and wake him up to come get you."
Tommy shuddered, grabbing his bag out of the small locker he'd claimed on day three and bolting for the door with a loud "Hasta la vista, bitch!" over his shoulder.
The bright sun blinded him for a moment; Summer was a bitch, with how early it got bright. Tommy started down the pavement when he heard the door ding behind him.
Tubbo was, indeed, passed out when Tommy stepped into their shared room. Both boys worked later shifts, so it wasn't a surprise to Tommy, especially after the night he'd had. Poor 'Bombshell' had really gone through it. Tommy simply ignored him, stepping around the backpack and mess of papers his best friend had left strewn across the room in what Tommy assumed was a haste to make sure the patrol didn't catch him awake.
He brushed his teeth and changed out of his now flour-covered clothes, chucking them into a basket of clothes that had met a similar fate. With a groan, Tommy remembered that he had to do laundry tomorrow. Tommy stretched his back, arms high above his head and shoulder blades pulling against every aching muscle as his shirtless form moved around in the dark room.
He would eat when he woke up, Tommy decided. He’d just had lunch shortly after Tubbo dipped from Treeside, so he wasn’t that hungry anyway, not for the muck that Mr. Sam thought was perfectly good food.
Mr. Sam was a great man, but he could not cook to save his life.