Archive of Our Own

"Your target is this man. Your job starts as soon as you've read over his file."

Wilbur takes and opens the offered folder, eyes immediately zeroing in on the photo provided. It was taken surprisingly close, with the target actually facing the camera. Blonde hair, blue eyes, black sunglasses, and a smug expression looking straight at him.

"Yes, sir." This was going to be one hell of a mission. 



Four years ago, the Watson family’s leader, who was in charge of running one of Esempi’s largest mafia organizations, was shot through the chest in front of a local donut shop.

Phil Watson bled to death in two and a half minutes after the assassination. His sudden death was a shock to everyone in the community, but there really wasn’t much time for mourning. There was damage control to be done.

Following his untimely death, Esempi’s underground society saw the rise of their history’s youngest leader: 18-year-old Theseus Watson, son of the previous head and rightful heir to the position - the one to inherit it all.

Despite his age, he assumed his role with the ease of someone who’s been preparing his entire life for this opportunity, which he undoubtedly had.

He was ambitious, cunning, and young. And, unfortunately for others, many only focus on that last detail.

In the proceeding fallout, loyalties were tested and clan wars broke out across the country. Rival families and independent groups alike saw this as an opportunity to finally usurp the Watson family from years of unchallenged power - a way to bring them down a peg. It would be child's play with such a young heir to command the large group.

Little did they know, the following year was one of the bloodiest and most brutal mafia conflicts to date, with the most causalities falling on their side. This 6 month massacre was fittingly dubbed The Swift Culling. All opposition was crushed, rival families were left in ruins, practically begging for cease fires and peace treaties, and betrayal of any kind was dealt with indiscriminately, with the Watson family taking charge under Theseus’s iron fist leadership. It was through this event that cemented his power and leadership to every rival gang in the area. Theseus Watson would not be fucked with, not if you valued your life.

And so that’s how the cards were dealt. Theseus was the new head against all odds. And Wilbur? Well, Wilbur was eventually this new head’s bodyguard.

The Watson family prided themselves on their image. Status, reputation, wealth, and power were greatly valued.

And with great power came great responsibility to look like hot shit, along with the need to let anyone who knew you know that. So as the new head of the family’s operations, Theseus - Tommy - had a lot he wanted to change.

“I mean no disrespect of course, bless my father's dead and gone soul,” Tommy had said during a meeting between the faction leaders who were in charge of all 247 clans of the family’s extensive line, “But he and really all the Bosses who came from his generation, had some of the most ATROCIOUS taste in interior design! I mean, 80 percent of them still use the same tacky ocean painting in all of their offices! Can you believe it?!" 

He shakes his head at the mere mention of such tacky decor. “Those fuckers were so hellbent on keeping traditional, they ignore everything else. But me? No, no, no. I prefer…a much more modern take on everything, if you understand me. You all agree, right?"

Nods were given around the table, Everyone knew better than to disagree with their head's new 'fangled idea', especially when they saw that unsettling and eager grin that stretched over their new leader’s face. Half of the clan officials shivered. Yeah, no way in hell were they going to argue with that.

Needless to say, after that meeting was adjourned, funds were dipped into and interior decorating at a mass scale commenced. Furnishings were amped up to 11 and 46-year-old wall paper was torn down to make way for tasteful refurbishing, with a goal of "keeping the traditional feel with a modern twist" or so their leader had said.

No room was left untouched. Even their interrogation rooms were decorated: a polished mirror there, new flooring, and appropriate furniture with 100% faux leather restraints (because god forbid Tommy hurt an animal)! Even when you had to rip off a few fingernails or bust a few kneecaps, it was important to never forget style and class. Of course, having such things in a room prone to...spills were bound to get dirty but all were kept to tip top shape after every session. It helps that blood is relatively easy to scrub off of granite floors. 

And speaking of these rooms, one’s floors were currently being painted with splatters of blood and spittle. The guest occupying the room was strapped to stylish oak wood chair, straining against the leather straps. 

“I’m not telling you shit!” The person spat out, baring his teeth and looking as murderous as someone could be while being restrained and covered in bloodied bruises.

Their words were aimed at the man currently looking at him unimpressed. The man would have looked unassuming - fluffy brown hair falling into his eyes, pleated dress pants, and a bored expression - but his red stained sweater and fists helped him move away from that first impression. The color matched the blood on the floor quite nicely.

“Loyalty isn’t going to get you anywhere, Quackity.” Wilbur sighs, rubbing at his wrists. They’ve been at this for an hour.

“Nice words coming from a guard dog that does whatever he’s told.” Quackity spits, the bloodied saliva meeting its mark on the man's shoe. The man didn’t seem to notice. “You going to bark all day or are you done playing as Watson’s bitch?!”

Wilbur sighs again, like an adult tired of a child’s tantrum. He turns around, eyeing the tools on the table just behind him. After looking at the array of items, he opts for the studded brass knuckles. Flashy but they would do the job.

When he turns back around, he sees Quackity eye him, as he slips them on, steeling his jaw in anticipation. Why was he always assigned the stubborn ones?

“You’ll talk soon enough."  He states it like a fact. Like how the grass is green or how the sky is blue or how the average person has lower pain tolerance than one might expect, as long as you knew where to hit.

Wilbur knew where to hit.

“The attack was planned by the Schlatt family. They were feeling anxious about the drug deal and decided to take matters into their own hands", is the first thing Wilbur says when he enters Tommy’s office. He doesn’t knock, but that’s because he's never had to. 

“Wilbur! Back so soon? You're as efficient as always.” Approving sapphire irises peer over blackened shades, gloved hands pausing over important looking documents in mid hurricane. Theseus Watson was never idle.

“Would have been shorter, but he was stubborn.” He shrugs.

“No one is stubborn for long when you're on the job, hm?” The mafia boss laughs, like him beating someone half to death not five minutes ago is a joke. It’s not a joke. It’s just a job.

Wilbur nods because he doesn’t know how else to respond. “Any more jobs you need me to do or can I finally do my 'main' one?”

“Aww don't be like that! It ruins that ‘stoic protector’ look you have going for you, you know." Tommy taps a pen that probably cost more than Wilbur’s entire wardrobe to his curled lips. “But hmm, you’re certainly eager to get back to it. Is it....no, don't tell me! You prefer to play bodyguard?” His tone was injected with one hundred doses of smug and Wilbur wasn’t going to take the bait. 

“It's the job you specifically assigned me to do.” He simply says. The closer you are, the closer I can keep an eye on you. The closer you are, the more I’ll know is left unsaid.

Tommy hums, expecting the answer. “I suppose you're right. Though I don't blame you. I mean, who wouldn't want to be with me 24/7!"

"Whatever you say, 'Boss'."

Wilbur was an underground agent for the Taken family. A spy. His sole job was to infiltrate, seek, and destroy any rival mafia families that had the misfortune of crossing them.

The iron walls of decades old organizations were nothing to him. No matter how prestigious and powerful, he had them crumbling to the ground when he was done with them. He was dangerous, efficient, and so far, has had a 100% success rate, which is to say, he was an expert in his field.

His ruthless efficiency earned him a reputation among families before long. Never a name or face to attach it to (that would be bad for business so he made sure to have an ironclad alias) but a legend nonetheless - a story of a boogieman who laid waste to all. A bedtime story mafia bosses told their children to scare them into eating their vegetables. His legend's name: Siren.

(The name came about originally told as a joke, but he wasn't sure from exactly who. 

Since you only set off sirens after you’ve left! he vaguely remembers someone say.

He thought it was an idiotic name but it somehow stuck until there were whispers of the name and the reputation associated with it down to the deepest crevices of the underground. Still, it wasn't like he minded it though. Call him whatever you like; it didn’t matter. It certainly didn’t stop him from doing his job.)

Now, there were many things that factored into his continue success but one of the most crucial factors was his process: a set of steps he followed to the letter. A simple How to Topple a Gang For Dummies manual written by yours truly. 

Step One: Infiltrate. Be discrete and keep a low profile when you first enter.

Step Two: Work your way up. Become indispensable. Get close.

Step Three: Kill the Boss.

Now, sure there were steps in between steps 2 and 3, like making sure the organization's roots would wither when the metaphorical tree was cut down, but Wilbur was known to be a man who kept lists short.

And despite how simple the list was, it was what made him make it this far. Four toppled organizations under his belt and he could still live to tell the tale. And it was with the same method that he decided to tackle his biggest job yet: infiltrating the Watson family and killing the newly appointed leader: Theseus Watson.

Step one was completed, as he was able to pass the family's initiations and join quickly enough, and he was working on step two. If he managed to survive until he reached step three, he might actually be proud of himself.

He remembers when he had first met Tommy.

Wilbur had already been infiltrating his family for nearly two years now: taking dirty jobs, following orders, and being the perfect little lackey. He was quick and efficient and always finished his job. It was because of that, that he caught the attention of the boss man himself, though that feat itself might not have been as impressive as one might think.

To call Theseus Watson a workaholic was an understatement; he was constantly in motion, like stopping would cause the floor to crumble underneath him. However, that didn’t mean he let his work distract him enough to lose sight of other things. His job included keeping an eye on everything and everyone in his organization, especially those who were of interest. Apparently, Wilbur had earned that label of interest.

That’s how Wilbur finds himself face to face with the man himself. His boss. His target.

The moment he walked into Tommy’s office (after getting nicely let in by two armed guards that were staying just outside the door), he was instantly bombarded with Tommy’s machine gun like talk he’d heard around base so much. Even gangs have gossip mills.

“Wilbur Soot! Welcome, welcome. Have a seat right there. Don’t be shy. How were Sam and Techno outside? I know they can both be a bit of stoic faced but they’re great once you get to know them!” Tommy was all smiles and white teeth.

So those were Grunt #1 and #2’s names Wilbur muses, taking a seat

“Thanks. They were okay.” Wilbur had always been a man of many words, but this was a job where any wrong word would topple everything he had been building. Better to keep his mouth shut than have his tongue cut out.

Wilbur scans the office with a keen eye. No guards inside. Or cameras he could see. Not like he expected any. Then he looks at his "boss". Blond hair pulled back in a low pony tail, dark sunglasses even under the dimly lit office, expensive looking rings and bands that shined over gloved fingers, and a suit that probably cost more than Wilbur’s livelihood and then some. A showoff at first glance. He wasn't what you'd first imagine mafia head to look like, but he fit the part well enough. 

“I’m happy to hear! Lets get down to business, shall we? So let’s see…” Watson pulls out a few papers out of the hundreds that formed the stacks on his desk. Wilbur feels sorry for whoever his secretary is. “A year and a half you’ve been here. Excellent work, quick on the spot thinking, and oh! You were part of the main fighting groups during the fight between the Badlands faction a week ago. You did a great job there!” Watson praises Wilbur like a pet owner praises his dog after it does a trick, which is deciding weird; praise wasn’t given lightly in his experience.

“Thank you, sir.” He responds. “I was just following orders.”

“Humble too! Love it!” Watson nods approvingly. 

“You’ve got quite the resume here for how long you've been here. To accomplish so much in such a short amount of time…you really are impressive~” Watson purrs. It’s only through years of developing a damn good poker face that Wilbur doesn’t grimace from his sugary sweet tone.

“Thank you, sir.” he repeats awkwardly. 

"No need for formalities. Call me Tommy." Tommy sets the papers down with a smile. “Still, I don’t think I’ve never heard of any families named 'Soot' with ties to our type of organizations. And trust me, I know every single one.” Wilbur doesn’t doubt it. He also doesn't doubt that Tommy’s never heard of him; he wouldn't be a very good underground spy if he had been heard of. 

“So your family's not ‘business’, which means you're a newcomer to all this. Makes me curious as to why you decided to join our little operation in the first place.”

A test. Wilbur wasn’t worried though. He expected this.

“Most of my family make electronics for a living - it's a family business outside the city.” What little family he had left that is. “This life is much more interesting. So I decided to give this job a try. ”

“Give it a try? Ha!” Wilbur hears the metaphorical quotation marks Tommy makes along with his growing amusement at his blunt answers. “So, you were unsatisfied with your mundane life and wanted to do bigger things?” Tommy’s glasses block his eyes and now Wilbur can’t read his expression past his grin.

“Something like that.” He shrugs.

“But there are so many other professions you could do. One that isn't illegal for starters. Or a job that won’t have people shooting at you on a regular basis. Why choose this one?”

Why? That answer was easy.

“It was the most logical choice.” Wilbur responds.

“Logical!” Tommy is beaming - like he's just discovered a new species he wants to study. Wilbur can tell that there's been a shift. Before he was interested in Wilbur. Now he’s fascinated.

“I’ve decided I like you.” Tommy declares suddenly. He points a gloved finger at him. “So you have a new job, effective immediately!”

“Which is?” Wilbur raises a brow.

Tommy’s grin is a shark's, wide and sharp. “Protection.”

“You stay by my side 24/7 and protect me at all costs. I give an order and you follow it. That sound good to you?”

“You don’t look like someone who needs protecting.” Wilbur says instead of responding to the question. It was true though. Despite how lanky he looked, Tommy still cut an intimidating figure with an unflappable demeanor and near unmatched intellect. And if he was half as good with a gun as the rumors say, he had no need for any hired protection.

Tommy shrugs playfully. “Maybe not. But a person like me has a lot of enemies. Being devilishly smart and handsome doesn’t make me impenetrable to bullets, you know.”

Wilbur scoffs. “So I’m your human shield?

“Human shield is such a crude word.” Tommy tilts his head, resting his cheek against his finger. “I’d rather call you a personal bodyguard!”

Wilbur can’t believe his luck. Step two is going to be easier than I thought. “Hmm.”

“So? Do you feel up for the job?” It wasn't really a question.

“It's not like I have much of a choice.”

This job was going to be his easiest yet.



For a job as high risk as protecting one of Esempi’s most notorious mafia bosses from an undoubtedly large pool of enemies and dangers, it was surprising boring at times.

Wilbur encountered the typical assassination attempt every now and again (laughable attempts from rank amateurs) but most of his days as Tommy’s bodyguard was unexpectedly mundane, with some days worse than others. What with just how "busy" the mafia boss was, certain days were as tedious as they were grating.

Tommy constantly had a schedule that was packed to the brim with an endless amount of meetings and public appearances. Apparently everyone within a 5 mile radius needed his presence, whether it be for signing contracts, checking up with him, or an invitation for some inane party. Wilbur had spent so much time sitting in any number of Tommy’s fancy foreign cars to go from location to location, that at least three of their seats must have an imprint of his ass by now.

Currently, Wilbur was accompanying Tommy to yet another event, having to lazily scan a room for "potential dangers". With a room filled with old ladies in too-long dresses, the soft plunk of a guitar being heard over the dull roar of chatter, the only potential danger Wilbur could see was the danger of him falling asleep on his feet and accidentally stabbing himself with a butter knife.

"Do we really need to be here?" he asks in annoyance, speaking under his breathe so he wouldn't disrupt the ongoing tea party? Torture session? Whatever this event was, it had him itching for something to happen before he lost his mind. 

"Of course! This is a meeting to thank those in the L’Manberg district who work with our family!" Tommy responds cheerfully, sipping his tea an effortless amount of grace. Figures he'd actually enjoy this thing Wilbur thinks irately.

Exhaling contently, Tommy lowers the cup from his lips and continues, "These families provide us with the best tea this side of Esempi, you know! Unparalleled craftsmanship! They brew a exceptionally good cup of coffee too if that’s more your taste."

"Let me rephrase: do I really need to be here?" he asks, feeling restless from how he was made to stand still behind Tommy throughout the entirety of this function.

"Oh, definitely! What if a rival gang decided to barge in and ruin the whole event? How will I finish my tea then?" Wilbur resists the urge to roll his eyes and juts barely succeeds.  

He instead directs an unimpressed half lidded look at the mob boss. "Yeah, I'm sure a rival gang is just outside the entrance, dying to knock over some kettles." He deadpans so hard, it might as well have been with a cast iron skillet.

"See! Now you're thinking ahead! I'll leave the bodyguarding to you then!" Tommy gives him a thumbs up, turning his attention to the sweet old women who was trying to pour him another refill.

Wilbur sighs. He just hopes this whole thing will wrap in the next hour; patience is a virtue, but even he couldn't endure three straight hours of tea 



No major operations to report Target is under control. He suspects nothing. End of report.

He look down at his lazy scrawl, his message encrypted using a code of his own making. His reports are always short but that's to be expected. Making sure he isn't being tailed by anyone, he seals it in the usual nondescript envelope and discretely drops it off at the usual flower shop around a familiar corner. The Taken family would receive his message in the next day or so if it was delivered correctly.

That task out of the way, Wilbur turns another corner. He ought to get back to base soon. His charge might become suspicious of where he wandered off to. 

If some days were as dull and boring as a weekly women's bible club, other days were as chaotic as a whirlwind in a grocery store. On those days, multiple ambushes, assassinations, and shootouts (sometimes all three in succession) were a common occurrence. These in occurrence didn't seem to surprise Tommy nearly enough as it should, so this probably wasn't a recent insurgence of hot shots who were trying to get a piece of the new head. Wilbur wasn't a stranger to dangerous situations, but even he was getting surprised by all the near misses he's had from barely dodged bullets and near endless stream of untrained grunts. 

One such event, he and Tommy were currently ducking for cover behind an overturned table at Tommy’s favorite local pizza place. Bullets and bread sticks alike were being thrown across the room as the enemies unloaded cartridge after cartridge in an erratic spray of lead. No finesse at all. 

Wilbur and the table weren't Tommy’s only line of defense, as they three of them were accompanied by a faction of the family who had came along with them for this event (some sort of dinner as a segway into discussing other matters, if Wilbur remembered correctly, which had all gone to shit after someone had pulled a gun), but he was still a bit concerned from just how many people there were to pick off. 

Might as well help them out so this can end quickly. Wilbur decides as he pulls out his own gun, mentally assessing how many targets were behind him.

"Stay down and keep your head low." He starts, before noticing how the Tommy was also taking out his own gun. "You're going to help?" 

Tommy, with an experienced flick of his wrist, makes a show of spinning the gun before cocking it, smirking up at him. "Sitting and waiting is boring. Might as well have some fun. Want to make a bet on which one of us brings down the most people?"

He huffs out something that might have been a laugh. He doesn't grace him with an answer. "Don't blame me if you lose your head in the crossfire." Wilbur simply says.

There's a moments pause and then the two of them spring up from behind the table in unison, opening fire. 



The Taken family hadn't been Wilbur’s first choice to join. Or even top ten. At the time, it had really been his only choice, seeing as their family was the only one to recruit new members so young, or inexperienced for that matter. 

At first, Wilbur did what he was told because that was what he had to do to survive; he fought, bleed, and killed for the family without complaint simply because he was ordered to. It was when he grew older, that he able to see what he was blind to all those years ago. The Takens were an old and powerful family, who did things their way and by their own rules for years, seeing as there was no one strong enough to stop them. They flaunted their power and took what they wanted by any means necessary. Their propensity to get rid of anyone in their way - adults, the elderly, and even children alike - and their way of operating disgusted him, but at this point, after staying within the family for nearly 20 years, there really wasn't much Wilbur could do.

The family had taken him in and proceeded to dig their claws into him for the next two decades, holding him so tightly that pulling away from them out would mean he'd be ripped to shreds. So instead of resisting, he did his job. Just because he hated it didn't mean he wouldn’t perform just as efficiently as always, and Wilbur suspected that was why the family trusted him with such important tasks: the dirty work only he could do.

And his current assignment? Bringing down the family's most hated rival, the family that had managed to best them in both status and power: the Watsons.

“Ha. Guess a human shield can only do so much, huh?” Tommy rasps out. 

"Try staying awake. The ambulance should be here any moment." Wilbur responds, pressing down to put pressure on the wound. 

Even after getting shot, Tommy never knew how to stay quiet. At least Wilbur didn't have to bother with keeping him awake until an ambulance arrived.

The two of them had been out, visiting a possible deal with a new liquor shop who wanted to discuss protection. It had been a discrete visit but someone had apparently leaked the meeting time and place and they had been ambushed by six very big men with very big, sharp swords.

Wilbur made quick work out of them, with Tommy, who didn’t seem that concerned for someone at a two to six disadvantage, dodging and evading getting stabbed. Now, Wilbur’s specialty might not have been playing bodyguard, but he made a pretty damn good one and made quick work of the group before long, with Tommy simply hanging in the background as he did the dirty work. 

After Wilbur stabbed the last guy with his own sword, it seemed as though the ambush was a complete failure. What the two of them didn't expect was for one of the downed men to shoot Tommy right in the back with a defiant grin. The shot had barely been hear before Wilbur was there to effectively shoot the shooter right between the eyes.

So Tommy’s million dollar bespoke suit was quickly staining with fresh blood underneath his steady hands. For a bodyguard, three weeks without an injury wasn't a streak to be proud of he surmises. Letting your charge bleed out in an abandoned alley wasn't really good as well. But something else was on Wilbur’s mind, other than his failures as a 'bodyguard'. 

Wilbur and Tommy had been ambushed in an alley way. All witnesses were either dead or unconscious, so the two of the were alone. His fingers twitched. He could just let Tommy bleed to death right here, right now - a fitting death that matched the previous head's - and this job would be all over. 

But Wilbur knew he couldn’t.  Not yet at least. It wasn't time. Wilbur had to stick with his plan because killing Theseus Watson right now would do nothing if the organization was still functioning enough to replace him without a second glance. The family would lose a valuable asset, but they would recover. Cutting a weed didn't mean its roots weren't there underneath the surface after all.  Tommy would die, no doubts about it, but not until later. 

"You're 'deathly quiet' there, Wilbur. Worried about little ol' me?" Tommy says through a red stained grin.

He responds by pressing harder on the bleeding wound. Tommy grits his teeth from the pain, choking out a bloodied laugh. 

Of course keeping Tommy alive at all was dependent on when the damned ambulance would finally arrive. 

Wilbur was nine when both of his parents and his unborn sibling were killed during an ensuing faction war between two families.

It had been decades since the event but he even now he could have described the details of the event from how many times his father was shot and how his mother had sounded like when she begged for the life of her baby that was still growing inside of her.

He was splattered with blood, too shocked to even cry, by the time the screams stopped. The person had taken one look at him and sneered before turning away.

“Beat it kid. Be grateful I’m feeling merciful today.”

Mercy.

Other than the blood that covered the man, his eyes caught one last detail of his family's murderer: a coiled snake tattoo on his left forearm. That night, Wilbur slept next to his parent's cold corpses dreaming of it. And when he woke he made a vow by the very blood that soaked the ground - he was going to kill that bastard.

The thing about the mafia is that the best way to get close to someone in it, was to jump in yourself. At the the tender age of ten he took his first step in the world of organized crime.

The initial training was brutal; he didn't have a moments rest for the next six months of initiation. He fought and puked blood and stood up with broken bones whenever he was told. It was hard but he survived through it all. He had to.

Years of grunt work and menial jobs later and he had landed on his specialty: infiltration. He had been trained to assume any identity, to lie through his teeth, and to slip into any organization, nor matter how tight. 

Wilbur was sixteen when he brought down his first criminal organization. It was a relatively small one, a fledgling compared to the powerhouse families that had controlled the streets of Esempi for generations, but size didn’t equate to power. The new gang had quickly established itself as a reliable and dangerous group. But that didn’t matter. It never did in the end. A year after joining, it was burned to the ground, the gang's ranks scattered and it's leader meeting the business end of Wilbur’s gun.

During the pandemonium if having entire system of command and order crumble over night, higher and lower ranks alike scattered away from the center of it, revealing themselves to the light in order to escape the heat. Wilbur watched it all from the shadows. He was ready to safely flee during the confusion, until he caught sight of a familiar tattoo of a runaway grunt. A fire inside of Wilbur, that hadn't stopped burning for seven years, was blazing.

In the ensuing chaos, a missing gang member was the least of everyone's worries, which worked for Wilbur perfectly. Gunshots helped cover up the sounds of screams coming from an nondescript alley way, too. 

Wilbur was ripping off his second fingernail when the man with the snake tattoo starts begging. Mercy he had cried, tears streaming down his pathetic face. 

Mercy was the last thing on Wilbur’s mind that night. 

An hour later, Wilbur exits the alleyway, as bloodstained as he was on that fateful day several years ago. The chaos had died down and the streets were empty. He turned around and walked back to base. Mission accomplished. 



Tommy likes him. Wilbur is certain of it.

In his line of work, it was impertinent to be observant, so it was very hard to miss how Tommy liked to stare at him from time to time when he didn't think he was noticed. Or his constant need to have him near him by his side during the start and end of the day. Or his off hand flirtations and comments towards him, that he brushed off with little effort. Yeah, all that was hard to miss. 

At first, Wilbur chalked up Tommy’s fascination for him as a passing thing - a fun way to cure his boredom perhaps. Tommy has been known to jump from hyper fixation to hyper fixation, so Wilbur took his obsession for something that would fade with time, not giving it much thought, but after a few months of the same behavior, he realized that this might be more than just a normal fixation.

If the interest in him was romantic, sexual, or like a boss towards their favorite employee, Wilbur couldn't say. He wasn't afraid to say he was dense as a brick when it came to these kinds of things even if he proclaimed himself a hopeless romantic. So instead of dwelling on the meanings behind Tommy’s prolonged stares or lingered touches, he simply did his job. Following orders and covering Tommy’s back was much easier than working through that mess of hints and theories. 

As for Wilbur’s stance on Tommy? Well, he didn't like him, but it wouldn't be very true to say he hated him either. Whatever that meant, he was even less certain about answering. 



“Did you always want to become the new head?” Wilbur says with his mouth full. He shovels another surprisingly good pasty into his mouth, crumbs landing on his rumpled shirt. The two of them were on another business run, with Wilbur acting as Tommy’s escort again. After a few months of accompanying the man, Wilbur had finally been worn down enough by Tommy’s constant attempts to talk with him and learned to tolerate (and perhaps enjoy?) the mafia boss' constant stream of conversation - so much so that he actually felt comfortable enough to initiate from time to time.   

“Wil! Stop making a mess.” Tommy nags, offering him a napkin that he takes to messily wipe at his crumb covered mouth.

"Don't change the subject. I'm curious." He waves off his nagging easily enough. He's used to it.

"Would you believe I popped out of my mother's womb wanting to run my my vewy own cwiminaw owganization~" Tommy’s wide eyes and clasped hands were met with a fixed half lidded look.

Seeing as his answer wasn't going to cut it, he responds to Wilbur's question in earnest this time, shaking his head. "Not always."

He stirs his fourth sugar cube into his tea and Wilbur refrains from stopping him from reaching for a fifth. "I actually wanted to become a musician, believe it or not!" Tommy mimics the moves of playing the piano, the movement so natural he expected the instrument to appear in the man's arms.

Wilbur blinks. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I’m a man of many talents as you know. I was pretty good and actually caught the eye of more than a couple oversees musicians by my second year playing." Tommy says, looking pleased with himself. 

“That's pretty amazing." Wilbur says truthfully. "So, what made you stop?” 

“I realized I had a responsibility to my family.” Tommy answers easily, looking down at his cup of tea.

“As the only son. you were to inherit the business.” He responds it as a fact more than asking for confirmation. 

“Yep!” Tommy pops the ‘p’, stealing Wilbur’s last pastry from his plate despite having his own. Thief.

Wilbur stares at him for a second. “Do you ever regret it?”

Tommy takes a sip from his cup.  "No. I don't think I ever did."



Another day, another report.



“Do you ever stay out of trouble? I already told you to stay put!" Wilbur yells over the heavy sound of gunfire. He grabs Tommy’s hand as he makes him round a corner, sustaining his running pace.

“Aw c'mon! This wasn't my fault!" Tommy keeps up with him relatively well for a guy in a three piece suit and oxfords, so much so that he risks a look back, just to see a bullet come a inch away from tearing off his ear. Yeah, looking back wasn't a good idea. "They shot at me first!"

From what Wilbur could see, they were getting shot at by at least six shooters, with two of them gaining on them fast. And despite that, Tommy STILL had the audacity to argue with him. 

Wilbur shakes his head. "I swear it’s like you want to have people shooting you." He suddenly grinds his feet to a stop, kicking out and using one of the shooter's momentum against him to slam his foot into their gut. The guy drops with a pained grunt and Wilbur resumes his running.  

"It's not my fault I'm so popular; I already told you everyone wants a piece of me. Isn't it your job as my bodyguard to account for that?" Tommy takes down a shooter of his own as he glances behind him, positioning his gun under his arm to point behind him. It only takes a second and one of their pursuers drop like a stone when a bullet finds it's mark between their eyes. 

"I can only account for so many thing when my charge is so much of an idiot that he decide its a good idea to drop out of a meeting in enemy territory during a "bathroom break" because he wanted to buy some candy!" He growls out, taking a sharp left turn onto an empty street.

"Okay, okay, so maybe that wasn't my best decision, but I was hungry! And hey! There is an upside to all of this!"

Wilbur pulls Tommy down by the tie so he narrowly misses a bullet to the back of the head. Wilbur takes this opportunity to aim at the gunner peaking up from behind a trash can and shoot the gun right out of his hand. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"This chase beats sitting around for another boring meeting, right?" Tommy’s smirk is all pink lips and sharp, white canines. 

He hates that smirk he tells himself. He does, but Wilbur, despite having to dodge multiple bullets and protect his certifiable idiot of a boss once again, can't help but match his smirk with his own, looking forward. Damn him. “Whatever. Focus on dodging those bullets so I don't have to save your sorry ass so many times."

"'Saving my sorry ass' happens to be in your job description if I remember correctly." He can tell Tommy notices his smile, but he doesn't mind it this time. 

"Just dodge."



His back hits the edge of Tommy’s desk, with it digging into him in an unpleasant way, but he can't seem to bring himself to care when Tommy’s mouth is ravaging his own in passionate vigor. 

That day had been hectic to say the least. Tommy’s usually packed schedule was even more of a hassle since every gang this side of Esempi has some sort of sixth sense communication and decided that today was the perfect day to try to assassinate Tommy. At least three of their meetings had been crashed today, with one being actually crashed with a car through the wall, by some different group of hot shots wit guns every time. 

Wilbur could only do so much as Tommy’s bodyguard, what with him having to literally carry the man to safety, since Tommy had the penchant to stick around for longer than he really should most of the time.

And so it was after such days that Wilbur didn't have the energy to care about why Tommy had called him to his office after the day was done or why the guards usually stationed in front of the head's door were missing. That is, until the moment he had entered his office and Tommy, with a handful of Wilbur’s shirt, had pulled him down for a sudden kiss. The shock of the action of their lips meeting for the first time, made him freeze, but that didn't seem to discourage Tommy, as he nipped at this lip, wanting to deepen the kiss. 

And to his own surprise, he obliges. 

Recovering quickly enough, Wilbur opens his mouth and melts into the kiss, reveling in the taste of Tommy’s mouth: expensive scotch and hard candy. Not a bad flavor. His hands met Tommy’s hip as he was guided to the other's desk, knocking over a few papers and a couple mugs from the sound of it.

Wilbur was in hot water now; had been for a while. He'd already known he was getting too close to his charge, to Tommy - closer than he really should be. He had felt it in the way he grew comfortable with him, how he didn't really mind it when Tommy looked at him like he had before. And that was a problem. This was against protocol, it went against one of the cardinal rules of his job process: Don't get close to your target.

It's only been a bit more than a couple of years and he had already broken that rule.

Making out with Tommy, his target, in his office was the final blow that cracked the glass floor of his denial that was holding him up and he was falling hard. 

And despite knowing all this, that doesn't seem like enough to make him stop kissing Tommy, his hands already leaving Tommy’s hips to roam under all the layers of his stupidly expensive suit, and that really was the first concrete sign that this wasn't shaping up to be like all his other jobs. No. this was much, much different.



He looks down at paper in front of him, blank other than the date scrawled in the corner. This was his 26th monthly report to the Taken family, his actual boss he reminds himself, and so far he had been staring at the page for the last five minutes. He can't remember the last time he's hesitated when writing his reports because there never has been a time where he has. 

He had been standing stock still in front of the paper, not moving at all. At this point, he was going to look suspicious if he kept stalling. He grips the pen in his hand, breathes out, and writes.



He’s sleeping next to Tommy tonight, with the two of them sharing a bed was becoming more of a common occurrence, what with their recent...developments in their relationship (developments meaning post day make out sessions and adrenaline-filled quickies). The slumbering gang leader, who's very name struck fear into the hearts of ruthless leaders and working grunts alike, was drooling into his pillow. Tommy’s hair, which was usually up in a ponytail, brushed the top of his shoulder’s like butterfly kisses, the sheen of it not as brilliant in the darkened room. 

Wilbur turns in bed to look at him, making sure not to make any noise that could possibly wake him. He takes a moment to admire his relaxed face, all lush eyelashes and parted lips, before his mind wanders to more pressing matters.

He was having an existential crisis.

For more than half his life, Wilbur was nothing but a model member of the Taken family. He did what he was ordered to do without complaint and finished every job efficiently and effectively. He was the ideal member any family could ask for.

And it was only after a scant couple of years and a half of working as Tommy’s body guard that this apotheosis of subordination and efficiency was finally cracking; Wilbur was disobeying orders, and he knew exactly why he was.

It was because in the whole of his career he has never been assigned to someone like Tommy. Cocky, confident, and maddening, but also intelligent, charismatic, and even caring? He didn’t want to admit, but he was falling for Tommy. He was getting closer to him with every day he spend with the annoyingly endearing mafia boss.

Further more, when he had first starting being Tommy’s personal body guard, it had only been a month and he could already tell he liked this job so much better than when he was and still is working for the Takens. With them, though he followed his orders to a T, he seldom liked doing them, no matter what the job was, but with Tommy, it was the opposite. Simply being around him made him enjoy his job, more so than he ever had in all those years of 'exemplary  work'. 

He liked Tommy, liked working for him, like being with him. Still, he had to remember: he had a job to do. He knew his mission. He knew what he was tasked to do and knew exactly how to accomplish it. 

And therein lies his problem. In the 20 years after losing his family during that stupid faction war and joining the mafia and working as a spy and dog for the Taken family, as someone who’s brought multiple organizations and crime rings to their knees under orders - he’s never felt this kind of desire to stop.

But he couldn't just ask to leave. The Taken family was ruthless. Though not as smart or as powerful as the Watson family, they made up for it in sheer self determined ruthlessness and brutality. If they treated their enemies badly, they treated traitors worse. Wilbur would know; his job there included torturing the family's defectors after all. 

Wilbur had been part of the family for years, constantly doing jobs no one else could. He bled for that family. They wouldn't let go of such a valuable asset so easily. Not willingly at least. 

He turns away from Tommy, flipping over to face the end of the room. No. This thing wasn't going to work, not unless Wilbur did something about it. 

“We have a traitor.”

The room exploded with yells, instant chaos form the simple statement.

“A traitor? Impossible!”

“What? Who?!" 

He knows. Wilbur accepts, standing behind the mafia boss. Always behind him.

“Let’s settle down now.” Despite it being said as casually and softly as a suggestion, the rooms instantly quiets when Tommy speaks. “I know this must all have some to a shock for all of you."

Tubbo raises a hand which Tommy nods to, giving him the right to speak.

“I don't mean to deny what you've said, but what makes you think that there is a traitor among the gang?”

“Ah ah ah. Not think.” Tommy waves a finger with on hand and holds up a familiar envelope with the other, an envelope Wilbur recognizes from a couple months ago. “Know.” Murmuring instantly spread across the table but it was silenced as Tommy continued to talk. 

“You see, I was a bit suspicious when it seemed that our last few raids weren't as successful as they were in the past. Missing packages, less supplies than anticipated, empty store rooms. Nothing drastic but suspicious none the less.”

"So it got me wondering and that wondering became a suspicion. You all know I don’t like asking for favors, but I asked a friend of mine in postage to look into every letter sent in a three mile radius to base - suspicious letters, abnormal drop off patterns, you know, the norm - and to send me any that looked out of the ordinary."

Only Tommy would do something so utterly ridiculous and outlandish Wilbur scoffs internally.

“Sorting through them all was a horribly tedious task, I must say.” Tommy sighs, looking back to Wilbur for sympathy, who through this entire time had an impressive poker face. He huffs in reply.

“But it was all worth it you see!” He flaps the envelope around with a grin.

“So what’s in the envelope?” Ranboo asks the obvious, hands grasped over his knee in a serious manner.

“Straight the point as always.” Tommy pouts but it quickly morphs into a grin. “It was a letter from a man named Jackson Smith to his mother. He just got a promotion and was thrilled to tell his mother. Completely normal at first glance."

“And at second glance?” he raises a brow.

“Well, I know everyone in this town and as far as I know, 'Jackson Smith' doesn't exist. And, though it took a bit of time, I was able to decipher the letter since, as predicted, it was written in some code."

"In any case, it detailed the event’s of our latest skirmish with the Badlands.” Tommy answers, leaning back into his chair. “Nothing substantial really, and it didn't seem to help anyone as you already know. I'm not even sure what useful information the letter was trying to provide." 

That's because I didn't include any useful information to begin with Wilbur thinks. He hadn't since his 26th report.

"But the problem still remains that we have a spy in our midst. I suspect Taken, but I don't have concrete evidence other than speculation on past grudges." 

Right on money. Damn, he’s good Wilbur approves. His code was flawless, developed by himself and has been undetectable and undecipherable for nearly a decade, and yet he still isn’t as surprised as he should be that Tommy managed to decode it. I guess it's only a matter of time he muses wryly.  

“So what are we going to do about it?" Wilbur asks, speaking for the first time during this whole meeting. Everyone turns to Wilbur and then to Tommy.

"A great question, Wil!" Tommy claps his hands. "I'd say our next course of action is to wait. This spy is bound to act soon enough. We'll just have to wait until they slip up again."

"A waiting game" Wilbur nods. "And you really think you can catch them?"

Tommy leans forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. "Positive."



Time was up.



The sound of a gun safety click echoes throughout the abandoned alley way, the noise bouncing off the walls.

“I had an inkling it was you, you know?” Tommy cuts through the icy quiet. He doesn't move away from the feeling of a barrel at the back of his head, simply staring ahead of the empty alleyway.

“I know.” Wilbur says steadily. His grip on the gun is steely but his gaze didn't match. “That’s why I had to act fast, before you figured it out.”

"Which family?" Tommy sighs, adjusting his cuff links mindlessly, like he wasn't a trigger push away from having his brains splattered across the alley walls. Wilbur knows that Tommy knows that resisting wasn't going to do much. They both knew who was better at close combat.

"Taken." And there it was.

"Ha. Of course it is." Tommy’s voice is devoid of any humor and his laugh might as well have been a hiss. "Should have suspected that. They're usually not too keen on the waiting game though. Four years you've been here..."

"It was my job. I was under orders."

Tommy hums. “So all of it was a farce then, Wilbur? All this run around, years of you at my side, and us...it was all because you were under orders?" Had Wilbur not known Tommy for long enough, he might have been fooled into thinking he wasn't affected by his sudden betrayal. But Wilbur knew him. His eyes were hidden behind his glasses and he had an easy smile on his face, but Wilbur saw the barest hints of a clenched jaw. Tommy’s gloved fists didn't shake at his side but they were balled too.

"No." Wilbur answers truthfully. "Not all of it."

Tommy whirls around at Wilbur’s response, brows raised and eyes holding something akin to hope? Wilbur keeps the gun level, pointed in between Tommy’s eyes without faltering. His glasses had drooped down to the base of his nose so Wilbur meets icy eyes that seem to glow in the dim light of the alleyway.

“Then are you going to shoot me?”  

And this was the climax of all this, right? Either he shoots, completing his mission just so he can crawl back to those who has him on a leash for decades. Or, he rejects the principles and self imposed rules that he's had since he was nine, and finally does something because it's what he wants to do, rather than what he was told to do. To follow orders or to disobey them. It's choice he's been battling with way before he had even met Tommy, but it was only at this point that he felt certain about choosing the right answer. 

So Wilbur, a spy who had his target right in front of him, makes a decision. He lowers his gun.

“No. I’m not.”

A shocked kind of stillness follows those words. Tommy’s eyes widen for a second, his mouth parted in surprise - a moment of pure confusion at the sheer unexpectedness at this turn of events - before he schools his expression. Tommy looks at him calculatingly, trying to strip Wilbur to his bare bones to see what's left, looking for something. “Really?" 

"Yeah." Wilbur holsters his gun, feeling two tons lighter after making that decision. He'll deal with the consequences of his unapproved leave of absence from the Takens later. He was sick of following orders. "A bodyguard shooting his charge doesn't seem right does it." 

Tommy must have found exactly what he was looking for with Wilbur’s words because Tommy finally breaks into a grin. 

"No, it doesn't, traitor." But Tommy laughs, letting relief bleed through his usually impeccable poker face. He punches Wilbur right arm, not really putting much power into it before he pulls it back with a yelp. Damned freakishly hard biceps. "You have a lot of nerve even pointing a gun at me! You have fun running behind me back?"

Wilbur shrugs. "Kinda. It was fun fooling you for once. The terrifying Theseus Watson couldn't even sniff out the mole who was right under his nose. Wait till the other families catch word of this."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, stay amused with yourself! I should have you cut off your pinky as repentance!" Tommy says, but all the seriousness is voice once held has bleed out of his voice and the previous tension has dissipated like fog in the morning sun. He walks pass Wilbur, shooting him a smirk. "You're lucky since I'm feeling merciful today, but you bet your pretty little ass that you have a lot of explaining to do once we get back to base."

"As you wish, 'Boss'." he responds cheekily, grinning back, and hears Tommy laugh.

Tommy struts ahead of him, walking towards the direction of the base, and Wilbur does what he does best: he follows just behind him.