Archive of Our Own

On Tuesday, Kristin rolls her eyes and rubs her nose and says to Tommy, “I’m not sick.”

On Wednesday, Kristin coughs wetly and turns to Ranboo before he can speak and snaps, “I’m not sick.”

On Thursday, Kristin shivers with a flushed face and rounds on Phil and manages to sound pretty fucking threatening despite all the sweaters she’s bundled in when she says, “Say a goddamn thing about my health and I’ll cut off your balls, Watson.”

On Friday morning, Phil hovers like a concerned mother in the doorway of Kristin’s room and delicately suggests she might not be well enough to pull off the job at the vineyard that weekend.

Ranboo—who is not hiding behind Phil in fear of pillows or books or small knives being thrown in their general direction, thank you very much—waits for Kristin to haul herself out of bed with a deliberate and intense rejection of any implication that illness is even a plausible thing that exists in any person, especially herself.

Instead, to the surprise of Ranboo and Phil and God Himself, Kristin moans pitifully and burrows further underneath the blankets. “I think I came down with something,” she says, voice muffled by layers of bedding.

“Yeah, like four days ago,” Tommy says. Ranboo doesn’t jump in surprise, but it’s a close thing. He turns to see Tommy behind him, lifted up on his toes slightly as he peers around Phil and Ranboo to look at Kristin, concern twisting a slight frown to his mouth.

Tommy does that a lot—moves silently and unnoticed, effortlessly, despite the height of him, his bright personality, and brighter golden hair. ( Like a piece of the fucking sun that can still be a ninja , Wilbur had said nonsensically during one of his more intense drinking sessions.)

The effect of Kristin glaring daggers at him is diminished somewhat with the way she’s nested in pillows and blankets, face flushed, hair a mess. “Simons,” she starts, venomous, and then she has to break off and cough hard for a few moments.

“I’m calling Jack,” Phil says, patting himself down for his phone.

“No, you’re not,” Kristin protests.

“I’m gonna find a thermometer,” Tommy adds, turning and disappearing down the hall.

“No, you’re not!” Kristin calls out.

“I’m gonna—Uh, soup?” Ranboo tries weakly, withering under Kristin’s  scowl and starting to back away from the room. “I’m gonna—I’m just gonna go.”

“I hate you all,” Kristin shouts. “It’s just a cold!”

“It’s the flu,” Jack says with a frown, pulling away from Kristin’s bed. They look concerned, but mostly exasperated. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

Phil has a distinct I told you so expression and Ranboo’s seriously in fear for Phil’s life if the way Kristin’s looking at him is any indication of how long he’s going to remain uninjured.

“But I can run this job,” Kristin says, “right?”

She and Phil are supposed to be going to a fancy wine tasting out in Las Nevadas to get access to various plans, names, locations, and other information supposedly stored on a computer on the property.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Phil says, and Ranboo and Tommy look at each other and simultaneously flee from the room to the tune of Kristin’s frustrated snap of a response and Jack’s I-Seriously-Do-Not-Get-Paid-Enough-For-This-I-Mean-Really sigh.

Ranboo has a sneaking suspicion—a growing sense of dread, really—that he knows what’s about to happen. He and Tommy are idly playing Mario Kart in the living room when Phil appears, looking disgruntled and like he’s on a mission. Ranboo automatically looks for the nearest exit, but then Phil’s standing in front of them, blocking their line of sight to the television.

“Phil,” Tommy says, swaying this way and that, trying to see around him. “Phil, no, we’re playing rainbow road, this is a very crucial moment—Yoshi, nooooo,” he finishes sadly, his side of the split screen abruptly going dark.

“I need you two to run this job,” Phil says firmly. It’s his ‘no-nonsense-I’m-the-dad’ voice, and Ranboo resists the urge to whine.

“What about Wilbur and Niki?” he asks. “When are they getting back?”

“Not until next week.”

“What about Tubbo?”

“Ranboo.”

“Or Techno.”

“You’re going,” Phil says, looking exasperated. “End of discussion.”

“I will turn this car around, kids,” Tommy says under his breath.

Phil gives him a look. “It’s a straightforward job. You’ll have the invitation to the wine tasting already, so there won’t be any trouble getting in. Wait until the guests are too drunk to be paying attention and then look for an office. Our intel says it’ll probably be in one of the back rooms past the guest hall. You copy the plans onto a flash drive and bring it back here. Easy. You can handle it.”

The issue isn’t really that Ranboo thinks he can’t handle it. Phil’s right, it’s straightforward. The issue is that Ranboo may or may not be harboring something vaguely in the realm of not-strictly coworker-like feelings for Tommy, and the thought of spending hours at a fancy party pretending to be an item—Well. Ranboo isn’t exactly interested in making a total idiot of himself in front of the guy he may or may not be interested in.

“I don’t have a suit,” Ranboo tries weakly.

“You can borrow one of Wilbur’s.”

“Wait, hold on,” Tommy says. He’s frowning. Ranboo allows himself a brief moment of hope.

“What?” Phil asks.

“I’m gonna have to wear the contacts again, aren’t I.” He looks devastated.

So, apparently they’re doing this.

Ranboo fidgets in Wilbur’s ill-fitting suit the whole drive up to Las Nevadas. This really isn’t their style: the crew is more about jobs with loud explosions and car chases than this type of covert operation.

( It’ll be fun , Tommy says. Like Ocean’s Eleven. Or Mission: Impossible. Ranboo’s dubious.)

Ranboo’s not really sure what he’s expecting, except it’s not this—a diamond of a vineyard in the glitz and glamor and rough of Las Nevadas. As they walk up the drive, he looks at the rows of vines reaching out into the distance towards the horizon. Rosebushes stand rooted at the start of each row, shadows of their thorned stems stretching long in the last few minutes of sunset.

“Pretty,” Tommy comments.

“Useful,” Ranboo replies, glancing over in time to see Tommy’s curious expression.

“Useful?”

“Canary in the coal mine,” he explains—nonsensically, if the change in Tommy’s face from curious to bewildered is any indication. He gestures vaguely. “The rosebushes are...more fragile. Than the vines. But they’re susceptible to the same diseases. So, disease happens, the roses go first, gives everyone a chance to fix things before everything goes to hell. They’re a—”

“Warning system,” Tommy supplies, but he’s frowning.

“Necessary sacrifice.”

“Is it?”

Ranboo looks at him. He opens his mouth to respond, but Tommy’s already moved on, hands going to his suit pockets in search of their invitation as they approach the doors of the country house. The occasional formally-dressed couple filters inside after being not-quite interrogated by the man at the door who’s checking the guest list.

It says something about the sort of jobs Ranboo usually takes that his brain automatically classifies the man as bouncer even though he’s pretty sure there’s a higher-class term for what the guy is doing. Still, he can’t shake the tension that seizes hold of his shoulders, tension that comes only when he’s about to intimidate his way past a bouncer into a seedy club to do a shakedown or complete a contract hit.

But this isn’t downtown Esempi, and he’s not Lethe right now.

Ranboo takes in a breath, holds it, lets it go as he forces himself to shrug on the personality of this character he needs to become. The character that is happily married to Tommy—to Tommy’s character .

Ranboo already has a headache.

“—is that okay?” Tommy’s saying, looking up at Ranboo with his brow furrowed.

Ranboo blinks. “I—Yeah,” he says, nodding, trying to look more confident and less I was paying zero attention to what you were saying because I’m still lowkey having a brain aneurysm every time I look down at the wedding ring on my finger or remember that I’m supposed to be pretending I’m married to you, and one of those two things happen approximately every four seconds, so I’ll basically be having one continuous moment of stupidity during this entire job, I hope that’s okay, and also I’m sorry you have to deal with me but there’s really nothing that can be done about it at this point, have I mentioned what an absolute catch I am.

“Great,” Tommy says, oblivious, and suddenly there’s the warm weight of his bicep sliding into place against Ranboo as he links their arms together.

“ What are you doing ,” Ranboo says lowly as Tommy hands their invitation over to the not-bouncer, voice strangled and rough, like the manifestation of his huge gay crush is trying to crawl its way free from his throat.

Tommy looks thrown off and alarmed. “You just said I could!” he hisses defensively, and he shifts hastily like he’s going to extract himself from Ranboo.

And Ranboi—well, maybe his grip on Tommy sort of immediately tightens tenfold, but that’s just. Acting. Because the supposed married couple should probably not be pulling away from each other in gay panic alarm. He’s a professional. He’s acting. It’s fine.

“Mr. Armstrong,” the not-bouncer says as he looks up from the invitation to Ranboo with a nod. He gestures to Tommy. “And this is your husband?”

Ranboo’s brain misfires. For a moment, he says nothing, gaping slightly, only managing to snap into action when the not-bouncer’s brow furrows in what appears to be concern. “Yeah,” he says. It comes out louder than he intends it to, more a bark than a response. He coughs, tries to salvage it. “Uh—Yes, this is my husband,” he clarifies, totally unnecessarily, voice now overly loud and stilted. Tommy looks pained.

You’re a professional , his mind supplies again, except now it just sounds miserable.

Thank god for Tommy, who laughs and strokes a hand down Ranboo’s arm—ostensibly as a gesture of affection, but to Ranboo it comes across as a desperate heed to shut up before you get us shot, oh my god, what are you even doing. “Newlyweds,” he explains, his smile unfairly charming. “He’s still getting used to it.”

Ranboo tries to nod along, ducks his head with a carefully constructed sheepish smile, but he’s hyperaware of Tommy’s soothing little touches to his arm.

There’s a voice in the back of his mind that sounds like Phil, authoritative and exasperated and a little shrill. Hey, asshole. You have a murder count in the triple digits. You are a very scary man. Please pop the fucking floating hearts making a love nest over your head.

The not-bouncer just shrugs and waves them in, and Ranboo lets out a long, relieved sigh as they step into the air-conditioned hall.

It’s a large building, packed with rich people in varying states of tipsy, and Ranboo has possibly never been so uncomfortable in his life.

Tommy picks up on it, because Ranboo has all the subtlety and more of a brick to the face. “You okay?”

Ranboo opens his mouth to deflect, to brush the question off, but Tommy’s looking at him earnestly, like he actually cares. That makes it all worse, somehow. “I’m not used to being in the field without my mask,” he admits. That is, at least, part of the truth; Ranboo decides to leave out the and you look really nice in a suit and that’s making me want to jump out the nearest window to escape my own feelings .

Tkmmy smiles. “Hey, don’t worry. All we gotta do is schmooze until everybody’s drunk. By then, nobody’s gonna remember what you look like, anyway.”

“Schmooze,” Ranboo echoes dubiously.

“Plus, don’t you have a little background in theater or something? Just act your way through it.”

Ranboo freezes. “Who told you that.”

Tommy grins, deceptively cherubic. “Phil.”

“Of course he did.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ranboo asks defensively.

“I mean, you’re kind of...dramatic?”

“Says the guy who wears blinding red and named himself Dolos.”

Tommy smiles wickedly and pulls out the big guns. “Phil said you used to be a mod—”

“ No one can prove anything .”

Tommy’s laughing now, dimples popping in his cheeks, and Ranboo can’t stay annoyed for the life of him. Hell, Tommy’s right; it’s a waiting game for now. There’s expensive wine and fancy hors d’oeuvres ( tiny snack things , Tommy says; hors d'oeuvres , Ranboo insists) and he might as well enjoy himself before they have to really get to work.

Still, his mind is sending off little alerts, flashing neon signs that say Date!! This is like a Date!! You’re the only one who thinks it’s like a date but you should still be very alarmed and awkward!!!

He drowns those neon signs resolutely in wines he can’t pronounce the name of and tiny snack things (damn you, Tommy) he also can’t pronounce the name of, and he’s able to relax after half an hour or so.

It’s nice to really spend time with Tommy. It’s hard to get a pocket of time where it’s just the two of them—Ranboo supposes that’s the benefit and drawback to being part of a big crew: you’re never alone.

But now Tommy talks about growing up in Logstedshire and about how he has two dogs ( Henry and Clementine would love you, you should come over sometime and meet them , and Ranboo has a heart attack) and Ranboo learns a dozen things he never knew about Tommy before.

To his own surprise, he starts sharing about himself, too. He’s comfortable with the crew; he’s grown a lot since joining, but he still doesn’t make a habit of offering up information unprompted. Maybe that’s reflex from years of paranoia or because he doesn’t think he’s very interesting, but Tommy beams when Ranboo says he wishes he had a cat and that he grew up in L’Manberg and he’s been self-conscious about the deepness of his voice that pops up whenever he’s particularly tired or worked up ( Big man, I think it’s nice , Tommy says, bet you get all the ladies with that, and, well, no).

Ranboo’s waiting for Tommy to come back with two of some weird sugary dessert thing Ranboo saw and immediately demanded, but when he returns, he’s empty-handed and looking mildly panicked.

“ Wegottago .”

Ranboo frowns. “What?”

Tommy’s bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “We gotta go , my old boss is here—”

“Who?”

“Jay Schlatt,” Tommy starts impatiently.

“You used to work for Schlatt? Why the hell did you never mention that?”

“It never came up.”

“ Tommy— ”

“Look, it’s fine, it’s just, I’m not totally sure if he’s gonna be cool about—”

“Simons,” comes a calm voice.

Tommy freezes, then plasters on a winning smile and turns around. “Schlatt,” he says warmly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Schlatt, from what little Ranboo knows about him, has vague ties to Phil (and apparently Tommy) and is one of the richest people in the city. It’s a little baffling that his suit is slightly too big on him and somewhat rumpled and faded, like he’s owned it for twenty years.

“What are you doing here, kid,” Schlatt demands with a sigh.

Tommy’s smile doesn’t falter. “This is a wine tasting, Schlatt,” he says. “We’re tasting wine. Enjoying the high life.”

“Schmoozing,” Ranboo puts in.

Schlatt raises an eyebrow at him, and he falls silent again. “You working a job for Watson?” he asks, voice low.

Tommy looks uncomfortable. “Are you gonna make this hard for us?” he asks, tone suddenly serious.

Schlatt watches him for a long moment. “You going to blow the place up?” he asks.

“No.”

“Is my drinking going to be interrupted?”

“Probably not.” Schlatt cuts him a look. “Definitely not.”

Schlatt gives him another long look, then fixes Ranboo with an identical one. “I never saw you,” he announces. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” Ranboo stares in bewilderment as Schlatt turns and walks off, tipping back the full wine glass in his hand and practically chugging it as he walks.

Ranboo manages to tear his gaze away to look at Tommy. “Was he like that while you were working for him?” he asks, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Oh, god no.”

“Huh.”

“He was way weirder.”

By the time they manage to sneak off into the back rooms of the vineyard hall, most of the guests are on the verge of drunk or well past it. They’d had to drink a bit themselves to keep up appearances, and it’s a testament to how infrequently Ranboo drinks that he’s actually feeling somewhat buzzed as they look for the computer with the plans on it.

It doesn’t take long to find it, Tommy picking his fifth lock to get them into a room that turns out to be the vineyard’s office; they close themselves in and Ranboo listens for footsteps while Tommy boots up the computer and gets the flash drive ready.

Despite how well everything’s been going so far—for a given value of well , if well involves tripping over Tommy’s polished shoes every fifteen seconds as they search the back rooms, or earlier in the night when Ranboo got startled and in a terrifying moment of blind reflex nearly embedded an hors d'oeuvre utensil into the throat of a poor, awkward, terrified bureaucrat like some kind of horrifying impromptu tracheotomy—

Despite that , Ranboo is beginning to think that their luck may have run out.

“Tommy, we need to go,” he says, muscles coiled tight like he’s ready to run or fight or—or stay still , apparently, which is what he’s currently doing, because Tommy won’t step away from the computer where the drive is flashing blue as it gradually copies and stores the information.

“It just needs another minute.”

“We don’t have a minute,” Ranboo says. He presses an ear against the door and shuts his eyes, tense, waiting, mapping out a dozen escape routes in his head. “We have maybe thirty seconds. Does that work?”

“Look, the thing—it says it needs fifty-three seconds, okay, do you want me to argue with the computer?”

“Well, yeah , that’s what Tubbo does!”

“He—okay, wait, no? He definitely doesn’t just argue with the computer, what the hell, what exactly do you think Tubbo does when he’s—” Tommy cuts himself off, goes still and quiet when heavy footsteps stop in front of the door.

“Alright,” Ranboo murmurs, shifting to move into a better position to intercept the guy when he comes through the door. “I’ll try to take him down quietly and maybe we won’t, uh, no, what are you doing,” he says, bewildered, when Tommy vaults himself over the desk neatly and starts moving in Ranboo’s direction.

“I saw this in a movie once,” Tommy says seriously, and then he’s grabbing Ranboo by the lapels of his ill-fitting suit and hauling him down to kiss him.

Fully. On the mouth. With tongue. It’s a little dirty.

Ranboo wants to say he plays it cool.

When the door slams open, Tommy doesn’t even pause, not breaking away from Ranboo until a loud Hey! comes from the guy standing in the doorway.

Tommy pulls away with a wet noise and turns to look at the guy, one hand still hanging on to Ranboo’s lapel.

“Oops,” Tommy says. Ranboo says nothing, because Ranboo has lost all ability to speak or think or do anything other than stare at Tommy, glassy-eyed.

“You can’t be in here,” the guy says roughly.

“Sorry,” Tommy says sheepishly. “The wine just sorta…You know how it is.” Is he flirting?

The guy looks somewhat taken aback. Tommy lets go of Ranboo and moves to sit on the desk, hopping up and letting his legs swing.

After a moment, Ranboo gets it. He lets Tommy keep up the drunk, flirty guest act and focuses on the man in the doorway. The way his jacket hangs means he’s packing, a small handgun, probably, but it doesn’t take a big gun to kill someone, especially not in close quarters like this.

“You…You can’t be in here,” the guy says again. Ranboo smiles apologetically and moves to get between the guy and Tommy, blocking his line of sight.

“I’m sorry. My husband’s had a bit more than he can handle. It’s hard to tell him no sometimes.” All the time. “We’ll go.” By the time he turns around, Tommy’s slipping a hand into the pocket of his suit pants.

“Okay, okay,” Tommy singsongs, sliding off the desk and stumbling a bit before he crashes into Ranboo and leans against him heavily, laughing. “We’ll go. But I’ll be seeing you later,” he tells the guy, poking him playfully in the chest as Ranboo ushers him out of the room and back down the hall towards the party.

“You know you’re gonna have to keep up the drunk persona for the rest of the night,” Ranboo says lowly, one hand around Tommy. It’s taking all of his effort not to think about the kiss, about the flutter of Tommy’s eyelashes against his cheeks and the soft, wet slide of his mouth and— dammit .

“Fuck that,” Tommy replies, dragging Ranboo from his reverie. “Let’s get the hell out of here as soon as it’s clear. That guy didn’t look like he bought it.”

“He’s armed.”

“Yeah. Not in the mood to get shot. Especially after drinking. You know how much more you bleed?”

Not wanting to seem even more suspicious than they already do, they decide to give it twenty minutes before making their leave; Ranboo wanders off to pick at what remains of the hors d'oeuvres to soak up the alcohol in his system, then meets back up with Tommy to leave with the other people starting to trickle out.

As they walk through the dark parking lot to Tommy’s car, Ranboo’s a little giddy with the excitement of a job gone well, admittedly still reeling from the kiss even now. Honestly, he’ll chalk the night up as a success all around.

Typically, that’s when someone emerges from the one of the rows of grapevines and points a gun at his head. “Oh, goddammit.”

It’s clearly not the reaction the man was expecting. He pauses, then steps completely out of the shadows, aim not faltering. It’s the guy from before, managing to look a lot more intimidating now that Tommy isn’t actively flirting with him and he’s holding a gun. “Alright, let’s make this quick.” He points at Tommy, gun still pointed between Ranboo’s eyes. “You give me the flash drive, I won’t blow your boyfriend’s brains out.”

“Husband,” Tommy blurts.

The man stares at him. “What.”

Tommy raises his left hand and wiggles his fingers at him, the gold of his borrowed ring glinting in the light of far-off car headlights. “He’s my husband.”

“Tommy,” Ranboo says lowly. They both have pistols strapped to their shins, but the guy has his finger on the trigger and looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot; Ranboo doesn’t want to risk trying to get to his gun.

“Look,” Tommy says placatingly, holding his hands up and taking a few steps towards the guy. “We don’t want any trouble—” He breaks off when the sound of the guy flicking off the safety cuts into the quiet dark of the parking lot.

“Back up,” he barks. Tommy does, not looking pleased about it. “Flash drive. Now.”

“Tommy,” Ranboo says again. Tommy’s eyes flick towards him, and Ranboo shakes his head almost imperceptibly. They just need to buy themselves some time, distract the guy until one of them can disarm him—

Tommy reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flash drive, throwing it into the air. The guy catches it, tucking it into his own pocket.

“No!” Ranboo snaps. Tommy gives him a look he can’t parse.

“There,” the guy says, smiling. Ranboo wants to bash his face in. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Can we fucking go now?” Tommy asks roughly.

There’s a tense pause, where it looks like the guy is giving it some thought. Finally, he shrugs, gesturing with the gun but not stashing it away. “Go,” he says. “If I see you back here, you both die.”

Tommy doesn’t respond, just reaches out and snags Ranboo by the arm, having to half drag him away towards the car. Ranboo’s half expecting shots to ring out, but they make it out of range safely.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses, pulling out of Tommy’s grip. “We could’ve figured something out! The whole night was a waste.”

“Ranboo, relax.”

“How am I supposed to relax?” Ranboo demands, and then he absolutely does not shriek when the driver’s side door to Tommy’s car crashes open.

“Take it easy, Beloved,” Schlatt says as he gets out of the car. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the cool and collected Lethe.”

“What are you doing here?” Ranboo’s pretty sure he has a headache.

“Making a delivery,” Schlatt says calmly. He digs in the pocket of his rumpled suit for a moment, then tosses something at Tommy. Ranboo looks over.

It’s a flash drive.

He definitely has a headache. “What is going on.”

“Thanks, Schlatt,” Tommy says, pocketing the drive and walking around to the driver’s side of the car with his arms out like he’s going to hug him.

“Nope, don’t even, don’t touch me,” Schlatt says promptly, backpedaling away as Tommy laughs. “You better tell Phil I helped you and that I’m expecting a cut of the profit.”

“You got it.”

“A big cut.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and gets into the car, Ranboo following suit as his brain chugs along to keep up.

Ranboo pulls his door shut and looks over at him, a little bit in love. “You clever idiot.”

Tommy beams at him.

“When’d you trade the drives off with Schlatt?”

“While you were stuffing your face with those little finger sandwiches.”

“Excuse you,” Ranboo says defensively, “I was not stuffing my face , I was very delicately —”

And Tommy is kissing him.

Tommy is kissing him and they’re not pretending for anyone anymore, so it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense but Ranboo is half climbing over the center console to get a better grip on Tommy because he’s scared this is all he’s going to get.

Tommy kisses like he does everything: with his whole self, with all his focus, with enthusiasm, and maybe Ranboo’s still a little buzzed because he’s never gotten half hard from a messy make out before. Not that he’s complaining.

Tommy’s laughing breathlessly when they part for air, smoothing Ranboo’s hair down from where he’d mussed it up in his excitement. “Sorry,” he says. “Just wanted to finally do that when we weren’t, you know, being watched by a weirdo with a gun.”

“You’re still being watched by a weirdo with a gun,” Ranboo feels the need to point out.

“Who’s that?”

“Me.”

Tommy snorts with laughter and leans in to kiss him again, then pauses. “This is,” he says. Pauses again. “This is okay, right?”

Ranboo stares at him. “I’d tell you how long I’ve wanted to kiss you for, but it’d be very embarrassing and you’d never let me live it down, so.”

Tommy looks surprised, which is fucking incredible, really. Maybe Ranboo hasn’t been as obvious as he’d thought. “Really?”

“Are you kidding? Look at you.”

Tommy lets out a disbelieving noise. “Look at me? Look at you .”

Ranboo flushes faintly. From—From the alcohol, surely. “Okay, well, that’s—Shut up. Go back to the kissing.”

“Are you embarrassed?” Tommy coos.

“Shut up . Commence with the kissing. Conversation over, less of the talking thing, more of the lips thing.”

“More of the lips thing,” Tommy echoes, grinning.

“ Shut up ,” Ranboo says helplessly, really starting to blush now.

Tommy’s smile is blinding .