Chapter Text
Tommy had been warned that this would happen.
"Tommy," Wilbur had said a few weeks ago. Tommy had looked up from where he was scrolling idly through his phone. Wilbur was standing in front of the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping to a melody that nobody else could hear. "Tommy, can you promise me something?"
Tommy had blinked. Wilbur rarely sounded this serious. Jokingly somber, sure, or intense and hyper focused as he worked to put clues together, but never this serious. "Sure, big man," Tommy had replied, sitting up. "What is it?"
Wilbur took a moment to answer, staring out at the middle distance beyond the rain fogged glass. "There's going to be a day when I tell you to run. When I do, I want you to run and not look back. Don't wait for me. Don't turn around to see what's going on. Just run until there's nobody chasing you."
"Wilbur?" Tommy had asked slowly. "What are you on about?"
Wilbur turned to face him. "Can you promise me you won't hesitate, Tommy?" His eyes were sharp under the curly fringe of brown hair. "Can you promise you'll trust me to know the situation? Can you promise me you'll run, no matter what else is happening?"
Tommy looked at him for a moment. "I…yeah. Okay. Sure. But, what brought this on?"
Wilbur shot him a soft smile and turned back to the window. "It's probably nothing. But it'll make me feel better, knowing."
Tommy nodded slowly. "Alright, then. If you say so."
Tommy had been warned that this would happen. But he hadn't expected it to happen so fucking soon.
There were police officers in the study. That wasn't unusual. They were detectives for hire, they worked with the police for more cases than not. Wilbur’s study was where he received clients, be they private citizens or police officers or anyone else who wanted to speak with him. But something in the atmosphere was different. The two officers were standing on either side of the room, in a way that you couldn't see one without turning away from the other. Wilbur, too, was standing, leaning with crafted nonchalance against the wall next to the curtained window instead of reclining in the leather office chair behind his desk. Tommy stepped into the doorway cautiously.
"Ah, Tommy! Good," Wilbur said. "I'm glad you're here." As he spoke he met Tommy's eyes and flicked a tiny glance downward, towards his right hand. "These are officers from the station," he continued. Middle finger crossed over pointer, other three tucked, his hand said. Sign language alphabet. R. "I believe they're here to provide the details of our next case--" Middle and pointer extended, pressed together, other three tucked. U. "-- or to pick up some files from the last one--" Middle and pointer folded over the thumb. N. "--isn't that right, gentlemen?"
Tommy looked up at Wilbur's face, willing his expression to neutrality. What the fuck? Wilbur gave him a tiny, nearly imperceptible, nod.
"Mr. Soot, we need you to come with us--" Left Officer began, but Tommy didn't hear the rest. He turned and ran. He ran, and chaos erupted behind him.
There was a shout and a crash. Tommy snatched his black bag off the hook next to the door (red ribbon on his, yellow ribbon on Wilbur's), thanking every God he could think of that he was wearing shoes. Behind him something thudded loudly to the ground and someone swore. He ripped the door open with one hand and swung the little backpack over his shoulder with the other.
"Stop!" someone shouted behind him, but he didn't look back.
The street outside their dingy apartment was mostly empty. Tommy skipped the steps to the pavement and hit the ground running, quite literally. There was a nondescript black car parked next to the curb and a third officer reached to try and grab him, but Tommy dodged around him and kept running. He was tall as shit, and while he didn't have a lot of muscle mass, he could run faster than most people expected. There were footsteps on the pavement behind him, chasing him. He ducked between a group of people, heart beating hard in his ears.
What the fuck was happening? He'd come downstairs to talk to Wilbur, to see if he would finally explain the case he had been trying to piece together for the past month and a half. Instead, Wilbur had been talking (though 'talking' was a very general term, it felt more like a standoff between two predators) with the police. And now, he was running, because Wilbur had told him to, and the police were chasing him.
Oh, right, idiot, he thought, the police are chasing you. Let's maybe focus on the big problems before we try to sort out the rest of it? Great. Good plan. Okay, so. Now what? He rounded a corner onto a busier street, narrowly avoiding knocking over a woman and her kid. "Stop that boy!" someone shouted behind him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He couldn't run forever. He needed a way to lose his tail. He scanned the streets, forcing himself to keep his breathing steady. A flash of red caught his eye. The Underground. That could work.
Tommy turned abruptly, running across the street, heedless of the screeches and honks that followed him. He pushed himself off the hood of a car that almost hit him and kept going, ignoring the yelling he left in his wake.
The cool air of the train station swallowed him as he flew down the stairs, feet barely touching the steps. He staggered on the landing but didn’t fall. As an afterthought he tugged the hood of his red hoodie up to hide his face as he darted forward, for whatever good that might do him. Maybe he could blend in among the other tube passengers? But, no, the crowds were sparse and the officer chasing him was still within sight. Speaking of which…he risked a glance over his shoulder. Said officer (Officer Dipshit, Tommy decided) was descending the steps hurriedly but not recklessly, one hand hovering near his belt. They made eye contact for the briefest of moments before Tommy forced himself to keep moving. Fuck. This was really not how today was supposed to go.
He jostled a man out of the way and vaulted over the low turnstiles and onto the platform. "Sorry!" he called over his shoulder. There was a rumble under his feet. Tommy grinned. Luck was with him. He skidded around the last corner. Sure enough, a train was getting ready to leave. The lights flashed, and a woman's voice warned him to stay clear of the doors. He could still make it. He clutched the straps of his bag and sprinted.
Fifteen steps. Ten. He narrowly dodged a woman in a suit. Eight. Five. "Stop him!!" Officer Dipshit yelled from somewhere too close to him. Four. Three. The train doors shuddered and began to slide shut. Two steps. One.
Tommy threw himself through the doors and felt them close a hairsbreadth behind him. He spun, facing the platform. The train began to pull away and Tommy stumbled, but he saw Officer Dipshit on the platform, speaking angrily into a walkie talkie at his shoulder. "WHOOOO!!" Tommy yelled. "Take that, bitch! Yeah! Can't catch, me…" he trailed off, pressing his hands to his knees and gulping in air.
That had been close. Too close for comfort, if he was honest. And he wasn't out of the woods yet, he reminded himself. Dipshit would be calling in reinforcements, there would be people waiting for him at the next platform before he could even set foot off the train. He looked up.
There weren't many people in the car, luckily. It was the last car, and there were maybe half a dozen other riders with him. They were, however, all staring at him. He straightened and tossed them his best smile, the one Wilbur had taught him for diffusing tense situations. "Sorry to disturb you, folks," he said, trying to sound confident and not winded or like he was being chased by the police. "That was part of a, uh, routine training exercise." That was what people said in the movies, and it worked for them, right? It wasn't like he had a better idea. "I'll be out your way momentarily, please, uh, enjoy the rest of your trip." He tossed them a halfhearted salute. Nobody looked especially convinced, but nobody tried to stop him as he walked to the back of the car. He would take what he could get.
Right. Step one: lose the tail. He'd done that, he supposed, but if he wasn't careful he was going to end up right back with them. So…so he had to find a way to get off of the train. The underground train, moving at high velocity through dark, narrow tunnels. Easy. Yeah. He could do that. His name was Tommy “Big Man” Danger Careful Kraken Innit, after all. It would be fine.
The door at the rear of the car was locked. That wasn't surprising, but it did make things a little bit harder. Only a little, though. He fished his swiss army knife out of his pocket. The door handle was locked, but if the door didn't have a handle… He knew that removing the entire handle would make it pretty obvious where he had gone, but honestly he didn’t really care. Each second that the train flew down the tracks was a second closer to the next station. He was on a bit of a time crunch. So off the handle came. He set it softly on the seat next to him.
The door opened. Out the back was darkness, faint light outlining the walls around them and the tracks below. Tommy hesitated. Was this really the best idea? Jumping out the back of a moving train?
Can you promise me you'll run?
He swallowed. It would be fine. He'd jumped from higher up than this before. All he had to do was take it in a roll. The walls opened up on one side. A passing junction. Perfect. No time like the present.
He stepped off the train.
His feet hit the ground and he immediately toppled, his inertia fully outweighing his bent knees and good intentions. White hot pain lanced through his shoulder and the world went dark.
When he blinked his eyes back open, the last lights of the train were fading from view. He was lying on the ground, between the tracks in the junction. Gritty cement pressed against his cheek. Not ideal. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his shoulder exploded with pain. He sank back to the ground with a gasp. It echoed in the quiet of the tunnel, a sharp contrast to the fading rumble of the train.
He knew he had to move. It took him a few moments before he was able to raise himself up on one arm and climb to his feet, teeth gritted and fingers shaking. He couldn't move his left arm. Even jostling it slightly was agony. He forced himself to stay upright, to feel his way along the wall in the dim orange safety lights until he found a door. That one, thankfully, was not locked. He stumbled inside.
It was a maintenance hallway. Tommy fumbled for a light switch and found one, illuminating the grimy floors and dust coated pipes on the ceiling. Unused, abandoned by foot traffic, possibly for years. Cool. At least nobody would find him. Carefully, he pulled his backpack off and sank down the wall to sit on the floor. His shoulder throbbed. He tried to focus.
His hoodie was ripped and torn across the front from his fall. Damn. He loved this hoodie. He ripped the last threads and gingerly slid it off, whimpering at the pain whenever he touched his arm wrong. Possible dislocated shoulder, a voice in his head said. It sounded an awful lot like Wilbur. Hard fall resulted in extreme pain and limited range of movement at a joint, but no broken bone visible. Do not attempt to force joint back into place unaided. Immobilize limb and seek medical attention. He grimaced. Well. He'd do what he could.
Some careful rummaging through his backpack revealed a full change of clothes, a zip up jacket, a few shelf stable energy bars, a sealed bottle of water, a little first aid kit, and a cheap wallet with a stack of various notes inside it. Wilbur had called it a "go bag" when he'd introduced them a couple weeks ago. "For if you ever need to leave in a hurry," he had said easily. There was a lot to unpack there (haha, get it? Unpack? Because it was a bag? No, focus, he was focusing, major injury) but he was grateful for Wilbur's foresight. Better this than nothing.
It took him half an hour to fashion a sling out of the remnants of his hoodie and put it on without passing out. He pulled the zip up jacket on and zipped it over his now immobilized arm. The other arm of the jacket flopped loosely so he tucked it into the pocket. It would have to do. He also took a dose of Paracetamol from the first aid kit. Hopefully that would keep him from passing out if he accidentally bumped into something. He pulled the backpack back onto his good shoulder and stood up shakily. He had to get moving. Figure out what to do, where to go. His first order of business was to get to the surface. Then, maybe, he could find a little café or something and sort out the rest of his plan.
It took him another half an hour to find his way out of the maze of unused tunnels. Eventually he popped out onto a new station, just outside of the turnstiles, thankfully in the opposite direction of the platform he had been trying to avoid. From there he made his way up into the streets, trying to blend in with the scant crowds and avoid jostling his arm. The pain in his shoulder made it hard to think, hard to keep moving, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onwards. The door of a cafe, nestled between an office building and a high end restaurant of some kind, seemed like a gift from the heavens.
Tommy stepped inside the little café, relishing the warm air after the windy streets outside. There were a few people sitting inside, some in booths or working at the tables scattered about, but it was far from crowded. He walked up to the counter slowly, careful to keep from bumping his shoulder on anything.
"Welcome to Cuppuccino," the girl behind the counter said in a tone that implied she had said it thousands of times, "what would you like to order?"
"Uh, hi, I'll have a black coffee and an egg and sausage sandwich, please. To go." He’d skipped lunch. And he deserved a hot drink. Tommy pulled some bills out of the wallet as well as he could with one hand and set them on the counter.
"Six eighty seven, it'll be ready in a few minutes," the girl said, counting the bills into the cash register. "Here's your change. Name for the order?"
"Uh…" he shouldn't use his real name, " Henry," Tommy said, taking the change from her. "You have a restroom?"
"Down the hall on the left, you can't miss it."
Tommy nodded his thanks and trudged down the hall. He locked the door of the little toilet behind him and leaned on the sink with his good hand. He looked like shit, he noticed wryly. His hair was wild and tangled and there was a scrape on his left temple. His hands were covered in oil and dust and other kinds of abandoned-hallway-gunk. At least he could fix that.
While he splashed cool water on his face and tried to scrub the muck off, he forced himself to think. The last hour and a half, or however long it had been, was a blur, but…what was actually happening? Why were the police after him? Was it really the police, or was it some other group who had access to uniforms? And why the fuck had Wilbur known this was going to happen?
Because he had known, hadn’t he. It made a certain kind of sense, considering everything. He had warned Tommy to run. He had made the go-bags. He had been working on something for the past couple of months that he'd refused to explain to Tommy. That was probably what all of this was about, if he had to guess. He'd assumed it was a case, since it usually was. There had been one or two times when Wilbur had taken a case without bringing Tommy in on it. It was usually something highly sensitive, or it was something that wasn't worth charging the client for both of them. But…what kind of case would bring the whole damn police force down on their heads?
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint buzz from the backpack. He frowned, shrugging it off carefully and reaching inside. At the bottom of the bag was a small phone, a burner by the look of it. He'd missed it before, but the lit up screen gave it away. He pulled it out.
It was a message, an address, from the only contact in the phone. Even as he opened it another message followed it.
W: Get there ASAP. I'll be there as soon as I can, maybe before you. Don't get followed.
Tommy frowned at the phone. It was obvious that the other contact was another burner, probably one that Wilbur stuffed in his own go bag. But he hadn't seen Wilbur actually leave their apartment, or grab his bag. He typed out a message as well as he could with one hand.
T: prove this is you
W: the stuffed cow you got from the fair when you were six is named henry, not 'theo' like the tag says, and he still lives in the box in the back of your closet. Also you took the last of my cereal this morning.
T: o thank fuck
T: what the actual hell is going on
T: what is that address
W: Stop wasting data. I'll explain when you get here.
T: … see you there i guess
Tommy sighed, stuffing the phone in his pocket. What Wilbur had said was obscure enough to verify that it was him. It could still be a trap, but…Wilbur had earned his trust, no matter what else was happening. Wil was chaotic, and thought faster than anyone could usually keep up with, but he'd always looked out for Tommy, made sure he was okay, kept him from getting hurt when he could. He'd never led Tommy wrong before. Well, aside from that one time, but honestly that wasn't something either of them had seen coming, and it all worked out in the end, so that didn't count.
At least he had a plan now. Eat his food, find that address, get Wil to explain everything to him. It really couldn't be as bad as it seemed. There was a misunderstanding, somewhere, and all he had to do was keep his head down until they worked it out. Simple.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and took one last look in the mirror. It could be worse. At least he didn't look like a homeless man anymore. He shouldered his bag again and walked back out into the café. The girl whose name he didn't care to learn had left his food on the counter, so he collected it and took a seat back in the corner. He didn't want to try managing the sandwich and the drink with one hand while also navigating and staying away from cops. Plus, his shoulder still hurt like a bitch and all he really wanted to do was sit down for a few minutes. So he sat where he could keep an eye on the door and tried to think about anything but the police and the pain in his arm and the gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach. He took a bite of his sandwich. It was good.
A tv on the wall was playing the news quietly. Nobody else was watching it, focused instead on their headphones or books. Something about…dogs? But, no, as he watched the red alert sign popped up. Breaking news.
"Oh, shit," said the girl behind the counter. She produced a remote and bumped the volume up a bit.
"This is a TwitchNews special report," a deep voice said over the music. "Here's Walter Krondale."
"Good day everyone, we are coming to you live with breaking news, don't touch that dial," said the man on the screen. "We are hearing now that there has been a development in the Alex Quackity murder case."
Tommy took another bite of his sandwich. He'd heard about that briefly the other day. The Deputy Mayor had gotten fuckin' bodied over the weekend and the police were still trying to sort it out. It was a shame, really. Tommy'd never met the guy but he seemed nice enough. Big figure on the Mayor's campaign trail, and the Mayor was cool as hell.
"The head of Mayor Schlatt's campaign and his eventual running mate, Mr. Quackity was found dead in his home last Saturday night," the anchor confirmed. "Until now the police have reported no leads on who may have killed him, but we are hearing that not two hours ago the police attempted to arrest a potential culprit."
Tommy's heart sank. He felt nauseous. Surely not.
"Earlier today new evidence was discovered and a warrant was issued for one Wilbur Soot, a private detective working here in downtown. Soot and his associate Thomas Innit evaded police capture and fled after a brief fight. Police say that they are to be considered armed and dangerous, and advise civilians to call this number with any information…"
Tommy set his sandwich down before his shaking fingers could drop it. The rest of the report faded to static in his ears as he stared at the pictures of him and Wilbur that were being projected on the screen. "Oh Gods, Wil, what did you do?" he whispered under his breath. "What did you get us into?"