One Shots

Steady, Aim, Misfire

((Bold capitalized text is ASL))

((This is not intended to be shipping! This can be read as romantic, like the canon relationship, or platonically))

((Warnings: panic attack, accidental self injury, blood, storm, flashback, scars, misfiring nerves, food, stimming))

Tubbo stood, leaning up against the counter, the front of his shirt soaked in warm water. He didn't care, choosing to instead focus on scrubbing even harder at the rock solid pasta which had made its home on the baking pan.

A hot pain across his left arm forced him to pause, tensing up until it faded back out. The misfiring nerves along his scars seemed to just do that sometimes. It was as if his body forgot the time he spent healing, insisting that his skin was still the blistering bleeding mess it had been when he died. He shook it off and got back to work, only pausing to push his sleeves up as he realized they'd nearly unraveled into the sink full of water.

Ranboo had been the one to fill it, having long ago realized that Tubbo was so stubborn and impatient that he would spend hours scratching the dishes clean before bothering to soak them first. By now they had long gotten their routine down to a tee; Ranboo would cook and carefully fill the sink, then Tubbo would handle the dishes. This way Tubbo wouldn't burn the house down, and Ranboo wouldn't have to worry about burning himself in the water.

He considered letting it soak for a second time, just this once, but quickly decided against it. His pride simply would not allow it. He set the dish down for a moment nonetheless, leaning his elbows on the edge of the counter and glancing out the window ahead of him. The sun had nearly set, the first of the mobs starting to mill about. The quickly darkening sky lacked even a trace of stars, heavy clouds a sure sign of a coming storm.

Tubbo shivered, dropping his gaze back down to his work. He swallowed hard, hoping to push down the rising dread along with it. He chewed on his lip, tugging at the long-healed split in the right side with his teeth.

The first rumble echoed through the sky, a low growl of thunder which seemed to shake the house itself. No, Tubbo then realized, the house was not shaking. That was just him. A white light flashed outside of the window, sure to be followed by more thunder, yet he refused to acknowledge it.

He didn't know what came over him then. Maybe it was stubbornness. Perhaps stupidity. Whatever it was, it had him convinced that this time would be different.

He would prove once and for all that he wasn't weak, he was strong, and he wasn't afraid. Tubbo tried to force his hands to steady, it was just a little bit of bad weather, after all. How bad could it possibly- Thunder clashed outside, much louder this time. The pan slipped from his hands, shattering against the tile. He nearly fell with it.

He barely registered his own movement as his hands gripped the edge of the counter so tightly it was sure to leave indents. He bit down on his lip so hard that it nearly reopened the scar.

Loud. It was all so goddamn loud. He couldn't feel his hands. He couldn't see the shards of glass all over the kitchen floor. Couldn't feel the water on his shirt. Another flash. More thunder. It was too much. It was so... so... Loud.

He stumbled out of the kitchen, pulling his hair, scratching at his hands, doing anything he could to think, anything to feel or hear or see or anything other than loud and bright and too much- He bumped into something, tumbling over. He landed hard but barely processed it. Through his blurred eyes all he could see was his own shaking hands and red and flashing and it was so loud and everything hurt and oh god he was going to die again.