MCYT Oneshots And Other Random Stuff

It's Never My Time To Die

Um... don't expect the quality of the last oneshot, but this has essentially the same premise but a different afterlife-universe-thing
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"Wake up, Tommy."

The voice cut through the blackness, a familiar warmth in the cold black sea.

Tommy opened his eyes and found himself staring into the face of Wilbur Soot.

"Wilbur?" Tommy sat up so fast a light headache flared in his brain. "But... how are you here?"

Wilbur kneeled next to him and smiled sadly. "The better question is, how are you here?"

"What do you..." Tommy's voice trailed off as he realized where they were.

Polished quartz floors and gleaming stone countertops. Sunlight streaming through the windows. Bubbling potions in racks on the counters.

But the Camarvan was destroyed. It had been for over a month.

And the Camarvan certainly hadn't been this clean nor in use since... since before L'Manburg.

"This isn't real," Tommy insisted.

"No," Wilbur agreed. "It's not real. But it's really happening."

"That doesn't make any sense." Tommy's head snapped around to stare at Wilbur. "And you... you're dead."

Wilbur's smile vanished. "That's the thing, Tommy. So are you."

So are you.

The words bounced around his head, impossible to comprehend.

"But I can't be dead," Tommy whispered. He couldn't be. His life was going so well. He was starting a hotel, Tubbo was off happy in Snowchester, Dream was in prison—

Dream. Prison.

It all started to come back.

"A potato," Tommy spluttered, outraged. "Dream beat me to death with a potato!"

Wilbur visibly stifled his laughter. "He did. My death was better."

Tommy crossed his arms. "It was not! You forced Phil to kill you!"

The words killed the humor of the conversation, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Wilbur offered Tommy his hand and pulled him up. He turned and traced a finger along one of the stone countertops. "Remember the days before L'Manburg, when we'd spend hours here together?"

"I do," Tommy recalled, his voice suddenly thick. "I remember, Wil."

There was a sudden knock at the door, and Tommy started. "Who—" he began. But Wilbur just shrugged. "It's only Tubbo," he said casually. "He comes by every afternoon."

"Tubbo!?" Tommy shouted. Tubbo was here? But— but that meant— Tommy leaped for the door and tore it open.

Tubbo stood in the threshold, a happy smile on his face. There was no sign of the scars he'd gotten during his execution, or the gray hairs he'd grown due to his stress as L'Manburg's president. His whole body was... translucent, faded. "Is Tommy here?" he asked cheerfully.

"What? Tubbo, I'm right here." Tommy reached out to shake Tubbo's shoulders, but his hands passed right through Tubbo's indistinct form. Tubbo didn't even blink.

"It's not really him, Tommy," Wilbur said behind him. Tommy jumped. He'd forgotten about the other man.

Wilbur stepped in front of Tommy, and his form... flickered, his clothes shifting from the trenchcoat and bloodstained shirt Wilbur had been wearing when he died to his old black jacket.