Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy’s having a good day.

He sits in the dark of an alleyway, tucked away in a corner that falls mostly out of view of the main street unless you’re looking in at the right angle. Perched on some old forgotten crate, hands covered in syrup from some sort of sticky-bun thingy. 

Carriages pulled by fancy horses trot past, flanked by well dressed guards and followed close behind by dancers and musicians. The well dressed riders waving down at the people as they pass by. The buildings above strung roof to roof with banners and the air thick with the smell of food, roadside stalls propped up along the corners just out of the path of the parade hawking baked goods, spun sweets, and grilled things on sticks.

He doesn't know exactly what they're celebrating. Something to do with the prince, maybe a birthday. It doesn't really matter. Royalty will come up with any old reason for a party, he thinks.

He hums, kicking his heels against the old wood of his perch. It’s a good spot. There’s no sun in his eyes and nobody’s going to bother him to move, and it’s high enough he can just about see what’s going on over the heads of the crowds.

Tommy likes festivals; they're bright and colorful, and it’s funny to look at the stupid things people will run around in in the name of looking rich enough to be important. Not to mention everyone’s so busy cheering that a good lot of them won’t even notice him creeping around to snatch something from the less well-watched stalls.

He wipes the syrup off on his pants, leaving a trail of sticky crumbs down the leg. 

He hadn’t even had to bother risking the stalls for that one, someone had bought it and set it down as they’d rifled for something in their purse. He was gone before they’d even looked up, an easy score. It had barely been touched, too. A bit smushed, and it had a few bites taken out of it. But still just as tasty as one he’d have had to hide in his shirt. Less messy too.

Yup, today it’s all coming up Tommy.

His eyes dart from the carriages and musicians, watching everyone shuffle around. Sunday-best dresses and shined up shoes, some of them are pushing through the crowd trying to get a better look at the carriages and fancy hats, or follow around with the music. 

There's a flash of painted metal, reflecting sunlight into Tommy's eyes, and he squints.

A group of guards have dispersed through the throng, not the brightly dressed swordsmen following the carriages, but real proper guards, armor edged in blue instead of the usual plain metal. Pushing past the people in a very official way.

Tommy narrows his eyes, watching them move. Heads snapping from side to side as they wade through pedestrians. They're not very subtle, the guard. Folks eye them nervously as they tromp past.

He shuffles further into the shadows. They're not looking for him, but he knows better than to catch their eye either way. Nothing good comes from being noticed by people in charge.

There’s a flicker, behind one of the guards. a man darts into view, shoulders low, holding something close to his chest. He eyes the guard for just a moment, but they keep their eyes forward and the man slips past unbothered as he breaks from the crowd, heading directly toward Tommy’s hideaway.

Tommy freezes, barely daring to breathe as the man all but runs into the alley. The item he holds so close is, upon closer inspection, a pack. Dark, lumpy burlap clutched to his chest like it's his own child. He looks around, eyes skirting past Tommy’s hiding spot before shoving the bag in a nook between two crates with an incriminating jingle. 

One last look and he darts away, merging back into the crowd.

Tommy waits for a moment, eyes scanning the street for any sign of the man. Or the guards for that matter, before jumping down and pulling the pack out from its hiding spot.

It’s heavy, really heavy. Tommy isn’t strong- actually no, scratch that, he’s incredibly strong. The strongest. But this is heavy even by his very high standards. It jangles loudly as he drags it out into the open, and he swallows. 

He shoots one last look over his shoulder at the entrance to the alley, and opens the bag.

His breath catches in his throat.

It’s jewelry, all of it. Glittering gold and silver, necklaces and bracelets. Almost all inset with gems of some sort. Precious and beautiful and most importantly, expensive .

He carefully reaches in, pulling out a bracelet. It’s weighty, and the gems glint in the dim alley light.

If this guy comes back and finds his bag gone, he’ll kill Tommy. Or maybe worse. Stuff like this makes people try to make other people into lessons, proof of the tried and true rule that you don't snatch someone else's takings. Honour amongst thieves, or else. Honestly, it's a rule Tommy's never much been invested in. If you're dumb enough to leave something where he can take it, it's a good as his. 

That doesn't change the fact that the man can find him. And he would if Tommy tried to sell it. Word spreads of that sort of thing, Tommy’s seen it happen. A few loose lips ending up with a loose head.

He could stash it, sell it off bit by bit. But even if he could drag it far enough to hide without getting seen, selling this much is bound to get him noticed no matter how well you space it out. Especially if someone’s got eyes out and knows what to look for.

There are small things, though. Stuff that’s fallen to the bottom, harmless and easy to miss. Easy to forget if it was ever noticed at all. And all expensive enough to feed him for weeks.

Tommy grins.

A ring, a simple chain necklace, some earrings. He’s not stupid, or greedy. All scooped right from the bottom of the bag. They fit neatly into his pockets, a comforting weight at his hip. The bag is shoved as carefully as he can back where he’d found it, almost like it had never been disturbed at all before he ducks away. Darting out of the alley, away from the main road and the crowds down the back streets. 

They’re empty, naturally. Almost everyone in the city is out having fun, which leaves Tommy plenty of time to get away unseen. Just in case.

Everything really is turning up Tommy today.

The music has reduced to a distant hum by the time Tommy finally finds a good place to examine his prizes: a small alcove just out of sight of the street.

He peers around one final time before fishing around in his pockets. Pulling out each piece one by one.

The earrings are teardrop shaped, golden and dangly with large emeralds in the centers. They jingle softly when he shakes them.

The necklace is simpler, a basic chain with another little emerald at the end. Tommy holds it up to the light, watching it bounce off the stones in glittering shards of green. Even in the dim alley light he swears they seem to glow.

The ring is the least fancy. A small gold band with pale red markings drawn around it, inside and out. Tommy thinks it might be writing, but the letters don’t look right. Not that he really knows his letters well enough to tell, though.

He turns it over in his hands, running his thumb over the grooves in the writing. It’s cool against his skin.

He sort of wants to try it on.

It won’t fit, of course. His hands are small and bony, and this is a ring clearly made for an adult. But he likes the idea of it. Of having it nearby, on his hand where he can run his finger over the writing and feel the grooves on the pad of his thumb. It’s silly, but he’s having a good day. And he wants to relish the spoils a little bit. 

He slips it on his index finger, it knocks against his knuckle as it drops onto his hand. it's so big that if he tilted his hand downwards at all it would fall right off.

He hums, running his thumb along the band. It twirls uselessly around his finger, the markings on the inside chafing against his skin. 

It’s pretty.

Maybe he’ll sell it last. 

There’s a shuffle from the entrance to the alcove; Tommy jerks back. Hands pulling close to his chest to hide his prize.

A guard stands at the entrance. Peering around warily. There’s green painted along the edges of his helmet instead of the blue and it’s got a funny shape to it. Different, like he’s important.

Tommys breath catches in his throat.

The guard's head swivels. And stops, eyes peering through the shadows directly at him. Tommy freezes, pressing against the corner of his alcove. Hand hidden against his chest, metal cool against his finger.

The guard pauses, looking around one more time before they give him a polite nod. Disappearing off into the street

Tommy lets out a the breath he'd been holding. Flopping briefly against the wall, before he uncurls himself. Careful to keep his hand up so he doesn’t drop the ring into the dirt below-- and stops.

Because the ring is no longer hanging off his hand. It’s sitting neatly on his index finger, perfectly sized like it was made for him.

What the fuck.

He reaches up, and tries to pull it off. It doesn’t budge, stuck fast.

He pulls harder, and it feels like he’s pulling on his own skin. He bites at it with his teeth. Tries to wiggle it off, pulls and pulls and then he yanks and it hurts . 

This can’t be happening.

It didn’t fit him less than a minute ago, and now it’s stuck. It’s stuck and Tommy’s wearing a big ‘I stole something and I'm a fucking idiot ’ sign on his hand . Forget the guards, it’s expensive enough that if someone sees him wearing it he’s dead . He doubts many people would let him be once they realize it's stuck.

He tucks his hands under his arms. This is a nightmare, this is an actual nightmare. It has to be. Because in real life people don’t get jewelry stuck to them like this. Rings stay the size they were when you put them on, and don’t make you face the possibility of losing fingers via some greedy bitch in an alley.

He pinches himself. It hurts. This is not a nightmare. Not in the literal sense at least- it’s definitely a metaphorical nightmare. Tommy’s worst nightmare, specifically.

This is the worst day.

Ok, it’s ok. He can do this. He can handle this. He can figure something out. He’s Tommy, he’s the smartest bitch on the block and he can figure this out.

He keeps his hands tucked away and out of sight as he hurries off down the abandoned street, heading towards the docks.

He’s got this.

He doesn’t know how the guards found him.

For one thing, nobody should even have been looking for him. He hasn’t technically done anything and nobody knows about the ring, or the rest of it for that matter. He hasn't told anyone about it, he doesn't even have anyone to tell . 

He’d "found" a pair of ratty gloves and has been wearing them religiously every moment he isn’t trying to pry the stupid thing off his finger. He’s been careful, he’s been smart.

But now they’re here. Tromping around his spot, an abandoned building by the docks, left to rot in the sea air. Infused with the smell of old fish and mould, half-covered by a partially collapsed ceiling. Nobody goes here but Tommy. It’s quiet and empty and it's his .

He lays under the rotten old bed and watches heavy metal boots clank past. His hands shake no matter how hard he tries to make them stop, the air is cool and clammy and the damp floorboards feel like they’re leeching the life out of him.

They can’t be looking for him, it doesn’t make sense. He hasn’t even done anything.

It's not fair.

There’s a small ding, like the chime of a bell, clear and high.

“Is that confirmation, sir?” One of the guards asks; a woman's voice.

“I think so. It’s weak, you were right. They’re probably spread halfway around the city by now-- I’ll say there’s at least one here though,” says a man, cool and confident. Tommy swallows.

Confirmation? One of what? What the fuck?

“Look around, maybe try under the floorboards. If there's something here we'll find it.”

Tommy freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

He can’t run, they’re right here. They’re searching the room and he has no time at all before one of them has the bright idea to look under the stupid bed-- objectively the shittiest hiding spot, goddammit Tommy what were you thinking -- and find him.

His eyes dart from rusted frame to rotten boards. He’s the only thing under the bed, a sitting duck. He needs a plan, he needs a way out, he needs--

A helmeted head peers under the bed.

Tommy stops dead, his heart in his throat as he stares into the visor. The visor stares back.

“Sir--” they begin.

Tommy kicks the helmet, the sole of his foot connecting with hard metal with a solid clank. It hurts, but not enough to stop him.

There’s a yelp as they fall backwards, their colleagues calling out in alarm as they clatter to the floor, flailing and swearing like a flipped turtle. Tommy scrambles out the other side of the bed, making a mad dash for the nearest window. Dodging grabbing hands as he grasps the sill, pulling himself up--

An arm loops around his waist and he screams as his feet leave the ground. Lashing out towards his attacker, fists and elbows smacking uselessly against hard metal.

“Holy shit --” they yelp, struggling to keep a hold as he wiggles and thrashes. 

“Fuck you, let me go --” he shrieks,

“He fucking-- he kicked me! Prime--” the other guard sits up. Holding onto his helmet.

 “-- I didn’t do shit you bitch, put me down--” Tommy screams, trying to push the arm away, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Captain!” the one holding him yells as they grab his arms, holding them tight against his chest. Tommy screams, he screams like he’s being murdered, because he might as well be. Nothing good can come of being grabbed by the guard, especially when you have two definitely-stolen items in your pockets and one all but glued to your hand.

“Calm down-- Prime we’re not gonna--” the guard says as a new helmet appears in his vision. Green tinted, funny shaped, important. Tommy kicks his legs fruitlessly, smacking his heels against the metal on his captors leg. “Do we just wait until he wears himself out or--?” they ask.

Green helmet shakes his head. “Just, give me a second.” He says reaching up to his head. Tommy watches in vague bewilderment as he pulls off his helmet, shooting Tommy a smile. “It’s alright. Ok? We’re not going to hurt you, I promise. Is this your place?” He asks, not unkindly. Tommy snarls.

“Fuck you.” He says, only a little winded.

“Fair enough. Look, we just need to ask you a few questions. And then we’ll leave you alone, alright?”

Tommy glares at him, and the man seems to take it as a prompt to keep speaking.

“Since this is your spot, you probably notice when people come in and out of here, right? Think maybe you could tell us if you saw anything weird around? Maybe someone’s moved your stuff?” His voice is soft, like he’s talking to a little kid. Tommy bristles. 

“I’m not tellin’ you shit, bitch. Let me go.” he snarls. The man holds his hands up as if to surrender. Something clinks against the palm of his glove. Some sort of necklace thing he’s got wrapped around his hand. It’s a simple leather cord wound around a stone, bright blue and glittering. Reflecting impossible pinpricks of light against the metal. 

He doesn't get long to stare at it before there's a chime, loud and clear like a bell, and the stone flashes. The man glances between him and the stone. He raises an eyebrow at Tommy.

“Niki, check his pockets for me.” 

Tommy shrieks as the guard pats him down. Pulling out the earrings and necklace. The stone chimes again, louder this time. And the man's eyes go back to Tommy as he curls in on himself as much as he can with the woman still holding him.

“Could you tell me where you got these?” he says carefully, eyes scanning Tommy’s face. He presses back, the cold metal of the other guard's chestplate making him shiver. 

“I didn’t steal shit,” he blurts, voice hoarse. “Fuckin’-- saw some weirdo hiding them.” He slumps in the guard's arms, dropping his eyes to the floor. “Just grabbed a few I didn’t think he’d miss. Little shit. Thought I’d just pawn ‘em.” He runs his thumb absently over where the ring sits under his glove. The man's eyes dart down to his hand for just a moment before returning to his face. Tommy gulps, and forces his hand still.

“Could you describe the man who dropped them off?” he asks. 

Tommy shrugs. “I ‘unno.” he says despondently. “Didn’t get a good look. Had a hood ‘n shit.”

“I see.” There’s a long pause. “If we let you go, could you show us where you found them?”

Tommy pauses. The offer’s good, too good. He just got caught with stolen goods in his pocket. But he doesn’t really have enough options to weigh against it at the moment. He doesn’t actually have any options at all.

He nods.

“Niki, let him go.”

The guard drops him unceremoniously to the ground.

He scrambles to his feet, scrubbing at his face and glaring up at the man as he puts his helmet back on, returning his attention to his guards.

“He kicked me!” the one Tommy kicked whines, but a look from the green helmet makes him shut his mouth with a click.

“Enough, Schlatt. That’s two down, god knows how many more, but it’s enough. And now,” he looks down at Tommy “We have a lead.”

Tommy watches the guards as they shuffle around the alley, prodding ineffectually between old boxes and even older garbage.

It had taken some looking, but they’d found it. And Tommy had even shown them the right crates to look around. Obviously they weren’t finding shit, the guy probably wasn’t dumb enough to just leave his things lying around. But that isn’t Tommy's problem. He’s done his part, and all he needs is for the captain to stop hovering over his head and let him go already.

He isn’t holding onto Tommy, but he’s close enough to grab him if he tries to bolt. Which is bullshit, Tommy’s done his part and now he’d like to find somewhere to be miserable about it all. Thank you very much. 

The guards return, shaking their heads.

“Nothing sir, any evidence is long gone.”

Green helmet sighs, swearing softly.

“Alright, well. It was worth a shot.” he mutters before turning back to Tommy. Crouching carefully down to his level. Tommy resists the urge to step back as he holds out a hand. 

“I would like to thank you for your help,” he says solemnly. Tommy snorts-- as if he’d had a choice. Green helmet pretends not to notice. “This was probably the best lead we’ve had all day.”

Tommy stares at the hand, shiny rock glowing in the palm.

He glares at it, flexing his hand. He’s not stupid, he’s not going to shake it. It's going to ding and tell Green helmet about the ring, and then he'll never get away.

Green helmet sighs. His hand darts forward, snatching Tommy’s in an iron grip. The rock chimes, loud as a bell, and Green helmet moves his hold to grab Tommy’s wrist. Ignoring his shrieks as he pulls off his glove. Revealing the bright polished gold against his dirt coated skin.

“Honestly kid, you’d think you’d know better than to try that,” he says with the air of a scolding. Tommy tries to wrench his hand away. “Prime-- I’m sorry I can’t let you keep it. Just--” he pulls at the ring, tugs at it as Tommy tries to wriggle away. He pulls especially hard, and Tommy yelps, feet slipping out from under him and landing him on his ass. The hand holding the ring stops tugging, Green helmet staring at him for a long moment. 

“Ah.” He says, voice flat.

He stands, and Tommy stands with him. Wrist still held in a vice-like grip. 

“Change of plans, we’re going straight back to the castle,” he says, pulling Tommy closer. The guards nod, immediately falling into formation around them. Tommy just sags. This is it, he’s being arrested. They're going to-- he’s-- he doesn’t even know what’s going to happen. Maybe they'll just arrest him. Throw him in the dungeon until he’s old and grey.

He isn’t going to cry. Big men don’t cry. He’s going to escape, he’s going to find an opening and run.

Green helmet's metal glove is tight around his wrist. And his men press in close around Tommy, boxing him in.

Tommy sniffles. And refuses to let the tears fall.

The castle is huge. Tommy’s only ever seen it from afar, sitting on top of the hill. The peak of the kingdom or some shit. It always looked sort of normal sized from far away, like if he got closer it’d just be a really big house.

But the walls around it are nearly a fortress, as tall as the ones around the city. And the spires reach up even beyond that , flags flying high in the sky.

He peers around the legs of his captors as he’s led in through a side gate, trying to catch a glimpse of the inside.

It’s fancy, all fancier than he's ever seen in his life. Even the servants are fancy. All dressed up in whatever the nicest stuff you can make work clothes is, chatting and laughing, bustling through the courtyard as they go about their daily lives. 

Green helmet waves someone over and starts giving them curt directions. They glance briefly between Tommy and Green helmet, before nodding seriously.

He’s distracted now. But his guards are watching Tommy like hawks. Eyes following his every move. Tommy wonders vaguely what the dungeons are like. Based on the castle so far, he bets even the dungeons have fancy things, maybe they’re even better than his Spot. That’s one good thing to come out of all of this, the dungeons might be nice. He’s heard prisoners even get fed on the regular.

That is if they actually throw him in the dungeons and don't just take off his hand and send him on his way.

He shakes the thought away, it's not gonna happen. If they try to take his hand he'll-- he'll-- he'll do something. He's not sure what yet, but he's not going to just lay down and take whatever they dish at him. He's a big man, he can get through anything.

The person Green Helmet was talking to runs off. And Tommy is pulled along as Green Helmet follows behind them.

Tommy drags his feet, lagging behind as much as he can until they’re practically dragging him through the palace halls.

Green Helmet huffs, but says nothing.

They stop outside a pair of large oak doors, two guards stationed at either side who nod at green helmet and his squad as they push past into the room.

It’s big, fancy. As if literally anything in the castle is anything but fancy. The walls are edged with tapestries and shelves full of papers and books. There’s a fireplace in the corner beside a long table.

Three people sit at the end of it in big, high backed chairs  Tommy only really pays attention to the one at the head of the table though.

He’s thin, old, blond. Blue eyes, whatever. Who gives a shit, because on his back are wings. Actual, real-life fucking wings. Sleek and black and flexing slightly against his back because they’re real, and attached to him.

The man looks up from his conversation, standing as they enter the room. He opens his mouth to speak-- and then his eyes land on Tommy. 

There’s a very, very long pause.

“Sam,” he says, addressing Green Helmet-- Sam. “That's a child.” His voice is tired, but not unkind. Tommy bristles.

“I’m not a fuckin’ child.” He snaps, glaring at wings guy. Wings guy raises an eyebrow, looking between him and Sam.

“I see,” he says slowly. Eyes focusing on Sam, expression carefully blank. 

“We found him by the docks, sire. He had some of the stolen foci on him-- he apparently saw the thief stash them and decided to take the opportunity.” Sam says, clipped and professional. The winged man straightens.

“He saw the thief?” He asks. Eyes scanning Tommy's face like he can read the secrets out of his expression. Tommy glares at him.

“No-- nothing helpful anyway. And the stash is long gone,” Sam says with a shake of his head. The winged man slumps again, learning against the table.

“May I ask why you’ve brought him here then?” the man asks, running a hand down his face.

Sam sighs, holding out Tommy’s hand towards the wing dude. Who pauses, before pushing himself upright and crossing the room to crouch in front of Tommy, eyes scanning over the ring with an intensity that makes Tommy want to shrink. The man looks important, really important. Tommy swallows.

“Ah,” the man says quietly, a hand brushing against Tommy's. Tommy's heart jitters in his chest; he jolts, hand twitching in Sams hold as he tries to pull away. The winged man pulls back with a start.

“I didn’t fuckin-- I don’t want it, it’s stuck I can’t--" Tommy blurts, his stupid voice wobbling against his will. "I just put it on for a second ‘n it shrunk and now it won’t come off .” He yanks again, trying to wrench his hand away from Sam's grasp.

The man puts up his hands placatingly, his wings pulling up against his back. Like he’s trying to shrink.

“It’s alright mate, you're not in trouble. I imagine you’re as unhappy with the situation as everyone else," His voice is soft and careful. He tilts his head slightly,  “Probably a bit more, honestly,” he adds with a small smile. He leans forward, just a bit. Tommy shrinks back. “What’s your name?” he asks, smiling encouragingly. 

Tommy swallows. Sam's hand squeezes his wrist ever so slightly; a silent warning.

“Tommy,” he says, forcing his voice steady. It doesn’t work.

The man beams. “Tommy, that’s a good name. My name’s Phil.” He talks like he’s speaking to a scared animal. Like Tommy’s going to bolt at any moment, like he even can . “Can you tell me how old you are?”

Tommy hesitates.

That’s a bit of a question, isn’t it?

Tommy did have a number once, a vague thing they rattled off when they sat him and the other boys down with strangers who might become family. He’d forgotten it, when it had shut down, because while most of the other boys were sent off to other places, he found himself cut loose from the herd. Forgotten in the shuffle. And then he’d had more important things to worry about than a stupid number.

Tommy freezes, then turns his lip up in a snarl. All warnings forgotten as he snaps,

“None of your business, bitch.”

The room seems to freeze for a moment. Sam's grip on his wrist tightens ever so slightly. 

Tommy suddenly feels like he’s made a misstep. 

Silence. Phil blinks, expression slack with shock, then--

He snorts out a laugh, face melding into a small smile. The grip loosens, and the room breathes again.

“Alright, alright. Fair enough. Can I see your hand for a moment, Tommy?” He asks carefully, holding out his hand. Sam releases Tommy’s wrist, and he pauses, looking between the soldiers and Phil. The soldiers still stand solidly behind him, tall and imposing. Too close together for him to make for the door. He might be able to make it past Phil, but after that there's nowhere to go.

He cautiously places his hand in Phil's outstretched palm.

His hands are warm, calloused, and gentle as he examines the ring stuck to Tommy’s hand. He hums, staring at the ring like he can see right into the middle of it. All the way into whatever sits inside the metal bits and beyond them.

After what feels like ages, he pulls back, looking resigned.

“Yeah that’s pretty stuck on there, mate,” he says with a sigh. He looks like he’s going to say something else when one of the people from the table snorts. Tommy looks up.

It's a man, a teenager maybe. He’s big, broad. Looks like he could throw Tommy halfway down the palace halls without breaking a single sweat. He’s also got pink hair, clearly dyed, with some darker color poking out the roots. Rich bitch can afford to color his hair, fancy.

“Looks like we’ll have to cut it off then,” he says flatly,  leaning on one hand and looking at Tommy like he’s bored. He says it so casually, like the suggestion of maiming is just another day. Tommy freezes, air catching in his lungs as ice crawls through his veins.

He screams, wrenching his hand back from Phil. The room erupts in shouts as the guards begin grabbing at his arms. He flails, kicking out wildly at his attackers. 

“-- Techno-- ”

“-- going to hurt himself--”

“--ust a joke--”

“--oh my god--”

“--e fucking kicked me again--”

“--let him go, he’s going to hurt himself if he keeps--”

Tommy screams again, and the hands release him, dropping him to the floor. He scrambles forward, darting between the winged man's legs towards the back of the room. Not bothering to look back when Phil yelps, or at the clank of metal against stone as the guards take off after him.

He reaches the far wall and banks a sharp turn, diving under the table as hands grasp at his clothes. 

The two at the table yell, and more hands reach under, grabbing madly at him as he scrambles forward. A hand snags his shirt and he’s jerked back with a shriek. Hands clawing at the hard stone floor as he’s pulled into someone’s arms, kicking and screaming. He’s not going to let them chop off his finger, he’s not .

“-- Prime he smells- -” a voice above him shouts, and he jerks, head straining down. Sinking his teeth into one of the arms of his captor.

They scream, dropping Tommy to the floor.

Tommy hits the ground hard, taking a moment to reorient before scrambling forward.

He doesn’t get far before a new set of hands pull him up by the shoulders. He wails, trying to wrench out of their grip.

“Please calm down--” Phil's voice calls over the din, spinning Tommy around so he’s facing him. “-- Tommy, please, I promise nobody is cutting anything off.” He has Tommy’s shoulders held tight enough to restrain, but not enough to hurt. His face is tight with-- worry? Regret? Fear? Tommy doesn't care. He isn't losing shit. He'll bite everyone in this room if he has to.

Phil seems to catch that train of thought, arms inching just out of range of Tommy's teeth.

He stops, panting. Limbs going still as he stares distrustfully at Phil, who gives him a strained smile.

“We don’t want to hurt you. What you’ve got on is important, yes. But we can remove it without hurting you. I’m sorry my son scared you.” He shoots a look behind him, where Pink Hair is looking down at the table, picking at its surface. Avoiding his eyes. “He should have known better than to speak so carelessly.”  He sighs, looking back to Tommy. “It may take some time-- your situation is a bit... unusual . But we can remove it without harming you. And you can stay here until it’s taken care of. Lord knows I think you’ve earned that after this mess.”

Tommy gapes at him. Is he serious? This has to be a trap, it has to. There’s no way they’re letting him off this easy. 

“Are you serious?” says a voice above him, parroting Tommy’s own thoughts on the matter. Tommy looks up.

He looks like a teenager. Dressed just as fancy as the rest, well cared for brown hair, a weird hat on his head. His nose wrinkles as he stares down at Tommy, holding his arm protectively against his chest. 

“Are you seriously going to let him stay here? He bit me! And he smells like he crawled out of a hole,” he snaps, glaring down at Tommy. Tommy glares right back. “The little shit's possessed .”

“Wilbur.” Phil levels the fancy teenager, Wilbur, with a thoroughly unimpressed look. “I’m almost certain I've raised both you boys better than this.” He says it flatly. “He’s had a hard day. He'll get a bath, and I think Sam and the rest can keep him out of too much trouble.” He glances down at Tommy, giving him a small smile. 

“He’ll be just fine.”

Tommy is not fine.

Tommy has had baths, cold water and harsh soap that made his skin burn back at the orphanage. It was once a week every week before people came to peer at them like little animals in a cage. He hates them, he hates them with a burning passion. 

He’d tried to make a break for it when they’d brought him into the washroom, but Sam is apparently on Tommy wrangling duty, and had caught him before he’d even made it into the hall.

And ok, the water wasn’t cold. And the soaps smelled weird, but not bad. The tub had a bunch of bubbles for some reason but it was kinda fun. But the maids and company he could do without, because apparently it’s their job to make sure he’s cleaned ‘properly’ and that includes washing under his nails, behind his ears. Scrubbing his hands half raw and then snipping his hair down until it’s cropped short and sticking up in uneven little chunks. Claiming it was too matted to be saved.

He shrieks, he curses, he swears. He splashes them and actually manages to bite one during the whole hair-cutting process. But they don’t relent until the water’s been changed twice and gone cold once, and he’s sitting on the floor of the washroom bundled in a towel like a little kid. Someone is drying what’s left of his hair with another towel and if looks could kill this room would be a massacre.

They took his clothes too. Sam even goes so far as to sound affronted when he asks for them back. He tells Tommy they’ve been burned, and Tommy calls him a bitch. He deserves it, he should know better than to burn other people's things.

They do give him his other things back. Three copper coins, and a little wooden cow that fits into his palm. He’d found it lying in a gutter one day-- he thinks one of those crafts trader people dropped it. He calls it Henry. 

His new clothes hang a bit loose, but everything usually does. Red hooded tunic over a white shirt. Plain pants, and some old boots that are about a size too big. Sam says he’ll grow into them. Which he likes, because it implies he gets to keep them.

After that he’s led to his room. His room. A room he gets to stay in all alone without sharing with anyone else for as long as he's here.

It’s huge, or huge by Tommy’s standards. There’s a bed, with a real mattress full of real stuffing. Not straw or anything like that. Sam tells him to take his shoes off before crawling on the bed, but he ignores him; after all, it’s his for now, and he can do what he likes. There’s proper lanterns, even a whole wardrobe off to the side-- empty, naturally, but Tommy could fit in it at least three times over, and that counts for something in his book. There’s a little table with a pair of chairs, and the window has a view of the castle grounds below. And if he lifts himself high enough on the sill, he can even spot the city over the wall. 

Once he’s thoroughly explored his new space, and made Sam turn around so he can hide his things-- under his mattress, right where he’d always hide things so the other boys wouldn't take them-- Sam lets in a maid. Who leaves him a tray with a bowl full of thin soup, more broth than anything else. And a large slice of fresh bread.  it’s the best thing Tommy’s ever eaten. It’s also probably some of the most he’s ever eaten at once in a very long time.

He eats fast enough it makes his stomach cramp, but he forces it down. He can’t imagine how long this is going to last, so he plans to take advantage of it all as much as possible.

Sam leaves him be while he eats, leaving with a small sound of barely disguised disgust. Good riddance. Tommy’s wrist still hurts from being dragged halfway across the city.

Barely a few minutes after Sam leaves Tommy finds himself blinking sluggishly at the freshly emptied bowl in front of him. He probably should have saved some for later, in case they decide he doesn't need that much. Or try to make him behave by making him skip meals. But he was hungry , and he feels weirdly soft after the bath. Everything is all cushioned and downy. He feels comfortable.

The sky has only barely begun to darken, orange casting out across the skyline. But Tommy’s done quite a bit today. His stomach is warm and full, limbs heavy with exhaustion, and he can’t actually imagine anything more appealing in life at this moment than crawling into bed and sleeping forever. 

Which is stupid-- he should be on guard. There’s no way they’re just letting him get away with this.

But the bed is the softest thing he’s ever sat on in his life. And the little warning shriek in his head is dimmed by the call of sleep.

He slips down from his seat and shuffles over to the bed, not bothering to take off his stupid shoes. Which isn’t very comfortable, but he supposes it’ll annoy Sam, which counts for something. Curling up on top of the blankets, he shuts his eyes.

Sleep claims him easily.

Tommy is sitting in some sort of workroom. It's moderately sized, made cramped by piles of old books, brewing equipment, and shit Tommy can't imagine the use for Stained tables and an old couch edge along the wall in fancy dark colors, covered by an alcove of bookshelves. 

Phil has him perched on an old table beside a stack of books he'd haphazardly shoved to the side to make room. He'd set him there and told him to wait there while he worked, or until he 'needed his help,' whatever that means. Tommy isn't sure what Phil could need from him, he's definitely not fetching things or whatever. He's not his fucking assistant. 

He doesn't make Tommy... do anything, though. At one point he challenges Tommy to stay as still as he can while he grabs something from another room. Which is stupid, but Tommy definitely wins at it. Sits the stillest until Phil comes back and tells him he’s done great, because of course he did. He’s Tommy . But he lets Phil tell him how well he did anyway, because he’s nice like that.

Aside from that moment, Phil mostly just ignores him, rustling around the workdesk, old and sturdy with a large space in the middle surrounded by colorful bottles and funny powders, crystals and anything else you might associate with spells and magical things that would be exciting if he bothered to use them at all instead of staring at giant old books. Sometimes glancing up like he's making sure Tommy hasn't moved. Honestly, it's boring as shit.

Tommy had been incredulous at first of the whole spellbook thing. Because magic isn’t supposed to do weird shit like this-- oh alright, magic is weird shit. But it’s just supposed to make expensive medicines and help you light the fire when the logs are too wet. Not... whatever this is. But when he points that out, Phil just stares at him like he has two heads, and says that what Tommy's described is barely magic at all. And he can't even give a good answer on what it's supposed to be. Just 'something-something careful manipulation of the natural laws' ect, ect.

Tommy doesn't think a king should be manipulating any laws. If he thinks they're so dumb, he should just change them.

Phil just laughs and says that's not how it works.

"What's with the wings?" Tommy asks after what feels like hours of sitting and watching Phil read his big stupid books. side-eyeing the wings tucked neatly against Phil's back, Phil quirks an eyebrow at him

"May I ask what you mean by that?"

"I dunno, where'd you get 'em."

“I grew them,” Phil says lightly, peering down at an earring on the table, book in hand. Tommy huffs.

“Why?”

“They make it easier to do magic.” He waves his book vaguely, then pauses, wings fluttering vaguely behind him. “And I think they’re quite nice.”.

“You look like a bird,” Tommy grumbles. Phil hums in response, eyes focused on his book. “Like one of those big dumb ones that sit in the water and chase people ‘n shit. ”

“Mhm.” Phil writes something down, his attention completely lost to Tommy. 

“Yeah, like a goose.” Tommy says, kicking his feet over open air. 

Phil nods. “I see.”

“Or a chicken--” Tommy continues, and proceeds to run through all the birds he can think of for a minute or so. It’s a short list. And he runs out of actual insults pretty fast. He makes up a few with rude names just to fill it out, but Phil doesn’t even look up, too busy poking around his workspace to pay him any mind besides the occasional vague acknowledgment.

Tommy groans. He doesn’t need to be here for this, Phil can stare at his books without Tommy’s help.

He eyes the door carefully. Phil is entirely focused on his project, hasn't even looked up in ages. Barely seems to register Tommy's presence at all. It'd be easy to slip past him and out the door. 

He scoots towards the edge of the table.

Phil snaps the book shut, and Tommy jumps in his seat, head whirling back to focus on Phil as he lifts a hand up, splayed fingers hovering steadily over the table.

Tommy cranes his neck, trying to get a better look.

There’s a moment of nothing, just Phil staring down at the little piece of jewelry with an expression that Tommy personally would describe as ‘constipated’--

Then something flickers.

Light falls from Phil's hand like rain, landing on the table in thick drops. gravitating towards the earring and wrapping around it in a bubble of liquid light, lifting it up off the surface of the table, suspending it in a circle of swirling blues and greens.

Tommy stares.

Phil's fingers twitch; the earring drifts like it's underwater, moving slowly with the flow of color that twirls along the surface like reflections in a soap bubble.

And then there’s a snap. 

Something cracks, and the light freezes. Phil curses and takes a solid step back as it shatters , shards flying outwards and Tommy flinches. But the shards dissolve inches from their source. Leaving behind only empty air.

The earring drops back to the counter with a clink, and Phil sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Sorry about that, mate.” Phils says, running a hand through his hair. “Suppose it’s a good thing I tested it again, I swear it worked last time--” 

“Did your wings help you do that?” Tommy cuts him off, his eyes glued to Phil's hands. Phil's hands that made light appear and move things around like nothing. 

Phil turns to him, blinking. something like realization dawns on his face.

“Ah,” he says, a small grin on his face “You mean this?” He holds up a hand in front of Tommy’s face, and Tommy watches as the light oozes from it, sitting on the top of his palm like water. Tommy nods, a hand creeping up towards Phil's outstretched palm.

Phil's hand snaps closed, and he pulls back with a shake of his head. The light dissipates into air and Tommy whines.

“Sorry mate, you shouldn’t touch that. Raw magic isn’t exactly made for playing with,” He ruffles Tommy’s hair. Tommy smacks at his hand. “And to answer your question, yes, to an extent.”

“How?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s a shitty answer.”

Phil snorts. “Sorry mate, but I don’t think we’ve got time for me to explain a textbook's worth of theory to you.”

“Fine, maybe I didn’t fuckin'-- wanna know anyway.” Tommy grumbles, crossing his arms.

Phil smiles. Tommy glares.

“How d’you get wings anyway?'' Tommy mutters, peering around Phil to his back. Eyeing the dark feathers.

“Oh, getting ambitious now, are we?” Phil says, voice light.

“Fuck you! I wanna know!”

Phil laughs, waving a hand.

“Well, first of all. Wings aren’t a given, it depends on the person." He leans back, tilting his head slightly. "Second, it takes a lot of training before you’re ready for them.”

“What kind of training?”

“Studying, mostly.” He taps the book under his arm. 

Tommy glowers. “That’s bullshit.” 

Phil laughs, and Tommy weighs the pros and cons of kicking him. 

Phil must have mind-reading powers or some bullshit though, because he dodges Tommy’s foot easily. Doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he doesn’t think it’s funny. The dickhead.  

He does magic one more time before they call it quits for the day. It ends up just the same, but Tommy doesn’t really mind. Reflections of the light flash behind his eyes long after he's been released to his own devices for the day.

Sam is looking for him.

He knows Sam’s looking for him, because Niki was watching him. And when Niki's watching him she rats him out if he so much as thinks about trying to sneak off. Which means Sam knows he actually has snuck off, which means he's probably losing his mind trying to find him.

He’d slipped away as soon as Niki was occupied with one of the other guards-- one of the ones without painted helmets, just plain grey steel. Why they have the captain's own crew chasing around one random kid is lost on Tommy. But if Sam wants to spend all day running after him, then that’s what he’s going to get.

Tommy rounds a corner, his boots thumping against the polished tiles. He doesn’t know where he is, of course. He'd wandered through some sort of weird side hallway full of servants and ended up in the fanciest part of the castle yet, with large vaulted ceilings and elegant tapestries of a bunch of people throwing grain and stabbing each other.

There are paintings too, big ones of old people and their kids wearing crowns and fancy clothes with very serious expressions. Tommy pauses by a few of them, parroting them. They all look pretty stupid.

There’s a large painting near the end of the hall with three familiar faces on it.

Phil looks weird in it; he’s not smiling. He looks serious and grim. Wilbur is beside him on one side and so is the pink-haired-boy. Wilbur’s smaller though, like a little kid. And Pink-hair too. He’s less broad and strong and more soft and squishy. They both look like big babies. Tommy snorts.

There are footsteps clicking down the hall, short and clipped. They aren't Sam’s boots though. Those sound way different. Big and clunky like someone dropped a box of metal shit down the stairs. He ignores them, squinting up at the painting.

Phil and the pink haired boy are both wearing crowns-- Phil's is bigger and fancier though. Tommy supposes Phil’s supposed to be a big and fancy king then. He’s not sure why he stopped though. He has to have, because he doesn’t look like the painting at all. Tommy's not sure he's ever seen him in a crown, and he's never made that face at anyone Tommy's seen. Wilbur's wearing something that looks like a crown if someone forgot the pointy bits and just made a loop. Serves him right, Tommy thinks.

A shadow looms over him. Tommy huffs.

“What are you doing here.” Wilbur says flatly. Speak of the devil-- or think of the devil? It doesn’t matter. Tommy's got louder, more annoying problems to think about.

Tommy looks up and glares into Wilbur's eyes.

“Mindin’ my own business, bitch,” he says, turning on his heel to properly face the older boy. “You should try it sometime.”

Wilbur bristles, and Tommy gets the impression he doesn’t get enough attitude in his life. He can fix that.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Wilbur clips, looming over Tommy like he can intimidate him.

“Says who?” Tommy counters, crossing his arms.

“Sam, My dad, the entire court.” Wilbur checks the list off on his fingers, and Tommy makes a face.

“Yeah, well. They’re not here right now. So I guess I get free reign, bitch.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t think so--” Wilbur says, snatching Tommy's arm. 

Tommy yelps. “Let me go you b--”

“I’m taking you to Sam, I’m not letting you get your grimy hands--”

“-- Fuck you my hands are clean--”

“-- all over this shit!” he finishes, and starts dragging Tommy back down the hall he came from. “Come on, I don’t have time--”

Tommy shrieks, and kicks Wilbur squarely in the back of the leg. Wilbur yelps, stumbling forward, dropping Tommy’s arm as he hops on one foot, swearing loudly.

Tommy whirls, ducking Wilbur's pathetic attempt to grab him again with a laugh, and makes a mad dash down the hall, the older boy on his heels.

Tommy, of course, is an expert on not getting caught. Especially by loud, clumsy, angry people. So he darts around a corner into a fresh hallway. One without  paintings, but loads more tapestries and plenty little tables covered in expensive stuff. He ducks past the hazardous decor, weaving around decorate bullshit. Listening to the magical sound of Wilbur cursing the air blue-- then a resounding thump , fancy shoes scrabbling against the tile as he tumbles over himself. Something crashes to the ground and he swears again. Tommy laughs, banking another turn.

Wilbur gets up quick, though, if the thump of his footsteps are anything to go by. Or the sound of him hurling curses and threats as Tommy's laughs echo through the halls. Prime, he hasn’t had this much fun in weeks.

They bank a sharp corner, and Wilbur slams into his back, tackling him to the ground. They roll as Tommy curses, kicking and grabbing at Wilbur's hair. Wilbur swears, grabbing for Tommy’s hand, and Tommy’s gearing up to elbow him in the face when someone clears their throat.

Tommy and Wilbur both look up.

Phil is standing in front of him, dressed fancier than Tommy’s ever seen. He's apparently decided to be a king again-- he has the crown from the painting and the big cape with big slits in it so his wings can poke through. Alongside him are similarly dressed people, all gaping down at him and Wilbur like they’ve never seen anything like them before in their lives. Phil quirks an eyebrow at them.

Wilbur is on his feet in seconds, hauling Tommy up with him.

“Apologies ladies and gentleman,” he says, his voice suddenly silky smooth. He gives the fancy people an elegant little bow-- planting a hand on Tommy's head and forcing him to bow too. Tommy smacks at his hand, but Wilbur ignores him. “I was just showing this stray around the palace--” Tommy jerks out from under his hand, forcing himself up straight to glare at Wilbur.

“Who’re you calling a stray you b--” he starts, but Wilbur wraps his arm around his head, yanking him close and clapping a hand over his mouth. 

“-- he just got a little excited. Once again, my deepest apologies for interrupting. We’ll be on our way,” he says, bowing again. This time with Tommy under his arm. 

He turns, dragging Tommy back the way they came. Breaking into a run as soon as they’re out of view of Phil's fancy friends.

He drags them down a few apparently random halls, ignoring Tommy’s muffled cursing and dodging flying fists. Eventually, he leaves Tommy with no other option.

He licks Wilbur's hand.

Wilbur yelps, dropping him to the ground. 

“Oh my god you fucking gremlin that’s disgusting- -” he snarls, wiping his hand on his pants. Tommy turns so he’s sitting upright to glare at Wilbur properly. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could have caused?” 

“Fuck you! You’re the one who tackled me!” Tommy snaps, jumping to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at Wilbur.

“You were running!”

“Because you were chasing me!”

“You fucking kicked me!”

“You grabbed me!”

“Because you aren’t supposed to be here. ”

Tommy glares up at Wilbur, crossing his arms. 

“That bow made you look like a little bitch,” he says after a long silence. Wilbur stares at him for a long moment. Then he claps his hands together.

“I’m going to murder you,” he says, like it’s an epiphany.

“Yeah, just try it. I bet I could take you.” Tommy leans back on his heels. Wilbur's probably never had an actual fight in his life. He’s probably never even bitten someone before.

“Oh my god, just-- just shut up. Shut up. I hate you. God, why do you have to be here, you’re such a little--”

There’s the distant clanking of heavy metal boots. Tommy groans.

“Tommy!” Sam cries; he sounds winded. The footsteps slow. “And-- good evening Prince Wilbur,” he adds awkwardly.

Tommy ignores him, glaring at Wilbur.

“You’re a bitch.” He says flatly.

“You’re a brat.” Wilbur returns, before turning to Sam. “Get ahold of your stupid street rat,” he snipes, turning on his heel and storming off. Tommy makes a face at him as he goes.

Tommy doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t. He’s not a baby, and he’s not sulking.

Wilbur’s such a bitch. 

The pink-haired prince is named Techno.

Tommy’s heard it before, and he’d made the connection in theory. But he’s never put the name into practice, for one very good reason.

Tommy doesn’t like him.

It’s not because he said they were going to chop off his finger, because that would mean Tommy was scared. And Tommy wasn’t scared. And it’s not because Techno is large and could very easily hurt Tommy very badly if he wanted to. He just doesn’t like him. He’s stupid, and shitty.

Which is why he hates it when he sits in the corner while Phil is trying to do magic.

All he does is read. Giant books that look like they’re older than dirt. He doesn’t even look up when Sam or whoever else is designated as his shadow of the day shoos Tommy into the room. Doesn’t look up when Phil ushers him over to his little corner, where they'd put a few toys and puzzles. Which Tommy doesn't want or need, because those are for babies. But they're more interesting than the table, so he accepts them.

He doesn’t even look up when Tommy glares at him, which is just rude.

Whenever Phil is preoccupied with his spell shit and not doing anything interesting, Tommy turns and glares at Techno.

He spends a lot of time glaring at Techno.

It’s what he’s doing one fine day when there’s a knock on the door to the study. 

He briefly stops trying to set Techno on fire with his mind, instead craning his neck to try and get a better look at who it is. Phil doesn’t open it enough for Tommy to see though, and the conversation is over in under a minute. 

Phil shuts the door and sighs, looking incredibly tired. Shooting Tommy and apologetic smile.

“Sorry Tommy, something’s come up. I’m going to need to step out for a few minutes,” he cranes his head to look at Techno. “Tech, do you think you could keep an eye on him for a little bit?”

Techno nods, giving a vague sound of confirmation without looking up from his book.

“Wh-- no ,” Tommy yelps, scrambling down from his table. “I don’t need a fuckin’-- I don’t need a babysitter-- and why’s it gotta be him!” He points at Techno, who’s peacefully ignoring the exchange.

“Sorry Tommy, but this is important. And there’s a lot of stuff in here you really shouldn’t be touching. It’ll only be a few minutes, promise.”

“But-- what about Sam! Or-- or--”

“Sam’s busy at the moment, this is pretty much the only time he or anyone else gets to do their actual job right now I think.” He chuckles. “Five minutes, I swear. Then we can go back to work,” he says, already most of the way out the door.

Sam’s busy, Sam's busy and Tommy's stuck with-- wait, they make him sit in here because they ran out of babysitters?

Tommy almost forgets to be mad about the Techno problem, indignance rising in his chest. He doesn’t need watched at all hours of the fucking day. He’s a big man, he knows how to handle himself.

Techno huffs, and Tommy remembers his problem.

He peers over at the couch. Techno is sitting casually: feet up on the cushions, reclined back against the arm of the seat with a big purple tome in his hands. He barely seems to even notice Tommy’s there. Tommy glowers.

It’s not fair, he’s not a fucking baby. He can handle himself, he doesn’t need someone watching over him like this.

Not that Techno is actually watching him.

Tommy eyes the door. It’s not locked. And Techno’s so engrossed in his stupid book that Tommy’s pretty sure the room could explode and he wouldn’t notice.

He takes a step back.

Techno doesn’t move.

He takes another.

Techno turns the page.

Tommy turns, creeping carefully towards the door. One foot in front of the other and--

Techno clears his throat loudly behind him.

He turns, slowly. And meets eyes with the pink haired bitch of his nightmares.

Techno quirks an eyebrow.

Tommy glares.

“Do you really wanna make me come over there?” he says cooly, and Tommy’s heart jumps in his chest.

“Fuck you,” he says flatly, clenching his fists. Techno looks unimpressed. “I don’t need a fuckin’ babysitter, you bitch. I’m a big man.”

“Whatever you say kid. Doesn’t answer my question though.”

“I’m not a fucking kid.”

“Sure.”

“Fuck you.”

Techno hums. Tommy swears he hasn’t even blinked since Tommy’s looked at him.

He takes a step back, Techno's eyes track him like a bloodhound. Another step, and then another.

He reaches for the doorknob.

No human being should ever move as fast as Techno does. In mere seconds he’s off the couch and scooping Tommy up and away from the door. Tommy shrieks, digging his nails into Techno's arms as he kicks and squirms. 

“Put me down you bitch!” Tommy wails. Techno doesn’t let go though. Just winces and hauls Tommy over to his couch.

“Prime, kid,” he mutters, dumping Tommy across from his usual sitting spot. “Just stay still for a minute.”

“Fuck off! Fuck you! You can’t tell me what to do!” Tommy yells, hurling himself off the couch. Techno catches him before he can even hit the ground, tossing him back into the cushions before snatching a book off the shelf and tossing it into his lap.

“Here just-- read this or something,” he grumbles. “That one should have pictures.  Kids like pictures, right?” Tommy glares at him for a moment, before shoving the book to the floor. Techno grunts in surprise.

“Fuck you, I’m not a kid,” he says, crossing his arms. 

Techno throws his arms up. “Fine. Not-kids also like pictures, right?”

“Fuck off.” Tommy snaps, curling back into the cushions.

There’s a long silence; Techno sighs.

“Look, I already apologized for scaring you.” he says, running a hand down his face. “I dunno what you want from me.”

“You didn’t scare me, nothing scares me. Fuck you!” 

“Really? Because screeching like a banshee and hiding under a table seemed pretty scared to me.”

“Tactical retreat.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Techno asks, quirking an eyebrow. Tommy doesn't, but he's not going to admit that to Techno.

“‘Course I do. It means I retreated, with tact.” He says, puffing up his chest. He's right of course, he knows it. He's smart, he knows how words work.

“Sure.” Techno says flatly, Tommy glares.

“And I don’t forgive you,” Tommy adds after a moment of thought.

“I thought you said you weren’t scared.”

“I wasn’t-- and I'm not! I just think you’re a bitch,” Tommy snarls, sinking further into the cushions. Techno sighs, running a hand down his face.

“Fine. Ok. Look, can we just-- a truce. Ok? Just until Phil gets back. You sit there and don’t break anything, and I don’t have to chase you around the castle.”

“Maybe I like being chased around better than listening to dickheads,” Tommy grumbles.

Techno snorts. “Yeah I bet. I heard all about that,” he says, displaying what Tommy thinks may be his first ever expression of emotion. He can practically hear his face creak as the corners of his mouth tick up into a smile. “Wilbur’s never gonna forgive you, y’know.”

Tommy sits up, pushing back from the cushions with a wide grin.

“Good. He’s a bitch.”

Techno snorts again.

“He definitely deserved it. Been getting way too up in his britches lately. He needed to be knocked down a peg or two.” He picks the book up off the floor, turning it over in his hands, like he’s checking for damage.

“That’s me, Tommy. Professional peg knocker,” Tommy chirps.

“Don’t say that,” Techno says absently, dropping the book beside Tommy. “Now, you wanna pretend we’re getting along ‘til dad comes back? Or are we gonna have a problem?”

Tommy looks at the book for a long moment, glancing between it and Techno. He picks it up and turns it in his hands.

“I can’t read,” he states after a long silence. 

“I figured. That’s why I picked the one with all the pictures.”

“Bitch.” Tommy says flatly, turning the book to a random page before flipping around to find the pictures.

“Brat.” Techno says coolly, picking up his own book.

Tommy is pretty sure they’ve forgotten about the ring.

Phil’s been distracted lately,--he rarely fusses with the bench nowadays. Just lets Tommy sit on the floor with his books, hovering over Techno's shoulder while he reads. Or standing with him while they do weird drills. Wilbur comes in sometimes as ‘moral support,’ but usually gets kicked out pretty quick. Either because his moral support is piss poor or because he won’t stop needling at Tommy. 

In his defense, Tommy needles right back. But they can’t kick Tommy out, so Wilbur it is.

Tommy watches them do the drills. It's a lot of breathing really carefully and weird hand motions. Sometimes they do the stuff Phil does when he does magic, except without the actual fun parts. 

Sometimes if Tommy asks on a good day Phil will actually show off, just a little bit. Sparks of light fluttering from his palms. Once he made them look like weird drippy butterflies.

Tommy doesn’t mind that they've forgotten, really. He’s pretty sure he’d be happy to live here forever. Not that he expects to, though the idea of going back to the streets after this puts something cold in the pit of his stomach. Because he’s stupid and went and got soft as soon as someone gave him somewhere warm to sleep. He's going to have to get over it, in the end. They're probably going to remember their ring eventually, and then he'll be shit out of luck.

He's going to enjoy it until then, though.

He looks back down at the book in his lap. Tracing a trail of blue ink that drifts along the page with a ringed finger. He doesn't know what the picture is supposed to be, a swirl of black and blue ink in a bunch of liquid-like shapes drifting over the page. Notated in tiny script pointing to various spots on each blob.

Tommy loves the diagrams. He spends a lot of his time in the study tracing the shapes with his eyes and hands, following them around in circles across the pages. He wants to know what they mean-- maybe he’ll make Techno read them to him sometime. Or maybe he’ll make Techno teach him to read. He likes books, he’s probably the most qualified.

Someone shuffles above him, Phil and Techno muttering in low voices. Tommy looks up.

Wilbur’s in the room today, and he’s being weirdly quiet. Watching carefully as Phil steps away from Techno and nods. Techno sighs, settling into yet another one of his breathing exercises as Phil begins to pace, back and forth across the room. 

Techno's got a new earring. It looks neat. Teardrop gold and emerald dangling from his earlobe.

“Alright, are you ready?” Phil asks after a minute, stopping in front of Techno.

Techno nods. And it feels like something shifts, the air feels charged. Buzzing. Like there's something else, just out of sight waiting to see what comes next. It makes Tommy itch somewhere deep under his skin.

He sits up straight, book forgotten in his lap.

They step into the middle of the room.

Techno takes a deep breath, and shuts his eyes. Holds out his hands, palms up. Phil stands opposite him a few feet away, hands folded behind his back.

There's a long, tense silence. It sits in the air like a physical thing. And it makes Tommy itch. He wants something to happen, he doesn't know what. But he wants it to happen, to break the silence. Snap the tension in the air and scratch the itch that sits in his bones, buzzing like something alive.

It's Phil who breaks the silence.

“There is magic under your skin ,” he says, monotonous and careful. Like he’s reading a script. “It is in your veins, your chest, your heart. It moves like water, like blood. ”

Technos hand twitches.

“ Follow it. Follow it to the base of your skull, to the place it sits above your heart .”

He takes a deep breath.

“ That magic is yours. Yours to hold, to guide. Guide it now, and take it from your chest to your palm so that it might see the world from your hands .”

There is a long, aching silence. Tommy barely dares to breathe. And then--

Light flows up from Techno's palms. Shining like rubies in the sun, overflowing from his palms and dripping thickly down his hand. Dissolving almost as soon as it falls.

Phil gasps; Wilbur hoots, leaping up from his seat. Tommy simply watches as Techno holds his focus. Letting the light flow.

Tommy wants to touch it. He wants to reach out and hold it in his hands. He can’t, of course. Raw magic, blah-blah-- but that doesn’t stop the itch in his fingertips to grab that light and hold it . It's like that something under his own skin is reaching out, begging him closer-- And then Techno gasps, and the light is gone. He looks winded, but he’s smiling, a grin creeping wide across his face. Wilbur descends on him in a hug, followed soon after by Phil. And sandwiched between his two family members, Techno laughs. Loud and clear, his families cheers seem to ring throughout the room. Echoing in Tommy's ears.

The sight makes something in Tommy's chest hurt. Cold and hard like a stone sitting in the pit of his stomach. It makes him want to break something, shout and yell, climb the walls and rip apart the pages of the book in his lap until they look at him instead. It feels unfair, it feels unfair and he doesn't know why. Techno did magic, he did magic and he earned this.

He watches them laugh until they disperse, chattering far too quickly and loudly for Tommy to keep up. Techno elbows Wilbur, who laughs and shoves him. Phil scolds them, and Tommy sits on the floor by his book of diagrams and pictures. Laughter ringing in his ears, and makes a decision. 

He’s going to do magic. And he’s going to do it better than Techno.

"Maybe when you're older, mate."  

Phil's voice rings bright and clear in the back of his head. He'd been laughing, like Tommy had made some sort of joke. Wilbur had rolled his eyes behind Phil's shoulder and Techno had snorted, shaking his head.

Phil had looked down at him, a smile on his face as he patted Tommy's head. A soft apology on his lips. Gentle and placating, like he was a little kid.

Tommy isn't a little kid.

He stands in the middle of his bedroom in his sleep shirt. The room pitch black except for the light of the moon filtering through the window. His feet are planted solidly against the cool stone floor, palms facing upwards. He breathes in, deep and slow. And remembers what Phil had said.

He shuts his eyes

There is magic under his skin.

He doesn’t know why they made such a big deal out of finding it; once you know what to look for, it’s easy to see. It starts at his fingertips, following the trail of his veins down his arms. It sits in his bones and flows through his joints, ebbing and flowing like tides in the sea. He’s never seen the sea, but he knows it now. It rumbles in his ears as it guides him through his own chest, his heart thumping a rabbit's pace in his ribs. Up his spine to the base of his head.

It’s his, it’s him. Like the blood his rabbit heart pumps, it swirls through his body and carries the essence of his existence.

He reaches out, and it flows with him like water.

He brings it to his palms, and his eyes flutter open.

It’s warm, is his first thought. Warm like a fire, crackling at his fingertips like an electric shock. Orange light sitting in a bubble in his hands.

He pulls it closer to his face. and it wobbles at the movement like a tangible thing. He stares at it, eyes wide and a grin barely contained at the pure warmth held at his fingertips. He wants to laugh. Wants to jump and yell and shriek for joy because he did it . All that fancy shit Techno had to do and Tommy did it without any help at all-- and his is way better than Techno's. Tech's was red and heavy and moved like honey and blood and all kinds of gross shit, but Tommy's is warm and bright. Light as a feather and holding its shape, giving softly to his fingertips with tiny sparks of light. Warmth crackling under his hands like a hearthfire. 

He wants to hold it close and never let it go. He also wants to run outside and throw it in everyone's face, because he did it. He did it like it was nothing .

And then the world slips.

It’s like he’s been hit with a massive weight; he stumbles. The bubble pops, the light vanishing, leaving him blinking in the darkness. His limbs feel shaky and leadened and his head feels all weird and cottony. He turns vaguely back towards his bed, and thinks maybe it would have been better to do it there instead of standing in the middle of the floor as he stumbles forward.

The room sways like a capsizing ship, and he sits down hard on the floor, hands over his eyes to block out the dizzy tilt of the room. His lungs feel heavy and breathing burns .

He lets his hands touch the floor, easing himself down to lay on the cool stone. 

He’s just going to lie down for a moment, that’s it. Just until the room stops spinning. Then he can crawl into bed and sleep properly before he gets up to rub it in everyone's faces in the morning.

Schlatt finds him there the next day, shivering and unresponsive. And calls for a doctor.