Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The storm outside rattled the little loose shutters of the wretched black market clinic, a haunting background soundtrack to the muffled footsteps pacing across the worn wooden floor. Tommy sat in the farthest corner of his cage —no, not a cage, a nest. Dream always reminded him it wasn’t a cage, even though the cold metal bars surrounding him said otherwise. His wings were tucked in tight against his body, what should have been red feathers were still grey; muted and dull, a far cry from the fiery vibrance they should’ve already been. Not that Tommy had ever seen what they were supposed to look like.

Dream had been pacing for nearly ten minutes now, his boots dragging slightly with every step. Tommy’s stomach twisted in knots, though he kept his face blank, eyes darting from Dream’s rigid movements to the faint glow of a lantern hanging from the ceiling. Whatever Dream was muttering under his breath, Tommy couldn’t quite make out, but he didn’t need to hear the words to know what mood Dream was in.

It wasn’t a good one. It was never a good one.

Tommy pressed his back harder against the bars, his knees tucked tightly to his chest. He was small enough that he could curl up completely in the corner of the cage if he tried, and tonight, he might need to. Dream only got like this when something was wrong, and when something was wrong, someone usually paid for it.
And that someone was almost always Tommy.

“I don’t like this,” Dream finally said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. He paused mid-stride, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “I don’t like it one bit.”

Tommy didn’t say a word. He knew better. His throat felt tight, his wings aching as if anticipating another punishment. He tried not to fidget, keeping his movements minimal, but the urge to stretch his cramped legs was unbearable.

Dream sighed sharply and turned promptly on his heel, heading straight toward the desk in the corner of the room. His hand landed heavily on a small glass jar filled with a dark red liquid—Tommy didn’t know what was in it, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know who it came from if anything.Before Dream could start pacing again, the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the clinic. Tommy’s heart jumped to his throat as two figures entered the room, their steps confident and casual, like they owned the place.

One of them was tall and lean, his silhouette flickering like a phantom in the dim lantern light. His eyes glowed faintly green, unnervingly bright in the shadows. The other was shorter, his hair a shiny, reflective teal blue that seemed to catch even the smallest glimmers of light. Tommy blinked, momentarily transfixed by how unnaturally bright it was.

“Bad,” Dream greeted, his voice tight but polite. “Skeppy. Right on time.”

The tall one—Bad, apparently—nodded, his glowing eyes scanning the room quickly before settling on Tommy. Skeppy, meanwhile, didn’t bother to hide his grin, the sharp edges of his teeth glinting as he followed Bad’s gaze to the cage in the corner.
Tommy froze under their scrutiny, shrinking back further against the bars.

“This is the phoenix?” Bad asked, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge.

Dream nodded, his tense posture relaxing slightly. “Young, but promising. He’s still developing his full colors, but his healing abilities are already remarkable. He’s a rare find. A red Phoenix, I'm sure of it.”

Skeppy chuckled, leaning casually against the desk. “He looks scared out of his mind.”

“He’s obedient,” Dream replied sharply, a pointed look in Tommy’s direction. Tommy flinched but didn’t move otherwise, staring down at his knees.
“Hmm,” Bad murmured, stepping closer to the cage. Tommy’s breath caught in his throat as the phantom’s green glowing eyes locked onto him, scanning him from head to toe like he was a piece of merchandise or a stray that had been outside for too long. Tommy hated the feeling. It felt like his skin was being taken off and looked at under a microscope.

Tommy wanted to say something—anything—but his throat felt like it was glued shut. Instead, he forced himself to sit up straighter, trying to look at least a little less pathetic.

“He’ll need...work,” Bad said finally, turning back to Dream. “But I see the potential.”
“Of course you do,” Dream replied smoothly, his tone oozing with false confidence. “Take the night to think about it. If you’re interested, we can discuss the details tomorrow.”

Bad nodded, his expression unreadable. Skeppy gave Tommy one last smirk before following Bad toward the door. Once they had left, Dream let out a long and tired sigh, running a hand through his blonde hair again. Dream had made the comment that Tommy and him often looked alike because of their hair, and while it was nice to maybe have that thought, Tommy had learned to despise his hair color harshly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Tommy didn’t respond, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. Dream’s expression softened slightly as he walked over to the cage, crouching down so he was eye level with Tommy. His hand reached through the bars, brushing gently against Tommy’s hair.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Dream said quietly, his tone almost kind. “You just need to behave, and everything will be fine. We’re doing this for your own good.”

Tommy didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He stayed perfectly still, his body rigid as Dream’s hand lingered for a moment before pulling away.
“Get some rest,” Dream said, standing up and heading toward the back room. “Big day tomorrow.”

Tommy waited until the door closed behind Dream before letting out the breath he’d been holding. His hands were shaking as he pulled his knees back firmly to his chest, curling up tightly in the corner of the cage. He didn’t know how long he sat there like that for, staring blankly up at the dim light of the swaying lantern. Eventually though, the door creaked open again, and George stepped inside, his expression as apathetic as whenever he was around Dream or SapNap.

“Y'know what's happening, come on, Toms,” George said softly, crouching down next to the cage. “Let me make this easier.”

Before Tommy could protest, George’s hand pressed lightly against his temple. Warmth spread through Tommy’s mind like a gentle wave, pulling him into the depths of his own memories. He didn’t know which one of the memories it was that George summoned up—just that it felt warm, safe, and far, far away from this cold cage.
When Tommy finally shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep, the pain in his wings didn’t seem quite as sharp for once.

Chapter Text

The first thing Tommy noticed was the warmth. Not the sharp, biting heat of midday sunlight, nor the uncomfortable stickiness of summer sweat. This warmth was soft, like a heavy quilt on a cold night or the gentle press of hands on his shoulders. It wrapped around him, cradling him as he wandered through this blurry, golden haze around him.

Tom didn’t know where he was— but that didn’t matter right now. He felt safe, secure. That was rare enough.

The air shimmered, faint whispers of laughter echoing from somewhere ahead. Tommy squinted, his eyes adjusting as shapes formed in the light.

A table came into view, long and sturdy, its surface cluttered with plates of food. A tall man with messy dark blonde curls leaned back in a chair, balancing precariously on two legs. His grin was wide like a bobcat's and infectious, laughter tumbling out of him as he teased someone across the table. Next to him sat a shorter boy, his face soft and kind, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. He’d been caught mid-snort, milk dribbling out of his nose as the others laughed harder.

Tommy blinked. He didn’t recognize their faces. Yet, watching them felt… familiar. Like a memory; a perfect memory.

He turned his head, and more people appeared, their features indistinct but their presence vivid. A boy with fiery hair was waving a burnt piece of toast around like a sword, dueling an older man who looked far too dignified to be swatting at charred breakfast food. A girl perched on the counter, her hands cupped around a steaming mug as she laughed softly at their antics.

The room pulsed with life, a golden thread tying everyone together, looping Tommy into its weave. It felt like home, though Tommy couldn’t remember ever having one like this.

The scene shifted, pulling him along.

Now he was outside, standing beneath a massive oak tree. The branches stretched high and wide, the leaves casting a dappled shade over the crowd gathered below. A voice boomed—low and commanding, yet full of warmth—as a man with a feathered hat recited a ridiculous poem about chickens and honor. The crowd burst into applause and laughter, though Tommy didn’t understand why. It was stupid at the moment — but it was the kind of stupid that made his chest feel full with happiness.

Someone shoved a pie into the poet’s face. Laughter erupted once again from all around.

Tommy felt his own grin tug at the corners of his mouth. He reached out, wanting to join the moment, but his hand passed through the air like mist. The golden haze swirled around him, the scene fading into the next.

He was in a field now, flowers and grass all around. The grass swayed gently in the breeze surrounding him, and the sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky gorgeous hues of oranges and pink. A boy with short curly brown hair dashed ahead of him, their laughter scattering across the field as they turned back to yell, “Come on Tom, you slowpoke!”

Tommy’s legs quickly moved on their own, chasing after the boy. He could feel the wind going against his face, the grass rushing against his fingertips, his wings spread out behind him; the air going through his feathers. Tommy didn’t know why he was running, but it didn’t matter. It felt right. Freeing, even if only for a moment.

The boy stopped suddenly, dropping to the ground and sprawling out in the grass. Tommy followed, collapsing beside him. They stared up at the sky, the stars beginning to peek through as dusk settled in.

“It’s beautiful,” the boy said, his voice soft now.

Tommy turned to look at him, but his face was blurry, like trying to see through fogged glass. “Yeah,” Tommy murmured, not entirely sure if he was agreeing about the stars or something else.

The golden haze returned, tugging him away again. He tried to hold on, to stay in the field, but his fingers slipped through the boy’s blurry hand.

The warmth began to fade.

Tommy woke to shouting. Harsh; rough, and urgent voices sliced through the remnants of his dream, dragging him fully into the present. He blinked groggily, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the dirty room. The air felt cold now, heavy with tension Tommy didn't know of.

His heart pounded as he sat up, the scratchy blanket slipping off his shoulders and into his lap. Where was Dream? What was happening? Who was here?

The door slammed open loudly, smashing against the wall. Tommy scrambled back, his wings pressing flat against his back in instinctive fear. A man in a dark green police uniform stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Tommy and going wide.

Shit, cops. Tommy panicked and flattened back against the wall; trying to seem less of an issue.

“It’s okay....child,” the man said, his voice firm but not unkind. His name tag glinted under the fluorescent light: AweSamdude. “I’m here to help you out, I promise.”

Tommy didn’t move. His heart was racing, his mind a whirl of confusion and fear. “Where’s Dream?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Sam hesitated, his expression softening. “He’s not here anymore. You’re safe now, alright? I’m going to take you outside. There’s someone waiting for you, to help you.”

Tommy’s instincts screamed at the Phoenix to run, but there was nowhere to go. He nodded stiffly, his wings twitching nervously as he slid out of the little 'nest'. Sam held out a hand, but Tommy ignored it, keeping his distance as he followed the man out of the room.

The hallway was chaotic. Officers moved in and out of rooms, their voices blending into a cacophony of commands and reports. Tommy caught snippets of conversations—something about a raid, about arrests. He kept his head down, his feathers bristling as they passed by.

Outside, the night air hit him like a slap. The cold bit at his skin, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. A woman with long white hair pulled into a messy ponytail, stood near a police car, her expression a mixture of concern; relief; and guilt.

“Tommy, right?” she called gently, stepping forward. “I’m Puffy. I’m going to be your social worker...You know what those are right?”

Tommy froze. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know anyone here. His small wings curled around him protectively, and he looked to Sam, his eyes wide with uncertainty.

Sam crouched down, meeting his gaze. He unpinned his name tag and held it out to Tommy. “Here,” he said softly. “Take this. It’s yours now.”

Dream never let Tommy keep shiny things. Said it made attachments and created tethers to people. Though after a moment, Tommy hesitated before reaching out and taking the tag. It was warm from Sam’s uniform. He grasped it tightly in his hands, as though it were a lifeline. A lifeline he knew nothing about.

“You’re going to be okay kiddo,” Sam said softly. “Puffy’s one of the good people. She’ll take good care of you.”

Tommy glanced at Puffy, then back at Sam. He didn’t trust either of them—not yet. But he was out of options. With a reluctant nod, he allowed Puffy to guide him toward the car.

As they drove away, Tommy watched the chaos of the raid fade into the distance. He didn’t know where he was going or what waited for him—but he clutched Sam’s name tag tightly, hoping it would anchor him to something steady in the storm.

Chapter Text

The sun had since dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark cooling shadows across the quiet streets. A soft, muted light flickered in from the streetlamps as Puffy and Tommy stood in front of a cozy-looking house that looked almost too nice for someone like Tommy to live in.

Tommy had never been in a house like this before. Not like the dark, cramped places Dream had kept him in. The door in front of him felt too solid, too permanent for his liking. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot, wings half-tucked against his back, though they itched to unfold, to stretch. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not with strangers.

Puffy, standing next to the phoenix, was chatting animatedly; partially with her hands, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He couldn’t focus on anything except the way his heart was pounding in his chest, thudding against his ribs with a speed that made his head dizzy. He was tense, his body coiled like a too tight spring, ready to either bolt, freeze, or fawn. He had to fight the urge to press his back to the door and escape— run, hide, get away.

“Tommy,” Puffy’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned toward her. “You’re gonna be alright here. I promise.” There was a reassuring smile on her face, but it only made Tommy’s stomach churn worse. He wished Dream was here, the thought of the spider hybrid brought a small amount of comfort to his nauseous mind.

She knocked on the door, and Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a broad-shouldered man with messy blonde hair and wings that looked too big for his frame—at least to Tommy’s wary eyes. The man gave a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, more serious.

“Puffy, you’re here!” The man’s voice was deep, with a warmth that was almost too much for Tommy to handle. “Come on in. We’ve been expecting you.” He stepped aside, ushering them into the house.

Tommy hesitated, unsure if he should even move. He could feel the man's eyes on him, trying to read him silently, trying to understand the hybrid. He couldn't bear it, the pressure of someone looking at him like that. He shifted his weight again, barely catching the man’s next words.

“Philza Craft,” he said, extending a hand, but Tommy stiffened at the gesture. It was too much. His wings curled tighter, instinctively, and his feet remained rooted to the floor. Dream had always told him that contact with other Avian's was dangerous considering they were territorial, and even now, in a strange, new place, that warning clung to him like a shadow.

Puffy noticed his hesitation and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Tommy,” she said softly. “He’s not going to hurt you. Philza’s good.”

Tommy flicked a glance at Philza’s hand but refused to take it. Instead, he nodded stiffly. “I’m... Tom...Tommy,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. Dream would have scolded Tommy, he had always wanted better responses.

However, Philza’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened even more, but Tommy didn’t see it. He was too busy trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. He could tell that Philza was used to being in charge, a leader of sorts, the kind of person that people naturally gravitated toward, the father figure. But Tommy couldn’t trust that—not yet.

“Well then mate,” Philza said, his voice practically bubbling with enthusiasm. “Come on, let’s get you settled in. You must be exhausted from the journey. Come on in, Wilbur — show Tommy to his room, please?”

Tommy flinched, instinctively pulling away as another figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The second man was tall and had dark, messy hair like Philza’s, but there was something different about him—something that made Tommy feel like maybe he was more approachable. He was wearing a worn t-shirt with a band logo Tommy didn’t recognize, a red beanie which smothered his dark hair, and dark jeans that didn’t seem to fit quite right. 

Wilbur, as Philza had called him, offered a half-hearted smile. “You can show him around, can’t you?” Philza asked, his voice almost too eager.

“Sure, no problem,” Wilbur replied with a shrug, his voice lighter and more casual. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s go check out your new room.”

Tommy was quiet as he followed Wilbur upstairs, his heart thumping evermore in his chest. It wasn’t that he was purposefully being rude, Dream had taught him otherwise, but Tom couldn’t help it. Being around people — especially other hybrids made him nervous. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the walls and become invisible like a Phantom.

Wilbur’s voice broke through the silence. “So, this is your room,” he said, gesturing to a small, tidy guest bedroom at the end of the hallway. “This is your space for as long as you need it, Tom.”

Tommy stared at the room, unable to process it at first. It didn’t look like very much — the room had a small bed with blue sheets pressed against a wall, a large window that let in just enough light for him to see the dust motes dancing in the air. An empty bookcase sat beside a desk, and a closet took up most of the last wall, empty except for a few clothing hangers. The room felt too open, too... comfortable, to...nerve wracking.

He blinked rapidly for a moment, not sure if he should be excited or terrified right then. “It’s... it’s nice...” he mumbled, still not entirely convinced that this was all for him. He wanted to feel relief, to feel something, but all he could focus on was how unfamiliar everything was. The bed, the desk, the empty closet, the air.

"You can hang up some stuff later when Dadza takes ya' shopping," Wilbur said, patting him gently on the shoulder, though Tommy flinched at the contact. "It’ll be fine. You’ll get used to it.”

Wilbur left him alone in the room then, and Tommy stood there for a long while, not sure what to do. The bed was too soft. Too... permanent. He had never slept in a bed like this before. Dream had never given him something like this. He always had been told to sleep on the floor, his wings bound tight to his back, caged from the moment he could remember his own name.

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Downstairs, the smell of baking potatoes hit Tommy’s nose, making his stomach growl. His first dinner with the Crafts, this would be an experience. He really wasn’t sure what to expect. A part of him wanted to skip it — skip the whole damn evening, really — but... another part of Tommy was too hungry, too curious about how these people were going to treat him now that he was here.

Philza greeted him when he entered the dining room, and Tommy instinctively ducked his head, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. The table was full of food — more food than Tommy had ever seen in one place. There were stacks of mashed potatoes; which Wilbur's brother Techno said he had made, roasted vegetables, and what looked like a perfectly cooked roast chicken. His mouth watered, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch anything.

“Sit, Tommy,” Philza said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “Don’t be shy!”

Tommy instantly obeyed, his wings tucked tightly behind him as he sat down in the chair. He glanced at the plate in front of him, his eyes widening at the assortment of food Philza had put onto there. He wasn’t used to this much. Dream never gave him this much, said Tommy could survive with less, and Tommy couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the thought of it. Should he really eat it all? Should he ask for less, maybe? Would they think he was greedy if he kept it?

The silence at the table was quite thick and uncomfortable for the Phoenix, with only the sound of utensils clinking and the occasional murmur of approval from Wilbur, Techno, or Philza as they took bites of their food. Tommy kept his eyes down, focused on the plate in front of him, unsure of what to do. He had never had dinner with anyone like this before — people who didn’t demand something from him the moment he tried to eat.

“Eat up,” Philza encouraged, and Tommy finally picked up his fork. He was careful to take small, measured bites, not wanting to seem too eager, but the food was so good—so much better than the scraps he was used to.

After the meal, Philza went over the rules of the house. They were simple and reasonable, the kind of rules a person could expect in any normal home. No leaving the house without telling anyone, no messing around with the other kids, and—perhaps most importantly—everyone had to contribute to the chores around the house. It was a fair system. Philza was even going to help with some of them.

“Alright, Tommy,” Philza said, his voice suddenly serious. “You’ve got chores, but don’t worry. I’ll be there to help. This isn’t about making you work all the time. It’s just about keeping things running smoothly.”

Tommy’s mind was absolutely reeling as he processed the words, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he tried to remember everything. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what Philza was saying—it was that he couldn’t believe it. Was this really happening? He was actually being treated like a person here, not a tool, not a servant.

Tommy sat quietly after the meal, waiting for Philza to tell him he could leave. That was how it always worked with Dream—wait until you’re dismissed. Tommy had no idea how to navigate this, how to act like he wasn’t still the frightened little creature Dream had raised.

Philza, noticing the hesitation, furrowed his brow. “You can go whenever you’re ready, Tommy. No rush.”

Tommy blinked, confused. “I—I don’t have to wait for you to say it’s okay, sir?” He felt strange asking the question, but he had to know.

Philza chuckled softly, his tone warm. “You can call me Phil; and no, Tommy. Not here. You don’t have to ask for permission to leave the table. You’re not a prisoner.”

Tommy felt something in his chest loosen. He stood up, semi unsure of what to do next. He wasn’t quite used to this feeling — the sense that he could do something without being punished for it. Dream would have thrown him in the closet again for even thinking of excusing himself.

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Later that night, Philza took Tommy to the store. It was bright—so bright, with so many colors, so many things to look at. Tommy clung to the cart, his eyes squinting against the fluorescent lights. The whole place felt alien to him, and his nerves flared.

Philza bought him new clothes, toiletries, and a few books. Tommy didn’t know how to read well, not really. But he wouldn’t tell Philza that. Not yet.

The moment they passed by the stuffed animal aisle, Tommy’s eyes were immediately drawn to a small, scraggly-looking stuffed spider with too many legs. He hesitated, but then Philza simply picked it up and dropped it into the cart, not asking, just knowing.

Tommy didn’t protest. He didn’t ask if it was okay. Instead, he held the spider tightly in his arms once they got home, naming it “Shroud” in his head, not daring to speak the name aloud; besides- Dream never let him name things. For the fear of Tommy getting attached to things.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

At night, after everything had somewhat calmed down, Tommy sat on his bed, staring at the book in his hands. He turned the pages slowly and carefully, squinting at the unfamiliar characters inked out. He didn’t know how to read all of it, but there were a few words he recognized from back with Dream. “Big men don’t give up,” he muttered to himself, trying to remind himself that he couldn’t give up, no matter how hard it was.

But he couldn’t sleep. Not really. The bed was too soft, too unfamiliar, it hurt his brain. Tommy stripped the sheets off eventually, curling up in a corner of the room, making a small nest like he used to do. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing or the bed. 

Tommy fell asleep there, his arms around his new stuffed spider, finally feeling... somewhat alright.

Chapter Text

Tommy groggily woke to the smell of toast and the faint, quiet yet comforting sound of a kettle whistling downstairs. For a moment, the memory of Dream’s kitchen flickered in his mind — everything had always been sterile, sharp-edged, and cold. So cold-. But here, in the Crafts’ home? Warmth seemed to pour from every corner, pooling in the soft creak of the floorboards or the lazy hum of morning birdsong outside.  

The house was awake, though quietly so. When he crept downstairs, socks brushing against the wood, Phil was already in the kitchen. The older avian stood by the counter, stirring sugar into his tea. His crow-like wings hung loosely behind him, their glossy black feathers catching the morning sunlight streaming through the window.  

“Morning, mate,” Phil said, turning toward Tommy with a warm smile. “Toast’s still warm if you want some.”  

Tommy hesitated in the doorway, like stepping fully into the kitchen might disrupt the peace of the morning. “Morning,” he muttered back.  

Phil’s grin widened. “C’mon, sit down. Got a big day ahead.”  

Tommy frowned slightly as he slid into a chair. “Big day?”  

“Mmhm.” Phil took a long sip of his tea, then set the mug down with a satisfied sigh. “Techno’s at work, and Wilbur…well, we both know Wilbur’s not exactly built for sunshine.”  

Wilbur, sprawled dramatically on the couch with a book draped over his face, gave a muffled, “Vampires do not garden.”  

Phil ignored him. “So that just leaves you and me to take care of things out back. What d’you say, Tommy? Feel up to a bit of gardening?”  

Tommy blinked, surprised. “Me?”  

“Yeah, you, goober. You have got wings, don't you? That makes you an avian — means you’re family.” Phil’s tone was light, but the sincerity in his words made Tommy’s throat tighten.  

He nodded quickly, biting back any hesitation. “Yeah. Sure.”  

____________________________________

The garden behind the Crafts’ house was nothing short of magical. A chaotic symphony of colors and textures stretched across the yard, with rows of vegetables growing alongside vibrant flowers and strange plants Tommy couldn’t begin to name.  

Phil was already in his element, crouched near a flower bed as his wings shifted slightly with each movement. Tommy lingered near the edge, unsure of where to start.  

“Alright, mate, first rule of the garden,” Phil said, tossing a pair of gloves toward Tommy. “Nothing’s perfect, and that’s the point. You’re not here to make it pretty—you’re here to help it grow.”  

Tommy pulled on the gloves, frowning down at the rough material. “What do I even do?”  

Phil pointed to a row of dark, thorny flowers. “Start with the Wither Roses. Just clear the weeds around them and loosen the soil a bit. Careful with the thorns—they’re harmless to us, but still sharp.”  

Tommy crouched awkwardly, his wings curling around his shoulders as he stared at the plants. Their dark petals shimmered faintly, and the air around them seemed heavier, almost charged. He swallowed hard and reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing the stem of one flower.  

“It’s not gonna bite you, mate,” Phil teased gently. “Just give it a bit of space to breathe.”  

Tommy worked in silence for a while, mimicking Phil’s movements. It wasn’t as terribly hard as he thought it would be, though his hands did fumble occasionally, and his feathers would twitch every time a bee buzzed a little too close for comfort.  

At one point, he accidentally yanked too hard on a patch of weeds, pulling up one of the Wither Roses along with them that had been planted nearby. His breathing hitched quickly as he stared down at the uprooted flower in his hands, his heart pounding in his ears.  

“I—I didn’t mean to Phil..—”  

Phil was beside him in an instant, his tone calm and steady. “Easy, mate. It’s alright.”  

Tommy braced himself for the inevitable scolding, but it never came. Instead, Phil gently took the flower from him, inspecting its roots. “Not bad. Roots are still intact. Here, let’s get it back in the soil.”  

Tommy watched in stunned silence as Phil showed him how to replant the flower, his movements careful but unhurried.  

“See? No harm done.” Phil gave him an encouraging smile. “You’re doing fine, Tommy.”  

Tommy nodded, his throat tight.  

_____________________________

By the time the sun was high overhead, the garden was looking noticeably tidier. Phil wiped the sweat from his brow, his wings ruffling slightly as he stretched. “Good work, mate. Fancy a break?”  

They sat together on the grass, shaded by a large oak tree. Phil had plucked a handful of dandelions from the ground, twisting their stems together absentmindedly while Tommy hovered close to watch.  

“Want me to show you how to make flower crowns, Tom?” he asked, holding up his half-finished creation.  

Tommy shrugged and mumbled a quick, “I guess.”  

Phil chuckled. “Alright, watch carefully.”  

As they worked, Phil began to talk, his voice light and full of affection. “You know, Techno’s obsessed with potatoes. Thinks they’re the most versatile food on the planet, he would survive off of those things raw if I didn't force him to cook them. Funny thing, We had to build a separate garden bed just for them because he kept stealing space from everything else.”  

Tommy snorted despite himself. “Really?”  

“Oh yeah. And Wilbur—he’s convinced he’s gonna be the next big musician. Keeps putting on these ‘talent shows’ where he tries to play his guitar, but, mate, he’s terrible.”  

Tommy found himself smiling as Phil recounted story after story, each one painting the Crafts as more human, more real.  

When they brought the flower crowns inside, Tommy handed his to Techno with a mix of pride and nervousness. The crown promptly fell apart in Techno’s hands.  

Tommy’s face burned. “Sorry, I—”  

Phil clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, mate. Here, let’s braid them into his hair instead. Trust me, it’ll look even better.”  

_______________________________________

Later that evening, the family had gathered in the living room for what Techno addressed as a 'mandatory' movie night. Wilbur had apparently chosen Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, and Tommy found himself sitting just outside the nest of blankets and pillows, his small wings tucked tightly against his back.  

The movie drew him in almost immediately. Spirit’s wild gallop across the plains, his fierce determination to protect his herd — it all struck a chord deep within Tommy's soul for some reason.  

When the scene came where Spirit breaks free from the railroad, galloping across the open desert to Hans Zimmer’s soaring score, Tommy’s breath caught in his throat.  

Phil leaned over, his voice low. “That bit always gets me too.”  

Tommy didn’t respond, his eyes glued to the screen.  

By the time the credits rolled, Tommy was utterly captivated. He stayed in the living room long after the others had gone to bed, replaying the images of freedom and strength in his mind.  

For the first time in a long while, he let himself wonder: What if?

Chapter Text

Tommy’s nightmare started in the same way all nightmares do: almost innocuous.  

Tommy was standing in a familiar place, a clearing ringed by trees so tall that their branches stretched like prison bars close against the night sky. His small wings felt heavy, as if they were weighed down by invisible chains. The air around Tom buzzed with the low hum of voices, though no one was there.  

Then, they appeared.

Dream stepped out from the shadows first, his face obscured by that awful, blank mask. His movements were slow, deliberate, and his voice, when he spoke, was far too calm.  

“Tommy,” he said, drawing out the name like a reprimand. “You’ve been disobedient.”  

Tommy’s breath hitched, and he stumbled backward, the sharp tips of his grey wings brushing against the bark of a tree. Before he could think to run, another figure emerged: Sapnap, firelight dancing in his hands.  

“Hold still,” Sapnap said, his tone almost sing-song, though the fire crackling in his palms was anything but playful. “You know this’ll go easier if you don’t fight.”  

Tommy tried to scream, but no sound came. His feet felt rooted to the ground, his body frozen as Dream’s gloved hands reached for his wings. He flinched as he felt the familiar cold, slicing pain, feathers raining to the ground like ash.  

Then Sapnap’s fire got too close, and the flames licked at his feathers, the heat searing into his skin.  

“Hold still,” they both said in weird unison, their voices echoing in the wide clearing.

---  

He woke with a jolt, his chest heaving and his wings aching as if the nightmare had been entirely all too real. The faintest grey light seeped through the thinner curtains, casting long shadows across his room. 

Tommy moved up against the headboard, his hands trembling terribly as he clutched the edge of the blanket. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the phantom pain in his wings to fade. 

The room was way too quiet, the shadows were all too long. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—  

A soft and kind knock broke through the silence, and the door creaked open a bit.

“Are you alright, mate?” Techno’s voice was quiet, almost gruff.

Tommy looked up, still shaking. He didn’t trust himself to speak at all, so he just nodded a little instead.

Techno’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press. “C’mon. Let’s go downstairs; I'll make us some tea.”

---

In the kitchen, Techno moved with weirdly quiet precision, boiling water for the tea. Tommy sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around the warm mug Techno set in front of him a couple of minutes later.

They sat in silence for a while, the warmth of the tea seeping into Tommy’s hands.
Eventually, Techno disappeared into the living room and returned with two books. He set one in front of Tommy: a battered copy of The Little Engine That Could.

Techno sat back down with his own book —The Art of War— and began reading.

Tommy stared at the book in front of him, his stomach twisting. He hesitated, then, in a burst of recklessness, blurted, “I can’t read!”

Techno didn’t look up right away, though his fingers paused on the edge of the page rather quickly. “Huh..”

Tommy’s cheeks burned. “Don’t laugh....Please Techno”

“Not laughing.” Techno finally glanced at him, his expression neutral. “You want to learn?”

Tommy’s wings twitched, curling tight around his shoulders. “…Yeah.”

Techno nodded, closing his book. “Alright. Let’s start with the alphabet.”

They worked quietly, Techno writing out letters on the back of a grocery receipt while Tommy clumsily copied them. Techno didn’t comment when Tommy mixed up the shapes or stumbled over the sounds—he just corrected him patiently, his tone calm and even.

By the time Tommy’s eyes started to droop, he had made it through most of the alphabet. Techno set the receipt aside and nudged Tommy toward the couch.

“Get some sleep,” Techno muttered.

Tommy mumbled something incoherent but stood and shuffled towards the couch. Neither of them mentioned the lesson the next morning, but a few days later, Techno pulled him aside and silently handed him the book. They continued where they’d left off, no words needed.  

---  

It was a few nights later when Phil found Tommy lingering near the kitchen.  

“Fancy giving me a hand?” Phil asked, holding up a knife and a cutting board. “Nothing too complicated, I promise. I'd have asked Wilbur, swear. But he thinks garlic is gonna kill him."

Tommy hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting toward the doorway as if looking for an escape. But then, surprising both of them, he nodded.  

Phil smiled. “Alright, mate. Let’s get to it than!”  

He showed Tommy how to sauté onions, the sizzle of the pan filling the kitchen with warmth. Tommy followed his instructions carefully, his movements stiff but precise. When he made a mistake—adding too much oil—Phil corrected him gently, his tone light and encouraging.  

“You’re a quick learner,” Phil said, his wings ruffling slightly as he smiled.  

Tommy didn’t respond, but he felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest rather pridefully.  

---  

It happened so fast though, Tommy barely registered it.  

Phil was chopping vegetables when the knife slipped, nicking his finger. He cursed softly, holding up his bleeding hand.  

Tommy froze.  

The world seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing until all he could see was Phil’s injured hand. Memories surged forward unbidden: Dream’s voice, sharp and unforgiving. Fix it, Tommy. Now.

Phil’s voice broke through the fog. “Tommy, can you grab the medkit from Wilbur’s room?”  

Tommy didn’t move. Instead, he held out his hand, his wings tucked tightly against his back.  

Phil frowned. “What are you—?”  

Tommy pointed at Phil’s injured hand, his own trembling slightly.  

Phil, confused but trusting, placed his hand in Tommy’s. The instant the two's skin touched, a faint golden light emanated from Tommy’s finger, sealing the cut as if it had never even been there.  

Phil pulled his hand back, staring at it in astonishment. “Tommy, how did you—?”  

Tommy didn’t answer. He stood there stiffly, his head bowed down submissively, his entire body radiating tension.  

“Hey, it’s alright,” Phil said gently, but Tommy didn’t seem to hear him.  

Techno had entered the kitchen then, took one look at Tommy and understood immediately. He crossed the room in two strides, crouched down a bit and pulled Tommy into a firm hug.  

“You’re safe,” Techno murmured, his tone steady and grounding. “You’re safe, Tommy. You’re here.”  

Tommy’s rigid posture softened slightly, his breathing evening out. Phil watched silently, his heart aching a bit.

---

Chapter Text

Philza wasn’t sure what to make of Tommy.

Puffy had warned him, sure. She’d handed over the file with a grave look, saying, “It’s going to be difficult, Phil. He’s… well, you’ll see.”

Phil had taken the file home that night, spread it across the kitchen table, and read every word. Each detail painted a picture, and yet none of it prepared him for the boy himself.

When Tommy first arrived, standing in the doorway with a bag far too small slung over one shoulder, Phil’s first thought was that he looked wrong.

He was young—thirteen, maybe fourteen—but his wings… oh, his wings.

The feathers on his cheeks were red, a brilliant shade that should have been a source of pride. Red phoenixes were rare, so rare that they were practically mythic. And yet for some damn reason, the weight of that color seemed more of a curse than a blessing. His wings were tucked tightly against his back, the feathers pressed flat as if to make himself smaller.

Phil hadn’t had the chance to get a proper look at them until later. The boy kept his head down, his movements tense and measured, as if any sudden motion would bring trouble down on him. When Wilbur offered to show Tommy to his room, Phil caught a glimpse of his wings as he turned to follow.

He froze.

The feathers were gray, dull and lifeless, with jagged edges that made his stomach turn. Tommy had no flight feathers at all, and his primary feathers had been clipped—straight-edged and cruelly done.

Who would do that to a child?

“Puffy,” Phil said quietly, later that evening when Tommy was tucked away in his new room. “His wings… they’ve been clipped.”

She nodded, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. “I know.”

“He’s a phoenix, Puffy. Clipping his wings…” Phil trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t know where else to take him,” she admitted, her voice tight with frustration. “None of the phoenix families would take him, and I don’t trust a human family with him. Not for this.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “None of them? Phoenixes don’t turn away their own.”

“They did this time,” Puffy said, her voice breaking slightly. “I don’t understand why. I thought phoenixes were supposed to be… better about this sort of thing.”

Phil sighed heavily. “They have one prejudice,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m honestly shocked you didn’t really know. It’s not exactly a little secret.”

“What do you mean?”

“How many red phoenixes have you seen?”

Puffy frowned. “Just Tommy.”

“Exactly. Ever wonder why that is?”

“I… I assumed it was just rare.”

Phil shook his head. “It’s more than that. Red phoenixes are rare, but they’re also considered…” He searched for the right word. “Tainted.”

Puffy’s face twisted in confusion. “Tainted? But aren’t they supposed to be the best of the phoenixes? The brightest, the smartest, the leaders?”

“They are, in theory,” Phil said. “But their brilliance comes with risk. Red phoenixes are seen as unpredictable, volatile. Their fire burns hotter. They’re harder to control, and that scares people. The darker a phoenix’s color, the more they’re seen as dangerous. And it’s not just other species that believe this—it’s phoenixes themselves.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Puffy said, crossing her arms.

“It is,” Phil agreed. “But it’s been that way for centuries. Some parents try to dye their children’s feathers if they come in red. Others exile them entirely. A few try to stay involved, but for the most part…” He gestured vaguely, letting the implication hang in the air.

Puffy looked horrified. “So they just—what, throw them out? Like they’re broken toys?”

“Pretty much,” Phil said grimly.

The next few days were… challenging to say the least.

Tommy was quiet, skittish, and defensive. He didn’t argue or talk back, didn’t make demands or express preferences. He simply existed, moving through the house like a shadow.

He avoided the others as much as possible. Wilbur tried to strike up conversations, but Tommy’s answers were short and clipped. Techno didn’t try at all, merely giving Tommy a nod in passing and leaving him be.

Phil watched, his heart breaking a little more each day.
______________________________________________

One evening, he caught Tommy sitting by the window, staring out at the sky. His wings were still pressed tightly against his back, their clipped edges almost painfully visible in the fading light.

Phil sat down across from him, careful to move slowly.

“You don’t have to keep them hidden, you know,” he said gently.

Tommy’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t leave either.

“Your wings,” Phil continued. “They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”

“They’re useless,” Tommy muttered, his voice barely audible.

“They’re not,” Phil said firmly. “They’ll grow back. It’ll take time, but they will.”

Tommy glanced at him, doubt etched into every line of his face. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Phil said, his tone steady and sure. “You’re a phoenix, Tommy. No matter what’s been done to you, you’ll rise again. That’s what phoenixes do.”

For a moment, Tommy looked like he wanted to believe him. But then he dropped his gaze, his fingers twisting in his lap.

Phil didn’t push. He knew better than to expect miracles overnight.

Instead, he talked quietly, “If you ever want to talk at all Tommy, or if you just need someone to listen, I’m here for you; we all are. No pressure, zero expectations. Just... let me know.”

Tommy didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. That, Phil thought, was a start.

Chapter Text

The past few days had settled into something like a routine, though Tommy would never call it that aloud. Calling it a routine meant admitting that he was getting used to things, that he was allowing himself to relax. But still, every morning, he sat at the kitchen table with the others, picking at his breakfast while Phil chatted, Wilbur hummed, and Techno occasionally reached over to ruffle his hair in a way that should have been annoying—but wasn’t. Wilbur always took care of the dishes while Techno left for work or to study at the library, and then Tommy always found himself out in the garden with Phil, dirt caking his fingers and the scent of earth grounding him in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Afternoons were quieter. Sometimes, he stayed outside, kneeling in the dirt while Phil worked beside him. Other times, he perched on the couch arm like a bird on a branch, watching Wilbur strum at his guitar, fingers dancing along the strings as if it were second nature. Though, Wilbur had caught him looking at the piano one day, his gaze lingering too long, and now, whenever Wilbur played, he waved Tommy over, guiding his fingers across the keys, soft and patient.

By the time Techno got home from whatever he did, Tommy felt like he had already lived through an entire day, but there was still dinner to make, and he always ended up helping, elbow-deep in chopping vegetables while Techno hovered too close, arms crossing over his chest like a shield of silent protection. They ate together, and while Wilbur and Phil did the washing up, Techno pulled out a book, forcing Tommy to sit down and stumble through another round of reading practice.

Nights were the strangest part of it all. Some nights, they watched movies, the flickering light casting strange shadows across the room; Electric Boogaloo is what Philza called it. Other nights, they simply sat together, Tommy curled in a chair while Wilbur played, while Phil read, while Techno—Techno just existed, his presence warm and steady. Sometimes, though, Techno turned into that hellhound shape, all shadowed form and burning red eyes, and Tommy let himself be knocked into the couch, let himself claw and chirp and bite and snarl back in a way that didn’t feel dangerous for once.

He found himself hoarding these moments. Storing them away like trinkets in the back of his mind, collecting them greedily as if he could keep them forever.

As if Dream wasn’t coming for him. As if this wasn’t temporary. He didn’t notice how obvious it was until Wilbur caught him. It had been an impulse. Just another part of his hoarding. He hadn’t meant to get caught.

But Wilbur had a habit of catching him, somehow. It was late, the rest of the house quiet, and Tommy had been sneaking around, tucking pressed petals beneath his pillow.

Just small things. Little reminders. Proof. “What are you doing?” Tommy flinched violently, spinning around to see Wilbur leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. His gaze flicked to the petals in Tommy’s hands. Tommy tightened his grip, chest tightening with it.

Wilbur frowned. “Tommy?” Tommy’s throat closed up.

He should say something.

Should make up an excuse.

But nothing came out.

Wilbur watched him for a long moment, then, quietly, he said, “I won’t take them.” Tommy blinked.

Wilbur shrugged, pushing off the doorway. “You can keep them. Just—maybe don’t let Techno catch you. He’ll start thinking you’re nesting.” Tommy’s face burned.

Wilbur laughed.

Weeks later something changed. Tommy woke up exhausted and much later than he usually would have. His limbs felt heavy, his head thick with something sluggish and dull. He tried to shake it off, curling deeper under the blankets, but when Phil came knocking, he couldn’t bring himself to get up. Instead, he mumbled something half-coherent, barely registering the concern in Phil’s voice as he drifted back to sleep.

The next time he woke, Phil was sitting beside him, fingers gentle against his wings. "You alright, mate?" he asked, voice softer than usual.

"M’fine," Tommy muttered, blinking up at him blearily. "Jus’ tired."

Phil’s gaze flicked over him, questioning and worry filled. "You’re molting," he said after a moment, brushing a fallen feather from Tommy’s pillow. "That’s why you’re tired."

Tommy frowned. "I’ve molted before. Never been this tired."

"You’re probably growing in your flight feathers."

Tommy huffed. "Not like it matters. My wings are weak anyway."

Phil’s expression darkened. "Who told you that?"

Tommy hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Dream."

Phil didn’t say anything, just reached out and carefully ran his fingers along Tommy’s feathers, preening them with the kind of familiarity that Tommy had never known. He felt his eyes slip closed again, drifting, until—

A chirp, soft and warm and entirely unfamiliar, slipped from his throat.

Tommy’s eyes shot open, panic seizing his chest. He sat bolt upright, heart hammering, expecting anger, expecting pain, expecting—

Phil just chirped back at him, easy and calm.

Tommy blinked. His feathers rustled, uncertain. But something about it was... comforting. Familiar, in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Over the next two weeks, the exhaustion didn’t fade, but Phil was patient, preening his feathers each morning, counting each new unfurling plume with quiet excitement. Techno was less subtle about it, nudging Tommy’s shoulder with his own, ruffling his hair even more than usual. Wilbur just grinned, playing little melodies while Tommy dozed off on the couch, curled under the weight of his own wings.

One night, Tommy woke up in the nest downstairs, warm and safe. He didn’t remember getting there, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Techno—shadowed, hulking, hellhound-Techno—had carried him there.

He didn’t mind.

Chapter Text