Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy was pretty sure his family didn’t mean to leave him behind.

Everyone treated him like he was one sneeze away from catastrophe. But forgetting him completely? Leaving him alone for a four-week vacation? That had to be an accident.

They didn’t listen when he spoke. They didn’t help when he asked. And no one—no one—had remembered to teach him how to pack a suitcase. So when the flight to Paris left the next morning without him, Tommy didn’t scream or cry or throw a fit.

He just assumed this was part of the plan.

Because forgetting someone isn’t the same as leaving them behind on purpose… right?

The night before their trip to Paris, the McCalister mansion was full of chaos. Eleven people. One plane. No organization. Everyone was shouting about passports, chargers, clothes—meanwhile, Tommy was just trying to figure out how to fold a hoodie.

His mom told him to pack.

He didn’t know how.

His cousin Eloise called him un petit incompetent, which Tommy assumed translated to “complete failure.” No one helped him. No one listened.

So when someone yelled that dinner was ready, Tommy launched himself down the stairs like a ninja on a mission, nearly tripping over his eternally untied shoelaces. He usually just tucked them into his shoes and hoped for the best, but right now? Pizza was more important than personal safety.

Honestly, he had no clue how everyone else tied theirs. No one had ever taught him—his parents were always too busy, and now that he was eight, it felt way too embarrassing to ask. So he just... winged it. Loops? Bunnies? Black magic? Tommy would rather risk face-planting than admit defeat.

He was promised cheese pizza. That never happened. His family always ordered pepperoni, which he refused to eat on moral principle. This was his moment.

On the way down, he passed a weird guy at the door.

The guy was dressed like a cop, but Tommy wasn’t buying it. Real cops didn’t wear red beanies or lean against walls like they were about to judge a dance competition. His name tag said William, but it looked like it was made out of printer paper and lies. Tommy narrowed his eyes. Suspicious. Very suspicious.

Tommy gave him a look as he passed.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “Big night?” he asked casually.

Tommy, already halfway into the kitchen: “You’re not a real cop.”

The man looked amused. “And you’re not wrong.”

Tommy scowled and pushed through the door—

Just in time to watch Buzz shove the last slice of cheese pizza into his mouth.

His slice.

Buzz smirked. “Too slow, dweeb.”

Tommy shrieked.

There was a struggle. Tommy launched himself at Buzz. Buzz didn’t even move. Four drinks spilled, an aunt screamed, and his dad leapt up to save the plane tickets.

“Thomas McCalister!” his mom shouted, yanking him away. “What is wrong with you?!”

“It was Buzz! He—!”

“Look what you did, you little jerk!” Uncle Frank barked.

Everyone stared.

Tommy’s ears went hot. His fists clenched.

He ran.

Out of the kitchen, out of the hallway, straight past the fake cop.

He didn’t get far before the man reached out, gently stopping him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Hey,” the guy said, not unkindly. “You alright, kid?”

Tommy scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, embarrassed and furious and humiliated. “Why does everyone hate me?”

The man blinked. Looked like he wasn’t expecting that.

“…They don’t,” he said finally, quiet.

Tommy didn’t answer. He pulled his hood up and kept walking.

The cop watched him go, arms crossed again. He didn’t smile this time. Just shook his head.

It was way too late to be awake, which is exactly why Tommy was.

He sat dramatically in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by an explosion of socks, nerf darts, a slightly sticky action figure, and one (1) half-zipped suitcase that mostly contained a hoodie and pure rage.

Technically, he was supposed to be asleep. But technically, no one in this house had helped him pack, so actually this was a revolution.

A door creaked behind him. He whipped around, hair floofing like a startled cat.

It was his mom, standing there in her robe with that look—the one that meant You are about five seconds away from a grounding, young man.

“There you are,” she said, arms crossed. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Tommy stood up like a wronged prince in a badly directed play. “Because I don’t know how to pack for Paris, Mother.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Do I bring all my socks? None of them? What if Paris doesn’t even have socks?” His arms flailed. “No one told me! No one helped! They just yelled when I tried to defend my cheese pizza rights!”

“You ruined dinner.”

“Buzz ruined dinner!” Tommy pointed dramatically down the hall. “He ate my pizza! My cheese pizza! He taunted me with it! You don’t even like me!”

She frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You yelled at me!”

“You spilled soda on the tickets!”

“I was defending my honor!” he shouted, then flung himself onto the floor like a tragic knight. “Everyone always treats me like I’m the worst thing to ever happen to this house.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to hurt a little.

Then she sighed. “You know what? I’m not doing this with you. Go to bed.”

Tommy pushed himself up onto his elbows, face flushed with too many feelings. “Maybe I will! Maybe I’ll go to bed and wake up to find out you’re all GONE!”

His mom raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it!” he shouted, pointing again like it was a magical curse. “I wish—I wish you’d all just disappear!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then she turned on her heel. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“I hope Paris gets canceled and you all lose your socks!” he yelled after her retreating form. “And step in cold puddles! With SOCKLESS FEET!

The door shut.

Tommy flopped back onto the hallway floor and stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

“Ughhhhh. Stupid Buzz. Stupid vacation. Stupid everyone.”

He sulked there a while longer, thinking about cheese pizza, swords, and getting adopted by a cool, mysterious sword-wielding dad and two older brothers who definitely wouldn’t make him pack his own suitcase.

Eventually, he dragged himself to bed and fell asleep upside down, one sock on his foot, the other still worn as a makeshift puppet on his hand.

He did not wake up in time for the flight.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.
Too quiet.

Tommy McCallister sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, his feet swinging just above the marble floor. One shoe was tied (badly), and the other dragged its laces like a sad ribbon behind him, as if it had given up on life before the day had even begun. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, gleaming off the gold trim on the vases, which seemed to shimmer cheerfully—completely at odds with the knot forming in Tommy’s stomach.

He’d woken up late. That was the first sign something was wrong. Normally, the house was a war zone by six-thirty: people yelling, running around, fighting for space in the bathroom mirror. Someone was always asking if they’d seen their jacket or a lost phone charger. But today? The only sound was birds chirping outside, their song the only noise breaking the oppressive silence.

Tommy squinted at the clock. 10:45 a.m.

Something was off.

With the careful dread of someone who had no idea what was coming but knew it wasn’t going to be good, Tommy crept down the hallway. The floorboards creaked under his socks as he peeked into rooms—empty. The kitchen? Empty. The living room, cluttered the night before with travel bags, pillows, and suitcases? Eerily pristine.

“Where is everybody?” Tommy muttered to himself, eyes darting from one side of the room to the other.

He took a slow breath and wandered deeper into the house. “Maybe they just left early,” he reasoned aloud, but his voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying his uncertainty. He’d heard something about an early flight the night before, but—no. That was ridiculous. Of course they’d wake him up if they were going anywhere. Right?

Still, he crept past the half-open door to his parents’ room. He paused.

Not a sound.

He pushed the door open further, hoping to see his mom in her bathrobe, still half-awake, ready to ask if Tommy had packed his toothbrush. But no one was there.

He frowned and rubbed his eyes.

Okay. No big deal.

He had a big family. Sometimes people just disappear. But not everyone at once. Maybe they went to the store for last minute supplies. Or maybe they went to grab breakfast. He wouldn’t judge. It was fine. He was fine.

At first, the emptiness felt like freedom.

"WHOOO HOOO! I made my family disappear!" Tommy cheered, bounding down the hall like a sugar-crazed goblin. He skidded past the staircase, launching himself across the polished tile floor with a satisfied laugh. "FREEDOM! NO RULES! I’M THE KING OF THE HOUSE!"

There was nobody to stop him. No one to scold him for being too loud, or remind him that his pajamas were too ridiculous to wear around the house. No one told him the TV was too loud, or to ask why he was jumping on the couch.

Tommy grabbed a soda from the fridge, popped it open like a villain in a movie, and slouched onto the couch, sipping directly from the can. The soda fizzed and foamed over the edges, spilling a little on the good rug. But it didn’t matter.

“Who’s going to stop me?” he said, his voice low and dramatic, like a king addressing his royal court. "Nobody!"

By 11:15, he was wearing sunglasses, a cowboy hat, and riding in a laundry basket down his stairway. By noon, he had consumed two slices of pie, made a questionable sandwich, and—unsuccessfully—tried to use his dad’s razor to "shave his chin like a real man."

It nicked his finger, and he winced, but then shrugged it off, slapping a band-aid over the cut and telling himself it was worth it. No one was there to kiss his battle wound better, but that never happened anyways.

For a while, everything felt perfect. The day stretched out in front of him, boundless. He was the master of his domain. No one could tell him when to go to bed or when to stop eating snacks.

But as the hours passed and the sun slid lower in the sky, something began to change.

The house got darker. The light through the windows seemed to dull. Tommy could hear the distant hum of traffic outside, but even that felt muffled, as if it was trying to break through the thick silence that had settled in the house like an old, dusty curtain.

Tommy stood in the middle of the foyer and spun in a slow circle. His stomach churned, and his chest felt tight. The house didn’t feel like his anymore.

It felt too big. Too still. Like a museum—cold, empty, and full of things you weren’t supposed to touch.

His socks glided over the floor as he slid into the kitchen, looking for something—anything—that felt normal. He tried to focus on the mundane: a can of beans, a half-empty cereal box. Or even the ice cream bars he found in the freezer. But everything felt off.

Even the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder now, more persistent. Tommy winced.

"Okay," he said, forcing the words out, even though his voice wavered. "It’s fine. They’re probably just at the airport. Or maybe… maybe someone forgot I was asleep."

He walked over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed his dad’s number. The sound of the beeps echoed through the empty house. Tommy’s hand shook as he held the receiver to his ear.

A few seconds later, the voicemail kicked in.

"Hey," Tommy said, his voice small. "Um. It’s Tommy. I think you guys forgot about me. Not mad or anything. Just, y’know. When you get this… can you come back?"

He paused, waiting for the familiar “Hey, buddy” that would follow. But there was nothing.

He hung up, rubbing his eyes. They felt hot. His chest hurt.

No. He wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not when he was in charge of the house. He was the man of the house, after all.

Tommy grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and pulled it around his shoulders, settling into a small pile of cushions. He built a pillow fort, just in case.

The lights in the house flickered, and Tommy stiffened.

He grabbed the flashlight from under the couch, then reached for the baseball bat he'd hidden in his closet, left over from his brother’s baseball days. He huddled under the blanket, trying to ignore the eerie stillness that had crept in with the shadows.

The house was darker now. The windows were covered in mist, and outside, the streetlights were coming on, casting strange, long shadows across the floor. Tommy tried to focus on the TV, but the sitcom's laughter felt too loud, too empty in the stillness.

His Gameboy slipped out of his hands, the buttons too slippery now, like he didn’t know how to play anymore.

He climbed up onto the window seat near the front window and sat there, cross-legged. He traced shapes into the fogged-up glass, watching the snowfall outside.

He drew a tiny stick figure, a little person with wild hair. Then he drew three taller stick figures beside it.

It didn’t look like his real family. But in his mind, it felt like it could be.

The real family hadn’t come back. Maybe he really did make them disappear. Or maybe, they left him.

Tommy’s throat tightened as the sky turned darker, a bruised purple now, like a bruise that wouldn’t heal. His gaze shifted from the street to the empty house around him.

They had left him. They had actually left him.

Not as a joke. Not because they were hiding. They had flown to Paris.

And they hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t there.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared out at the darkening street. His eyes were starting to sting.

But he wasn’t going to cry.

He whispered, barely loud enough to hear:

“I don’t need them anyway.”

His voice wobbled, just a little.

But no one was around to hear.