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It was supposed to be a simple trip. Buy some things, sell some things, all simple and all together, an easy process that Tommy has been doing since he was, like, four years old.
Tommy gripes and complains, like he usually does, as he hauls some crate of fruit into the cart, but it’s all in fun. Only to really annoy Wilbur, really. It works, like it always does, and Tommy smirks when he hears Wilbur groan with faux annoyance as he goes to complain again. “Tommy! Shut up!”
At Wilbur’s yell, Tommy laughs- a loud, cackling sound that Tommy knows brings a smile to Wilbur’s face, by the way the older teen turns his head, his piggy, floppy ears moving with the swing of his head. “You’re so dumb, Wilbur, I have the right to complain, because I am a big man and have carried so many crates-”
“You’ve carried two! Two!”
”-So many crates, Wilbur.”
Another groan, another laugh. “You’re impossible, you little gremlin.” Tommy rolls his eyes with a grin, raccoon tail moving rapidly and happily at the response, and chucks the crate- which he’s been holding, because Wilbur distracted him and now his arms hurt from holding the crate, the bastard.
Once all of the crates- most of which Tommy has handled, thank you very much- are inside of the boot bit of the big, hill-billy truck Phil insisted they traded their old Volkswagon in for, all four of them get into the actual car bit of the truck. Trucks are rather dumb, Tommy thinks, for definitely not the first time.
“So,” Phil starts, turning the already low music down to zero, “Tommy- you’re going to be selling today, okay? And me and your brothers-”
“Your brothers and I,” Techno corrects, just to be a twat. Wilbur kicks the back of his twin’s seat, since Techno is sitting in the passenger’s, while Tommy has been forced to sit with Wilbur in the back.
“Hush, Techno, you little gremlin.” Phil laughs, “So, your brothers and I,” the words are exaggerated and with a pointed but playful glare toward Techno, “Are going to be buying off some spices and fruits. Okay?” Tommy nods, giving his dad and reassuring grin.
Tommy grins, “‘course, Phil. Ain’t the first time big man Tommy Innit has sold stuff. Ooh,” He says, giggling to himself, “I bet I’ll get a bunch of hot woman’s numbers, too!” He says, cheering.
Wilbur smacks his shoulder, but he’s making a little gasping noise that Wilbur only makes when he’s laughing really hard, so Tommy knows his totally awesome joke has landed. Wilbur would tell him if his joke is sexist, or something. To stop Tommy from being a wrong’un.
“Uh huh, sure nerd. A lot of women want to give you their numbers.” Techno drawls, terrible (not really, Tommy used to find the accent absolutely fascinating when he was younger) American accent thick in his words.
Tommy puffs his chest, “Glad to see you agree, Blade!” Tommy says, grinning at his older brother. Techno rolls his eyes, turning his face away like Wilbur had earlier to hide a grin of his own.
The conversation peters off into a comfortable silence, only broken once when Wilbur, the hooligan, leans over into the front seat to turn up the radio, instead of just asking Techno or Phil. “Wilbur!” Phil chastises, but the stern tone is undermined by laughter, “Put your seat belt back on, young man!” Phil says, always one for road safety. Phil is so pog, caring about seat belts and shit.
“Ugh!” Wilbur groans, loudly and with a fuss putting on his seat belt, “Yes Dadza.” He drones, like a told off child. Tommy snickers at the thought. He gets a (playful, almost mischievous) glare for his troubles. He sticks his tongue out at Wilbur’s “heated glare”.
Talk stops after that, really stops. Techno is dozing in the passenger’s seat- the heat made him sleepy, or something- snout-like nose making a little whistling noise when he breathes out, and Phil seems content to hum quietly as he drives. Wilbur pulls out his phone, and scrolls through Instagram or Twitter or some other social media app he condemns but is addicted to.
Tommy, himself, stares out the windows, looking at everything and anything his wide, blue eyes can see. It’s something he finds himself doing more, nowadays, always looking out at things. Tubbo and Ranboo are probably to blame for that, though, because both of them are nature freaks who like to leave their phones at home and just walk through the woods for hours, during those rare days when they don’t have animals to feed or pens to clean.
He barely registers they’ve made it to the market, not until Phil is opening his car side door and smiling at him, wings fluffing happily- market days always made Phil happy, Tommy doesn’t really know why- “You excited, Toms?” Phil asks as Tommy hops out of the truck.
Shrugging, Tommy makes a noncommittal sound, “I’m not as invested in selling a bunch of peaches and vegetables as you are, Phil.” He says truthfully, a hint of humor in his tone.
That earns him a shrug of his own, and Phil opens the back of the truck open so they can easily grab the crates and take them to their tent. “Market days are always fun, though,” Techno says, popping into the conversation as he grabs a crate of zucchini.
It’s true. They always get baked treats from Niki’s tent, and if Tommy sneaks off he usually gets to have a sip of beer or some other miscellaneous alcohol from Mr. Schlatt’s tent- he makes his own wines and shit, owns a grape vineyard.
“I guess. It’s hot, though. Unless we brought drinks to sell, our tent isn’t gonna get a bunch of attraction.” Tommy says, the car finally unloaded and crates held in each of their arms.
Wilbur trails behind, “Not necessarily. Not only tourists come to the market, so we’ll probably have a few farmers or ranchers come over and buy a few things.” He says. Phil calls out their tent number, but it’s not really necessary because Wilbur, Techno, and Tommy are all following after Phil like a small paddling of ducklings to their mother.
Heat getting to him, Tommy just responds with a simple, “I guess.”
When they get to the tent, where the tables are all set up- Phil and Techno had gone yesterday to set everything up for today- Tommy gives a loud sigh of absolute relief. The heat wasn’t actually too bad, but it was really just the sun, shining on their backs and necks never endingly.
Pulling up his fold out chair, Tommy sits happily, with his small cash register and a sign to his left that reads the pricing of all that their selling.
Phil glances at him, the hint of worry in his gaze making Tommy grimace. “Now, Toms,” Phil says, handing off two seperate but obviously long lists of items to the twins, “Usually, you know one of us would be here with you, but we’re low on a lot of things so you’re gonna be here alone. Is that okay? Or do you need one of us to stay?”
There is no judgement in his eyes, just genuine concern and sincerity. Tommy gives him a, what he hopes is, reassuring smile. “I’m gonna be okay, Phil. Swear.” He nods a little, as if to confirm it.
A sigh, but a defeated one. “Okay. Just- just call or text one of us if someone is weird or being difficult, okay?” Phil asks, Wilbur and Techno long gone to buy whatever they’d needed.
Tommy nods again. “I got this, Phil! Trust me, big man!” He says, making a small shooing motion with his hand. “Now go before they run out of all the porridge.” Phil laughs, seemingly reassured and significantly calmed, and with an exacerbated, “I don’t even like porridge!” Phil leaves.
Sure, Phil. That’s what all old people say.
For the first few costumers, it all goes smoothly. First, Mrs. Smith comes up and claims she needs some peaches for a peach cobbler she’s making for her grandson or grand nephew’s birthday. Tommy bargains with her for her to save him a piece, and only threatens a little, teeny tiny bit of violence on her begonias before she agrees and leaves with a basket now filled with three fresh peaches.
Second, Tubbo visits- he needs some carrots, but he could’ve gotten those anywhere in the market, so Tommy knows he’s really only over here to see and talk to him. It makes him feel warm, the idea, and his tail swishes happily.
“You gonna go drink at my dad’s tent?” Tubbo asks, or more like offers, as he’s already bought the carrots and is ready to go buy more stuff. Tommy shakes his head, ears flicking back and forth between all the noises, “Nah, big man. I gotta stay here and man the tent, the rest of the Watson clan is out there,” He makes a vague gesture to the rest of the market, “buying shit.”
Tubbo nods, “Okay, bossman! My dad needs me to go buy some more stuff, but I’ll see you later!” He says, calling back to Tommy over his shoulder as he scampers off. Tommy salutes to his retreating form with a, “See ya’!” Before he sits back down on his uncomfortable fold out chair and begins the long process of waiting for another costumer.
It’s another few minutes before the next costumer- or well, costumers- comes over. Tommy’s ears flicker at the loud clambering noises they make before he even looks up.
When he does, he’s met with leering looks and even a few right out scowls.
He’s never seen these fucking people in his life, so he doesn’t know how in the world he could’ve pissed them off so bad one guy is literally cracking his knuckles like this is some weird ass gangster, mafia movie.
Maybe they’re just having a bad day. All of them. Okay.
“Hello, gentlemen!” Tommy chirps as a greeting, tail no longer swishing like it had been when Tubbo was there. Instead, it is stalk still, like a corn stalk. Some raccoon part of his brain whines that these guys are scary and that he should be with his nursery, his gaze, safe and protected by big black bird wings and two crazily protective piglins. But Tommy is not a pussy, so he pushes through, “What can I do for you today?”
He stands, if only to not have to stare up at the five, rather terrifying men.
The leader- or at least the one whose standing in the front- sneers at him, “We don’t want none of your food, ‘specially not if you’ve touched it with your rodent hands.”
And, okay. Tommy internally sighs. Fuck.
If only to placate them, because they’re so much bigger than him, and he’s so scared, he nod, professionally keeping his face cool and neutral. Why did he think he could handle this? God, he so can not handle this.
“Okay. Well, um,” Tommy swallows, “this is my nurs- my family’s-” Oh god he almost said nursery, oh god, fuck- “tent, so, uh, I’ve touched most of this food. Cleaned it, of course,” He babbles, which only serves to make the men in front of him angrier, and only a hint confused.
A growl, and a hand is extending past the table to grab at Tommy’s collar. His ears twitch anxiously, and his tail fluffs up. One of the men laughs, “Look at the little freak’s tail! Is the freak trying to be scary?” He coos condescendingly. Tommy shivers in disgust, frowning and struggling in the leader’s grip.
Then, he makes a mistake. Tommy growls, hisses, makes a feral noise that makes one man- one of the skinnier, more pussy boy looking ones- take a step back. The leader grins, and there’s something distinctly cruel in the smile. “Well, boys, looks like we’ve got a lost, feral animal. Guess we better tag and collar it, huh?”
A bullet, icy and cold and petrified, shoots up his spine, and he doubles his efforts to struggle out of the man’s grip. To be collared- to be tagged- means he would be recognized as nothing more than an animal. Oh god, oh fuck-
Tommy lets out a purely instinctual sound, sobbing and whimpering. He can’t even snarl because he’s so fucking scared. He can’t be tagged, not again, Tommy can only get lucky once, if he’s put through the trafficking system again he won’t live to see the other side. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed as he starts making baby raccoon noises, noises he hasn’t made since he was a little kit.
One of the men- they all look so blurry, and Tommy can’t tell if it’s because of tears or because he’s getting so light-headed with fear- hands the one holding Tommy something shiny. He realizes with horror it’s a tagging device. He sobs, “Pl-Please, sir, I-I have a fa-family, please don-don’t do this,” He babbles between hiccuping cries. The man doesn’t care, and then there’s a rough, calloused hand holding his left ear, which twitches rapidly in it’s harsh grasp, desperate to escape.
A screech, a scream, and suddenly, Tommy’s not being held up by his collar anymore. He’s being held to a chest, warm and smelling of gold and chestnuts and faintly of fire. Tommy sobs, burying himself deeper in Wilbur’s chest, like if he burrows deep enough everything else will disappear.
He can hear yelling, and grunts and groans of pain from behind him. “Baby, Toms, I’m so sorry,” Wilbur murmurs, holding him tight and close. Tommy whines, tail, with a bit of difficulty because it’s still puffed up in it’s defensive position, wrapping itself around Wilbur’s arm. He feels the deep chuckle Wilbur gives at his little action more than he hears it.
There is silence, for only a few moments, before the familiar scents of Phil and Techno also enter his and Wilbur’s shared space. He smells a faint hint of blood, and whimpers, pulling away to look at the two, guilt making his heart heavy and drop at the thought of getting his nursery hurt.
“Oh, darling, we’re okay,” Phil murmurs, seemingly sensing his worry. Maybe he could. Techno nods his agreement, “Not a scratch on us, Theseus.” Techno reassures.
Tommy chitters happily at that, tail relaxing, if only a little, and he pulls the two over into the hug. Tommy feels distinctly safe, as he begins to fully calm down in the embrace of all of his family.