Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

“Tommy,” Phil calls. “You’re gonna fall, mate.”

Tommy ignores him for the most part, tilting further out over the path. Sometime in the last five minutes, the path has turned from packed dirt to cobblestone, and through the jolting, bumpy wagon ride, Tommy leans to the side, squinting in the distance for the village.

He grins when he catches sight of it, and it surprises him. Things were—okay, for the most part, in the village. Not great, considering the fact that Tommy lived on the streets and stole food and barely got by and had to hide his powers and often shifted to bird form to look for other houses to steal food from in order to not die—but not too bad, by Tommy’s standards!

But now he has a house and a family, two things newly acquired, and with those on his side, Tommy can do anything. Top of the nonexistent list: Fuck shit up.

Not in the way of, like, setting the village on fire. Moreso run around, annoy everyone he knows and a few people he doesn’t, and try to track down the people he used to know.

He hopes— Nah. He won’t get his hopes up. Tubbo’s probably moved on from the village by now, anyway.

The wagon jolts again, and Tommy yelps, nearly tumbling over the side. He feels his nails sharpen to dig holes into the wood, gripping tight. Phil cackles from the other corner of the wagon. “Told you, mate,” he says. Tommy sticks his tongue out at him.

Anyway, today's gonna be a fantastic day, and he’s gonna steal so many shiny things, just you wait.

As soon as the wagon slides to a stop, Tommy vaults out of it, landing on both feet on the cobblestone path in the middle of the village. He’s not intending on asking permission, except he kind of is, since Phil’s brought a lot of crops to sell and he might need help—

Phil laughs. “Go on,” he says. “Don’t get yourself arrested.”

Tommy snaps him a sharp salute and darts off into the crowd.

He’s grinning as he runs. It’s nice to be back in his element, in the crush and bustle of this many people all milling around. What would be an assault on most other people’s senses is comfortable enough for Tommy to enjoy it, shouting and haggling and laughter and all.

He’s not here for the market, really. Partially because he doesn’t have any money, and mostly because he doesn’t have any money and he’d rather not be arrested. That might get awkward with Phil.

Instead, he darts past the crowded tents and colorful wares and heads for the quiet side of town. As he goes, there are fewer and fewer people, and more and more things he recognizes. Dan’s dirt-filled minecart, currently growing larkspurs. Fundy’s balcony, with its elaborate redstone contraption to insta-dry his laundry. (He’d thrown a shoe at Tommy after Tommy had asked one too many times why he didn’t just let them air-dry.) Jen’s old chicken coop. He’d actually been living in a chicken coop—and no, not in chicken form, screw you—when Wilbur had picked him up off the street. Ah, the good times, curled up in hay beside the singular homeless chicken who still lived there. Wasn’t the most pleasant-smelling place to stay, but it was comfortable enough.

Tubbo had camped out there a couple times. Tommy feels himself pang at the memory.

He shakes his head to get rid of the thought and heads for Niki’s bakery. Niki’s always been nice. Tommy can pop in, Niki will exclaim Tommy! I thought you were dead! And I cried because you are such a Big Man and I have missed your presence so!

And Tommy will say Yes, yes, of course, understandable. Now give me all your valuables, and she will.

He laughs a bit at himself, his nonsensical internal monologue. If he was in a book, he thinks the author would probably have only written him when sleep-deprived.

He turns the corner and ducks through the alleyway that will lead him to Niki’s bakery. When he exits, he stops short.

The silhouette is one he utterly recognizes. The horns, the bright green shirt, the goat legs and the hooves and— 

Tommy takes off running before he can really think better of it. He skids around to the person’s front, desperately devouring his image, his very existence pumping itself into Tommy’s rapid heart rate. 

“Tommy?” Tubbo says, and Tommy tackles him in a hug.

They’re both lanky and skinny and bony and awkward, so it’s no surprise when Tommy tilts off-balance and Tubbo yelps and then they’re on the cobble ground, both laughing like maniacs. “Oh my gods,” Tubbo is saying, “oh my gods, Tommy—”

“I thought you were gone!” they say in unison, and dissolve into laughter again. 

Eventually Tubbo shoves Tommy off. Tommy rolls onto his back, staring up at the sky and still fighting stray giggles. “You’re here,” Tommy says incredulously. “You’re fucking here!”

Tubbo socks him in the shoulder. Tommy yelps a protest as Tubbo exclaims, “You too!” He’s grinning. “I thought—well, I dunno, the chicken coop was empty and you were just gone—”

“Well,” Tommy says. “It’s a long story.” The cloud above him looks a bit like a bear, if he squints.

Tubbo hums. “Jackass,” he says mildly. Tommy snickers. “What? You left me!”

“I’m back now, aren’t I?”

Tubbo punches him again, lighter this time. “You better be.”

Tommy pries himself off the cobblestone; it’s beginning to dig uncomfortably into his spine. He pulls Tubbo up, too, even though Tubbo doesn’t do anything to help him. He snickers as Tommy hauls him upward, so he definitely knows what he’s doing. Bitch. (Tommy means it affectionately.)

“Anyway,” Tubbo starts, strolling toward Niki’s bakery. Tommy follows; he was going there anyways, and he’s never one to turn down Niki’s cookies. “Niki adopted me!”

“What?” Tommy grins. “That’s fucking pog!”

“I know, right? Like—I dunno, it’s not really adoption since it wasn’t official, and she’s like seventeen, anyways, but she lives with Eret and they’re eighteen, and she said she didn’t like me being out on the streets, so she took me in!” Tubbo opens the door to the bakery with a practiced shove and slips inside. Tommy follows him.

Ah, the scent of fresh-baked cookies. If Tommy dies, he hopes the afterlife smells like this.

“That’s great, dude,” Tommy says. For once in his life, he’s speaking genuinely. (Feels fuckin’ weird, for the record.) “Seriously. That’s awesome.”

Tubbo beams. “It is,” he says simply. Tommy blinks as he vaults the counter, then remembers, Oh, yeah, he lives here, he can do that. “Niki!” Tubbo shouts. “Tommy’s back!”

“What?” Niki emerges. She’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the cook, except the word cook has been crossed out (rather messily) and scrawled over it is the word baker. The hem is embroidered with flowers. She catches sight of Tommy and beams, moving around the counter to go through the gate-thing. She embraces Tommy easily. “Tommy! You look nice for once!”

Tommy glances down at his clothing. Ah, right; last time Niki saw him, he was sleeping in a chicken coop. He probably didn’t smell the nicest. He turns his thoughts back to Niki’s statement and— Hmm. Should he be offended by that? 

He’s apparently been lost in thought for too long, because Niki asks, “How are you? Where have you been?”

“Good,” Tommy says, summoning his manners. He might cuss at men—screw them to hell and back, in Tommy’s humble opinion—but women deserve a little respect. “I, uh—a family adopted me. I live ten miles—” He gestures in the vague direction of his house.

“I’m glad.” Niki rests a hand on his shoulder, still smiling. “Really. It’s good to know you have a home now.”

Tubbo stage-whispers, “She was worried.”

Niki ruffles his hair. “Hush, you.”

Tommy grins. “Do you still make those chocolate chip cookies—”

“—with extra chocolate chips?” Niki rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Of course.” 

Tommy takes a—very stealthy, in all honesty—step toward the counter, where trays upon trays of baked goods are cooling. Niki narrows her eyes at him. “Not yet,” she says, steering him behind the counter instead. “You and Tubbo can organize my cabinets if you want cookies.”

Tommy whines. “But—”

Niki tsks at him. Tommy grumbles but gets to work.

But work is boring. For the first thirty minutes, at least, it’s relatively endurable. Tommy cracks jokes with Tubbo, goofs around, tries to show him the spin move Techno taught him in a self-defense lesson. (He nearly knocks over the entire cabinet full of china. He stays very still after that.)

But after Tommy’s caught Tubbo up to most of the important things in his life (Wilbur, Techno, and Phil—no, he’s not fuckin’ soft, he’s not, they’re just … the most interesting of the things to say), and after Tubbo’s done the same (apparently he’s been wondering where the raccoon he used to pet went. It’s been missing for the last couple weeks. Tommy pointedly avoids his eyes), there’s nothing to do. Nothing except clean and dust glassware, and that’s dull and mindless and boring.

Niki goes about her business, selling cookies and cakes. In the back, Tommy can hear her sometimes talking to somebody else back there. He’s not sure who it is, but when she goes back there yet again—probably to relieve the oven of yet another batch of delicious wonderful baked goods—Tommy’s eyes catch on the trays of cookies still strewn across the counter.

Ah, thinks Tommy’s raccoon brain. Shiny.

He doesn’t need much of a reason beyond that.

Without further ado, Tommy sets the plate he’s polishing back in the cabinet, glances back and forth, and runs.

It’s stupidly easy. He vaults the counter, grabs hold of a cookie tray, and makes a run for it, bursting through the bakery doors and cackling all the while. Behind him, there’s a sudden burst of chatter, but he doesn’t focus on that, just hangs a left as the door swings shut behind him.

He takes a moment to glance down at the tray and grins. Still half-full. That’s good enough for him.

It takes him a second to realize someone is chasing him, footsteps pattering in the background. “Hey!” the person shouts. “Stop!”

Tommy speeds up. Unfortunately, it sounds like the person does too; their footsteps get faster, closer, louder.

Right, Tommy thinks. Inconvenient.

He looks left, right, back, skidding around a corner. Once he’s out of sight, he shifts.

Feathers sprout across his arms. He feels his nose grow, his face twist, his entire body shrink. With the cookie tray clutched safely in his talons, he soars upward, batting his wings until he lands twenty feet up on a roof.

He shifts back and has to laugh.

The person beneath him stumbles into view, around the corner, looking utterly perplexed. The whole package of confusion, really: eyebrows furrowed, mouth gaping, eyes wide as he stares upward. Tommy cackles, propping the cookie tray on his lap.

“Uh,” says the person. He’s only slightly out of breath, but that makes sense now that Tommy can see his lanky fucking legs—seriously, how is that allowed? What the fuck? How tall is this bitch?

He looks half-enderman, half-Tommy-has-no-fucking-idea, lanky and awkward-looking as he shades his eyes to squint up at Tommy. “I’m Ranboo,” says the person. “And, um, you stole our cookies?”

“Niki knows,” Tommy says. “She’s fine with it.”

“Um,” Ranboo says. “She needs the cookie tray back, though—”

Tommy takes a large bite of a cookie, cackling at the defeated look on Ranboo’s face. He enjoys the feeling of lording over the local peasantry.

Ranboo sighs. “Please?” he says. “Just the tray. Keep the cookies.”

Tommy narrows his eyes, considering. 

“Okay,” he says brightly, and piles the cookies into his lap before he tosses the cookie tray down. Ranboo lunges to catch it, grabbing it with both arms and clutching it to his chest as if he’s afraid someone will try to steal it. “Tell Niki her cookies are good.”

“I know her cookies are good,” Ranboo mumbles, sounding slightly wounded. “Are you gonna come back with me or what?”

Tommy huffs and drops over the edge of the roof. He hits the ground, rolls, and pops to his feet beside Ranboo, who still looks slightly afraid.

“Well?” Tommy says. “Are we going or what?”

2.

Ranboo, as it turns out, also lives with Niki. According to Niki, he’s like a brother. According to Tubbo, the two are husbands—which, you know, Tommy’s not one to judge, but what the fuck? What the actual fuck? Where was his wedding invitation? Most importantly, according to Tommy, he is a nuisance.

Sort of. A little bit. 

Tommy tries to hate him. And it’s easy for a little while, when he sees how in sync Ranboo and Tubbo seem, how they chat back and forth with the simplicity Tommy and Tubbo used to have, but … 

Ranboo picks him an allium from the garden he apparently keeps behind the bakery.

Ugh. Imagine being nice and kind and shit.

Tommy decides to like him after he introduces Ranboo and Tubbo to his family at their market stall later on in the afternoon. Ranboo stutters the entire time, blushing furiously on the pale side of his face and avoiding people’s eyes. Somebody’s gotta give the poor kid a spine.

Tubbo, on the other hand, beams, shakes Phil’s hand, and says, “I’ll track you down if you kidnap my best friend again.” Techno snorts. Wilbur dissolves into cackles. Tommy rolls his eyes and drags them away, Tubbo’s wrist in one hand and Ranboo’s in the other, to the opposite side of the market.

(“Love you, Tommy! Be safe!” Phil calls after him.

Tommy flushes. “Love you too,” he mumbles. “I will!”)

They coerce Ranboo into buying them these incredible mini meat pies that Eret sells, and Eret gives them a discount. (Ah, right, Ranboo and Tubbo live with her. Makes sense.) After that, they scamper off to the first rooftop Tommy sees and climb up. Tommy pulls himself gracefully onto the balcony and then the roof; Tubbo grunts and follows him, and Ranboo clambers up last, awkwardly, since he’s lanky as fuck. Once they’re all arranged on the rooftop, legs dangling, Tommy grins fiercely in the direction of the skyline.

“Good to be back,” he says. It’s coated with the same bravado as usual, but the truth of it hovers somewhere in his chest. He takes a bite of the meat pie to offset it.

Tubbo knocks their shoulders together. “Mm-hm.”

Ranboo nods helpfully, and Tommy chuckles. “So, Boob Boy,” he says, ignoring Ranboo’s weak protest of “That is not my name”; “Can you teleport?”

Tommy’s already imagining the possibilities. He’d cause so much fucking chaos. It’d be—it’d be downright poggers.

“Um,” Ranboo says. He casts his gaze somewhere toward the ground. “No.”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Aw,” he says, disappointed.

Ranboo seems to flush brighter at that. “I—I used to be able to,” he says. “But, um. I want to, I just—”

“Oi,” Tommy says, interrupting him. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Ranboo seems to relax. “Yeah,” he says, still awkward, like he’s trying to fill the silence. “Okay.”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy, however, does not know how to let sleeping dogs lie.

This is a Techno quote, because Techno’s a weirdo who enjoys reading and literature. After he explained what it meant to Tommy—give or take several interruptions—Tommy promptly used his enormous brain and argued that he’d just shift into a dog and thus would win the battle. At which point Techno rolled his eyes and went back to their combat lesson by throwing Tommy across the room.

Personally, Tommy doesn’t think kicking a sleeping dog in the ribs does any harm. (Metaphorically. In real life is a different story, because that fucking hurts.) So he cannot be blamed at all, in any way, for showing up the next week for a visit and promptly asking, “Can you teleport yet?”

Ranboo blinks at him. There’s flour smudged across his face, either from baking or Tubbo. “Uh,” he says. “No?”

“Are you sure?” Tommy prods. “You didn’t really sound sure.”

Ranboo huffs a breath and goes back to frosting a cake. (Mm. Tasty. Maybe Tommy should continue last week’s activities.) “No,” he says, this time with a bit more confidence. “I can’t teleport.”

Tommy nods sagely. “Disappointing,” he says, and goes to look for Tubbo.

They drag Ranboo along with them. He buys twine at Mr. Sparklez’s shop, and buys them more food from Eret, this time those amazing cinnamon-currant buns that Tommy’s been missing ever since he left the village.

They end up in a clearing just outside the village, Tommy cross-legged against a tree, Tubbo dangling from a branch above him like the maniac he is. Ranboo leans back among the flowers and starts doing something with the twine, Tommy doesn’t know what. Playing Crumb’s Cradle, maybe?

They stay there in comfortable silence for a while before Ranboo breaks the silence. “Um,” he says. “You keep asking why I can’t teleport.”

Tommy blinks. Ah, fuck, he thinks. I’m being a shithead again.

It’s something he’s come to realize, just on occasion: asking continuous, pressuring questions is literally the worst thing to ever happen ever. He had a hunter once who kept shouting, “Are you a shapeshifter?” at him until Tommy shifted into a cat, scratched him across the face, and fled that country for this one. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tommy says quickly. “Really. If you can teleport or not.”

Ranboo’s mouth twists a bit before he smiles. “No, it’s okay. Tubbo knows, anyway.”

Tubbo nods his agreement from above them, now dangling from the branch by his knees.

Ranboo looks down, focusing on his hands and whatever he’s doing with the twine. “I—” He makes a face, hopefully at himself. “A lot of people didn’t like me much, because I was … different, and I used to teleport a lot because I tend to do it when I’m—when I’m scared or mad or whatever, and my parents—” He shrugs. “So they kicked me out. And my brain just … doesn’t want me to teleport, so I can’t.”

Tommy slants his gaze to look at Ranboo, pointedly avoiding his eyes, ‘cause endermen don’t like eye contact (he knows from experience). “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Ranboo smiles weakly. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean—like, you’re human, but. A lot of people don’t really like me.”

Wait, Tommy thinks. I’m human?

Ah, he realizes, moments later. He … has not told them yet.

Tommy hums awkwardly. “That’s shit, man,” he says. Does it count as sympathizing if the person you’re talking to thinks you’re human? “Really.”

Ranboo shrugs. “Can’t really change it,” he says.

Should Tommy—?

It’s his best friend. And his best friend’s best friend who’s kind of becoming Tommy’s best friend. It’ll … probably be okay?

Ah, fuck it.

“About that,” he says. “I’m a shapeshifter.”

A beat.

“Wait, what?”

Tubbo tumbles out of the tree. To his credit, he lands on his hooves first, then topples over and lays in the grass, spread-eagled like a starfish, eyes focused on Tommy. 

“You’re a shapeshifter?” he says. “Really?”

Tommy coughs. Oops, he thinks. Probably should’ve told him earlier.

“Uh,” Tommy says. “Yeah. Shapeshifting ‘n’ all that, bitch. I’m cool as fuck—”

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, and Tommy stills. He sounds serious. “Why—why didn’t you tell me?”

The back of Tommy’s neck prickles uncomfortably. Right. What’s a good excuse? “I just didn’t,” he says.

“Then why did you tell Ranboo?”

Tommy blanks. “Because he’s a hybrid?”

Tubbo fixes him with an unimpressed look. “I’m a hybrid.”

Ah. Shit. He makes a good point. 

Tubbo is frowning at him. And now—now Ranboo is staring at him, and Tubbo is staring at him, and they’re—they’re fucking judging him and—

“Because I feel comfortable about it now, okay?” Tommy snaps. “I—I didn’t before.”

Tubbo stares at him, still horizontal in the grass, those weird little rectangular pupils of his fixed on Tommy’s face. “Oh,” he says. He fumbles to kick Tommy’s shin with his hoof, rather gentler than usual. Tommy supposes it’s apologetic. “Okay. Sorry.”

Tommy clears his throat. “It’s fine,” he says. 

They linger in awkward silence for a moment. Gingerly, Tubbo taps Tommy’s shin again. Tommy kicks him in return. Tubbo sticks his tongue out, and Tommy cracks a smile.

“Wait,” Tubbo gasps afterward. “You were the raccoon!”

Tommy’s face heats. He glances away.

“Oh my fucking gods,” Tubbo says. “You were the fucking—that raccoon I used to pet! You were so fucking grimy, dude!”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Tommy chants. “Shut up. I hate you.”

“I thought you had fucking rabies!”

Tommy rips grass from the ground and throws it at Tubbo’s face. When Tubbo just eats it, he groans and gives up.

“Tommy!” Techno calls, an hour or so later, as the sun begins to slope nearer to the horizon. “Time to go!”

“Coming!” Tommy hollers. He pushes himself to his feet. “See you next week, fuckers.”

Tubbo cheerfully flips him off. Ranboo, though, gets to his feet, tail swaying anxiously. “Um,” he says. “This is for you. It’s, uh, a friendship bracelet?”

He’s holding it out in his hand. Tommy blinks, staring at it.

He snatches the bracelet, grumbling under his breath. Trixx-tinn, goddess of death and life and creation and shit, Tommy silently prays. It would be really fucking convenient if you would remove my ability to blush. Get to it. Please. Thanks, Tommy.

Ranboo is blushing as well now. “It’s just, I mean, it’s just a little thing because I made one for Tubbo too,” he says. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to—”

“Shut up, bitch,” Tommy mutters. “I’ll wear it if I fuckin’ want to. I’ll—I’ll wear it every day! ‘Cause I’m a big man! Biggest of men!”

Tubbo snickers in the grass beside them. Tommy throws more grass at his face.

“Anyway,” Ranboo says. “Bye, Tommy!”

Tubbo sticks up a hand and waves.

Tommy whirls around and leaves the clearing.

“Why’re you blushing?” Techno says.

He shoves Techno in the shoulder. “‘M not,” Tommy mumbles. 

“Are you wearin’ a bracelet?”

“No. Fuck off.”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy is a genius. A literal genius. The smartest in all the lands, that’s him, and he’s gonna fuckin’ prove it with this plan.

He runs it by Tubbo, his next visit to the village, and Tubbo narrows his eyes in thought. “Okay,” he says. “And you’d just—”

“I’d shift,” Tommy says, with the confidence only fourteen-year-old boys and Trixx-tinn, goddess of creation, can have. “No broken ankles, bitch, it’s gonna be fuckin’ amazing!”

And thus their plan is put in motion.

Phil agrees to let Tommy stay the night in the village on the conditions that Tommy doesn’t murder anyone, doesn’t steal anything valuable, and is very polite for Niki and Eret. Eret agrees to let them go hang out in the forest on the condition that they don’t burn it down. And Ranboo agrees to come along on no conditions, because he doesn’t have a spine. (Tommy means it affectionately.)

They hike into the forest with a basket of snacks and the ultimate plan.

“Look!” Tubbo calls, after about twenty minutes of hiking. He points. “There it is!”

Tommy grins.

The cliff, as Tommy stares at it, is very … cliff-like. What can he say? It’s a sheer seventy-foot drop to a pebbly beach. Dictionary definition of “cliff.”

“I can’t believe you want to have a picnic at the bottom of a cliff,” Ranboo says. “What if someone falls?”

“Well,” Tubbo says brightly. “My theory is— splat. Bam. The ground says no. I go say hi to Trixx-tinn.”

Ranboo narrows his eyes at Tubbo. “It was a rhetorical question.”

Tommy cackles and pats Ranboo on the back. The fear in Ranboo’s eyes at Tommy’s expression is, in his opinion, entirely unfounded. “Relax, boob boy,” he says. “Falling off a cliff would be ridiculous.”

They take the narrow rock path down the cliff, barely a foot wide and chiseled out of pure limestone. It’s very convenient for Tommy’s plan.

Tubbo scampers down like a goat (because he fuckin’ is one), as if this is a scenic sloping path out of some suburban community. Tommy and Ranboo follow with a little more caution, because they don’t have goddamn hooves.

Roughly sixty-five feet up, Tommy glances down at the pebbly beach, glances back at Ranboo, and says, “Oh no.”

He plants one foot on the crumbling edge of the path and leans all his weight on it. It’s barely a moment of unbalance before he’s falling off a cliff.

“Tommy!” Ranboo shrieks from above him. The sound stretches and breaks, something inhuman in the crackle of it.

Wind whistles in Tommy’s ears. Two seconds, he tells himself. Give it two seconds and he’ll shift.

One.

He spreads his arms and stares up at the sun, tilting his head to capture it in his frame of view. It’s all pink and red and shit against the horizon. Pretty.

Two.

Ranboo is hanging out from the edge of the path, eyes wide and panicked. As Tommy watches, sparks seem to appear around him; first one, then two, then more and more and fucking more until he’s surrounded in shocking purple.

Three, Tommy thinks, and shifts.

Beneath him, there’s the crunch of gravel. Someone shouts his name.

Tommy flips himself in midair and stares down. 

Through Tommy’s crow eyes, Ranboo gapes at him, those purple particles still swirling around him like they’re having a dance party. “Tommy?” Ranboo says. His eyes go wide. “Tommy! I teleported!”

Tommy shifts back and lands on the beach, cackling. “It fuckin’ worked!” he crows.

“You did it, big man!” Tubbo shouts from above them. “Catch me, too!”

He leaps off the cliff casually, with no thought for his potential death. 

The particles gather around Ranboo quicker this time. He disappears and reappears just in time for Tubbo to fall into his outstretched arms. They go down like a bag of bricks. Tommy laughs harder.

⸻⸻⸻

Later, after the sun has set, after they’ve spread out their sleeping pallets and sparked up a fire to warm Niki’s assortment of sweets, Ranboo groans for the fifth time.

“I can’t believe you tricked me into teleporting,” he says, also for the fifth time. 

“Mm-hm,” Tubbo says, mouth full of cookie. He swallows. “If it makes you feel better, it was Tommy’s idea.”

“Well,” Ranboo says. “I figured.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “Fuck off,” he says mildly. “You can teleport now! That’s so fuckin’ cool!”

Ranboo shakes his head and plucks the cookie from Tommy’s hand. Tommy blinks, then glowers. “I mean,” Ranboo says. “That’s. I’m glad for that.”

Tommy huffs. “As you should be,” he says.

“Hey, guys, what d’you think will happen if I throw a bomb into the fire?”

“Tubbo, for fuck’s sake—”

⸻⸻⸻

“Look,” Ranboo says. “That’s Pegasus.”

Tommy squints up at the stars. “It doesn’t look like a horse with wings.”

Ranboo snorts. “Do any of the constellations?” he asks.

Tubbo’s snores cut through their conversation. Ranboo laughs.

“Um,” he says, after a comfortable moment of silence. “I— Thanks. For earlier. Helping me teleport. ‘Cause I—I’m not sure if I ever would’ve been able to if you didn’t, like, push me—well, not push me, but you know what I mean—”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, cutting him off before he rambles himself into unconsciousness. He shifts to pat him on the shoulder, the twine bracelet sliding up and down his arm with the movement. “No problem. I throw myself off cliffs all the time.”

Ranboo squints at him. “Are you—”

“Yes, I’m fucking joking, Exx-Dei—”

⸻⸻⸻

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Tubbo jolts upright, head whipping back and forth. “Huh?” he says sleepily. “What? Tommy?”

“DOES HE SLEEP WITH HIS FUCKING EYES OPEN?”

“Yes?”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

3.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says. “You want to do what?”

“It’s not that confusing, big man,” Tommy says. “I’m putting all his shoes on the roof.”

“Why, though?”

Tommy blinks at him. “Because it’s funny?”

“No, I don’t— I got that bit,” Wilbur says. “But why Dream?”

“He’s a bastard,” Tommy says easily. “Absolute wrongun. Terrible with the ladies.”

Wilbur groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to put on a silly hat and play guitar while you put all of Dream’s shoes on the roof. Tubbo plays an instrument, doesn’t he? Make him do it.”

Tommy opens his mouth to explain that that will not work, for the very specific reason that Tubbo will be helping Tommy put the shoes on the roof, and Ranboo will be acting as a lookout— 

An idea pops into his head. Tommy grins.

“Fine,” he says. “Just—give me a second.”

It’s always harder shifting into animals he hasn’t encountered for real before. He knows what they look like, though, so he summons his memory and his concentration and shifts.

Fur. Four legs. Tail. Not too hard, all things considered.

Wilbur gapes with horror. “No,” he breathes. “Tommy, I’m gonna fucking—”

Tommy, in all his anteater glory, leaps onto Wilbur’s bed and curls up on his pillow.

Wilbur makes a horrified noise. “Tommy, no.” Tommy shuts his eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare. Those creatures are abominations—”

Ah, this is comfy. Maybe he should steal Wilbur’s pillow more often.

“Tommy,” Wilbur protests again. “Please. Please?” Tommy stays silent. “I’ll do your chores for a week.” Tempting, but Tommy does not give in. “I’ll get Phil to say you’re his favorite son. I’ll say you’re my favorite brother.”

Okay, that one is also tempting. But no! Tommy came here with a mission, and he will complete it if it’s the last thing he does. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. “Pleaseeee—”

Tommy nudges Wilbur’s blankets with his impressively elongated nose and begins to burrow under.

“Tommy, I swear to fucking Exx-Dei— I’m gonna have to wash the blankets—”

That sounds like a Wilbur problem. Tommy curls up in the darkness. If he were human, he’d be snickering; the anteater equivalent of that seems to be letting out little chuffs every few seconds, so he does.

“Tommy.” Wilbur sighs. “If I agree to maybe help you, will you shift back?”

That sounds like something Tommy can work with.

He shifts back and wriggles his way out from under the covers, grinning. “Sorry, big man,” Tommy says. “Can’t hear you. Too busy anteatering.”

“That’s not a word,” Wilbur says mournfully.

Tommy kicks his legs out in front of him and hums. “Well, if you don’t have anything to say, I have some anteatering to be doing—”

Wilbur buries his face in his hands. “Ugh,” he mumbles. “I fucking hate this.” He straightens up. “Fine, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want me to do. Just—stop—stop anteatering.”

Tommy considers. “Okay,” he says brightly. He rolls over and shuts his eyes.

“Tommy, that’s my fucking bed!”

4.

Oh, hell yes. This is going to be the greatest fucking thing since Trixx-tinn created the world.

Well, sort of. Maybe. Is that blasphemous?

“Why are you shrugging?” Tubbo says. “What happened?”

Tommy blinks. “Nothing,” he says. “The fuckin’—pick the lock already!”

Tubbo fishes in his pocket and pulls out two thin pieces of metal. He sets to work crouching in front of the door as Tommy leans against the wall and Ranboo glances back and forth, a couple purple particles already flickering in and around him. It’s about a minute before there’s a click and Tubbo cackles. “In we go,” he says brightly, pulling the door open.

Tommy salutes Ranboo. “Don’t fucking get us caught,” he says, and ducks into Dream’s house.

In the distance, he can hear Wilbur, singing at the top of his lungs and playing guitar alongside. He’s screaming the lyrics to some song Tommy sort-of recognizes, something about lost loves and … a nine-to-five? Is that what Tommy is hearing?

Fucking hell, he doesn’t know the kind of shit Wilbur writes. 

“Okay,” Tommy says. “Where’s Dream’s room?”

“I dunno,” Tubbo mumbles. “Which door’s green?”

Tommy snorts.

They file down the hallway, pressed as close to the wall as they can. Tubbo’s eyes dart back and forth, and Tommy watches their backs as Ranboo eases the door shut. They won’t be exiting that way.

Somewhere in the distance, Tommy hears humming. He presses his ear to the wall. “Foolish,” he whispers. Dream’s brother. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem since he’s locked in his room, but they stay extra quiet nonetheless.

Further down the hallway they go, tiptoeing the entire way.

“There,” Tubbo hisses, and points to the last door in the hallway. (The other two are Foolish’s door and a linen closet. Tubbo picked the latter’s lock. Why they choose to lock up their linens, Tommy doesn’t know.)

Tubbo pulls out the lockpicks again, but before he can, Tommy reaches past and tries the lock. With a click, he pulls the door open.

“Oh,” Tubbo says. He looks mildly disappointed.

Before they can duck inside, Tommy hears an echo. Clicking. Tap, tap, tap—

Oh, fuck.

Tommy grabs Tubbo by the arm and yanks him through Dream’s door, shutting it behind them and snapping it locked. His heart races in his ears.

Captain Puffy, Tommy thinks, please, please, if Trixx-tinn likes me at all, please don’t stab me. I know you’re a pirate and very badass and cool and you could stab me. But what if you didn’t? Wouldn’t that be nice?

He presses his ear to the door, heart racing in his ears. 

“Hey, Foolish?” Puffy calls. “You good, bro?”

There’s a muffled call in return. Thank fuck for thin walls.

Tommy exhales when Puffy’s footsteps begin to recede. “Oh, thank fuck,” he mutters. Tubbo laughs silently.

“All right,” Tommy says, and cracks his knuckles. “Time for the plan.”

As Tubbo picks the window lock, Tommy rummages around in Dream’s closet until he finds the shoes. Dream doesn’t own that many—fuckin’ weirdo—but he’s got enough for Tommy to cackle and rub his hands together like one of the villain’s in Techno’s weird-ass books. Tubbo shoots him a judgmental glance.

“Alright,” Tommy says, and hauls out a pair of boots. “Hand me the shoes.”

He clambers out the window and hauls himself onto the roof. When he straightens up, he glances around. Normal roof, as far as roofs go. Sloping. Made of shingles. There’s a chimney near the middle, and Tommy props the boots up atop the bricks, grinning.

“Tommy!” Tubbo whisper-shouts from the open window. “Here!”

In the end, they put six pairs of shoes on the roof, strewn politely all over. Tommy and Tubbo decide that’s insufficient. They add two pillows, a wildly-draped blanket, two green shirts, and a random apple that they find on the bedside table.

Tubbo cackles as Tommy slings himself back into the room. “Anything else?” Tommy says, cackling.

Tubbo glances around. “I dunno,” he says. “What if we—” 

Wilbur begins to slam chords into the guitar, all but shrieking the lyrics. “PEOPLE CHANGE LIKE THE TIDES IN THE OCEAN— HEY, DREAM, DON’T LEAVE, LISTEN TO MY MUSIC—”

Fuck, shit, balls.

Ranboo appears in the bedroom near-instantly, gleaming purple. The sparks tap against Tubbo’s skin as if they’re little manifestations of Ranboo’s worry. It would be quite cute if Tommy wasn’t the biggest man alive. “Let’s go,” he says.

He grabs Tubbo’s arm, and they disappear.

Tommy glances back and forth. He grabs hold of the windowsill and yanks it down, shutting the window and effectively getting rid of his last escape route. Ranboo will be back soon, he reasons. As soon as he appears, Tommy can fucking tackle him and they can observe Dream’s very hilarious fury from afar.

Ranboo does not appear.

Fuck. Shit. Balls.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Tommy crosses his fingers and silently hopes that it’s Foolish. His luck is shit, though, so of course it’s Dream.

“Ranboo,” Tommy mutters. “Hurry the fuck up—”

The doorknob clicks. Dream mumbles outside, probably wondering why his door is locked when it wasn’t before. Tommy silently cusses out everyone he’s ever known and loved. (Excluding his parents, obviously, may they rest in shapeshifter-y peace. Wilbur, though—Wilbur’s fair game.)

The door clicks and swings open.

Tommy’s instincts take over. He feels his eyes narrow, his face and body shrink, his claws extend—

Dream steps inside. He pulls the door shut behind him, yawns, and turns. Then his eyes go wide. 

“Aww,” Dream coos, crouching down. “Hi, kitty!”

Tommy blinks. Ah, he thinks. Maybe I should fix my fight or flight response. Maybe more flight next time.

Dream reaches out a hand, gingerly, allowing Tommy to sniff at his hands. At least the fucker knows how to treat a cat. Tommy narrows his eyes at him and allows him to scratch behind his ears.

Holy fucking shit. 

Slowly, Tommy pads over to the closed door and scratches at it. He meows aggressively in Dream’s direction, narrowing his eyes. Gods, he wishes his cat form was more like a lion and less like—well, like  a Bengal cat.

“Oh, you wanna go?” Dream says. He crouches to scratch Tommy behind the ears one more time, then opens the door and lets him free. 

Tommy has never wanted to laugh so badly in his goddamn life. Mingled with the hilarity of the situation is an overwhelming sense of relief. Thank you, Exx-Dei and Trixx-tinn, for this blessing. I’ll give you, like, three prayers later.

He slips out the door. Padding down the hallway, he hears the echo, however distant, of Dream saying,  “Where the fuck are all my shoes?”

5.

“Techno,” Tommy says. “Teach me sword fighting?”

Techno narrows his eyes. “No,” he says simply. “You’d stab yourself.”

“I would not,” Tommy exclaims. “That’s just—just rude, Technoblade. Incredibly rude. Terrible, even.”

“Is there a point to this conversation?”

Tommy frowns, thinking about it. “Oh! Right. Teach me to sword fight.”

“Why, though.”

“Because it would be fucking cool!”

Techno sighs and gets to his feet. “No, Tommy. Phil’d kill me and I’d rather stay alive.”

Tommy pouts as Techno hauls him upward. “Please? Pleaseeeeee?”

“No.”

They spar twice more. Techno corrects Tommy’s form, Tommy calls him annoying, Techno fights him and punches him in the stomach. It’s really very rude.

Panting, Tommy flops into the grass. Techno sits down beside him. “We can stop for today if you want.”

Tommy lifts a leg and pretends to kick him in the face. Techno doesn’t even flinch.

Wait. Fuck. Flinch.

Tommy is a genius. A member of the fucking in-tell-i-gent-shee-a.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tommy says, popping upward to sit up straight. “I’ll—I’ll get you to flinch once, okay, and you’ll teach me sword fighting. Deal? Yeah?”

Techno squints at him. Finally, after a long enough moment that Tommy’s arm starts to hurt, Techno shakes his hand. “Deal,” he says drily. “Good luck.”

⸻⸻⸻

Initially, Tommy thinks this will be the easiest challenge he’s ever undertaken. He has a very clear advantage! He’ll win this, easy as goddamn pie!  

Unfortunately, Techno is a freak. And a wrongun. And the man simply does. Not. Flinch. Tommy pops through the door of his room, shrieking at the top of his lungs? Nothing. Tommy attempts to hit him with Wilbur’s guitar? Nothing. Tommy leaps off the roof and lands in a very confused Phil’s arms? Nothing except the tiniest of smirks.

Tommy takes it upon himself to shatter Techno’s iron guard.

First, he tries one of the most threatening, aggressive animals he knows, shifting and sneaking into the cabinet where he knows Techno keeps his breakfast. (Potatoes. It’s full of potatoes.) He crouches there, fighting the urge to snooze, and waits.

At approximately an hour past dawn, he hears the clip-clop of hooves. Techno yawns, muffled. When he pulls open the cabinet, Tommy is already wide awake, primed for attack.

The second Tommy sees daylight, he honks at the top of his tiny little lungs.

Techno just blinks at him rather sleepily. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Tommy,” he says.

Tommy honks indignantly and hops out of the cabinet. He shifts back to human to shove Techno in the shoulder. “I thought that would fucking work!” he protests.

“You shifted into a goose and hid in the breakfast cabinet trying to jumpscare me?”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “I’ll get you, Technoblade,” he swears, pointing dramatically in his direction. “I’ll make you fuckin’ jump soon—”

“Mm-hm,” Techno says, and settles down at the table to eat his breakfast.

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy tries a gecko next, because who hasn’t woken up with a gecko on their face and not screamed?

Techno, apparently. Fucking Technoblade is the goddamn contradiction to his rhetorical question.

He shifts and squeezes himself flat on his belly to crawl beneath the door. Techno is fast asleep, breathing softly. Tommy grins, hops onto the bed, and clambers upward until he can plant his squishy little gecko fingers on Techno’s chin.

He croaks.

Techno’s eyes flutter open. Scream time, here we come.

“Tommy,” Techno grumbles. “Go away.”

What the fuck?

Tommy shifts back and punches Techno in the chest, perched on the edge of the bed. “Fuck you! Why weren’t you scared?”

Techno narrows his eyes sleepily and shoves him off the edge of the bed. Tommy yelps when he hits the floor. “Shoo,” Techno mutters, already burrowing back into his blanket. “Leave. See you in the morning.”

Tommy huffs. Just to spite Techno, he shifts into a cat and curls up at the foot of his bed. He fights the urge to bite his ankles.

He tries a spider next, a big one with pink toes that he saw once at a museum, and clambers onto Techno’s sword just before Techno grabs it. He scuttles across Techno’s hand, up Techno’s arm, and onto his shoulder.

Techno does not move. “Tommy,” he deadpans. “I know it’s you.”

Tommy bares his fangs and hisses. Techno just rolls his eyes. 

Tommy skitters around and shifts back. He ends up on Techno’s back, clinging to his shoulders, grumbling. “You’re mean,” he mumbles. “And rude. And terrible. Just flinch already.”

Techno snickers. He reaches back to ruffle Tommy’s hair, and Tommy huffs and clings tighter. 

“You’ll get it eventually,” Techno says, patting him on the head. “Someday.”

⸻⸻⸻

Even the chameleon doesn’t fucking work! The chameleon! He’d been so sure the chameleon would work!

⸻⸻⸻

This is it. The final stretch. The beginning of the end. 

Damn you, Technoblade, Tommy thinks. He gives in. If he must sacrifice his pride for sword fighting lessons, he will do so.

Tommy turns into a mosquito.

It will be dangerous. Potentially life-threatening. But who gives a fuck, honestly?

He flutters himself through the hallway, to the kitchen, and finally to the living room, where he settles comfortably on the arm of the couch and waits.

It takes a while; Phil and Wilbur brush past first, Phil flopping into the armchair for fifteen minutes or so before he goes back to work, Wilbur skidding past with his guitar and swearing as he bumps into the coffee table before he disappears into the kitchen. 

Tommy waits, fluttering, tapping against the arm of the couch. He does not enjoy mosquito form. It always makes him feel all twitchy and shivery and on edge.

It will be worth it, he tells himself silently. As long as he doesn’t die.

Finally, finally, Techno enters the living room.

This is it. The final stretch. Tommy buzzes side-to-side, watching as Techno steps through the doorway, as he gets closer, closer, closer—

He flops down onto the couch, a book in hand. Tommy’s heart stutters. He flutters closer and buzzes.

Techno’s eyes slide toward him. Slowly, quadrupled in Tommy’s vision, his hand lifts, tilts, smacks downward—

Tommy shifts back.

Techno’s eyes blow wide. Tommy’s world tilts. The next thing he feels, aside from Techno’s grip on his wrist, is the floor making contact with his spine at a rapid, unpleasant pace. (Somehow, he avoids the coffee table and the other furniture. Thank fuck for Techno’s impeccable aim when throwing fourteen-year-old boys.)

Techno fucking judo-flipped him.

Tommy clutches his ribs and cackles. “Oh my gods!” he wheezes. “You should’ve seen the look on your face!”

“Exx-Dei,” Techno says, leaning over Tommy. “A goddamn mosquito?”

“It worked!” Tommy crows.

Techno grabs Tommy by the wrist and pulls him upward. Tommy allows himself to be manhandled, coasting the tide of his triumph. He collapses into Techno’s side, wheezing with laughter. 

“Teach me sword fighting, Technoblade,” Tommy says. 

Techno pinches his brow. “Gods,” he mutters.

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun—”

+1.

Early noon, the men come to their house.

Wilbur spots them first, sitting on the roof with his guitar propped on his lap. He scrambles down to alert Phil, who shouts to alert Tommy and Techno, sparring in the field behind the house. By the time the men knock on their door, they’re arranged in the hallway, presenting a united front.

Tommy fumbles for Wilbur’s hand briefly. Wilbur shoots him a sympathetic gaze and squeezes his hand. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”

Phil opens the door.

There are three men standing at the door, arranged in V-formation. Tommy narrows his eyes to take them in. The man in front is the most important, definitely; he stands, smiling, in his fancy suit and polished shoes, and Tommy’s stomach churns. Bad guy, his brain whispers. Definitely a bad guy.

Might just be Tommy’s pervading fear of powerful men, though. He’s not sure.

“Hello,” says the businessman. “May we come in?”

Phil’s gaze flickers toward the men behind him, both swollen with muscle. Tommy has never been more thankful for the dagger Techno keeps in his boot. “Yes,” he says. “Come in.”

They file awkwardly into the kitchen to sit down at the table. The man takes a chair, steepling his fingers, and leaves Techno to lean against the counter, eyes still narrowed. Only his family would be able to see the way he’s got his foot kicked up to reach the dagger quicker.

“Anyway,” Phil says. “Here for a visit?”

Tommy jiggles his leg under the table, tap-tap-tap.

“Actually,” says the businessman, “I came with a proposal.”

“Oh?”

Tommy does not like this. Not the glint in the businessman’s eyes, not the tiny smirk on his face, not the muscular men behind him. He does not like this at all. 

“Well,” says the man. “You have some very nice land here. How much?”

“No deal,” Phil says immediately. “Sorry.”

The man’s eyes flash. “I don’t think you understand,” he says. “Money isn’t an issue. Name your price.”

“Sorry, mate,” Phil says again. “It’s just not for sale. Damn shame.”

He meets the businessman’s eyes, the both of them supremely unimpressed, a glint of a challenge in their eyes. The businessman sighs.

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he says, “but I’m sorry to tell you that it’s my land now.”

“What?” Wilbur hisses. “No, that’s fucking—what?”

Phil doesn’t react as loudly, but Tommy sees the glance he exchanges with Techno. Tommy’s leg jiggles faster.

“Well,” the businessman says. “I hate to say this. Really.” He’s smiling. “But the police would probably believe me over you.”

“What the fuck?” Phil snarls. “It’s my goddamn land.”

“And who would believe you?”

They stare at him for a long, long moment; Wilbur glowering, Phil furious, Tommy tap-tap-tapping away at the wooden floorboards. Between one blink and the next, Techno’s dagger is thrust beneath the businessman’s chin.

Impossibly, the man just smirks. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says. Tommy follows Phil’s eyes to the men behind him, their hands on the hilts of their swords. “Be a shame if you were arrested and kicked off my land.”

Techno grits his teeth and steps back. His knuckles are white on the hilt of the dagger.

Tommy fumbles for Wilbur’s hand and grips tight. Wilbur squeezes back, fury written clear across his face.

“I’ll give you a few weeks to consider my offer,” he says. “Of course, you could always buy it back. Asking price is probably … six thousand gold?”

Phil’s eyes blow wide. “You’re a goddamn maniac,” he spits. “Fuck you.”

The businessman shrugs and gets up from his chair. “Think about it,” he says. “I’ll be back soon for your answer.”

He lets himself out of the kitchen, his bodyguards trailing behind. Tommy hears their door open, hears the receding footsteps, and then the door clicks shut.

⸻⸻⸻

They curl up in the living room, Phil’s wings wrapped around them. Wilbur strums furiously at his guitar. Techno offers Tommy a hand to fidget with his fingers, eyes stormy and distant, and Tommy jiggles his foot up and down, up and down, burning off some of this jittery agitation.

“Fuck,” Phil says, finally, softly. “What’ll we do?”

Tommy burrows further into his side. Techno slumps further into the couch, huffing a breath. “I dunno,” he says. “Go to the police?”

“He’ll already have done that,” Wilbur points out. “Fucking bastard.”

“I mean, it’s not like we can’t afford it.” Phil sounds resigned.

Tommy grips Techno’s hand tighter. “Fuck him,” he says. “Fucking—he can’t take our land. Our home.”

Tommy’s home.

In that instant, he makes a plan.

⸻⸻⸻

It’s not hard to find the businessman’s office, and even easier to get in. He stares down the enormous wooden doors, narrows his eyes, and knocks.

Fifteen heartbeats in, the doors swing open.

“Hi,” Tommy says. “I’m here to talk to your boss.”

They lead him through the hallway. Tommy trails behind, glancing back and forth. The decoration is fucking stupid: plush chairs, plush carpet, fancy wood engravings. It clashes like the colors green and orange, or Wilbur’s guitar with Phil’s singing. All of it is very clearly expensive as shit.

He spots a bearskin rug on the floor and momentarily feels a stab of empathy. Poor thing. He hopes the death was quick.

The door to the office is, if possible, almost as big as the entrance doors. It’s engraved with stories that Tommy vaguely recognizes, but they’re all wrong. Exx-Dei creating the world, Exx-Dei welcoming souls into the afterlife, Exx-Dei growing forests in an instant. Trixx-tinn did those things. Tommy knew the man was a fucking wrongun from the start.

The door clicks open. The man smiles at Tommy, about the same height, but it feels as though the confidence adds platform shoes. Tommy digs his nails into his palms.

“Nice seeing you,” the man says. “Please, have a seat.”

Behind the desk, the man sits in a carved wooden chair, so tall it almost looms. Tommy hesitantly perches in the chair opposite him, eyes narrowed.

“Did your family send you?”

“Yes.”

The businessman smirks. “I’m glad,” he says. “Tell me, what did you end up deciding?”

Tommy takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says. “We decided to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

A beat.

The businessman’s eyes narrow. “Last I checked,” he says, slowly, dangerously, “that wasn’t an option.”

Tommy shifts.

He feels his body expand, widening, lengthening, growing fur. His claws extend from his fingertips. The chair snaps into twigs beneath him, and Tommy rears up on his hind legs, snarling as loud as he possibly can.

The man shrinks back into his chair, eyes wide, as a bear suddenly looms over him.

Tommy gives it five seconds. Five seconds of the man tilting back in his chair, eyes wide, face rapidly paling. He babbles nonsensically. “Please, please, no—please don’t hurt me, I can pay, I have money, I can do anything—”

Tommy shifts back into a human, hands still planted across the surface of the desk. His teeth are still bared in a snarl.

“It’s like you said,” Tommy tells him. “Nobody will believe us if we say that you did something illegal, ‘cause you’re all big and strong and shit. But here’s the thing.” Tommy leans over the table to meet him eye-to-eye. He can feel his teeth sharpening, his claws extending. They dig deep gouges into the expensive wood of the table. “If you try to take our land, I’ll take your goddamn legs. And nobody will believe you, will they?”

The man is so pale, he’s nearly translucent. Tommy watches his lower lip tremble, up-down-up-down.

“Keep your land,” the man whispers. “Just don’t hurt me.”

Tommy smiles, fangs and all. “Nice doing business with you.”

⸻⸻⸻

“Phil! Techno! Wilby!”

“Did you just call me Wilby?”

“No, I fucking didn’t, bitch, fuck you—”

“Aw, you can call me Wilby, it’s okay—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

Wilbur laughs and wraps Tommy in a hug. “You alright?” he says. “We saw your note saying not to worry. Phil still worried.”

Tommy nods against his shoulder, then draws back. “Good news,” he announces. “I talked to the jackass.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen. “What—”

The businessman emerges from the forest, sitting in his wagon. He still looks rather pale and nauseated.

“Ah,” he says, when he sees Wilbur. “I—I need to see your father.”

Wilbur narrows his eyes. “What—”

“Relax,” Tommy says. “Just get Phil.”

It is a beautiful, beautiful event to witness when Phil approaches, Techno alongside, both their eyes narrowed with suspicion; when the businessman’s eye twitches like it physically harms him to say the words; and when he forces out an “I’m sorry for bothering you. You can keep your land. I’ll be changing my business practices to benefit the homeless and open several shelters.”

Phil gapes. “Er,” he says. “You alright, mate?”

The man swallows. He looks near-tears. “Yes,” he says weakly. “Yes, I’m just fine.”

Tommy beams.

⸻⸻⸻

“So,” Techno says. “What’d you do to Jackass to get him to listen?”

Tommy hums and burrows further into Phil’s feathery warmth. “Oh,” he says. “I turned into a bear and told him I was gonna rip off his legs.”

“Tommy!”

Techno and Wilbur cackle.

Tommy smiles. He’s home.