Chapter Text
The quick words of the auctioneer rang loud through the market’s aisles. Each bidder raised their hands, signing away their money for old rusted and broken trinkets.
“This next antique is sure to blow you away!” He said, overly chipper voice grating on Tommy’s ears, even where it was muffled under a piece of fabric—colour obscured by darkness. “This paper fan once belonged to…”
Honestly, it really couldn’t care less about the auction. If it could ditch the whole event, it would. Tommy would get up from where it sat and run through the market until the voice of the auctioneer was drowned by the hustle and bustle of the city and it’d keep running until it couldn’t hear even that.
Unfortunately for Tommy, it couldn’t move right now.
It hadn’t been able to do that in a very long time.
It would never be able to again.
That didn’t matter—it was a doll. That was that. No point contemplating what-ifs.
“Sold! To the lady in the front for 300 gold!” The man shrieked, almost knocking Tommy onto its side with the force of his voice.
Wait… Three hundred gold? That was an insane price for what was probably just a tattered piece of paper and some wooden sticks.
Everything the auction was selling was antique objects found in various famous people’s old houses after they left… or died. Tommy couldn’t get the appeal of leaving things behind with a house when moving but what did it know? It was just a few pieces of porcelain and some string. The only things collected for the auction were things from well-known rich assholes anyway.
“This next piece is a particularly interesting one!” The auctioneer chirped, voice overly enthusiastic, just to reel in anyone who wasn’t already interested in such a dumb thing. “It was abandoned at the old manor of the world's most famous witch, left behind when he disappeared—“
Uh oh.
The cloth covering Tommy’s body was suddenly yanked away, letting blinding sunlight pierce its clay eyes. A large hand, big enough to grasp around its entire torso and over its shoulders pulled the doll up and held it up for every customer to see.
“This small ball-jointed doll is made out of solid porcelain! It used to be a part of the witch Dream’s collection but was left for a long time without care. Of course, that explains why it’s so roughed up, but most of it is structurally stable!”
If cold porcelain could flush, it would be bright red. As it was, the small smile was permanently etched into pale cheeks, unmoving and unchanging. It knew it didn’t look good. Tommy’s outer casings were covered in dirt and grime, doll-sized clothing torn in places, and for Prime’s sake, it was missing a leg from the knee joint down! The remains were cracked and crumbling but the man was right, it wouldn’t fall apart any more than it already was.
“The bidding will start at 50!”
And the bidding began, and with it, Tommy began to panic.
It didn’t know who would buy it. What if it was someone with a young kid who hadn’t yet learned the meaning of ‘gentle’?
“70!”
What if it went to someone who wanted to take Tommy’s broken pieces and repurpose them?
“95!”
What if the doll was purchased by someone whose favourite hobby was breaking porcelain dolls!
“I heard 110, do I hear 120?”
As the numbers quickly climbed higher and higher, the jumbled thoughts clouded its brain.
“130!”
“Do I hear 150!”
“150!”
“155!”
Tommy wasn’t breathing—was it supposed to be breathing or was that one of the things it lost ages ago? It couldn’t remember—
“Do I hear 170! 170?”
“170!”
“200!”
It had been alone for so, so long. All the sounds around it—the bright light of the sun—the talking of people—everything was all so unfamiliar—
“Woah, there! I hear 200, do I hear 220!”
“250!”
“275!”
“300!”
“Can I get a 350? Anyone? 350!”
“400 gold!”
It missed Dream’s manor. It hated the memories trapped there but at least the ceiling Tommy had stared at for so long was familiar.
“450!”
With the spider webs weaved into every corner,
“460!”
And the shelves slowly sagging from the weight of books older than Tommy was until they toppled to the floor,
“465!”
The papers that it couldn’t feel, but knew were always brushing up against it,
“470!”
And each careful scrape of plaster detail carved into the ceiling,
“Do I hear 475? 475!”
Even all of that was preferable to—
“I bid 1000 gold pieces!”
The crowd silenced for one stilted moment before a shockwave of murmurs burst from the market.
Tommy scanned the bidders for the face of the person who said that—if it had thought 300 was ridiculous for a fan, who would pay 1000 for a broken doll?
The auctioneer stuttered, gripping the torso of the doll hard enough for Tommy to hear it—unable to feel it. He loosed his grip, suddenly remembering himself.
“I hear 1000! Do I hear 1010?”
No one said a word.
“1010, anybody?”
The other patrons of the market, not involved in the auction, puttered about in the distance.
“Alright then, 1000 gold, going once! Going twice… Sold! To the gentleman in the hat! Congratulations!”
Tommy was set down on the table, waiting for its new fate to arrive.
A few agonizing moments passed while the auctioneer pulled out his next trinket and began selling it to the crowd.
True to the auctioneer’s word, a man in a green and white striped hat, shading his face from the sun, stepped up to the table, looking down at his new purchase. He leaned in close to Tommy, surveying each little detail with sharp blue eyes.
He hummed, seeming satisfied with… something, and tossed a rather hefty bag of clinking gold onto the table for the auctioneer. He picked Tommy up with gentle calloused hands—hands of a long life of work—and combed through ratty yellow string hair.
“I didn’t expect to find someone to take home with me today.”
…Someone?
“Welcome to the family, little one.”