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Tom's matching socks when Maddie comes downstairs from the guest room. He looks up, brows raised expectantly, as his wife throws away a wadded-up bundle of gauze and tape. "So?"
"He's a trooper, that's for sure," Maddie shakes her head a little and moves into the living room, pausing to give Ozzie a head scritch as she passes. "Hardly made a peep while I was checking his leg."
"That's good, right?" He's no veterinarian or doctor, of course, but he thinks not being in pain is definitely a good thing.
Maddie's expression says otherwise. She sits next to him on the couch and picks up a shirt to start folding. "He reminds me of a cat."
Tom pauses briefly. "But… he's a hedgehog." The kid looks so like his son– he'd be flabbergasted if the two weren't the same kind of anthropomorphic animal.
His wife nudges him gently and sets aside the shirt. "Not literally. Cats are notorious about hiding when they're in pain. Makes them harder to work with because you don't know what's wrong, what's hurting them or where."
"Oh. Right," he nods, starting to understand. "So… You think he's hiding more injuries?" He can't imagine how– between Sonic hovering around and Maddie's professional care, he'd be hard-pressed to hide so much as a bent quill.
"Mmm…" Maddie sighs through her nose, shaking out a pair of jeans to re-fold them. "Not physically. He acts like… like he's waiting to be kicked out, Tom. It's sad."
"He's got a broken leg," Tom points out, like that precludes the very notion of 'kicking him out'. Even if he weren't so clearly in need of medical attention, it's not as though they– "...Oh."
Maddie looks at him sharply. "What?"
"Oh, I think…" Tom frowns down at his hands. Remembers when he was stuck in a sling, when taking a deep breath or bending over or even just laughing hurt. "He is waiting. Not– not to be kicked out exactly, but. I mean. He did…" he lifts his right arm for emphasis instead of finishing the sentence. He did almost kill me.
Maddie's eyes go round. "Oh, shit." They both do a reflexive look around to make sure there're no furry little ears to catch her slip-up. "But you were the one that–"
"He was so out of it, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't remember," Tom rationalizes. That night was a blur even for him– the smell of ozone and ash and pine and Sonic zooming around, fretting, fetching anything he thought would help while Maddie rushed to triage the hedgehog their son had carried home.
It wasn't until Sonic had finally passed out and Shadow was tucked in the guest room, stable as she could get him, that she relayed to Tom just how critical his condition had been. "He should've been dead." Her lips were white from being pursed so tight. "Tom, I don't know how he isn't."
"Shit," Maddie repeats in the present. "Does he even know you're alright? What if he's sitting up there with that hanging over his head right now? God…"
The laundry can wait. Tom sets the socks he'd been matching on the counter and pushes himself up with a long exhale. "Yeah, nope. I'll go talk to him."
Maddie's halfway up with him. "Wait, baby, are you sure?"
It's okay if you're not over it hangs between them. Tom looks at his wife– his beautiful, loving, tough-as-nails wife– and nods. "It's fine. If he's gonna be under our roof, we need to get this cleared up. Sooner the better."
Even if he is starting to get butterflies in his stomach at the thought.
It's quieter upstairs. Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails are all off at the baseball field getting ready for tryouts. There's no sound coming from the guest room; not the quiet hum of a television, or the sounds of nature through a cracked window. Nothing.
Tom hesitates outside the door. Thinks about his handgun downstairs, then gives himself a little shake. He's a kid, he reminds himself. A kid who can teleport and skate across the air and survive in space and survive falling from space and–
Okay, not helping.
He knocks.
Waits.
Nothing.
"Uh, Shadow?" Tom calls, tentative, grasping the handle. Finally he hears something through the door– the rustle of fabric, like sitting up in bed.
He opens the door before the kid can injure himself trying to get up. If he's as tightly-wound as Maddie says, he'll probably do it anyway to be polite. And sure enough, Shadow's resting his weight on his good arm, clearly halfway to hauling himself off the bed. He freezes under Tom's gaze like a mouse staring up at a cat.
Or– a hedgehog.
Not the important thing right now.
"Hey, kid. Figured I'd check in on ya," Tom blurts out, making an 'easy, easy' gesture. "You don't gotta get up."
Shadow doesn't lay back again. He's still staring– not wide-eyed, exactly, but definitely not casual. He's not sure if the kid is even breathing.
The silence stretches for a beat or two. "So, uh. You– doing alright?" Tom hedges, swinging his hands together in front of him for lack of another outlet for the jittery energy humming through his nerves.
Finally, finally Shadow moves. He shifts his weight back to center on the bed, back straight as a pole, his quills just barely brushing against the stacked pillows. "Mrs. Wachowski is an excellent nurse. Sir."
Yeesh. Yeah, he's definitely acting like someone who expects to be read the riot act at any moment. Tom cracks a smile at the formal address of his wife, tries not to feel the edges of it straining. "You uh, you call her that?" Silence. A tiny nod, like he's trying to figure out a more polite way to refer to Maddie. "I bet she's been telling you to call her Maddie every time. She's not big on titles and stuff."
"I noticed," Shadow agrees, and then seems to catch himself. He ducks his head, not a quick motion but one deeply self-recriminating. "Sir, I…"
His voice catches, like the words are too big to get past his throat. "I'm not too big on 'em, either," Tom interrupts gently, after a few beats of visible struggle.
He can still feel his ribs, the stiffness in his shoulder after having to wear a sling so long, has to breathe past the residue of anxiety and fearfulness in his chest. But this is the present– and now, in the present, he can see the way Shadow's ears are pinned so tight they're barely visible. The narrow shoulders hiked up around his head like he's forcing himself not to curl up in a ball and hide.
Because above all else, it's clear this kid feels terrible about what happened.
Sonic had filled him in later– way later, after Tom had been discharged from the hospital in London, after they gathered their things from the hotel and walked through a portal ring back into Green Hills. After the local physician took a good look at Tom and declared that he'd "be back in action in a few weeks, s'long as you don't strain yourself no more."
He'd figured Shadow wasn't making a target out of him specifically, but it was… nice, he supposed, to have it confirmed. Less nice to get the horrible story of Shadow's life from his son, who clearly realized just how easily his own life could have taken a similar turn. The underground base. The energy-harvesting room the size of a football field. The picture of Shadow and a little girl in front of an ancient TV.
The pure, unadulterated vitriol in Shadow's voice when he saw who he thought was Commander Walters.
If he weren't already gone, Tom would've been calling Walters up to take a ride on his fist as soon as Sonic finished talking. He didn't have all the facts, definitely not, but still. It wasn't fair that the man had died without ever knowing how much he'd hurt that boy.
And all this with the weight of grief hanging over his son's head, the exploded remains of a planet-destroying cannon splayed across the sky. Shadow had realized his mistakes before the end. He'd helped save the Earth.
And then he'd shown up at the door, bleeding and broken and inexplicably alive. "He should've been dead."
Shadow seems to gather himself, gloved hands balling into fists on his thighs. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry for injuring you– and your son, I'm sorry for–"
"Hey," Tom cuts in. The anxious snowballing of his words is so familiar, so like Sonic, it makes it a little easier to breathe through the tension. "It's alright. No harm done."
Somehow, that makes it worse. Shadow doesn't keep running at the mouth like his son would've, but the word harm seems to hit him like a physical blow. He flinches away, fingers flexing and then winding around his own arm, holding himself as best he can. "Harm was done," he insists with no fight behind it, like he can't bring himself to argue with Tom even though he thinks he has to push the point. "I tried to kill you."
"Walters," Tom corrects. "You tried to kill Walters." Slowly, like he's approaching a live explosive, he eases towards the bed, gauging Shadow's reaction every step of the way. When the hedgehog only curls in on himself further– wincing in pain and frustration as he jostles his broken leg– Tom decides it's safe to sit on the very edge. "I dunno if you know, but he was already. Well."
Red eyes flick across his lap. "Walters?"
"Yep. Happened in Shibuya, or so I heard. Big explosion. Robotnik stuff."
What happens next takes Tom so off guard he freezes in sheer incomprehension.
Shadow opens his mouth to speak. Swallows, stiff and self-contained. And then he tucks his head against his chin and scrunches his eyes shut to hide the tears in his eyes.
"Whoa, whoa– It's okay," Tom stammers, hands hovering awkwardly as Shadow buries his face in his hand. Shit– he thought that would be good news to the kid. Maybe a little disappointing since he clearly wanted to be the one to do it– right? Now he's gone from stiff as a board to turning his head aside as if that could hide the fact he's crying. "Hey, hey…" Tom gentles his voice as best he can, panicking internally. Should he get Maddie? Should they call for Sonic and his brothers to come back home? Should–
The awful, rough little sob that wrenches out of the hedgehog is the final straw to break Thomas Wachowski out of his shocked stupor. He steels himself and draws the tiny, prickly little boy against his chest, careful of his broken leg and sprained wrist and internal bruising. There's a half-second of resistance, of Shadow locking up tight as a statue, before he melts against Tom's chest and cries.
It's not pretty. The kid cries like he doesn't know how, all gulping breaths and choked sniffles and tiny, heart-wrenching little noises in his chest. Tom runs a hand over his quills, smoothing them back down, saying soft, nonsensical reassurances. "It's alright… You're alright… Just get it out, buddy…"
Slowly, slowly, he starts to quiet– and then as soon as he has a hold of himself, Shadow goes completely silent at once. He doesn't sniffle. He doesn't move.
Tom looks down at black fur and red stripes. Another long, pregnant beat goes by, and it's as he opens his mouth to ask if he's feeling better that Shadow speaks again. "…I apologize for– that. This. I didn't…"
He looses his hold as the hedgehog draws back, wiping at his face with his glove. Tom wishes he'd thought to grab some tissues, but then, he couldn't have predicted this in a hundred years. "It's okay. It's good, actually– getting those feelings out instead of locking them up inside. Y'know?"
Shadow shakes his head at that, but not in protest. Like no, he doesn't know. Tom studies him again– the red eyes now ringed in red. The damp fur around his muzzle. The slumping shoulders. The comedown.
He should go now, probably. Ask Shadow if he needs a minute, maybe some water, maybe a nap. Tell Maddie what happened. But the hedgehog swallows and clenches his jaw and he's obviously trying to work through something in his head to say. Hopefully not more apologies. Tom thinks he's heard enough of those for a day, even including the possibility of Sonic sending a baseball through someone's windshield later.
"I'm… alone now," he rumbles, voice thick. Tom tips his head in mild confusion. "He– Walters was… the last person I knew. Before."
Oh. Oh. No wonder it didn't hit him until now– he was so set on getting revenge, he hadn't thought about being the only one left alive until he was.
Tom takes a deep breath through his nose. "Yeah. I guess that's true." Shadow cringes into his lap. "But hey– y'know what else is true?"
Red eyes flick up to him for the briefest of moments, catching on the wet spot left on Tom's shirt, not quite reaching his face before dropping back down.
"You're not alone now. You're here."
Tom bites back the urge to ruffle between the kid's ears– too soon, too familiar– and eases himself up off the bed. Shadow's still coiled like a spring, even as the exhaustion of having cried himself out is starting to weigh him down. "Think Maddie's gonna make chili dogs tonight. You like chili?"
A small nod. Tom smiles. "They're Sonic's favorite. You good until dinner? Want some water or anything?"
Another nod. Tom rubs his hands against his sides and heads towards the door with an affirmative, "You got it."
He stops with his hand on the knob. "…Mr. Wachowski?"
"It's Tom." But he doesn't turn around.
He came up here to set things straight with the strange, potentially dangerous guest staying over while his injuries healed.
It feels like he's leaving with another son. Tentative, for sure– Shadow had a family before, a grandfather and a sister (even if Gerald did end up being a bastard)– and no one can replace them.
He'll never be Longclaw.
He'll never be Gerald Robotnik.
But even so.
"…Tom. Thank you."