Archive of Our Own

After everything that had happened yesterday, Tommy, for the first time, made a smart decision. Or, at least, he’d like to think it was a smart decision. He knocked on the wooden door. The cross hanging above gave him a sense of safety. Not because he was religious, but because he knew demons didn’t fuck with that shit. Even if the crosses in his own home hadn’t deterred that thing, it was worth trying. 

Mr. Halo opened the door. He still looked a bit frazzled, as if he’d just woken up.

Where Tommy used to be anxious and awkward, he now felt more at ease in the cottage. He took off his shoes, hung his coat on the rack, went into the living room and put his bag next to the table. Mr. Halo’s breakfast was still on the table, complete with a newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee. 

“How come you’re so early?” Mr. Halo asked as he attempted to fix his absolute mess of a morning head.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Tommy mumbled. “I got bored.”

“Ah.” Mr. Halo nodded. “I get that. You should try to get some rest, though.” 

Tommy grimaced. “It’s like, 9 AM.”

Mr. Halo chuckled. “Not right now, dummy. Maybe go to bed early tonight.”

Tommy let out a deep sigh. He had a place to stay, no need to worry about that. Tubbo’s dads were very nice despite their oddities. They’d offered him goats to pet for therapy. That was nice. The hospital said his mom would be fine, he’d be able to talk to her later today, and that she’d be back out in a week or two. He had nothing to worry about.

Except for, you know, the fact a demon had broken into his house and Tommy’s angel form had gotten an upgrade. What was he, a pokemon? He called bullshit. 

He remembered the look on his mom’s face in devastating detail. The pure, unfiltered fear in her eyes when his light dimmed. A mere second it was. A mere second, when his own mother was terrified of him. 

There were wings on the sides of his head now. The golden feathers in his creamy wings had become brighter, or more solid—not by a lot, they were still like highlights. His halo, before a simple ring, now had a slight curve, giving it sharp edges. He was pretty sure there were new swirls on his skin, too. Somewhere he’d hoped his magical girl transformation would get rid of the pain on his back too, but, alas, he was too naive. 

Fuckass wings. Why were they on his body when they literally only hurt? Was it because he was a hybrid? Was his fragile mortal body not supposed to withstand the weight of ginormous fucking angel wings? Actually, there might be a truth to that. He just wondered why the pain persisted when he had his wings tucked away.

He should probably tell Mr. Halo about that.

“Did you know ducks like frozen peas?” He said instead.

“I did know that,” Mr. Halo replied. He sipped his coffee. “Do you want to talk about anything?” 

Tommy blinked. 

“It’s what you said yesterday. Or are you here to get your mind off things? That’s okay too.” 

He stared at his hands. He’d originally come here because, well, he was clueless, and Mr. Halo was the only person in his life who actually knew something. About the demons, about his angelic heritage. About magic and history and everything in the world or whatever. 

“I dunno.” 

Tommy was the most intelligent man on this planet. 

“How about a rundown of what happened.” Mr. Halo said. He put down his mug, now empty, and folded his arms on the table. “A demon attacked you and your mother?”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. Most of it I told you yesterday, I think. Demon attacked, mom tried to fight it off, she got hurt, then I used my powers and it evaporated.”

He did not mention his father’s letter, nor the gift his father had left him. 

“Do you have any idea why it was there?” Mr. Halo asked, tilting his head. “Did it say anything?”

“Yeah,” Tommy bit his lip. “It wanted something. He said ‘give it to us and we will leave your family be’.”

Mr. Halo nodded understandingly. Tommy doubted he understood, but oh well. 

A thought flashed through his mind. What if it was his father’s gift they were after? What if it was Tommy they were after? Did he attract demons? Was he the reason they were here in the first place? And—had his mom recognized the demon? Did she know they were being hunted? ‘How did you find me’ sounded shady as fuck. Did she have beef with satan?

That’d suck a lot. 

“Also, I have a second pair of wings now.” Well. He didn’t exactly plan to say that. Damn the evil Tommy that controlled his speech. “After I magic-beamed the bitch. Not that important though.” 

He felt Mr. Halo’s gaze burn in the side of his head. When he looked up he was met with the stare of a US president who had just learned about 9/11. 

“Uh.” Tommy squirmed in his seat. 

Mr. Halo blinked out of his confused stare. 

“Where—where’d your second pair of wings appear? And language.”

“Like, on the sides of my head,” Tommy gestured with his hands to the area of his ears. “Behind my ears, I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s—hm.” 

“Was that important?”

“Just a little bit,” Mr. Halo said, smiling nervously. “You don’t have to worry though.”

Tommy didn’t believe that shit. But, okay, whatever you say Mr. Halo. 

“Were there any other changes to your form?” He asked, adjusting his position in his chair.

“Yeah, actually! I got a fancier halo and more swirlies,” Tommy sat up. “I can show them if that’s easier.” 

“Go ahead.” Mr. Halo stood up and stacked his dishes. “It’s good to document any changes you have. Change of form usually means change of power as well.” 

“Bet.” Tommy grinned, and he stood up as well. He stepped back, making sure to not bump into the antique cabinets and bookshelves that covered the entire wall. Tommy heard the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. And the clinking of a metal bowl being put aside. 

“Is that muffin batter?” he asked. 

“Muffin batter to-be,” Mr. Halo peeked out of the kitchen with a smile and pushed his glasses up his nose bridge like a nerd. “You came a bit early, so it’s not ready yet. Maybe I’ll finish it later today, though!”

The teacher put the bowl in the fridge and left the kitchen. Behind Tommy was a little desk with books and notes scattered on its tabletop. Mr. Halo went up to it and rummaged through the mess, quickly putting away a few notes and closing the books. He grabbed a notebook, a dull red one, and walked to the couch. Tommy followed behind.

Mr. Halo sat down on the sofa. Tommy stretched, cracked his joints (which made Mr. Halo grimace), and thought of a way to transform that would not cause temporary blindness to the human eye. Slow transformation. He remembered the lesson on that. Steady focus, slowly extend your power or whatever. Made his powers more controllable too, apparently. 

Mr. Halo opened the notebook. There were already like ten pages full of notes, a few sketches, all in the same loopy, messy handwriting. Tommy wasted no time to let go of his mortal vessel and escape to the light or whatever the fuck. He made sure to keep his wings tucked away because, one, he had a shirt and didn’t feel like ripping it and two, he wasn’t too excited to feel like there were rosethorns wrapped around his back.

Afterwards, there was a subtle glow emitting from his skin, the swirls had started spinning again, and he noticed the cottage seemed less dark than before, as if he’d drank a night vision potion. He looked up, just fast enough to check the new halo. It was stretchy and pointy but still round. Like… like something. There had to be a comparison somewhere. 

Mr. Halo eyed him curiously with the green eyes of joy and whimsy. Tommy wondered if that was how Tubbo saw him. Tubbo always said Tommy’s eyes were the literal embodiment of joy and pride, that Tommy’s eyes were awfully easy to read. The eyes were the window to the soul, as people said. Maybe this look was what Tubbo meant.

Tommy’s light reflected in Mr. Halo’s eyes.

His expression changed upon seeing Tommy’s lack of wings. He couldn’t exactly decipher what—confusion, maybe. A small frown—maybe it was only specific emotions that were easy to read on the man’s face. Or Tommy was bad at recognizing the other ones. There was no commentary though, so Tommy ignored it. 

Yesterday, after getting to the Underscores’ house, Tommy had pulled Tubbo upstairs and broken rule number one, called, ‘think before you speak’. He didn’t have to think before speaking to Tubbo because Tubbo could do the thinking for him. And also Tubbo knew how to shut up and forget things. 

So, Tubbo now was the only one to know Tommy’s father had made contact. Or, at least, had acknowledged Tommy’s existence. And Tubbo now also knew Tommy was in possession of the cross of total annihilation, or whatever it was called. Maybe Tommy would name it lucky charm like in miraculous ladybug so when he used it he could yell ‘lucky charm!’ and send someone straight to hell. 

Tubbo had helped him put the pendant on a golden chain so it wouldn’t get lost. The chain was short enough to not get tangled or stuck anywhere, and long enough to not choke Tommy in his sleep. He’d never have to take it off again. No demon would get even CLOSE! He hoped Mr. Halo assumed the cross was just a precaution after yesterday’s attack. 

Mr. Halo had never asked why Tommy never included his wings in ‘full angel mode’, only commented on it by saying he’d be more powerful with them. Unfortunately, Tommy knew the question was bound to come eventually. 

“‘Cause they rip through my shirt.” Was Tommy’s half-truth answer. Mr. Halo made an ‘oh’ face. Tommy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But I can still have them out if that’s necessary. They did change a bit.” 

“If you want to,” Mr. Halo shrugged. “You shouldn’t have to rip a perfectly good shirt just to document a few changes.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. He could find a way to do it without ripping his shirt! He tugged the back of his shirt up and let his wings sprout slowly from his shoulderblades, making sure they wouldn’t strain the fabric too much. He pushed his wings flat against his back and tugged the shirt up further so his wings could hook under and lift the hem of his shirt up. 

The position was mildly uncomfortable and the lingering ache became sharper, but whatever. He didn’t have to keep it up that long, so he wisely ignored it. Along the wings on his back, two new wings sprouted from behind his ears—they were unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. They just itched a little.

Tommy spread his wings, letting the ones on his back become a little bigger. He concealed a wince with a grimace, and allowed the pain to be replaced (or dulled) with the relief of stretched wings. He tried doing the same with the ones by his ear, and lo and behold, they did exactly that. He experimented with them a bit, flapping and covering his face. He made an ‘ough’ sound after he almost poked out his own eye. He felt like a baby bird and it sucked. 

“Don’t laugh!” He squawked after Mr. Halo let out a small chuckle. How dare this man laugh at his misery. A pure sadist. An evil man. So cruel. His words meant nothing to a bully. Mr Halo clearly didn’t stop finding Tommy’s pure and utter agony amusing. There was still a small smile on his lips. 

“Sorry, sorry. You’re still getting used to them, I know.” Mr. Halo said unconvincingly. 

“Yeah! You better, bit—” Tommy was cut off by his own wing slapping him in the face. God fucking damnit! He should’ve never tried to spread them for the intimidation factor! Now Mr. Halo was laughing at him again!

“Ugh!” Tommy crossed his arms and turned around dramatically, making sure his wings swished accordingly to make it seem like he was tugging a cape. The theatre kid in him told him he should guilt trip Mr. Halo again. See how many free muffins he could get. With his back to the sofa he could see outside, into the now familiar garden. It reminded Tommy of that one time Callahan had shown up here.

Speaking of! What had all that been about? He hadn’t heard much of Callahan in a while! Had the demon retreated to his master or something? Did he see Tommy’s aura and cower in fear? Had Mr. Halo shooed him off his property with a broom? Maybe he died or something. Wait no, he’d seen Callahan literally this friday. He should probably investigate that guy more. Maybe he should ask Mr. Halo about mysterious deer men called Callahan. Tommy huffed and waited for the new apology Mr. Halo owed him for laughing, but—

But Mr. Halo had gone quiet. 

Tommy turned around. Mr. Halo wasn’t laughing, nor smiling. Instead he was staring at Tommy’s wings with a concerned frown. He’d stopped writing, pen still in hand.

“Tommy,” He said hesitantly, a look in his eyes as if something was so alarmingly wrong. “When was the last time you preened your wings?”

Tommy blinked.

“I what?” 

Mr. Halo stared at him. 

“Preened your wings, Tommy,” Mr. Halo said. “When’s the last time you did that?”

Tommy gawked. “I’m supposed to do that?”

“I—you—” The man’s expression changed, eyebrows jumping, then furrowing, then creasing into a worried frown. “YES!?”

Tommy gulped and scratched the back of his head. In his defense, how the fuck was he supposed to know that? Wing preening was for birds, Tommy wasn’t a bird. Birds had a beak and hollow bones and stuff. And they also had tiny wings compared to Tommy’s, and their wings were out permanently. Tommy’s wings were magical and could sprout out at will, unlike those of birds.

“Oh my goodness.” Mr. Halo sighed and dragged his hands down his face, but Tommy could still see his eyebrows crease with worry. “Oh my goodness—how did you not know this?”

Tommy’s wings bristled. “Nobody’s ever told me! And I thought they were supposed to fix themselves! They’re magic innit?”

“Nothing fixes itself, Tommy!” Mr. Halo put the notebook away. “Did your parents—”

Mr. Halo seemed to remember something halfway through that sentence. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

The teacher fell back against the couch. “Right. They… Hm.”

Tommy pursed his lips. His chest tied into a knot at the thought of his mother keeping another piece of lowkey-kinda-important information from him. Tommy wasn’t sure how often he was supposed to preen his wings, but judging by Mr. Halo’s reaction, his wings were not in good shape. He’d never really realized, honestly. He thought that was normal.

“Okay. Forget that.” Mr. Halo regained some posture and shifted his expression to a more tender one. “Do they hurt?”

Tommy lifted a wing and winced.

“A little…”

Mr. Halo stood up. Tommy shrank in on himself just slightly, which in turn made the teacher hesitate. The man took another good look at Tommy’s wings.

“I doubt your friends know how to preen angel wings…” Mr. Halo muttered, probably to himself, but Tommy heard anyway.

“I think Tubbo knows a bit, he had a parakeet at some point,” Tommy toyed with his fingers. “Isn’t that similar?”

Mr. Halo grimaced. “Angel wings require a very different kind of care. Usually only other angels know how.”

Tommy’s wings drooped a little. Would he have to live his whole life with wing-induced back pain? Wow, okay. His dad was just an asshole then. Not only did the bitch leave Tommy before he was born, but also doomed him to have eternal back pain. And, fuck off! If he wasn’t a bird, and his wings weren’t like those of a bird, why did he still have to do bird stuff? God’s holy sacred design was ASS.

The wings by his face tensed and pressed close to his face, as if trying to comfort him. It was strange how little control he had over his own limbs (was a wing a limb?) and how foreign the new wings felt. At least they were soft and warm. And itchy. He bet what was from the lack of wing preening too. He almost considered cursing his father again. He should write a complaint letter to Heaven & Co or something. Horrible game feature. Didn’t even update when Tommy’s form leveled up.

Couldn’t his dad at least have told his mom Tommy was supposed to spend time on wing care? If every angel had to do that, why didn’t his mom know? She was the one who thought fucking an angel was a good idea, shouldn’t she know they had special wing care routines? Did his dad just not bother to tell her or what? Once again, Tommy was reminded he knew absolute jackshit about his origins. Nobody ever knew anything, and if they did, nobody ever told him anything, so it wasn’t like he could ask either. 

Tommy looked at Mr. Halo.

“Do you know how to preen wings?” 

Mr. Halo met his gaze.

“... I do.”

Tommy’s wings lifted up slightly and stopped sulking like little bitches. He hated how expressive his wings were. 

“So then you can fix my wings!”

Mr. Halo made a conflicted face.

“I mean… I could, but—”

“But what?” Tommy frowned. 

“Preening is… How do I say this…” He hesitated and took a deep breath.

“It’s usually only done by people you’re very close to.” He settled on. “Close friends, family, partners.”

Ohhh. He’d read about that somewhere. One of the books from a while ago talked about how wings were very sensitive and vulnerable and shit. Tommy didn’t believe that, as his wings could form an impenetrable barrier to protect him from evil. He’d only had to use that move once, when he was seven or something—they just tanked all the hits.

Tommy stared at Mr. Halo’s awkward expression, then his wings (which still hurt), then at Mr Halo, then back at his wings (which were still holding up his shirt).

“So?” 

Did he look like he cared about the secret deep socio-psycho-politicological meaning behind wing preening? Literally who gives a singular ballsack??? Not Tommy! No-bo-dy cares. He just wanted his wings to stop causing scoliosis symptoms. 

“Just—are you sure you want me to? It’s—”

God, this man was radiating insecurity! Where’s the confidence? Where’s the worry for Tommy’s physical wellbeing? This was exactly why Tommy didn’t hang out with losers like Ranboo, they were so unsure all the time. “I don’t caaaareeeeee!” 

“You brought up the wings in the first place,” Tommy crossed his arms proudly. He grinned. “And—and they hurt soooo much! You wouldn’t want to keep me in pain, right?”

“I guess you do have a point…” Mr. Halo sighed and formed a small smile. A nervous, unsure smile. “If you want me to preen your wings, just make yourself comfortable on the carpet. I’ll go grab a comb. ” 

Tommy beamed. He was sure his eyes had filled with that stupid childish giddiness—another annoying habit of his. He sat down and watched as Mr. Halo rummaged through the depths of a cabinet. His wings lay spread behind him, and then came task number two. His shirt was still hiked uncomfortably up his back. He debated whether or not he should take it off. Would that be weird? It sounded weird in theory. But it didn’t feel weird, if that made sense. It was only his back after all. 

In the end, he decided it was easier to just take the thing off. It wasn’t cold, the fabric wouldn’t be straining against his back, and it’d be easier for Mr. Halo to do his magic wizard stuff. He kept it close by so he could put it back on once his wings were (hopefully) fixed and clean. 

Mr. Halo came back with a fancy silver item in hand. It honestly looked really weird and not like a comb at all, but whatever. Wizard stuff. He turned his head back to the front and stared at the rest of the living room in front of him. There was a large bookshelf against the wall, with, again, lots of trinkets and weird collector items. Yeah, he could probably just look at that for a while, figure out what the spines of the books said and what the trinkets could be. 

He twitched when he felt a hand at the base of his wing. Mr. Halo was careful, the touch was light—he seemed afraid of hurting Tommy, or maybe it was the stupid angel wing culture he was talking about earlier. Either reason was stupid. 

“Detangling them might hurt a bit,” Mr. Halo said. He lightly stroked the surface of Tommy’s wing. That was nice. “Your feathers are matted, especially your scapulars and secondaries.”

“They’ll stop hurting when you’re done, right?” Tommy replied. He had no idea what those words meant.

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Halo took out a few large feathers at the ends of Tommy’s wings. They were broken and thin. “Your wings are in a bad state. The pain won’t just magically disappear, but it’ll definitely ease. I’ll try my best not to pull too much.” 

Mr. Halo started at the base of Tommy’s wing. His hands were being firmer now, something Tommy both appreciated and hated. He wasn’t being treated like a fragile little thing anymore, but—

“Ow!” Tommy quietly hissed at a particularly big knot being pulled at. The hands stilled, but Tommy’s wings lifted off the ground to tell them to get back to work.

With every pull on the feathers Tommy winced. Mr. Halo wasn’t being harsh. His wings were just on maximum sensitivity, apparently. At some point he’d felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. He’d prayed to god Mr. Halo wouldn’t notice, and thank fuckily his prayers had been answered. After twenty minutes, though, Mr. Halo told him the worst part was over. Tommy cried tears of joy. (metaphorically.) The biggest mats and knots were out, so now he could start actually preening.

Now it was time to pluck the broken and dead feathers, according to Mr. Halo. The man was explaining all about preening and shit, and telling Tommy how he could do it himself. He pulled out a lot of broken feathers, and it made Tommy realize he should probably shower with the wings out sometime. 

Mr. Halo was gentle. He carded through Tommy’s feathers carefully, he eased his wings when they tensed, he worked lightly and with precision—Too gentle. He hated it. Because he wasn’t fragile, of course. He didn’t want to be treated like a broken child or scrawny animal, of course. No other reason.

Not because Tommy liked the gentleness. Why would he? Why would he like kind hands that took time and effort to make sure he was comfortable? Why would he like the peace, the quiet, the warmth, the tender touch of someone he hoped he could trust? Of course he wouldn’t hate it because of that. Noooo, he would never. 

(He hated the fact he liked being treated so kindly. Hated the fact he felt like a pitiful child to be fixed. Hated the fact he leaned into the touch, hated the fact this was the first time any adult had treated him this gently.)

Mr. Halo was just annoyingly good at preening wings. Yeah. And he was using his stupid wizard magic to make Tommy feel all nice and warm inside. He’d mastered the art of wing preening and weaponized it or something. Tommy was just making things up at this point.

“Do books on wing preening exist?” Tommy asked, breaking the long-lasting silence. Since he hadn’t exactly been listening to Mr. Halo’s instructions on how to preen himself, he figured he might as well find out in his free time. And Tubbo would be able to learn too!

“They do, yes.” Mr. Halo said. “But they lack vital pieces of information and won’t teach you enough. You need to be taught by someone with practical experience.”

“Ah.” Tommy fell silent once more.

How was he supposed to learn then? Listen to Mr. Halo? Uh, yeah, forget it. Not right now, at least. Maybe another time. If he wanted to do it independently like the big man he was, how was he supposed to? The same way Mr. Halo had? By—

Wait a second.

Tommy frowned.

“Then where did you learn to preen wings?”

Mr. Halo froze.

“Sorry?”

“‘Cause you said only other angels know how to preen.” Tommy toyed with the cross on the chain. His wings twitched, urging Mr. Halo to continue carding through the feathers. With every brush he felt the sleep deprivation catch up to him. “And you’re not an angel.”

A beat passed. The hands tentatively resumed with brushing and picking Tommy’s feathers. Tommy tugged his knees up to his chest and rested his head on them.

“I’ve worked with angels before,” came the answer, after a lengthy silence. Tommy looked up and behind with wide eyes.

“Really?”

Mr. Halo nodded. 

Tommy looked in front of him again. He wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t the first angel to lend Mr. Halo a hand in combat. He wasn’t the first whose wings Mr. Halo had preened. It brought a sense of comfort, in a way. Because not only did Mr. Halo know about angels from the books he’d read, but he’d met angels before. He’d talked to them, interacted with them, fought with them. He knew angels. Personally. At least, that was what Tommy assumed, considering Mr. Halo was all worried about the social meaning behind preening. Maybe he could introduce Tommy to other angels, too.

“Did they also have shitty wings?” Tommy blurted. 

“Language, Tommy.” Mr. Halo chuckled. “And no, they didn’t. Theirs mostly messed up after a fight.”

Tommy’s wings drooped. So he was still the odd one out in the end. He was the incapable angel kid out of the bunch. The one who just knew nothing and was basically useless. Great. 

Mr. Halo took Tommy’s left wing and shuffled to the side. He placed the wing over his lap and began working in the inner feathers, which Tommy noted were even more sensitive. It was nice. He felt his blinks becoming languid, felt drowsiness tug at his face. The cottage was quiet, the carpet was soft, the hands on his wings were tender and warm. 

“Were they cool like me?” Tommy asked, resting his head on his knees once more.

Mr. Halo stayed quiet.

Tommy didn’t need an answer anyway. The exhaustion had washed over him, his brain didn’t register much anymore. He yawned. His will to stay awake was at an all time low, his insides were fuzzy, the decade-old pain in his wings was fading—

Tommy closed his eyes. 

He was safe.

“... for dinner?”

Tommy stirred. His body weighed heavy under the pressure of gravity and the comfort of a mattress. Actually, no, not a mattress, something else.

“... wakes up.”

The voices in the background sounded familiar. Voices, multiple. He remembered there only being one before he fell asleep. Where was he again?

“... more chili flakes—yes.”

The sound of footsteps came from the kitchen. Tommy cracked open his eyes and was greeted by the sight of a crackling hearth. He himself was on a couch, wrapped in blankets. His shirt lay neatly folded on the coffee table. Despite that, he still felt some fabric covering his torso.

He stretched, then immediately jumped as two rather large appendages on his back knocked into the couch. They folded back to their original position, one draped over the backrest, the other dangling off the sofa and placed on the carpet. He yawned.

“Look who’s awake,” said a voice that definitely did not belong to Mr. Halo. Tommy whirled around. 

Leaning against the dinner table stood Skeppy, in the formal attire of a blue hoodie and paint-stained cargo jeans. Tommy stared at him, rubbed the crust from his eyes, then stared again. Skeppy snorted. Tommy ended up starting a staring contest and lost. It was because of the crust, of course.

“Where’s Mr. Halo?” He asked, voice cracking a little after having slept for… how long exactly?

Skeppy looked behind him, to the kitchen. Tommy noticed the distinct smell of a well-seasoned dish being made. A few seconds later Mr. Halo popped into view, his hair a mess and his blouse different from before. 

Skeppy turned back to Tommy with a stupid ‘durr’ smirk on his face. Mr. Halo walked up behind him, greeting Tommy with a small wave and a kind smile. 

Tommy yawned again. “Why’s Skeppy here?”

“I’m staying over for dinner tonight,” The man said. He sent Mr. Halo a flirtatious look, but Mr. Halo did not seem impressed. In fact, he actively stared Skeppy down. Skeppy rolled his eyes and huffed, then returned his attention to Tommy and gestured vaguely in his direction. “What’s all the wings for?” 

Tommy looked at the wings sprouting from his back. They took up nearly the entire living room. 

“Mr. Halo preened my wings!” He sat up, a smile split on his face. He looked at his wings again. They felt so much nicer, more flexible and less itchy. They looked much cleaner as well. The feathers were tidied and in neat rows. The echo of soft fingers carding through his plumage brought warmth to his chest. 

“Did he now?”

Tommy turned back around. Skeppy was smiling, a bit weirdly, but Skeppy was always weird. It was a key aspect of his personality that made his lessons fun. 

“Just ‘Bad’ is fine.” Mr. Halo (or rather Bad) said. Skeppy slowly looked up at Bad, his expression not changing, and Tommy saw a small twitch in his mouth. Mr. Halo seemed… anxious. Judging by the nervous smile and the skittish glances at Skeppy. 

“Yeah,” Tommy grinned. “Cool, innit? My wings look brand new!”

He lifted one for good measure. Skeppy witnessed the amazing glorious brand new Tommy Innit wings, then turned back to Mr. Halo with raised eyebrows. Bad clenched his jaw.

“They were matted, Skeppy.” Bad hissed anxiously. “You would’ve too.”

“Mhm.” Skeppy slowly nodded along. His smile hadn’t faltered. Tommy was starting to feel like he was missing some vital context. But, rule number four of a true Innit, oblivion and ignorance were sometimes the best paths to choose.

Mr. Halo let go of Skeppy and took a deep breath.

“Anyway!” He walked up to Tommy and plucked a little feather from his hair. “I’m glad you’re finally awake.”

Tommy blinked. Right. He’d fallen asleep in front of Mr. Halo like a noob. He flushed with embarrassment. He’d probably messed up his wings again in his sleep, too. And his shirt was still folded on the coffee table!

Which reminded him of the unfamiliar shirt he was wearing. It was way too big, for starters. It basically hung off of his shoulder, and almost reached his knees. It was a dull dark red and made of a soft, thin material. It felt old. The most notable were the six holes cut in the back, easily big enough to fit Tommy’s wings. Mr. Halo seemed to notice him stare at it. 

“I thought you’d want something to wear,” Bad said sheepishly. “But your wings were still out. I used one of my old shirts.” 

Tommy looked at it again. Honestly, he wasn’t complaining. The fabric was nice and didn’t itch, and the holes didn’t restrict his wings at all. In fact, his wings felt unusually rested. Tommy guessed it was from sleeping with them out. 

“You can keep it if you want, I have plenty of others.” Bad shrugged. 

Well. Tommy was in need of a new pair of pajamas…

Then something else hit him.

Looking outside, he noticed the sky was awfully dark.

Ohhhhhh fuck.

“Uh,” Tommy said, “What time is it…?”

Skeppy checked the clock on one of the bookshelves. “Six PM.”

“Damn,” Tommy stared out the window. Not much to see there. Not even a stray Callahan. “How long was I asleep?!” 

“Seven hours, give or take,” Bad replied. “I wasn’t sure whether or not you wanted to stay over for dinner, so I prepared some extra for if you do. I think the Underscores were expecting you home over an hour ago, though.”

Tommy groaned. He found his phone complete with 99+ unread messages. Most of them were from Tubbo, but Tommy was unfortunately reminded he’d been MIA for one entire day after being attacked by a whole ass demon. Maybe not the best decision.

“Yeaaaaahhh…” Tommy grimaced. He’d like to stay for dinner—fuck, whatever Bad had cooked up smelled delicious, but— “I think I’ll go to Tubbo’s, they’re having Indian tonight.” 

Mr. Halo smiled. “Alright! You should let them know you’re safe first. Parents worry easily.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy stood up and tucked his wings away, then decided to just wear his own shirt over Mr. Halo’s. As he packed up, he took a peek into the kitchen to see what he was missing out on—it looked like lamb stew, with a side of pomegranate seeds and some kind of bread. Neat. 

He said his goodbyes to Skeppy, who had taken his place on the couch. Bad walked with him to the front door.

“Take care, okay?” He said, the softness practically oozing from his voice. “If you’re having trouble with your wings, just tell me. I’ll be there.” 

Tommy nodded and pushed down the warmth threatening to burst from his chest.

“Or anything else, really.” Mr. Halo brought a hand up to the side of Tommy’s head, to the spot where Tommy’s head-wings were. He plucked out a small stray feather from behind his ear. Tommy felt the sudden, irrational urge to hug the teacher in front of him. He didn’t. 

“Thanks,” He said sincerely. He felt like a child again. He felt cared for. Loved. Stupid wizard magic. 

Was he getting attatched?

Tommy said goodbye and left.