Chapter Text
Tommy was hunched on the floor, hand clutched to his chest, when there were pounding footsteps.
“Tommy? Toms, what’s- are you okay?” Phil fell to his knees in front of Tommy’s in a flutter of green and black, hand brushing over shoulders hair arms face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Tommy sniffled, gingerly extending his hand.
“I was- I was looking through the boxes, a-and I touched something and i-it-”
Phil’s fingertips hovered over the awful, painful burn covering Tommy’s palm and fingers, not touching but clearly wanting to soothe the hurt.
“Oh,” he said softly, “oh, Toms, lytling.”
Tommy sniffled again, wiping warm and itchy tears off his face. It was all he could do to not break down entirely, startled by the pain of suddenly grabbing something that had burned him.
Phil murmured something, fingers glittering with magic, and smoothed away the burn. The pain remained for a moment longer, but eventually it faded and Tommy experimentally flexed his fingers.
“Thanks,” he croaked. “I didn’t- I don’t know what it was.”
Phil’s eyes flicked up, past Tommy to where Wilbur had been floating about fretfully and rattling things around.
“Wil?”
“Okay, okay, fine.” Wilbur cut off, humming in a decidedly nervous way and going to look through the box.
Tommy tucked his knees up to his chest, watching as the wings on Phil’s back folded away into nothingness again.
“Ow!”
Tommy looked over. Wilbur was shaking out his hand, floating a safe distance away from the box.
“It’s a fucking- paperweight or some shit, whatever it is- that’s iron, Phil.”
Phil’s expression flickered, and he went over to the box, digging through it for the object that had affected both Tommy and Wilbur.
Tommy, nervously, watched Phil do so. Iron? Iron was a well-known warding substance, repelling and burning a variety of creatures. Ghosts, demons. Fae. Things that weren’t human. Things Tommy wasn’t supposed to be.
Phil eventually picked up a chunk of metal shaped into something Tommy couldn’t really see, slipping it into his pocket with no sign of pain. He was Wild, but not the kind burned by iron. He was human, or at least had been human once.
It just made Tommy feel more scared.
Phil gently cupped Tommy’s face, visibly looking him over.
“Everything else alright?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said quietly.
“Good. Dinner will be ready soon, do you want to come wait with me?”
Tommy stood, taking a moment when his head spun and his vision darkened, but followed Phil back into the kitchen.
Techno was standing there, near the kitchen window and the potted allium. He said nothing as Tommy sat at the table, as Phil finished making dinner. He said nothing as Tommy picked at the food, as Wilbur awkwardly tried making conversation, as Phil gave distracted and vague answers to questions.
He said nothing up until Tommy was standing at the top of the stairs, paused to catch his breath and let his vision clear.
“Tommy,” he said.
“What?”
“You need to tell Phil what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’d rather waste away?”
Tommy shrugged, walking into the bathroom.
“I don’t exactly know what’s wrong, big man.”
“You can still tell him what happened.”
“Rather not.” Tommy waved one hand, turning the sink on to rinse his toothbrush. “Go bother Phil or something, I don’t want to talk right now.”
Techno grumbled, a deep grating sound, but sank into the floor and vanished.
Good. Tommy finished getting ready for bed and curled up under the blankets, warmth finally sinking into his bones. He’d wait here, for Phil’s goodnight hug.
He waited.
He waited, watching the clock flick through higher and higher numbers before cycling through to a new hour, but Phil never came. He could have gotten up, reminded his dad of the tradition they’d kept for the past seven years, but… he was too tired.
Tommy, a lump in his throat and a sickness in his stomach, fell asleep.
He was curled up in bed when he heard a door close. The footsteps faded into the back of his awareness, his attention fixed on a smell floating up from outside. A tantalizing, appetizing, edible smell.
Food.
He got up, picking his way over to the open window and slipping out. The smell wasn’t coming from the forest this time, no, it ended at the back door right below his room.
His mouth watered. There, resting on a plate centered on the doormat, was half a loaf of bread and a shallow dish of milk. It was mortal food, he knew, but this was- this was different, would satisfy his hunger. He was so, so hungry.
He carefully inched up to the plate, gulping down the smell of fresh-baked bread. There was no lady, not this time, but he knew it was for him. Could be for him, if he took it.
And oh, how he wanted it. He picked the bread up in black hands, biting and tearing off chunks of soft, fluffy bread to gulp down. He was so hungry. He was so hungry.
He finished the bread much faster than he probably should, but his stomach accepted it warmly rather than rejecting so much sustenance at once. The milk soon followed, creamy and cold.
Good. This was good. This sustained him, didn’t taste like bitter ash.
He licked the last droplets from his chin, letting out a satisfied sigh. It wouldn’t last long, but it was something.
He then noticed something else. A bedpost, snapped and splintered, set on the doorstep behind the plate.
He cocked his head. The food, and the bedpost. An offering, and a request. Both parts of a deal. He’d taken one end, and that left the other open. That wouldn’t do. Debts were to be repaid. Deals were to be completed as quickly as possible.
He picked the bedpost up, carefully fitting the pieces back together. He needed to fix it. But how?
A flicker inside him. He poked at it, breathed oxygen onto the flames in his chest until they flared up and licked across his skin, through fur and prickling grass.
The flames lapped across the bedpost as he pressed the ends together, seeping into the broken wood.
When the flickering faded, it left a shimmering line where the snap had been and nothing else. The wood held, mended by the flames.
Bedpost fixed, he hummed in satisfaction and clambered back inside. Stomach full for the first time in too long, he crawled under the heavy weight of soft blankets and curled up in his den, lulled easily into unconsciousness again.
A dream within a dream.
———
Phil frowned down at the bedpost laying on the back step. Last night, he’d set it out with some bread and milk for the brownies. Now, the morning after, the offerings were gone and the bedpost was mended. He stooped to pick everything up, and continued musing over the bedpost as he set the empty dishes in the sink.
“Brownies do their job?” Techno asked idly.
“Something did,” Phil said, and tossed him the post. “Look.”
Techno inspected it like Phil had, head tilted to the side.
“Brownie magic doesn’t leave marks,” Phil said, something they both knew. Brownies were good at mending, at fixing things. If they’d been the ones to accept the offering, the bedpost would have no shimmering violet-gold seam where wood had snapped when someone pushed Phil a little too roughly against it.
“What does?” Techno asked, ignoring Phil’s slight dig.
Phil shrugged.
“Most fairies don’t do household work, so it’s anyone’s guess.”
Techno leaned over the bedpost in his talons, looking as though he was sniffing the wood but in all likelihood experimentally prodding at residual magic, trying to unravel what exactly it was.
“Fae,” he said finally. “A young one.”
Phil frowned.
“Seriously?” He hadn’t felt any fae entering the yard last night, which was standard because of the wards. But a prince or princess? Alone? Why? Was it the same fae who’d eaten all his strawberries?
“Yup.” Techno tossed the post back, which Phil twisted away into its place on the bed. “Don’t suppose you learned anything last night?”
Phil sighed.
“Not really. She spent most of the time dodging my questions or giving cryptic answers.” He rubbed at his forehead, packing a lunch he knew Tommy wouldn’t eat. “She told me my son was still alive, but- nothing much else.”
Except that he was looking in the wrong place for answers.
“So you should have listened to me.”
Phil gave Techno a dirty look, but didn’t get the chance to reply as Tommy tottered down the stairs.
Phil glanced over, then paused and looked at Tommy more fully.
He looked… slightly better? There seemed to be more color in his face than yesterday, a little more light in his eyes.
“Hey,” Phil said, disguising his surprise, “good morning.”
“Morning,” Tommy mumbled, sounding a little less tired than yesterday.
“Did you want some breakfast?”
“I’ll eat at school.”
Everyone knew he was lying. Nobody pointed it out.
“Have anything you need to turn in today?” Phil asked. Tommy shrugged.
“Don’t think so.” He tugged at his sleeves, pulling them farther down pale and bony wrists. It couldn’t hide the way his shirt hung off narrow, too-sharp shoulders.
“Alright. Grab your lunch so we’re not late.”
Tommy did so, stuffing it uncaringly into his backpack and promptly vanishing. Hopefully he’d share with Ranboo, Phil didn’t want perfectly good food to just be thrown away.
“Don’t burn the house down, either of you,” Phil said, his traditional farewell for Techno and Wilbur as he walked to the front door.
“Old man,” Techno snorted back.
“Witchy hoe,” Wilbur added with a nod. Phil (lovingly) flipped them both off, pulling on a cardigan.
“Bony motherfucker, ectoplasmic pain in my ass, I’m buying more salt while I’m out.”
“Wow, I’m terrified.”
Phil shut the door.
Like he had the past few weeks, Tommy spent the ride to school staring out the window not talking.
“So, Tommy…” Phil began slowly, feeling Techno’s insistent prodding.
“So?”
“How have things been with you?”
Tommy made a little half-shrugging gesture, still looking out the window. The trees rushed past, thick and green with summer. Hiding far too much under tangled branches, in the shadows cast where leaves blocked out the light.
“Fine,” Tommy said, mumbling something else inaudible.
Phil could see the individual bones in the back of his neck.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” Phil asked quietly. “I’ll listen.”
Tommy shifted a little, legs folded to his chest on the seat. His posture didn’t scream belief, and neither did his lack of reply. Phil didn’t push. Part of him worried that Tommy would break.
Eventually, they got to school, Phil pulling into the dropoff line.
“Have a good day,” Phil said, once he’d lurched up to a spot decently close to the school itself. “I love you.”
Tommy turned his head away, pulling his backpack on and pushing the car door open.
“See you later,” he said.
———
“I asked Phil to get my records,” Tommy said, sitting down next to Ranboo. Ranboo, who’d been reading a library book, looked up.
“Huh?”
“Yesterday, remember? We talked about stuff that might have made me… weird.” Wrong. Dangerous.
“Oh, right.” Ranboo knocked his knees together absently, setting the book aside. “What happened?”
“He called the orphanage.” Tommy shrugged. “My file should be coming soon.”
“That’s… good, I guess.” Ranboo glanced over at Tommy. “You look better.”
“Do I?” Tommy tilted his head, evaluating himself. Things were less wavery today, slightly less faint. “I feel a little better. Dunno why.” He glanced back at Ranboo, blinking slowly. Something about him seemed different. What was it? “Are you wearing eyeliner?”
Ranboo flushed, looking away.
“Maybe. My mom let me borrow some.”
“Huh. Looks nice.”
“Thanks.” Ranboo paused, then- “I can’t touch my eyes now, which sucks.”
“I mean, you can,” Tommy said.
“But then it would smear everywhere.”
Tommy shrugged.
“Aesthetic.”
Ranboo actually snorted at that.
“Something else, uh, happened yesterday,” Tommy said, completely changing the subject. Did he want to talk about it? Not really. But Ranboo deserved to know, was really the only person who’d listen.
Ranboo blinked, sitting up straighter.
“What?”
Tommy absently clenched his hand, remembering the sear of pain.
“I was looking through some of Phil’s boxes, and, um. I grabbed something iron.”
Ranboo paled.
“And you-”
“I got burned,” Tommy said. “Phil fixed it, luckily, but… it burned. It burned.” He wrapped his arms around his middle, sighing. “I’m pretty sure it means there’s something wrong with me. I’m- humans aren’t supposed to get burned by iron.”
And he was supposed to be human. He looked human, acted human, should be human. But ever since he’d looked in that mirror, seen something neither plant nor animal, he had the horrible suspicion that he wasn’t. That he was something else.
“Yeah,” Ranboo said quietly. “That doesn’t sound fun.”
“No, it really wasn’t. A dumb fucking paperweight, burning my whole fucking hand.”
Ranboo winced.
“I got burned on the face once,” he said, “it wasn’t that bad, but still awful.”
Tommy blinked at him.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
“It’s, uh.” Ranboo pointed to his face, tracing a slight curve just below his cheekbone that could have been a scar if Tommy looked closely. “It’s pretty old. You don’t really notice unless I get really tan or sunburned or something, which I, um, don’t.”
“Shit,” Tommy said. “What happened?”
Ranboo shrugged.
“I was a little kid, playing around in the kitchen. My mom had the oven open, trying to make brownies, but she accidentally knocked against me and-” he made a small whistling sound, pantomiming a figure falling forwards. Tommy winced, not liking how his mind filled in the blanks.
“Shit,” he said again, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it was a long time ago, I barely remember.” Ranboo let out a small laugh. “I’m still not big on ovens though.”
A moment passed, Tommy not sure what to say and Ranboo eventually breaking the silence again.
“Did Phil… say anything? About it?”
Tommy huffed, guessing they weren't talking about Ranboo anymore.
“No. He hasn’t said anything about shit. Just looks at me all weird and pretends nothing is wrong.”
Which was a little hypocritical, because Tommy was pretending nothing was wrong. But it was different with Phil. Tommy- he didn’t really know why. He wanted to keep it secret, didn’t want to let everyone know how odd and weird and wrong he was and potentially make something bad happen. He didn’t want to get hurt, didn’t want-
He didn’t want to end up like the other strange children he’d known. He pulled his knees to his chest, setting his chin down.
“I’m scared he won’t want me anymore,” Tommy mumbled.
———
“Fussing again?” Wilbur asked idly, as Phil carefully watered the allium. “You know you don’t have to do that.”
“I’m not sure anymore,” Phil replied. Did he still have that bag of fertilizer? “And anyway, it makes me feel better.”
Wilbur hovered at his shoulder for a moment, antennae twitching. Phil kept watering, hoping it would help the allium perk up a little.
“Are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?” Wilbur asked finally.
“A lot happened yesterday.”
“With Tommy. And the iron.” Wilbur put his hands on his hips. “Why the fuck did you pick boxes that contained shit made with iron? There were plenty without, up there.”
“It was… a test.” Phil banished the watering can with a wave of his hand, pulling the bag of fertilizer out of nothingness. Hm, almost empty. He gathered a handful anyway, carefully sprinkling it into the pot of dirt.
“Why do you think Tommy needs testing?”
“Because there’s something… different, about him.”
Wilbur frowned.
“It’s Tommy. He’s always been different.”
“I know, but- it’s not just normal human kid differences, it’s-” Phil sighed, shaking his head and brushing his hand off on one pant leg. “It’s something else. And I need to figure out what before someone gets hurt.”
“He’s already hurting, Phil.”
“I know. But I- what am I supposed to think? He won’t tell me anything anymore, he’s…”
“Growing up?” Wilbur said dryly. “He’s fourteen, Phil, that happens.”
“Oh, I know that, but it’s-” Phil waved his hands vaguely, gesturing with the bag of fertilizer he still held. “Something else. You’ve seen him. Something’s wrong, and I’m…”
Not even sure if it was Tommy hurting. Though, who was to say it wasn’t? If someone had taken his place, years ago, would that child be more Tommy than anyone else? Did the original Tommy, the one who’d been christened so, even still answer to that name?
Phil waved the fertilizer away, folding his arms across his stomach. Had he ever known the true Tommy? Had the child he was raising only ever been a pale imitation, an abandoned creature that would never truly belong among humanity? Then what of Tommy’s human counterpart, a boy who’d been ripped from his life and thrust into an unfamiliar place, an unfamiliar and Wild people? He would be unable to retain humanity, coaxed and nurtured into something utterly inhuman, verdant and violent.
“I’m afraid I’ll lose my son for the third time,” Phil admitted, softly.