Archive of Our Own

Contrary to belief, Tommy did not have an active criminal record. He had some noted incidences of biting his older foster siblings or disturbing public peace (blame Purpled). That was it though. Nothing incredibly illegal, which might be only because his social worker never snitched on him. 

Yet, the current situation at hand may break this streak. 

“I don’t get what the big deal is.”

“Tommy, that was attempted murder.”

“Technically, grabbing your steering wheel is not enough to get me done for lawful possession of the vehicle.”

“It is when you try to drive us into the curb.”

Tommy winced.

“Well.”

It was how the two ended up parked alongside a petrol station on the motorway in a broken-down car. He didn’t mean to flatten the tyres. But he did mean to get out of being sent to his next foster family so it was partly successful. 

His social worker scoffed but her annoyance faded at the ping of her phone. “Don’t worry, it’s fine anyway, your new foster father is going to pick you up from this location. We’re not far from them all.”

Okay, maybe not so successful. 

He lunged for the steering wheel again. 

“It’s in parked, dumbass, stop trying to cause a car wreck!”

He then promptly sulked in his seat. Apparently, his sulking was the breaking point for his social worker as she got out of the car and waited for the remaining time in the shop beside the petrol station. 

Tommy sighed and turned the radio on, needing some noise other than his head. 

Anyone in the vicinity of East Sussex, Hove, please be wary of the skies for there is an extraterrestrial police chase occurring. It is advised to seek shelter for potential scrapple falling. 

Normally, he’d ignore warning messages like this since they were common. But he just so happened to be in Brighton and Hove. 

He looked out of the car window; his social worker was still talking to the man at the tills. At least she was sheltered then. 

Just as he went to change the channel, something hit the roof of the car. It dented the metal, other parts scratching on the windows and taking out the side-view mirrors on the outside. Flinching, Tommy rushed to open the car and run towards any shelter. But the handle wouldn’t move. 

That fucker. 

She had child-locked the car. 

More pieces fell from the sky, scattering across the roof. Then another sound, a ping. She had left her phone in the car. A notification was at the top of the screen, a single message simply saying ‘here’.

It was only Tommy’s luck that at the moment he read the message, the car began to levitate. Yes, levitate. As in lift off the fucking ground—something that should not be possible. And yet, Tommy watched as the ground became nothing but a spec to him and the radio cut off. 

Oh. This was a tractor beam. Okay, his new foster family were aliens then. 

Somehow, it made sense to Tommy. He was a mess, a problem child with a track record of no one wanting him. So why not send him off to outer space? Let the aliens have a trial run at fostering a complete failure. Surely, someone without the proper knowledge of how human children were supposed to behave would grow to love him. Someone had to. He hoped at least. 

The levitating stopped when the car was shoved into what seemed to be a volt or container. There were other things in the room with him—gallons of petrol, then the pumps too and bits of a dispenser. Right next to stolen petrol was the Mona Lisa, probably a fake, and other artefacts, like a sword stuck in some big rock. And also a McDonald’s sign. 

Tommy laid back in the passenger seat. Waiting for his new foster family to greet him or just to let him out of the car which was still child-locked. 

Eventually, the volt doors opened and three shadows emerged. 

Now, Tommy was well versed in alien culture (it was a required module in all secondary schools), so the species of these aliens weren’t uncommon. They were humanoid, sharing features like the whole two eyes, two arms and legs business. The only differences between them all were the black wings on one, the tusks and tail on another, and then the ugly beanie on the middle guy—that and how the man was fucking transparent. 

Thankfully, translators were a thing, with how all children were chipped as humans didn’t have the right anatomy to understand alien languages without technology. So, he could understand these aliens and their very, very colourful language. 

“What in the fuck is a broken down car doing in our ship?” the one with wings asked. 

“Maybe focus on the more important thing here.” 

“Like what?”

“Like the fucking human child inside of it?” the phantom exclaimed. 

Tommy waved through the window. 

It wasn’t the warm welcome he was expecting—though that may be because the heating in the car broke when he tried to crash it earlier. 

They continued to speak as if he couldn’t hear them. 

“Should we let him out?”

“What if he bites us?”

“Wilbur, you can turn invisible at will.” 

“But his teeth will still sink into me.”

“As long as it’s you, I’m fine with that,” the piglin shrugged and Wilbur, he assumed, hit him across the head. 

“Phil, he hit—” the one with wings, Phil, hushed him with his hands. 

More conversation occurred amongst themselves with Tommy just pretending he wasn't supposed to listen. Then, Phil walked over, assessed the broken-down car and then promptly ripped the passenger door off by its hinges. 

"Oh by the Moon, I did not mean to do that," Phil gasped as he kicked it to the side. Tommy prayed that his social worker had car insurance. "Um, anyway, want to get out of the vehicle?"

“I’d rather stay inside if that’s how you open things,” he muttered. But then quickly shut his mouth. This was his new foster family, the foster father he guessed since Phil looked the oldest out of the bunch. 

So, hiding how his hands shook, Tommy got out of the car. His shaking didn't lessen when the three of them just stared at him. This wasn't how the usual introduction went. Well, normally, his social worker was with him to do the run-down and speech of we know this is temporary but please for the sake of my mental health and paperwork, wait two weeks before sending him back. Obviously, not that wasn't said aloud but the desperation in her face conveyed the same intent. 

“I’m Tommy, you probably know that already though,” he said, tired of the silence. Though, his words seemed to bring even more silence. This one was more awkward. “So what are the house rules? Or aircraft rules? Is there like a curfew or does that work differently when in space because cycles are—”

“Let’s start off with how you got in our house,” Wilbur interrupted.

He frowned and pointed to the car. “You picked me up.” 

Phil's eyes widened. “Techno, did you forget to turn off the tractor beam again when we escaped the police?” 

“Well, that would explain how a car ended up here, so yes," the piglin answered. “And it’s Wilbur’s fault.”

“How?” Phil said at the same time that Wilbur squawked out in disagreement. 

“It just is.” 

Phil sighed, which only confused Tommy even more. He had never been with a family so underprepared before. He didn’t know what to do, his entire routine had been messed with. The routine of learning the names and the rules, then forgetting their names and breaking said rules. With this, he was in what seemed to be a volt, surrounded by perhaps stolen objects—which included himself by the looks of things—and did not know how valid these aliens’ foster licence was. 

Was there even an alien foster system?

A sudden coldness flushed through him. It was fear. Fear because the danger he was in, the threat surrounding him, finally seeped in. These people mentioned the police, had literally stolen him from Earth, and now stood in the way of the door. 

“You are my new foster placement, right?” he asked.

Another wave of silence struck the room. Looks were exchanged between the three. But this was heated, an unbearable warmth that hit harshly at his cold skin. And this silence confirmed it all. 

Tommy was deep in space on a foreign and maybe illegal aircraft with potential criminals who were not his foster family. 

Fuck. 

“Fuck.” Phil agreed with him on that then. 

He backed further towards the car. 

“There’s no need for that, mate,” Phil said, his hands mocking a surrender. But Tommy eyed the movement of his wings, the tips of the feathers seemed sharp, as did the tusks on Techno and Wilbur just looked like a prick. 

“Can’t we just let him outside?” Techno offered, scratching his chin. “He can float back down to Earth.”

“Techno,” Wilbur said. 

“Yes?”

“There are several flaws in your plan.”

“Enlighten me.”

“So intending to shove a human child who requires oxygen to breathe through the airlock and him floating down to Earth despite gravity existing will work?”

Techno shrugged. “It would deal with our problem.”

“This problem can hear you,” Tommy snapped, glaring at the piglin. 

“Do you agree with my idea?” Techno asked him. 

“No!” he shouted, causing Wilbur to laugh. 

“Boys," Phil reprehended. "Both of you, just... just go back to your stations, make sure we’re not being followed.” 

“I’m not leaving you with him,” Techno protested, sounding as if Tommy here was the threat and not the aliens with fucking tusks and wings. 

“I’ll be fine,” Phil consoled with a quick hand on his shoulder. He pushed him gently away. “Go with Wilbur.”

Techno nodded, though not before scoffing at Tommy before he retreated. 

As the two turned to leave, Phil yelled after them, “And turn off the fucking tractor beam!” and then faced back to Tommy. “It seems to be a big misunderstanding here."

“Seems like it.”

The two continued to stare at each other with the awkward silence between them. 

“So, what exactly is a foster placement?” Phil asked. 

“Um." Tommy struggled to word it. “It’s like, I’m on contract to live with these people for as long as they want me or until that contract ends and I’m sent to somewhere else or hit a certain age.”

“Oh,” he exhaled. “And our tractor beam intersected with this, I imagine.”

“Vacuum-sucking me up in a car would do that, yep,” Tommy agreed.

“Well, sorry for the inconvenience.”

He blinked once, then again, and again, because he’d heard better apologies from human politicians. 

“As much as I’d like for you to be back on your home planet and not, y’know, in my ship, there are damages that prohibit such travel,” Phil revealed, smiling tensely and Tommy’s stomach drops. He was fucking stuck here. “It’ll take a while before the repairs are done so you can go home.”

That choice of wording, to call Earth Tommy's home. It bothered him. Because yes, Earth was his home planet but that was it. It was where he lived, with his citizenship and government identity. He knew Earth. Yet knowing wasn't the same as belonging. 

Regardless, he nodded. 

“Okay, so we’re on the same page," Phil said, his wings no longer locked up and now standing with ease. "You can treat this like a temporary foster placement then, with you living here until we fix everything."

Tommy was just glad it so happened to be a nice alien criminal who accidentally abducted him. 

But then before anything else could be said, the room dimmed to a flashing red. Sirens blared in the room, in all the rooms of the aircraft. Redness peaked as horror twisted in Phil's face. 

And Phil fucking flew across the corridor to the number pad in the hallway opposite the volt. He rushed to put in a number code. Then the flashing stopped, as did the sirens, and the avian sagged against the wall.

Tommy did not know if that was normal for aliens and their weird aircraft or not.

“What would have happened if you were late to do that?”

“Oh! It’s just the airlock," Phil said, regaining his breath. "It sometimes does that. Techno once tried to shove Wilbur out of it and broke the function so sometimes it just wants to, y’know, open.” 

Now Tommy didn't know if Phil's nonchalance was normal for aliens either. Being sucked into space wasn't at all appealing. 

“Ah, so nothing serious then.”

“Not at all,” Phil beamed back. "Anyway, better give you a tour of the place.”

As Phil introduced him to the greenery, the various engine rooms and supply closets (which he weirdly had given names instead of numbered), Tommy decided to interrupt his rant about the naming system. 

“So are you like the dad then?”

Phil stopped in his step. 

Tommy rushed to continue. "You said that it’s cool if I treat this like a foster placement until you fix your ship.” Phil nodded. “Do I have to call you Dad then?”

He needed some form of normalcy. Something he had control over, to grasp back on what he knew—something to remind him that this was similar to the contracts he lived with. Anything so this didn't feel like he was the sole human forced to stay with aliens. 

“Do you want to call me that?” Phil asked, his wings close to himself as if the avian were attempting to look smaller, less intimidating.

”No,” he said instantly but clamped his mouth shut. 

Even if different star constellations adorned this sky so high up, he was still alone. At the mercy, the whims of strangers, just like down on Earth. So that fear, the sinking anxiety that pulled at him when he snapped at foster parents, shred some honesty, it still tugged. Tugged until burns marked his palms and scars choked at his neck. 

Because what if Phil was like house number four? It would be easier here to do worse.  With no peering eyes in outer space. And that hurt. It hurt to even think that could happen again, all alone and—

“Then Phil is fine,” he said.

Tommy's mind blanked. It wasn't supposed to be this simple. Never this easy, and even then, this still wasn't easy. But it was better. For now. 

He was okay. 

"Not Captain?" he asked with a familiar grin, the facade of ease coming naturally to him. "Pilot Phil."

Phil laughed as if Tommy had said some inside joke, "No, that's not necessary. You're not a part of my crew, so don't worry."

It didn't sting, but it hung. A hanging reminder that spoke clearly: you are not supposed to be here. Tommy would've thought that being placed in this situation would make the hurt lessen. Though it seemed the feeling never did. 

He was even an outsider up in space. There was no place for him. No home. Not even with the stars. 

“You hungry?” Phil suddenly asked.

The loud quench from Tommy’s stomach answered that for him. 

Meal times on an alien aircraft were surprisingly normal. They had furniture similar to human-styled tables and chairs. The food came in paste, something Techno was in charge of synthesising himself. 

“I think the crimes we committed today are tremendously larger than usual,” Phil said over his food.

Maybe the alien small talk would be more entertaining than the usual dinner times in human homes though. 

“Why?”

Phil put down his tube of paste. “Techno, we stole a human.”

“And my social worker’s car,” Tommy added.

“Car theft and kidnapping, nice.”

“Not nice! Now we have to deal with him," Wilbur said, giving Tommy a look he recognised even in alien faces. An expression of distrust, similar to how some foster siblings glared at him. With hatred, maybe even jealousy that he was here to take up some room and attention, things he was so undeserving of.  

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Y’know I am literally sitting opposite you and have ears.”

“Yes, you have tiny human, underdeveloped ears,” Wilbur muttered. “I’m amazed your brain didn’t explode like those little rodent things you put in plastic balls when our tractor beam got hold of you.”

“Are you calling me a hamster?”

“It sounds dumb, so yes.” 

Tommy kicked forward, where Wilbur's legs would be resting against the chair stands. Yet, the moment he moved, Wilbur shifted transparency, leg now invisible and Tommy's foot whacked against the metal. 

Wilbur barked out a laugh and that only wanted Tommy to kick the fucker again but in the face. He reached for the knife, glaring at the other. Yet, a shrill caused him to wince. His hands clasped over his ears, they were ringing. 

All caused by a warning chirp, an avian call. Phil sat back in his chair now that the knife was no longer in Tommy's hand.

He glared at them all at the table (even Techno, who to be frank, did nothing wrong at this current moment but Tommy was petty). 

"Oh so your family can insult me but I can't hit back?" he snapped. But his words seemed to bring a moment of confusion for the entire table. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What word did you just use?” Phil asked, frowning. “It’s... untranslatable.”

He thought over what he had said, all words sounded simple to him, for them to understand. Yet, there were differences in intimacy in alien cultures.

"Family?" he guessed. "Oh, it means flock," he translated to Phil, then looked over to Techno, "and sounder, and..." 

He stared at Wilbur and it stumped him. He didn't know the family equivalent for phantoms. Tommy wasn't even sure there was a word for it since that species was known to be antisocial and individualistic. Isolated. Yet, Wilbur nodded, understanding from the avian and piglin translations. 

Phil nodded. “Sorry if this continues, technology can only do so much.”

Tommy paused for a moment. Then pointed at Wilbur, "Fuck-face."

“We understand that,” Wilbur gritted out as he kicked Tommy's shin, now that he was no longer transparent. 

“As much as I endorse bullying,” Techno began, “I’ve gotta sort out the damages the chasing cars did to our engines.”

When Techno left the table, Tommy let his words sink in. It had been a day and they were beginning to repair the damages done to their ship. Once the tasks run out, Tommy would be able to leave. But did he even want to leave?

It wasn't a matter of wanting to stay. He didn't like these people (Wilbur, blame Wilbur). Yet, it was better here than on Earth. On this ship, he had food given to him without anything required in exchange. No long lists of chores, no rules, and no threats. 

Though, if he left, he'd have his freedom again. He'd be back on the ground he knew. But even if he understood the ways of Earth, he didn't like it there. He wasn't fond of the people and the people gave him no reason to be. There was no loyalty, love or safety. 

He didn't feel safe here either. 

So he was at an impasse. 

Tommy quite liked his room. It was bigger than any other room he’d ever lived in. It even rivalled the one he got in the first group home he was placed in—where he had to share with four others. So it was big. Spacious. He had space to walk, to breathe, even.

It was his own. Even if temporary and technically out of no free will.

Phil told him about the clothes he put in his rack (they did not have wardrobes in space, but hanging racks that could rotate). They were all different shades of white and red, patterns including both colours. He liked them despite the lack of choice. But the range of choices always scared him a bit—when presented with so many options and never knowing if one would end up with a bruise to his cheek or another with a kiss upon it. It was why the shopping trip parts of foster homes daunted him. 

But with this, he was given choices, small ones to choose from. And they were enough. 

After he had put on his night clothes, a restlessness crept up on him. The window looked out to the dark sky, space. Darkness filled with star constellations of patterns he didn't recognise and angles of the world he'd never seen. 

So he stood in front of the door and pushed to open it. 

But it wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he shoved forward, it wouldn't move. 

He looked back at the window. It looked darker than before, larger. He was smaller, lesser. And fuck, he shouldn't have looked. The pressure on his chest heaved heavier, as rough as his push on the door that wouldn't fucking open. 

He needed it to open. He needed to go out, why wasn't it opening, please he needed to leave. 

It was okay before, being in small spaces and trapped because he could walk further than he could see. He could move but now he couldn't. And it hurt. It hurt to breathe and his hands ached, why did his hands hurt- why, why were they throbbing—

They were red. His knuckles were red. 

His hands dropped to his side, tired from bashing and pounding onto that door, painting it just as red. His chest pounded at the same pace as his ache to get out with clenched fists. 

“Please,” he mumbled, not even sure why it played shakily along his lips, "let me out, I won't do it again, please."

It was fogged. No longer dark, not black like the void outside. The walls were brown. Wood brown. He was in a shed, locked inside. Cold, shivering into himself as he pleaded, begged, craved for forgiveness, for it to be over- please, please, I didn't mean to be bad, let me—

The door opened. 

And he fell. 

Wings caught him before he hit the floor. 

Phil. It was Phil. 

He wasn’t in the shed, he was in space. But he was in space- he was alone, he was alone—

A sound broke his thoughts. 

There was a humming, a tune similar to the bird songs that woke Tommy up on his nights on Earth. Cooing sounds; high and vibrating notes rendered him limp. 

Then a soft touch brushed along his back. It didn't feel hounding or unsafe. The briskness of the feathers and gloss of them evoked the opposite. There was no weight, just softness. Gentle. Someone was being gentle with him for once.

With this, now he could breathe. That weight hadn't been lifted—not entirely—but it didn't drag him down. 

Phil was good at this. Good at calming him, soothing the ache in his hands and weight trying to suppress him. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, his mouth dry.

"It's my fault," Phil said back, his voice as quiet as his own. He wasn't loud, not pounding like the headache he felt blooming. Phil was simple and simple was what he needed. "I should've told you about the locking system, it’s for our own safety because of the airlock.”

He processed Phil's words and eventually nodded. His head lolled to the side and it hit a surface. He rested himself against Phil's chest. Hands grabbed his own, hands with talons but no cuts came to him. 

"And it's been a tough day for you, hasn't it?" 

He found himself nodding again, leaning more into Phil's chest. Tommy promised himself that fatigue was the only reason he allowed such comfort—why he permitted these hands to encase his own. 

“I’ll try to be more accommodating,” Phil said. No, no, he promised.

There was a promise to his voice. A certainty that Tommy normally associated with lies and falseness, but this sounded different. A voice maybe worthy to trust.

"You're wearing the clothes," Phil continued and Tommy's brows furrowed. 

"Was I not supposed to?"

"No, no, they're yours."

He hummed, too tired to care about the odd expression twisting in Phil's face, a look he didn't understand nor had he ever had beaming at him before. 

Phil's grip on his hands tightened. Then those hands tugged at him, moved him towards the bathroom quarters of his room. His hands were placed into what seemed to be a sink filled with a cold liquid. Water, maybe. Either way, it helped the ache in his knuckles. Phil helped.  

“That feel any better?”

He answered by pressing his face back into Phil's shoulder. 

“Good,” Phil muttered as he dried Tommy's hands. “The doors will unlock when the night cycle completes, I’ll collect you from your quarters in the morning, alright?”

Tommy nodded for a final time and let himself be dragged once more. He laid down on his bed, surrounded by blankets and pillows. A warmth rare to him during nights like these. 

“Goodnight, Tommy."

He liked hearing that. But then there was a darkness that still loomed. It calling closer when those doors closed. Darkness in the form of a realisation. 

Phil, a criminal alien, who had no fostering license, and no want for him to be his own, was the only adult to have calmed him down that quickly before. It wasn't any past foster parent or social worker.

But Phil. 

A fucking alien. 

The next day, Tommy found, wasn't as weird as he'd thought it would be. Phil finished his tour, taught him the codes he'd need to know if the airlock suddenly wanted to kill everyone inside, and he had breakfast with the avian too. 

Then, he was allowed to explore. Freedom anywhere that wasn't marked as dangerous. It was here he stumbled across the control room quarters, where the piloting took place. Phil sat in the pilot's seat, Wilbur to his right looking at the screens around him, and Techno stood eating what seemed to be potato yoghurt. It had little potatoes as toppings.

"We have to do a pitstop to get some supplies," Phil announced, speaking to his crew members as no one noticed Tommy's presence yet. "One of the cylinders needs replacing."

"I'll go then," Techno said. "Hypixel is close by, our engines will hold for that."

“Can you take the human with you?” Wilbur asked. “Y’know like, take him out for a walk.”

“I’m not a dog,” Tommy spat out, flushing red when all heads turned to him.

“Of course not, that would be an insult to those animals,” Wilbur replied, grinning with bared teeth, his fangs. “But there isn’t much for you to do since most of our time is spent on repairs for now. Think of it as a shopping trip out.”

Tommy huffed. He thought he had avoided that awkward part of having new foster families. 

“Are there weapons in this Hypixel marketplace?” he asked. 

“Probably, why?”

“So I can come back and kill y—” Techno's hand covered his mouth before he could finish.

“You want this to accompany me?” Techno scoffed, not even flinching when Tommy tried to bite down on his hand. 

“Take it as a bonding trip,” Phil suggested. “I’ll ready a helmet and suit for Tommy.”

Once he had been suited up, he felt more stupid than ever. 

"This is dumb," he grumbled as his steps made so much noise, whilst Techno was fine—needing no bulky helmet or oxygen tank to survive this planet's terrain. 

Techno chuckled to himself. “Feel free to take it off."

“I would die," Tommy deadpanned and Techno shrugged, walking ahead. “Bitch,” he muttered as he followed quickly after him. 

As much as Hypixel was a problem for Tommy surviving it, it was beautiful. Stuff like this, the uncertainty of galaxies, the stars, the planets he never knew existed, it was what he loved about space. Yet, the marketplace looked very much like the Brighton lanes. And that wasn't a good thing. 

After Techno got the engine parts he needed, Tommy approached one of the stalls. There were discs on the table. Well, they were disc-shaped at least—they looked familiar to what he had lost on earth. Almost a replica of the gift taken from him by a foster sibling years ago. 

“Do they play music?” he muttered to himself. 

“No,” Techno answered for him. He scoffed. This had characterised his entire trip—Techno's short responses, allowing no extension of conversation besides quick quips and dismissal.

“What are these then?” he asked as he picked it up. The eyes of the man at the stall widened (he had six eyes). 

“Throwing knives that return to their owner on command,” Techno answered, shrugging as if it were just an ordinary house item Tommy had picked up.

No wonder the merchant seemed distressed then. But Tommy didn’t put them down. 

“So a killer boomerang?” Techno just frowned at him. “Nevermind. Anyway, Technoblade, what must I do for you to buy these for me?”

“Make an oath of silence.”

“Something else.”

“An oath of—”

He tugged on the other's sleeve. "Techno, think for a second, if you get this for me, I take it back down to Earth,”

Tommy waited for the realisation to hit. 

“And you get to terrorise humanity with it," Techno said slowly. 

“Yes! Exactly! Well, not the whole of humanity, but maybe my P.E. class.” 

“As long as it’s terrorising someone, I think I can write this off as a business expense.”

“Phil won’t mind then,” Tommy said, gripping the disc-boomerang-knives closer. 

“He won’t,” Techno agreed and the two grinned at the other. “And maybe you need a test-run it before and Wilbur loves experiments.”

“Especially if he’s the test subject.”

Techno paused for a moment. There was a quick twitch to his lips, something that looked almost like a smile. “I never thought a human would understand me so deeply.”

“We are one and the same, Blade.”

Techno gave him a look. “We’re not at the friendship level for nicknames yet."

“Right, right, of course, not yet,” Tommy said, suppressing a grin.

With this newly bought item in hand, it resulted in Wilbur refusing to turn solid for an entire cycle. 

“Wilbur, I simply want to test the durability of your invisibility—”

“Get the human away from me!” Wilbur shrieked as Tommy chased after him. It stopped until Phil intercepted (though it took him five minutes to finally stop laughing until he did so). 

It was only later in his bed, with these disc knives under his pillow, that Tommy had realised he'd never been gifted anything before that he'd been able to keep.

And Techno was the first.  

Tommy watched as Phil did something in the engine rooms. He was replacing parts with the items Techno had bought cycles prior. 

"I can feel you staring at me, mate," Phil said. 

The tips of his ears reddened and Tommy looked away.

"What's wrong?" 

"Your wings," he blurted out before he could stop himself. It was what enticed him this entire time, how they moved, their colour and personality. 

Phil’s wings ruffled. “What about them?”

“Do you dye them or are they naturally black?”

He was curious. He'd never been this up close with aliens before, always at a distance whenever they visited Earth. But now he lived with them. 

Phil laughed. Tommy flushed redder because he made Phil laugh. He liked hearing it. 

“It’s because humans know little about avians!” he quickly added, embarrassed. “I’ve only seen pictures in books and the wings were red.”

“Those were fledglings then,” Phil explained. “Our wings are born white, then sheds to red, and eventually blacken with age.”

He squinted at Phil. “So you’re old.”

Phil just sighed. 

"Very old.”

“I already regret telling you this.”

“Are you senile?”

“Yep, I regret this,” Phil groaned and Tommy grinned. “You’re just like them,” he added to himself and Tommy tilted his head, confused. Phil cleared his throat, “You make the same jokes as Techno and Wil.”

“We have elite humour, what can I say?”

But Phil didn't laugh again. This time, he smiled. Tommy stilled where he stood. It wasn't uncomfortable to receive this look. But it was new. 

“I’ll leave you to doing... whatever that is,” he said, gesturing with his hands. He wanted to leave despite another part of him wanting to stay, to have this look be aimed at him a bit longer.

“You should probably know what this is,” Phil said offhandedly, “since it’s vital for getting you home.”

He froze at the mention of home. The concept was distant to him. As distant as this aircraft and the wings on Phil's back. 

“Then teach me." He stepped forward, this part of him winning as he stuck close by Phil's side, standing close as he inspected the machinery. 

Phil, not to his surprise, was an excellent teacher. He was patient.

Someone was patient with him for once. 

From how Wilbur hadn't shoved Tommy away from him, it seemed he had forgiven him for the disc-boomerang-knives incident. 

“So, what are you doing?” Tommy asked, hovering over Wilbur’s shoulder. 

Wilbur kept his eyes trained on the wiring in his hands. “Trying to get rid of you.”

The wires made no sense to Tommy. He recognised some parts from what Phil had taught, but the strip patterns were weird. 

"Boring," he huffed. "Well, how's that going?"

"Seeing as you're right next to me, not so good."

This was a repairing task then. Something needed to send Tommy back to where he belonged—meaning anywhere but here apparently. 

“Would progress change if I stepped a little back from you?” he asked, grinning as Wilbur spared a glance in his direction, quickly adopting the grin himself too. 

“Maybe two steps will work,” Wilbur said, amused as Tommy did so, “hm another,” he stepped again, “and another.”

Tommy stacked it over the sofa. Wilbur's laughter echoed throughout the room as he fell. It was only when he got up from the floor that he realised he'd scraped his elbow on the ground. He quickly wiped the blood from his skin, but Wilbur's laughter stopped. Wilbur rushed over to him, face now full of panic. He grabbed Tommy's arm.

“Wilbur, Wilbur- Wil, it’s fine, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch."

“I read in a book somewhere that humans can bleed internally and that’s life-threatening, is this internal bleeding?” Wilbur sounded too panicked for Tommy to find this level of concern amusing. It didn't sit right with him, for Wilbur's breathing to be this haste and his eyes wide. 

“Well, technically, this is external bleeding,” Tommy commented and Wilbur's face paled. “But! But, it’s fixable, it’s fine, don’t worry. I just need a plaster or something. Um, a sticky cloth to put it—”

“I know what a plaster is, dickhead.”

“You didn’t know what internal bleeding was, sorry for assuming!” he yelled back. 

“I’ll take you to the infirmary." 

Tommy had no choice in the matter anyway with how Wilbur practically carried him. 

Wilbur didn't speak as he dressed Tommy's small wound. Though, he expected harshness. A rough touch like the nurses at nameless secondary schools or the foster parents who just had to deal with his troubles. Instead, Wilbur was soft. Gentle and articulate. There was a purpose in each movement and Wilbur had this concentrated look, his eyebrows furrowed and body as solid as he'd ever seen it. No transparency to him. 

“What’s wrong?” Wilbur asked, picking up on his stare.  “Is this another human thing or—”

“No, no,” he said, then bit his lip. “It’s just..." say it. “No one has ever doted on me like this before.”

“Doted?”

He sighed. There was no right way to word it, to word this properly because he hadn't needed to before. 

“Just never have had someone care so much over such a small little injury,” he mumbled, shrugging to keep the coldness of his shoulders. 

Wilbur stopped wrapping his scrape. His back straightened as he finished with Tommy's wound. “Come to me if something like this happens again,” Wilbur said, surprising him. “Even if it’s something smaller than this, come to me.”

“You my doctor now?” he remarked, causing Wilbur to roll his eyes and hound a look upon him. Tommy hated how much he liked it, this look of care, an honest concern. “Fine, fine, I’ll do that.”

Wilbur smiled. “Good," he replied. “Now, fuck off, I need to go back to sending you home.”

And all that solace, the sweetness that had started to shower off the coldness from him, it soured. Because right, of course, home. He was going to be sent back, either today or tomorrow, days from now. He would eventually end up far from here. Far from Wilbur and his rare softness. 

He just wished that smile would return for just a second as they wished him goodbye for good. 

“You’ve been here for a while.”

Tommy peered over at Techno, who stopped cutting up meat with a sword (yes, a sword) just to speak to him. 

“I am aware of that,” he replied, sceptical in case this was another attempt of Techno trying to get Tommy to eject himself out of the airlock. 

“I still don’t know what to feed you," Techno said. Oh, that topic of conversation made more sense, seeing as they were in the kitchen after all. “Things you’d like to eat, not just what we give you.”

It stumped him. Tommy didn't expect Techno to even care about something like that. 

“What do humans eat?”

Tommy shrugged. “Don’t you have books or stuff to find that information?”

“I once read a book from this person called Plato that involved cannibalism. He mentioned someone called Cronus.” Techno then gave him a serious look. “Do humans eat each other?”

“Of course you’d believe Greek myths," Tommy scoffed. Techno narrowed his eyes at him. "Techno, you are cutting meat with a sword. I get to judge you on this."

Techno didn't protest, but he did put the sword down.

“Let me prepare something and you tell me if you like it.”

He was hesitant. It was weird. This, Techno preparing food solely for Tommy, it would require effort. Normally, much effort wasn't wasted on something for him. Though, as he watched Techno make something for him, his unease stilled. 

“Try it,” Techno said as he offered Tommy a spoon. He ate it slowly and oh my God. 

“This is actually good,” he stated, going for another scoop but Techno stopped him. 

“You saying my cooking wasn’t good before?” Techno asked, feigning offence, but Tommy knew him long enough to notice when his tone was joking. 

“No! No, I just mean, this- it reminds me of something. Human food. Curry.”

“A taste of home then,” Techno hummed and Tommy frowned because no. Just because it tasted like Earth food didn't mean it was home and he fucking hated how all of them on this ship kept thinking like this. That Earth is home, that Tommy had a home. 

But, just like with everything, he held it to himself. 

“I like it,” he mumbled as he ate another spoonful. Techno gave out a grunt. “You’re a good cook.”

Silence fell upon the room and Tommy looked up, in case he said something wrong. But instead of annoyance or disdain, Techno looked happy. 

“I have to go through Phil’s coding after this, so you’ll be eating alone.” 

Tommy froze. Phil's coding was a repairing task. And repairing tasks meant progress. But Tommy liked having meals made just for him, liked his own living space, liked them. 

“Didn’t your books on humans tell you about the importance of meal times?”

Techno scowled. “If this is about cannibalism again—”

“No! But it’s vital for humans to eat with a company, especially with the chef," he lied, avoiding direct eye contact. He needed this to work, needed to delay this. “Our eating customs are different to your sounder ones.”

“Oh.” Techno paused for a moment. “I guess I can spare some time then.” Tommy tried to hide his relief. “Just don’t eat with your mouth open, that pet peeve transcends across all galaxies.”

“You just gave me ammunition on how to annoy you.”

“You do that already merely with your presence,” Techno said and Tommy whacked his shoulder. 

Despite how Tommy had been with these aliens for about a month, he hadn't grown tired of following Phil around and simply bothering the avian. 

“What are you typing?” he asked, hoping to interrupt the other. 

“Do you want the honest or boring answer?”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Phil turned to face him. “I’m currently blackmailing the French President.”

"Why?”

“They want the Mona Lisa back.” Tommy just blinked at him. “Techno likes art, I thought it would be a nice birthday present.”

“So you stole the Mona Lisa?” he gaped. 

“You saw it in the volt at the beginning of your time here, don’t act all shocked!”

“I thought it was a fake!” 

“That is an insult to my craft,” Phil scoffed, grinning and Tommy began to grin himself.

This was why he loved following around the alien crew members. There was an essence of chaos every day, insanity with the things they'd pull he loved. No day was the same, no conversation repeated itself and there was always some way to involve him. Nothing was simple here and he loved it. 

“I’ll give it back to them,” Phil protested. “If they give me a new painting in return, Techno wants another one.”

“Sure, sure, the French will just let that happen,” Tommy nodded, laughing. 

“They will!”

“Okay, Dad."

His laughter ceased.

"That's a human reference!" he jumped to say, his heartbeat racing. "Popular culture! It's from a film, you wouldn't get the reference, sorry I forget you aliens don't have the same channels as us—"

He kept rambling and rambling because he could not believe what had just left his mouth. Even worse, he didn't feel regret for saying it, for fucking meaning it. 

Tommy only regretted it when something heavy flushed across Phil's face. An expression he did not know, emotions he couldn't place. He was unsure so he kept talking, burying his words with even more for Phil to forget.

“You’ll have to show me this film then one day,” Phil interrupted, this expression stronger in his eyes. But Tommy still didn't know if this was a good thing. A good look facing him. 

“Maybe once you’ve restored peaceful relations with France,” he said, hoping the waver in his voice wasn't obvious.

Phil laughed but it didn't help the shaking in his hands. 

"It doesn't matter anyway," he began, heart clenching in his chest. "By the time you guys get the correct channel, I won't be here anymore."

He eyed Phil's wings, hoping to notice an emotion in them if he could not name it on Phil's face. But the black wings did not move. Nothing changed. No shift to agree or disagree, no confirmation of anything he wished to know. Tommy would've preferred a solid yes, a shout of yes, you will be gone and I will make sure of it. 

And yet instead, there was nothing. 

Tommy cleared his throat, hoping this lodge stuck in his throat would stop suffocating him. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to blackmail various human leaders.”

“Your Prime Minister is next.”

“Good, let him rot."

The laughter that rattled as he took his leave didn't warm him like it usually did.

It was a bit awkward with Phil after that incident. Not awkward on Phil’s part, he acted as if nothing had happened, but Tommy couldn’t do the same. 

Regardless, the two sat in the comfort quarters—the alien aircraft equivalent to a living room. Phil had an electronic tablet in his hands, reading something. 

Tommy squinted at the symbols, recognising some of them from the alphabet he had to memorise from his alien culture lessons. But he couldn’t place any words to it. Well, except for the word illegal. 

“Are you a wanted criminal?” he blurted out and Phil yelped at his sudden voice.

“Well, seeing as you’re sitting next to me, yes on that basis,” Phil said, referring to how Tommy was technically kidnapped by that tractor beam—even if unintentional. 

“You were the ship the police were chasing over Hove,” Tommy guessed and Phil nodded. “And there are stolen artefacts and stuff in your volts.”

Then a realisation hit him. 

“You’re space pirates.”

Phil stared blankly at him. 

“The fuck is a pirate?”

“You!” he exclaimed, getting up from his chair. “You are a pirate. A space bandit.” Phil seemed uncertain, obviously this being another barrier because he had no idea what pirates were. “Pirates are cool,” Tommy clarified. “You’re cool.”

An inkling of a smile settled on Phil's lips. Yet, the slamming of the quarter's door interrupted what he was about to say. 

Wilbur rushed into the room, Techno trailing after him.

“Dad! Tell him, tell him I did the wiring correctly."

Tommy stilled. He tried to listen to whatever their argument was about but he was too stuck on something else.

Wilbur had called Phil Dad. 

He knew that in the beginning, Phil said Tommy could treat this like a temporary foster placement if it made him more at ease. But he didn’t think the crew were like this, a proper family who called each other father and son. They were more than just a close bunch of friends.

But this was different. 

Because he had called Phil Dad too. Accidentally, sure, but a part of him meant it, a part of him wanted to say it and continue saying it in the open rather than quietly passing it in his head. 

And it meant something else too. 

Maybe Wilbur was a brother then. Maybe Techno too—

He hunched in on himself as the three continued to converse. Because he still couldn't listen. Not when this was ringing in his head. Taunting him because he liked it too much to let it go. 

“If you did the wiring correctly, then our ship would tell us so, Wilbur,” Phil said and this stuck out to him. “It’d mean all the repairs are done so our system would be fully running again.”

Oh.

With a ship fulling running, that meant one thing. Tommy would be going home. A home he didn’t have down there. 

He would be sent away if this wiring was complete. If Wilbur had done it correctly. 

He wouldn’t be here anymore. 

It scared him. Terrified him more than he’d like to admit because it stung. This shadow crept over him, making him feel small. Coldness in the form of sudden fatigue, roughness replacing the soft he had grown used to with them around him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like this. 

His countdown, his time with them, was finally meeting its end. 

So, he needed to do something about it. 

It wasn't hard to find the wiring Wilbur had apparently messed up. And it wasn't hard to fuck it up even more. 

He twisted the wires over each other, tied knots in the chords, and even bit at one of them. Tommy did anything to break it, so it would take more time to fix. Or hopefully, so it was unfixable. 

Yet as heat struck his hands, the lights around him flashed yellow. Warning lights of a system failure. His palms screamed at the same volume as the sirens, scorch marks forming on his fingers as electricity tasered him. 

Tears swelled in his eyes and he ran. He ran to the one person he knew who wouldn't turn him away. Not when he was like this. 

Wilbur was already awake.  

"You said I can come to you," he said, wincing as he stood at the framing of his bedroom door. 

"Tommy," Wilbur rushed forward, flickering between solid and transparent. He was shaking, he was shaking just like Tommy was. 

His body rattled, ears ringing over a repeat of, "It's okay, you're okay, I've got you." 

He whimpered into the softness of Wilbur's sweater. 

The next thing he knew he was being carried. He liked the closeness. Liked the arms tucked around him. Tommy leaned into Wilbur's chest despite the pain because the warmth was worth it. 

Something cold began to coat his hands. Wilbur was tending to the burns on his palms with a healing salve. 

“How’d this even happen?” Wilbur muttered to himself and Tommy hummed, eyes fluttering between open and shut at his exhaustion. But he wanted to answer, he wanted to finally say what played tragedies on his mind, what dared to be said and heard. 

“I needed to do it,” he mumbled, cotton tasting on his mouth as he wasn’t even sure the words left him. Yet the stillness from Wilbur confirmed that he did say it. “Needed,” he continued, slurring slightly, “needed to mess it up. To- to...”

To stay. 

A distressed sound left Wilbur. A mimic of the calls he’d heard from Phil when he was too panicked.

Hands then pressed against his forehead. Wilbur's hands. They moved to comb through his hair, pulling him close again. Sadness radiated from the phantom. 

The door to the infirmary slid open. Two shadows walked into Tommy's view. Techno and Phil. 

“I need to make sure the fledgling is okay."

“He’s going to be fine, Phil,” Techno said. 

In his delirium, Tommy realised something. Fledgling. That was him, Phil had called him that.

Fledglings, the children of avians, whose wings were white then red. Tommy’s clothes were white and red. Clothes that were chosen by Phil, the same person who had just called him that. 

And he cried. He fucking cried. Because he was someone’s fledgling, thought to be someone’s son and Phil still wanted to send him away. 

“He’s crying, Tech, he’s not okay.”

“But Wilbur’s dressed the wound.”

Tommy sat up. There wasn't any more pain, the burning in his palms had quickly dissolved from the salve. But it still hurt. As if there was electricity running through his skin. 

It hurt because they were going to send him away soon. His family would send him away. They'd fix the wiring and with that, there'd be nothing stopping them from kicking him aside. Kicking him away. 

He doesn’t want to go. He didn't want to say goodbye to how Wilbur ruffled his hair, the special meals Techno cooked and the life stories Phil would share. 

Silence settled as the three stared at him. Just staring. 

His jaw clenched. “Will I get to keep the discs?” he asked Techno lowly, his voice hoarse, voice hoarse. 

Techno frowned. “What?”

“When you get rid of me, will I get to keep them?”

He was met with no answer. Nothing but an agape mouth, open with shock at even being questioned that. This confusion that gleamed at him so brightly hurt him even more. The heat from his hands phased into his chest. Techno shouldn't get to be shocked, none of them should. Because why else would Tommy ask this? Why would he feel the need to confirm that the things he owned wouldn't get thrown away too? Just like himself. 

With still no answer, his head kept pounding. 

More tears swelled because please, please can be just have one thing, one item to remind himself of them when it would come to a time when he'd begin to forget their faces and voices. 

His bottom lip wobbled. “I get you don’t want me here but—”

“What makes you think that?” Phil asked, softly. 

Softly. He asked that. Softly. 

The tears he had in his eyes pricked, but not for sadness this time, but for anger. The fire, the heat that ripened from him at the fucking audacity of these people. 

"Maybe because every one of you is trying so fucking hard to send me back?" he scoffed darkly, eyes glaring as a wetness streamed down his face. "You're doing everything you can to get rid of me and you ask why I think this way?" anger trailed into his sharp inhale. "It's because of you," he spat. "All of you, and- and I'm tired," his voice cracked. "I'm tired of wanting something I'll never have forever. I'm tired of lo—” loving you all.

He gulped down the sharpness in his throat. 

“I’m tired,” he whispered. 

And there was still that fucking silence. 

So he continued. He continued digging his own grave because no one else would help to shovel him in. 

“You never asked me if I wanted to go home,” he said, wavering. “You just assumed from the beginning that I’d want to go back.”

His eyes closed, not letting any more tears escape from him because this was pathetic. He was pathetic. 

“I don’t have a home down there,” he admitted to the dark. 

Emptiness surrounded him. Isolation he knew he was destined for, even in a crowded room. 

But then something familiar touched his hand. Something cold, but a good cold. A soothing ice. It was Wilbur. 

His eyes opened. 

“Do you want to stay?” Wilbur whispered.

It was such a simple question, a quiet ask, and it was all Tommy wanted to hear. Something he dreamed to answer. 

“I never wanted to leave in the first place,” he cried and arms surged to cover him whole.

Wilbur was hugging him.

Then more arms joined, more hands, stronger and warmer; Techno. It was Techno. And then a kiss pressed on his head, accompanied by the brush of feathers along his shoulders. Phil. 

“Then don’t,” Techno said. “Stay.”

Despite the touch surrounding him, there was still a slight hesitation. An ounce of doubt. Because what if they didn't mean it? But then he looked down at the red and white clothes he wore, the gifts he had under his pillow in his room and the care in Wilbur's eyes as he stared at him—the care in all their eyes. 

“Do you want me to?” he asked.

Three heads nodded at him, three different ways of all conveying the same intent. 

They wanted him here. 

And he believed them. 

Relief flooded through him. Warmth, just warmth. He basked in it, flourished in it all. In their hugs, their gazes and love. They loved him. Someone loved him. 

“I didn’t think it’d take me electrocuting myself to make you all get over yourselves,” he grumbled and laughter became of the room, wet laughter filled with tears that no longer dropped out of sadness or anger. 

“That reminds me since you’re now officially a member of our crew, you’re the one to deal with the electric,” Phil said. 

“Fuck right off,” he instantly replied and Wilbur ruffled his hair. 

It was teasing but he loved it. Loved being included, a member of their crew with chores he'd grow to master, planets he'd learn to memorise and visit. He loved the chases from authorities, the rush, adrenaline, and the fact there'd never be a boring or quiet day unless he asked for one and they always let him have it. They let him have anything he wanted.

Just as he'd do the same for them. Because he was at peace with staying for as long as they wanted him. 

And one day, Tommy would finally believe that this day of them wanting him would never cease.