Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy crash lands, tail over wings, before he has a chance to get his bearings, immediately scrambling across the surface of whatever he’s landed on. The texture is hard and rough, rustling beneath him, scattering as he flails tiny claws across it. 

What the fuck, what the fuck . 

He’s so fucked. The sound of him crashing was probably enough to alert whatever or whoever lives around here that he"s here. He doesn"t even know where here is. Or what trap he"s flown into.

Fuck. Fuck . He"s small, and he’s a bat, and his stomach hurts, and he"s thirsty and tired, and just about anything that could have gone wrong has. Anyone could come out of anywhere right now and kill him. Or worse, catch him and give him back to Dream.

He flails, batting his wings as harshly as he can, loud, loud, loud against his trap, his own squeaks bouncing off whatever it is and ringing in his ears in a way that feels like the auditory equivalent of trying to use a pair of kaleidoscopes like they’re binoculars. 

Something groans behind the cacophony of loud and Tommy freezes in his trap of–whatever the fuck is on top of him. Whatever it is, it’s white and crinkly and it settles lightly on Tommy’s body when he stops moving.

Paper. 

He"s gone and gotten himself trapped under paper. 

He hates this.

So fucking much. 

Tommy didn"t mean to fly into…wherever this is. 

He"s used to being a person with two arms and two legs and no membranes between his limbs. He"s used to being tall and not fuzzy and human (or a vampire, now, he supposes, but that particular crisis has been put on the backburner and will remain there for the foreseeable future if it knows what"s good for it). 

He’s not used to being three inches long, fuzzy, and a bat. 

Gods, he’s not used to being so hungry he can’t see straight, either. 

He’s been hungry for a long time, but never so bad that the world spun like it’s in some type of ballet.  

Tommy holds still, holds his breath, freezing as disgruntled, unsteady breaths shake back down to small, even huffs. He breathes, exhales hard, as close to a sigh as he can get. 

The sound escapes him as a quiet squeak. He pauses again, waiting for whatever heard him before to wake back up and relaxes when the distant breathing stays steady. 

Okay. Okay, he can figure this out. He just has to just not get killed by giant sleeping dickheads. 

Easy. 

Whatever smells good in here is close, something rich and warm wafting over his nose. Maybe they"ll go for that instead of Tommy. 

Step one, so far so good. Step two is getting out of here. Step three is figuring out how to turn back into a person because staying as a bat is very not pog. Step four can be finding whatever smells so good that he crashed through the open window in the first place. 

His stomach objects to his brilliant, perfectly thought-out plan with a rumble, but his stomach can shove it. He doesn"t need to eat. He needs to escape. 

His stomach cramps, and his vision spins in protest. But no–eating probably means something having to do with drinking blood or maybe fruit now that he’s a bat? 

He doesn’t know. He’s almost past the point of caring. He shifts, tiny claws trying to find footing on a smooth surface. 

The world spins around him, more vigorously than before. 

He–he just needs to figure out where he is first. Food–or blood–whatever–can wait until after he gets his bearings. 

Where—where even is he? 

He shuffles a little, carefully, shaking his head until the world sits still enough for him to figure himself out. He’s quiet this time now that he knows that he"s stuck under paper and not some expertly rigged trap. The papers fall away, sliding off of his body. There. Easy. 

No trap can hold the great Tommy Innit for long. 

He freezes when a few flutter in a heap to the side, but the whatever on the bed (probably a person, Tommy"s hungry, not stupid) doesn"t stir.

He peers out from whatever he"s managed to crash onto, a surface with papers and assorted knick knacks that look less like knick knacks and more like larger than life statues. He finds himself staring eye to beady eye with a Blue Sheep keychain. 

It"s laying on its side, probably knocked over from Tommy"s expertly planned crash landing. 

For a second, he considers hissing at it for staring, but he thinks twice about it. Staying stealthy and all that. 

 Beyond that, a room. He"s in a room if the way the sound echoes around him says anything. He hasn"t quite figured out the whole echolocation thing quite yet, but it doesn"t take an expert to hear how there are no crickets nearby, how the near-silent clicking of his claws almost seems to echo back to him. 

Seeing is weird as a bat. What he assumes are the walls are blurry in his eyes, like trying to look through a pair of reading glasses to see something far away, like trying to make out detail while looking through water. He had perfect vision as a human–has more than perfect vision as a vampire. 

This sucks. 

Hearing is weird too, but in the other direction. Sound grates on his ears, the echo of his scratching as he moves bounces off the walls, the soft huffs of even breathing across the room, and beyond the walls, crickets. 

As a bat, his body is built for echolocation which is just fantastic considering he has just about no practice echolocating. He feels a bit like he"s just been given the keys to a plane with no instruction other than "go nuts". 

Tubbo has a flight simulator back home. He tried to use it once, but he was just as bad at fake flying as real flying. 

It"s a wonder he was able to take off at all. If he had figured out how to make echolocation work for him, maybe he wouldn"t have crash landed into the papers on someone"s...desk? 

He clicks, quiet, high-pitched enough that any human sleeping here wouldn"t hear it (the jury"s still out on whether his current roommate is human or not, but judging by their lack of reaction, he"s willing to bet they are). There are a few things that sound like they"re sticking out of the bottom of the platform he"s on. 

He was right, a desk then. Or at least a table. 

Okay. Alright. He can work with this. 

He just needs to figure out where the window is. He came in a window.

There’s a window around here somewhere. He can hear the wind, see the strange bluish-grey lighting of the moonless night. 

If he can just…maneuver himself–he lifts his head and spreads his wings and his vision swims , black spotting across the room. His body hits the desk with a soft thud, legs buckling under his weight. 

Okay, so taking off from the desk is a no go, then. 

Cool. Great. He can make this work. 

At least the snoring across the room is still steady, deep. Small victories. He’ll take what he can get. 

He doesn’t even know what he would do if whatever that is woke up and found him sprawled out here. 

Maybe eat him. He"s certainly small enough for it. They might not even have to chew.

Gods, he’s hungry.

Dream had been coming in to feed him when he escaped, another dose of blood. It was dumb. He shouldn’t have left. At least with Dream he had a place to sleep that isn’t just a stack of papers. There was food, even if it was never enough, and Tommy was always hungry. He just…saw the chance for freedom and took it, flapped right past Dream’s head and through the window up by the rafters. 

He could almost imagine just how Dream"s jaw hit the floor, his stupid smug look wiped clean off his face as Tommy fluttered from his tiny cell into the wide open air. Dream probably didn"t even know that he could turn into a bat. He escaped the shitty barn that had been his prison for the past…however long he’d been trapped there. Months, probably. 

He lost track sometime between being locked in a closed room and whenever Dream turned him. 

People probably aren"t even looking for him anymore. Foster kids go missing every now and again. Either they turn up or they don"t. Dream must have taken him far enough away that no one found him. 

They call them ‘flight risks’-- the kids who decide they don’t want to stick around. He was kidnapped. He’s not a runaway. Dream snatched him on his way home from school. 

Did they even look for him in the first place?

Legally, probably yes, but Tommy was already a flight risk before he got kidnapped. 

He never would have actually left, but you sneak out at night one too many times and you get slapped with that label. He snorts, the sound coming out more like a squeak than the laugh he wants it to be.

He supposes now that he has bat wings instead of arms, he’s actually a flight risk. 

Fuck Dream, though. He didn’t even deserve the energy it would have taken for Tommy to turn back and see if he was surprised that Tommy had turned into a bat. 

Not that Tommy had that energy to give in the first place. 

He’s so hungry. His stomach feels like it’s tying itself into knots, grinding itself into dust. 

And Gods, he doesnt even know what he"s doing anymore all he knows is that he"s currently laying across some random fucker"s desk, sprawled across some papers with weird markings that he can"t quite make out with his fucked-up bat-vision but he"s pretty sure they"re not written in English, or if they are, his bat-vision is even worse than he thought it was. 

Because he’s a bat now. 

A vampire bat. 

Dream turned him into a vampire, and apparently some vampires can turn into vampire bats. That would have been good to know–he should have put that in the fine print before he turned him.  

A “hey I know I’m turning you against your will, but here’s a quick list of what to expect” would have been nice. Zero out of five stars, awful customer service, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Is there someone he can talk to? A manager vampire? File a complaint? 

Something outside the basic knowledge would have been nice. A ‘hey you’ll be able to turn into a bat and also make a variety of different noises and be constantly hungry’ for example. 

At the very least, they could give him a t-shirt. It could read “I got turned into a vampire and all I got was this trauma.” Of course, he wouldn’t even be able to wear it with how small he is right now, but maybe he could use it as a blanket or something. He’s cold, too. 

Black spots across his vision when he goes to move again. 

This whole thing would be so much easier if he could just turn back into a person, if he could just stand up and climb out the window, but every time he tries to turn back, his veins burn in his body, magic siphoning energy he doesn’t have, that he can’t summon. 

The change burns like a fire in his chest, like the sun across his skin. 

He drops, panting, still a bat, still stuck. He probably shouldn"t have even been able to shift in the first place because now he doesn’t even have enough energy to turn back into a person. Instead of being free, he"s stuck in some random person"s house.

He wasn"t even invited in, he just flew in the window. Isn"t the invitation supposed to be a big thing for vampires? That’s like one of the three things he actually knew about vampires before this whole thing happened: vampires drink blood, they don’t like sunlight, and they need to be invited into places. Although maybe if the fucker who lives here didn"t want random big men from wandering into their room at night, they wouldn"t sleep with their window open. 

Black spots in his vision, the world wobbling around him. He blinks hard, shaking his head until the world rights itself enough for him to figure out...fucking something. Where he is would be nice. He might fuck around and try to get out. That sounds like an absolutely poggers plan. 

His eyes flit about the room, tiny and beady in his head, images refusing to resolve properly—photographs blurred by motion except he"s lying still, belly pressed against papers. 

Gods (is even allowed to say that) he"s tired. His eyes flutter closed on their own, hunger gnawing on his stomach like a rabid dog. 

He hasn"t eaten in so long. He probably hasn"t slept in longer.

Maybe he could just close his eyes for a bit. 

A snort across the bedroom jolts him from his freefall. 

No . 

He can"t fall asleep. He"s escaping. This is just a detour, not a rest stop. (Tommy knows he didn"t get far. Dream"s probably out there looking for him right now. He isn"t safe.) 

The great Tommy Innit won"t die here. 

 Snuffling across the room—the weird, blurry, white and black fluffy thing in the corner moving. A bed. Probably. It"s snoring. Probably a person. He hopes it"s a human—he doesn"t have the energy to have the crisis he"ll have if it"s not. It"ll just have to take a number behind the couple dozen other thing"s queued to cause his next big breakdown.

It doesn’t even matter. 

He"s trapped, he"s hungry, he"s tired.

He"s getting out of here. He"s finding something to eat, and he"s finding someplace to sleep—somewhere safe. Maybe a nice cave to hang out in. That"s what bats do, right? 

He can figure out the whole bat thing after a good nap.

Either way, he"s leaving, preferably before his accidental roommate figures out he’s trespassing and thinks that he’s just some lost wild animal and tries to hit him with a broom to get him to leave, or worse, figures out that Tommy’s not just some weird, lost animal and tries to actually kill him. 

He’s already died once, he’s not about to die a second time, especially not here in the middle of some random bedroom, and especially not as a bat. If he’s going to go, it’s going to be doing something cool. Crushed to death with a broom when someone finds him does not qualify.  

The desk is hard against his chest. The soft snoring is loud in his ears. His own exhaustion weighs him down, heavy on his shoulders. 

He can’t stay here. He can’t deal with this, shouldn’t have to deal with this. He’s 16. Tommy’s supposed to be worrying about school and friends and whether his favorite shows are going to get renewed for a second season, not whether or not he’s going to die via being beat with a broom or starvation first.

Of course, Dream might just find him first and finish the job himself.

And Tommy is here. On some random desk in some random house, probably not too far away from where he was turned, from where he was prisoner. He can’t stay and rest. A minute too long, and Dream might find him. 

 His wings shake under his weight as he picks himself up again. Stubborn grey spots across his vision. He needs to get out, escape. He can’t stay here. All he has to do is take off. 

He wavers, the world tilting. 

He’s tired, but he needs to get up. Escape. 

He’s got to get back home. Tubbo said that he could come over and play Mario Kart with him tomorrow. 

That was months ago. 

Still. He–he needs to get up, start moving. Figure this out. Instead, his eyes fall shut of their own accord. He blinks, his eyelids gummy, sticking to themselves like velcro. 

Maybe he can just…nap for a bit. Take a break.

It’s a bit cold, his stomach still hurts, but…yeah. A nap sounds good. 

His eyes slip closed before he can think better of it. 

*****

The next time he wakes up, it’s to gentle hands scooping him up. Warmth.

Something warm wraps around him, pinning his wings softly against his body. 

He squeaks, the sound weak as it gets caught in his throat. 

Someone shushes him. “Just go back to sleep, Tech,” they whisper, tone soft and nervous, words clipped like they don"t know what to say. 

It"s loud, booming in his ears, he can hardly think. Tech? 

He whines. The sound vibrates through his body. 

Something–someone–shushes him. 

He doesn"t–what"s going on? His eyes are gummy, heavy. They stick to each other like they were glued. 

He fights them until they open, the world spinning, unsteady as he sways gently in the grip of his restraints. He"s unsteady, the world a sickening blur of color that he can’t resolve into shapes. 

Where is he? He"s not in his cell in the barn anymore. 

Did someone finally save him? He"d all but given up. It had been weeks. Months. Long enough for him to lose track of time. 

Long enough for the seasons to change twice.

His stomach cramps, and he shakes, the feeling of slow starvation spreading through his limbs like a poison. 

He"s nauseous. He"s hungry.

He"s cold. 

Heat leaches from his body, the warmth of whatever"s wrapping him, trapping him, unable to keep the frost at bay. 

His eyes fall shut. 

He nuzzles into the warmth, burying his face in something softer than whatever he was on before. Dream used to make him sleep on straw.

Wherever he is now, at least it"s better than that. 

Something heavy and warm presses down on him from above. It"s–it"s nice.

He was so cold. He"s still cold, but there"s something warm here.

"Dad!" The voice under him shouts, but he can"t flinch away from the noise, his body too heavy to react. 

He"s still so tired.

"Wil?" Someone responds from farther away. 

Fuzziness closes in around his mind, punctuated by the heavy stomping of rushed footsteps somewhere below him. 

He squeaks again, eyes fluttering as the world spins. He shifts, his body leaden as he tries to escape the hands gently caging him. 

"Shhh," the voice says, sounding more frantic than before, voice pitching up like it"s trying to match Tommy"s squeak. "It"s ok, you"re okay. We"ll figure this out. Dad!" It calls, voice turned away from Tommy. Tommy jerks, the sound echoing like a bullhorn in his ears. The hand above him rubs their thumb across his head like an apology. 

Movement across the room, something hits something else, the light tap of metal on wood amplifies in Tommy"s ears until it rings. 

Everything"s so loud. 

"Wil?" The new voice says, booming, closer. “What do you have there, mate?” 

“I think Techno crashed in my room last night.” 

“Techno?” The voice says, pitching up. Gods, won’t it just shut up ? 

Something shifts underneath him, and the warmth pulls away from his back. Tommy whines, high and reedy, too far gone to be embarrassed. 

Silence, a moment of blessed silence.

 Then, a confused, “That’s not Techno.” 

“What?”

“That’s not Techno, mate. Look at his nose. There’s no scar.” 

“But it’s a vampire bat? Look at its little thumb claw. That’s different from a normal vampire bat.” 

Something comes down and fiddles with one of his fingers. He can’t do much more than whine at the faint pulling. Why won’t it just stop ? He doesn’t understand. 

Silence settles again, and the world spins around Tommy like it’s some type of fucking top or something. 

The second voice whispers this time, quieter against Tommy’s ringing ear drums. “Where did you even find them?”

“On my desk. They knocked some of my music on the ground, too.” That voice is loud. 

His arms twitch when he tries to move to cover his ears, leathery skin between his limbs pulling when he shifts. 

He whines. He can"t move that way. His arms are stiff and unresponsive, and he doesn"t understand what"s happening. 

He"s starving. Furious hunger gnaws at his stomach, reaches into his limbs. It leaves him shaky and sick. 

The air is rich and heavy with the smell of food.

He can’t tell where the smell is coming from, but it"s close. Something soft and barely-there pulses under his chest.

It’s not his heart. Tommy’s heart is unbeating, still in his chest. 

“How’d he even get in? Vampires need to be invited.” 

“My window was open, but–”

He pushes his teeth against the warmth beneath him, but it’s too big. His mouth can’t open enough to bite. 

He squeaks again. 

“...Dad.”

“He must be hungry, mate.”

“Do you think that’s why he flew in?” the warmth under him vibrates when the first voice talks. Tommy can hear how the sound reverberates. It would be nice if it didn’t leave his ears ringing. 

“Gods, he must be desperate if he’s crash landing into strangers homes,” the tone is high, stressed.  

“Dad, I can feel his ribs.”

Tommy tries to bite again, his mouth too small to get any purchase. He’s shaking, he realizes distantly.

Steady hands shift around his torso, and the world swims . Touch and color and sound and smell mix in a wash of sensation that sends his head spinning. 

He whines, shaking. What’s going on? What’s happening?

"Shh, shh. It"s okay. I know. I know," the first voice whispers. Warmth passes over him. He leaches the heat as best he can, pressing into it until his arms shake and give out. 

He wants to form words, ask where he is, what"s going on but they won"t come, trapped behind chapped lips and swirling confusion. 

He was a bat, he vaguely realizes. Is a bat. 

Right. Weird vampire shit. He’s a vampire. 

Movement. The world swims. 

Tommy whines, high and reedy, sharp in the back of his throat. The sound scratches, dry and inhuman.

The sound of airy, whispering voices washes over him. 

He was—this is—recollection flows past him, caught in the wash of everything happening around him. 

He"s warm. Something is warm. It"s the only thing he can really make sense of. He"s warm and before he wasn"t. The realization sends him squirming, a phantom chill racing down his spine. 

Warmth immediately clamps down on him, heat seeping into his limbs, and it feels nice except how he can"t move, his limbs feel like jelly.

"What even happened to you?" The voice asks, too far away for Tommy to process.

He can"t focus on it, caught in his own web of nausea and misery. 

He sinks, the world rushing around him, far too much to process. 

*****

He wakes to something metallic and warm dripping into his mouth. 

He balks at the taste, and it dribbles out of his mouth without him swallowing.

It"s rancid on his tongue, rotten milk against his senses. 

"Why isn"t he taking it?" The first voice squeaks, high-pitched and panicked. "Techno drinks it just fine?"

"Maybe he"s just figuring it out?" 

More dribbles into his mouth.

It smells good. It smells like every good meal he’s ever had, but the taste is rotten, like eating meat a week past its sell-by date. It smells like when Dream would feed him from his arm. The faint magic of it stings his tongue when it makes contact.

Dream"s blood was colder, but it tasted better. When he got fed, Tommy would drink and drink until Dream would snake his fingers around Tommy"s neck and pull until he couldn"t breathe and fell limp.

This is gentler. A kinder poison. 

Tommy shoves his face away, the movement shooting waves of pain through his chest. He aches, heavy and shooting pain grinds at his stomach like he"s trying to digest himself. 

He"s hungry .

The way the liquid makes his stomach churn doesn"t change that. 

More drips into his mouth and he doesn"t have the energy to spit it out, but he doesn"t swallow. It dribbles back out. 

"Call Techno," someone says above him, loud enough that his ears ring. 

The world spins behind his closed eyes.

Something shifts and footsteps sound, fading out from the room. 

Tommy fades with them, surrounded by warmth and shivering despite it. 

*****

Something wraps around his body. 

Warmth switches to cold, and Tommy feels himself get moved before he even opens his eyes. 

“Careful, he’s pretty out of it,” one of the voices from before says.

“I can see that,” a deeper voice rumbles, and it vibrates down Tommy’s spine. “How long?”

“Sorry?” 

“How long has he been like this,” the deep voice sounds impatient, words harsh and clipped. 

If Tommy could move, he would flinch, the memory of harsh words and harsher hands, days trapped behind a wooden door too well-made to break, cold air, a window that was a respite in the beginning turning into something dangerous when he was turned–

He’s too far gone for the memories to fully surface. Instead, vague recollections of bruised arms, the skin still painted all shades of purple and yellow and green, bubble to the surface like those witches’ cauldrons in the cheesy cartoons he used to watch in another life. 

He whines, high and wobbling, the sound caught in his bone-dry throat.

Something deep and rumbling sounds, a voice, quiet, murmuring soft reassurances, and tension falls from Tommy’s wings. He wants–he likes the way it sounds beneath him, the sound traveling through his chest.  

It’s loud, but it doesn’t ring in his ears. Instead, he shifts, as much as he can with his limbs feeling like jelly, struggling to get closer to the source. 

“Shhh. Rest. We’ll get you fed. ” The deep voice says, and Tommy stills. He feels the voice in his bones when they talk. 

It’s–the rumbling feels nice. He’s not used to feeling that way. He lets his muscles go slack, no longer fighting against the jelly.

“Are you going to–” the first voice pauses. Tommy’s world shifts as half of what’s supporting him shifts away.  “What?” The voice goes high and offended. 

“Shut up.” 

“Hey! I don’t go around telling you to–” 

Tommy whines, the high-pitched sound ringing in his ears like nails on a chalkboard getting beamed directly into his brain. 

Don’t they know just how awful that voice sounds? 

“Shut up.” The deep rumble.

“Wil, maybe you should–” another pause, and they go quieter, voice hardly above a whisper. “Sorry, mate.”

The world shifts again, and something that smells rich and delicious moves right in front of him. Tommy’s stomach roars to life, he surges forward, his leaden body suddenly able to move. 

Tiny fangs sink into the source as something metallic and rich and cold gushes over his tongue, thick and viscous. 

“There you go, runt,” the deep voice sounds again, but Tommy can’t focus on the words as he swallows, each gulp soothing the ache in his stomach–his stomach slowly turning from a roaring beast to something quieter. “Drink.” 

Tommy doesn’t need to be told twice, his teeth dig in without his input. The tips of his wings–his wrists, he thinks–hook onto the source. It can’t leave now.  

A faint rumble, high and stuttering starts in his throat. The sound is so high-pitched that it would be a squeak except for how it starts in Tommy’s chest and shakes through his throat on the way out. 

He drinks, desperate, starving. 

Slowly, he warms. His limbs tingle, pins and needles, like he was sitting on them.

The world still feels thick and slow around him, more molasses than air. He squeaks through the flavor, muffled in whatever he’s drinking from. 

“Gods, he really is just a baby.” 

 Tommy wants to object, yell, let this dickhead know that he"s not a child, much less a baby, but the words slip through his fingers like water and he"s drawn back into that heavy fuzziness that"s been weighing him down since he crashed the other day.

Oh. That’s right. He crashed. 

Everything feels unreal, passing over him like waves. Right now, he’s a passive observer.

He can"t even open his mouth to ask what"s going on. It feels heavy, uncooperative, wrapped around the arm he’s biting. Words die in his throat before he can say them, the only sound he can make, a high squeak—more like a mouse than a man.

Blood–and it is blood, the realization hits him slowly–trickles slowly into his mouth, sweet as nectar, life-giving ichor. He laps at it greedily. 

“A fledgling,” the voice feeding him says. “If he’s still only taking vampire blood. Still just a runt. Shouldn’t be away from his coven. Shouldn’t even be out of the den.” 

“What is he even doing crashing through Wilbur’s window?” the second voice whispers, soft, the words breathed more than spoken, ghosting over his ears gently instead of pounding like before. 

“There are no big covens nearby,” the first voice breathes. “How long has it been since he ate?”

“This young, it can’t be long, right mate? His coven is probably somewhere nearby.” 

A grunt underneath him, jostling him slightly. Tommy’s swallowing slower, but he can’t bring himself to let go just yet. He’s not quite full, but his stomach is starting to protest. This is the most he’s been able to fill his stomach in months. 

Dream always said he was being greedy. He cut him off, prying him off of his arm before he’d had his fill just about every time he fed Tommy. If Tommy was lucky, he’d only pry his mouth open instead of choking him. 

He isn"t lucky very often. 

Maybe it’s because Tommy’s small right now. The person, the vampire, feeding him can’t tell just how much he’s taken. 

The arm stays steady in front of him, still feebly latched into place with the hooks at the wrist of his wings. 

The grip of the hands, and they are hands, Tommy realizes, around him are gentle. He’s cradled, not pinned. He doesn’t squirm as he slowly lets more blood run into his mouth and swallows. 

Tommy’s still tired. This time, it’s not the exhaustion of starvation. Instead, it’s the sleepiness that comes with having a full stomach. He almost doesn’t want to open his eyes, even as the world around him becomes sharper than it was even just a few minutes ago. 

The grip around him isn’t warm, just as chilled as he is. It doesn’t matter, though.

He’s surrounded, protected. Safe , something deep inside him insists. 

The small fraction of a part of him that realizes he doesn’t know the people around him objects, and Tommy fights the urge to drift, peeling his eyes open.

The one holding him grunts. He’s huge, probably would be even if Tommy weren’t three inches long. He’s built, strong and broad with long pink hair braided down the side. 

“Shouldn’t even want to leave the den, yet, young as he is,” the vampire holding him says, gaze firmly fixed on the other two men in the room. “Shouldn’t even have a bat form, especially this young. Some don’t ever get it at all.” 

One is tall but lanky, curly brown hair rests around his face. The other is shorter, the smallest of the three, blonde hair pulled back in a haphazard knot, a weird green and white bucket hat wrung between his hands.

They’re all sitting on what looks like something soft. Tommy can’t quite make it out around the fingers holding him. The blood dripping into his mouth is far more important at the moment. 

“I wonder if something happened,” brown hair says, still whispering. “There’s no way he got so thin in a few hours.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” the one holding him grunts. Tommy swallows one last time, the blood filling and rich on his tongue. 

Tommy’s teeth unlatch from the wrist without his input, releasing it from his stranglehold. Tommy’s eyes slip closed in a long blink that he almost doesn’t catch before he pries them open again.

“You done down there, kid?” The voice turns toward him, the deep rumble still gentle against his ears. Tommy’s eyes drift toward the source, sluggish against his own exhaustion. He blinks, and his eyelids very nearly stay closed this time before he wrestles himself back to wakefulness. 

Red eyes meet his tired gaze. “Rest. We’ll see if you have enough energy to shift back when you wake up. If not, we’ll figure it out.” 

Tommy blinks one more time. He wants to know what they’re going to do with him, but he’s not quite present enough to piece together their conversation. 

The vampire huffs a laugh. “Stubborn.” He runs a finger over Tommy’s spine, smoothing out the fur there. He shifts, wrapping Tommy in something warmer. “Sleep.” 

This time, when Tommy’s eyes drift shut they stay that way.

*****

Something rumbles beneath him, steady and comforting. 

Tommy wakes slowly, eyes heavy. He pries them open, slow blink after another, weights that refuse to move properly. 

It’s bright. It almost hurts his eyes to see. 

He blinks again, willing the room to make sense. Light comes into focus slowly, persistent burning fading as his eyes adjust. The blue and white of the cushions on the couch, the grey-almost-white of the walls, decorated with frames that are too far for his blurry eyes to make out clearly. 

He blinks again. The floor comes into focus, a light brown hardwood with swirls confusing to see and even more confusing when he can’t make them resolve into the sharp image he is used to, instead remaining blurry like he needs glasses. 

An inhale. He tries again.

The sharp smell of something floral fills his nose. 

The weave of brown fabric steady underneath him, the same temperature as he is instead of the incessant chill of the barn. 

A voice slowly comes into focus above him, softy and steady, murmuring in time with the rumbling, the rhythmic cadence of someone reading a story: 

“– When Theseus lifted himself up from the terrific struggle, the ball of thread laid where he had dropped it. With it in his hands –”

He whips his gaze up, neck cracking as he does.

A man. 

His hair is pink and braided down the side of his head, resting over his shoulder. He’s got a white shirt, and he’s looking right at Tommy. 

Tommy squeaks, scrambling as much as he can, his arms and legs refusing to move underneath him the way he’s used to.

He can’t pull himself up. His arms aren’t working, still fucking wings–fuck he doesn’t know how he got here and he doesn’t know this person and the world is wavering around him like he’s going to pass out again, and–

The surface he’s laying on rumbles, deep and vibrating, and Tommy’s breath stutters in his throat, caught like a rat in a trap but also not, air coming easier as he exhales and draws in another breath. 

“Easy, easy,” the voice sounds. “You’re alright,” it says, deep and rolling, like a wave as it washes over him. “Take your time. You’ve been out of it for a while. You’re safe.” 

Tommy’s breath stutters, but as he breathes, the world stops spinning. 

He inhales. 

“You’re alright,” the man above him promises, and Tommy exhales, burying his face into the fabric beneath him–the man’s legs he realizes. He’s laying on the man’s lap. 

The realization is almost enough to send him panicking again, but the rumbling voice under him stays steady, borderline comforting. There are no harsh hands and shoving him away, wrapping so tight around his arms that they will bruise. The voice stays gentle and unchanging. 

His hands are resting beside Tommy, not touching him, but cupping him so he doesn’t run the risk of falling. 

He stays patient, whispering a string of gentle reassurances like he expects Tommy to panic again, to be scared. 

He’s not too terribly far off the mark. 

Tommy’s eyes drift from the hands back up the arm until they’re on the man’s face again. 

Red eyes, a vampire. 

Tommy doesn’t know if his eyes match those yet. He hasn’t exactly had a chance to look at himself in the mirror. 

His breath stutters, panic. He’s only ever known vampires to be fucking awful people. The last one he met kidnapped him and kept him locked in a cell in his barn for a few months for no good fucking reason. 

“Just breathe. We can talk in a minute.” the man says. “You’re alright. Relax.”

Relax . Yeah, okay. He’s just woken up on some random vampire’s lap as a bat, and he’s telling him to relax . Yeah, that makes sense. Okay. Sure. 

He crash landed. He knows that much. He crash landed in some asshole"s bedroom, and then he had to–to escape before they caught him, but he was hungry and tired, and–

He remembers voices, loud and awful like someone ran his ears through a cheese grater. 

He’s not hungry.

He could eat, sure, but the familiar emptiness is gone. 

He–someone gave him blood. This man? 

His eyes drift up, breath level, but still shallow. He’s–he might have to run soon, but the man said that they needed to talk. 

He doesn’t think he would make it very far as long as he’s a bat. 

Red eyes, the man’s gaze meets his, still gentle. Tommy doesn’t quite relax, but between the rolling voice and the simple reassurances, the tension leaks out of his wings, and he slowly lowers himself so he’s laying again, his belly resting gingerly on the man’s leg. 

“You ok?” the man asks, and Tommy wants to laugh. 

Fantastic. He wants to say. It’s not everyday he gets to crash and pass out from exhaustion before he can do anything about it. 

No. He wants to say more. He’s tired and burnt out and has literally had the worst fucking months of his entire life, including but not limited to turning into a vampire against his fucking will. 

As a bat, he can’t really say either. Instead, he does his level best to glare at the man above him. 

A long pause. “Right. A bat. You can’t, uh, right. Um. I’m going to get Wilbur and Phil. They wanted to know when you woke up, and then maybe we can work on fixing that–you being a bat, I mean. I think you should have enough magic to change back. Okay?”

Does–is he expecting Tommy to respond? Tommy just stares at him, almost incredulous at the repeated mistake. He tries to move his head to shake it, to nod it. It doesn’t move the way he wants it to, the muscles built differently.

“Right, uh,” the man says. “Tap your wing once for yes and twice for no?” 

Okay, cool. Tommy can at least do that. He lifts one of his wings and taps it once. He’s not sure about this guy calling in his friends, but the sooner he can go back to having two hands and no wings, the better. 

If his friends need to be in the room for that, he’ll take what he can get. 

“Okay,” the man leans to the side, hand reaching over until it makes contact with something small and square and black–a phone. It lights up in his hand as he taps, and Tommy realizes all over again just how weird seeing things as a bat is. 

He clicks, and the sound bounces around the room and flies back at him in a wave of information he still has no idea how to process. His vision isn’t as bad as it was when he was passing out from lack of food, but it’s still different, built more toward seeing things in the dark than the full-color spectrum the lights of the room are providing. 

“Right,” Techno says, setting the phone on the arm of the chair they’re sitting on–they’re sitting on a chair, right. “So they’ll be here in about ten seconds.”

A crash in the house somewhere proves his point, the sound ridiculously loud in Tommy’s ears. He takes another deep breath, wincing at the sound. 

Large hands hover around him, cupping him onto the leg without contact. 

Heavy footsteps pound down a set of stairs until someone tall and brunette and wearing a yellow sweater rounds the corner, stumbling into the room more than walking. 

“He’s awake?” the man pants. 

Tommy flinches at the volume of the voice. 

Pink-hair is quieter, “Yes, Wil, he’s awake. Be quieter. I told you. His ears are sensitive as a bat.” 

His volume drops immediately. “Right,” he whispers. “Sorry, Sunshine.”

Tommy can’t really respond, so he doesn’t even bother, glancing between the two new people: pink-hair and ‘Wil’. 

Another one comes down the stairs, footsteps much more quiet, not the pounding headache of the other newcomer. He rounds the corner from the stairs without the same bull-headed excitement. 

This one is shorter than lanky-bitch. He’s blonde, like Tommy is when he’s not a bat, and he’s got a green and white bucket hat on even though it seems like he came from inside the house. 

Weirdo. 

“Hey, mate,” bucket hat says, a whisper, as he and the tall one walk into the room. He sounds gentle, patient. His words hit a steady cadence. “I bet you’re probably a little confused right now?” 

Again, Tommy can’t respond, but the man pauses like he can.

“He can’t talk, Phil,” pink hair supplies for him, and at least someone seems to get it. It’s a little hard to communicate that he can’t talk when he doesn’t even have hands to mime zipping his lips shut or something. 

Still, he almost expects the newcomer to be frustrated at Tommy’s muteness. Instead, he just grins. 

“Right,” ‘Phil’(?) nods, continuing like Tommy’s non-response isn’t an issue. “Well it’s nice to meet you. I’m Phil,” he gestures to himself. Okay cool. “This is Wilbur,” he gestures to lanky-bitch who waves. “And the one you’re sitting with is Technoblade.”

The man grunts beneath him. What a weird fucking name. 

“He’s also the one who fed you earlier.”

Tommy glances back at "Technoblade", who just nods and offers a faint smile. Tommy blinks away a faint sense of wonder that someone would feed him. This is a stranger. He’s not about to allow himself to trust someone he hasn’t even met. 

Phil starts talking again. “Techno was telling us you’d probably have enough magic to try to turn back into a person if you wanted to when you woke up, mate. If you’d like to, Wilbur and I can clear out from the center of the room, so you have more space.”

“One for yes,” the voice sounds behind him, not quite the deep rumble from before, but still a solid baritone. 

Tommy taps his wing. The movement is far more natural than trying to nod his head. 

Phil nods and gestures to Wilbur beside him, and both of them take the few steps it takes to reach the sofa from where they were standing, and they sit down.

 Meanwhile, pink-hair shifts underneath him, his hands closing in around Tommy, and instantly Tommy starts to squirm as they make contact. Bastard can keep his meaty hands off of Tommy, thank you very much. 

Pink-hair grunts. “Hold still. ‘M just moving you to the center of the room. Unless you feel like turning into a person on my lap?” 

Bastard. Tommy squirms one more time for good measure before he falls still. Briefly, he considers biting Techno’s thumb which is resting above his head, but he decides against it. 

He doesn’t need to piss these people off any more than he probably already has. Even if he wasn’t outnumbered and wasn’t a bat, pink-hair, now that he’s standing, is a lot beefier than Tommy realized at first. There’s a scar that stretches across his nose and a bulk that says that he should see the other guy. 

Plus he’s a vampire, and Tommy might be a vampire too, but so far he has a 0-1 win to loss rate against vampires, and he’s not looking to expand that. 

Pink-hair sets him down pretty quickly anyway. The rug in the middle of the room is softer than he expected, musty beneath his nose, as the hands pull away from him and pink hair retreats to his chair.  

Okay, cool, so Tommy’s a bat in the middle of the rug with three strangers watching him so he can turn back into a human. Nice. That’s good. Tommy’s never really been the kind to get stage fright–he rocked being Bush #2 in his primary school play–but…uh…he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. 

He blinks a bit. Magic. Right. 

“It should feel like it did when you changed the first time,” Lanky-Bitch, Wilbur, says unprompted. “It should kind of feel like you’re trying to tug a bit on your stomach. Just picture being a person instead of a bat, and it should happen if you have enough magic.” 

…Okay, that’s actually kind of helpful. 

Tommy closes his eyes and mentally reaches toward his stomach, picturing what he looks like as a human.

Tall, handsome, blonde, draws all the women, his many, many wives. He pictures his legs, sore from pacing his cell, arms still healing, all colors of bruises painting his wrists from each of the occasions Dream had fed him. He thought he’d have super-healing as a vampire, but either it hasn’t kicked in yet or he doesn’t get that. 

He pictures his own lanky build, fair skin instead of fur, made fairer by the vampirism, and no wings.

There’s a light tug, bubbling in his stomach like he"s nauseous all over again. He reaches toward it mentally, grasping it and pulling as hard as he can. 

A moment of pain, a flash of light as color comes into focus, and Tommy blinks his eyes open, relieved as he sees hands instead of bat claws and arms instead of wings in front of him.

“There you go!” Wilbur exclaims, and the words don’t grate at his ears like before even though the man is definitely being much louder. 

“Good job, mate.” Phil adds, and Tommy’s eyes snap over to him, seated beside Wilbur. 

“How are you feeling kid?” Pink-hair says behind him, and Tommy snaps his head over to see him across the room, and holy shit that man is built. He thought he got a sense for it before, but Jesus christ . 

He blinks a few times. Right, he asked a question. And Tommy can respond now. He’s expecting a response. 

Still, he takes a moment to take stock. His arms are sore as all hell, even without the bruises he knows are visible with his short-sleeves. He’s sure he looks rough, probably a little dirty even though he sponged himself down a few days ago with water Dream was kind enough to provide. Asshole. 

He’s also thin–was even before being kidnapped, although the barn hasn’t done miracles for his weight. They can’t see it beneath his shirt–thankfully still in one piece and not tattered–but he’s sure he has a few more of ribs showing than he could before.

It’s always been a struggle to keep weight on, even without being purposefully starved. Maybe now that he’s not locked in a small room at the back of a barn, he can get food more often. Or blood, he supposes. 

“Alright,” he shrugs as his response, voice rough from disuse, pulling his arms under his torso and pushing himself up on shaky arms until he’s sitting. The world doesn’t quite spin around him when he does, but it’s a close thing. His head feels light stubbornly caught between a headache and dizziness. 

It feels a bit like the one time he got a concussion from rough housing with a foster sibling a little too hard and getting kicked in the temple. 

He glances at the people around him at a loss. He–he should probably leave soon, right? Except he doesn’t even know what time it is, if it’s daylight and dangerous or nighttime and it’s okay for him to walk around without fear of getting an atomic sunburn. 

Being a vampire kind of sucks. He’s pale, sure, but he never had to worry about literally combusting when he went to the beach or walked to the park or whatever. 

Getting up off the rug is probably a good start, either way, though.

Slowly, he brings his legs around from where he’s sitting on them until they’re bent in front of him, and he uses his hands to push himself up. 

“Careful, mate,” Bucket-hat says. “You should take it slow.”

Yeah, fuck that. Tommy can fucking stand, thanks though. 

He throws that advice firmly under, ‘no fucking thanks’, and shoves himself up from the rug, pushing himself until he’s standing, legs shaking dangerously beneath him. 

He’s–he’s fine. He’s standing. He’s holding his arms out for balance, and his legs kind of feel like jelly, and the almost-dizziness is back tenfold, but he’s fine. 

Until he’s not. 

His knees give out under him, buckling like he’s still a fucking bat, and they aren’t supposed to hold his weight standing. “Fuck–!” 

Movement in the corner of his eyes as Tommy falls, and warm hands grab his arms, squeezing old bruises hidden by his short-sleeved shirt. He squeaks, yelps, flinches, jerks away until Lanky-Bitch’s hands fall to his side and Tommy hits the ground, caught in the vertigo of having functional knees and not just legs that refuse to bend right. 

Lanky bitch backs away, hands held high, surrendering. “Sorry,” he yelps, like he’s the one who was grabbed. 

“It’s fine,” Tommy mumbles, arranging himself into a sitting position, slightly more dignified than a crumpled heap on the floor. It’s not like he hasn’t had worse.. 

“No, no. It’s not. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you.”  

Which no, he shouldn’t have, but it’s nice to hear it acknowledged. He’s not used to people expressing the basic human right to not be fucking manhandled. 

 At least the man was trying to help, even if it hurt like a bitch. 

It’s enough that he lets his shoulders relax from where he’s got them hiked up to his ears, slowly releasing the tension until he’s sure that no stray hands will try to grab him again. 

His knees hurt from hitting the floor, too, but that’s neither here nor there.

Instead of yelling, he takes a breath, examining the room. It’s easier to see the detail when he’s full-sized. There’s the couch, two chairs behind him, pictures of the residents hanging from the wall, all things he could see as a bat.

From his place on the floor, though, he can see what looks like the kitchen attached to this room, a kitchen island between the two. There’s a window, he realizes on the wall beside the photos, blinds drawn and no light leaking from behind. Nighttime then? 

Maybe he actually can leave instead of being trapped here. 

That’s nice. 

It also brings into question just how long he was knocked out, but he can deal with that one later. 

“So, uh,” pink-hair says to his side, glancing between Tommy and the other two.

“Gods, you’re hopeless,” Wilbur snorts, turning to Tommy. “Welcome to our home. It’s not everyday we get visitors flying in through the windows and passing out on my desk, but welcome anyway. You already know all of our names, but just in case you missed it, mine is Wilbur. What’s yours?”

Tommy hesitates, but these people are already being more than hospitable just by letting him exist in here without trying to throw garlic at him or whatever it is that people do to get rid of vampires. He’s not actually sure. 

“Or I can just call you Bat boy, if you’d like that instead?” 

“Wilbur!” Phil scolds at the same time that Tommy echos an incredulous–

“Bat boy?” what the fuck? Who does this asshole think he is? “It’s fucking Tommy.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Tommy,” Phil says before Wilbur can get a word in edgewise. Tommy could see the dickhead opening his mouth to respond before Phil interrupted him. “Do you need some help getting up there? Me or Techno could give you a hand?”

Tommy’s already shaking his head before Phil can finish his sentence. No thank you. His legs might be made of jelly, but he doesn’t really want someone grabbing him on bruised arms before he even knows them. “I got it.” 

To their credit, neither Phil nor Techno nor Lanky-Bitch do anything to get up as Tommy arranges his legs under himself and pushes himself off the floor, a lot slower this time. 

He wavers for a moment, shaking his head and sucking in air until the world rights itself. 

His knees don’t buckle this time. It’s a small victory, but Tommy seizes it with both hands. Not a bat and standing on his own two feet, now? He’s having a good day. 

Phil smiles, something gentle, and Tommy’s not really sure how to read that. “Can I get you something to drink, mate? A place to sit?” 

“No, um, that’s okay. I should probably get out of your hair,” Tommy says, an offer, a statement. He stands in the center of the room, hesitating. He doesn’t want to seem rude, but they definitely don’t want him in their house anymore. “Thanks for not killing me for flying through your window and shit.” 

“We’re not kicking you out just yet, kid,” the tank of a man rumbles–Techno, gods his voice is deep, and Tommy freezes. They’re not keeping him here, right? That was them telling him he could stay. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but anything is better than getting trapped.

“It’s just an invitation, mate,” Phil says, and Tommy forces himself to shift so he’s looking at the man who’s still sitting beside Wilbur on the sofa. 

“And we’re not about to kill you for flying through our window,” Wilbur says. 

“It seems pretty clear that was an accident, mate. Unless you make a habit of crash landing in strangers" houses?” Phil huffs a laugh, and it’s equal parts humor and concern. 

Tommy stutters. “Uh. No.” 

“Then no harm, no foul,” Phil says, patting his legs as he stands up from the couch. “Besides, mate. I think I speak for all of us when we say we’d love to ask you a few things before you take off if you don’t mind.” 

Tommy eyes him warily, but instead of walking up to Tommy like he expected, Phil goes around the room closer to where Techno is sitting on the armchair. He walks past Techno and into the kitchen, rounding the island dividing the living room from the kitchen.

Tommy watches him, waiting for him to go for a knife or some type of tool. Instead, he just rounds the counter, and leans on it, facing back into the living room.

Tommy blinks. Are they not–are they not mad that he broke into their house? He desperately wants to ask, but he also doesn’t want to stare a gift horse in the mouth. 

“What type of questions?” he asks instead, standing beside the couch so the cushion presses against his calf. 

“Nothing too invasive. We just want to understand what happened if that’s alright with you?” 

Tommy doesn’t know how to respond. Phil seems earnest, at least, his smile genuine if not a bit concerned. Which…is fair. These people, at least, don’t seem like total assholes, and he did fly into their house while they were sleeping. He’d probably be a little concerned about that, too. 

Slowly, he lowers himself back to the couch. He perches on the right corner, as far from Wilbur as he can get. 

The man doesn’t seem offended, doesn’t even respond to Tommy joining him on the sofa other than giving him a small smile when he glances in his direction. “Okay. What do you want to know, big man?”

“Well, first, how are you feeling?” Phil asks, and Tommy blinks. That was–that wasn’t really what he was expecting.

“What?”

“I mean you did pass out and get stuck as a bat for a bit there, mate. How are you feeling? Do you need more food? Water? Anything I can get you?” 

“I’m fine,” he says before he can even really take stock of anything. He’s still exhausted, but this is the best he’s felt in a while. He’s not a bat. He’s not in a cell. He’s pretty sure he got blood recently if his semi-fuzzy recollections of the last time he woke up mean anything. 

He can deal with being a little tired. 

Phil frowns, but doesn’t call him out on the lie. “Okay. Just let me know if you need anything, alright?” 

“Uh, okay?”

“Do you need any blood?” 

“Uh, no?” Didn’t he just answer that? Besides, didn’t he just get blood? He doesn’t feel too hungry. He’s definitely gone a lot longer without it. 

Phil frowns, but nods. “Alright. I’m not an expert on vampires, but it shouldn’t take too long for your magic stores to build back up, but you shouldn’t try shifting into a bat for at least a few days while you’re healing, alright?”

Tommy nods. He doesn’t want to be a bat anytime soon, anyway. The last time he turned into one, it was an accident. He didn’t even know that was something he could do . 

“His magic will take a little longer to recover than a mature vampire’s.” 

Tommy’s head snaps to Techno before he can think better of it. “I’m mature!” 

“Uh huh,” Techno replies impassively, and Tommy shrinks back, trying to make himself smaller. 

Wait. These fuckers don’t scare him. Especially not men who have pink-dyed hair and probably bench press trucks after breakfast. He straightens out. “I am, dickhead!” 

“Right.” Techno says, looking entirely unconvinced. 

Wilbur snorts. “You barely even look twelve!” 

“I’m fucking sixteen!” 

“Wait, really?” Wilbur blinks a few times, like he’s surprised. “Oh, holy shit,” a smile spreads over his face. “You really are a child.” 

Um? What’s with this guy? Tommy did not accidently fly through this guy’s window for this. “Fuck you! You’re a child!”

“ I’m twenty-four. You are still legally a minor!”

Tommy’s shoulders loosen as he leans forward, ready to deliver a collection of choice words to this asshole. 

“Wil!” Phil groans, before Tommy can say anything, rubbing his hand over his face.

“What? He is!” 

“You’re not helping!” 

Wil grumbles a complaint, but otherwise falls silent, and Tommy’s eyes drift back toward Phil, attentive, but a little less wary of the man on the other end of the couch. If he can be shut up that easily, obviously, he’s not going to do anything to Tommy without Phil saying something first.

Tommy eyes Phil, searching for any sign of the frustration he showed his son just a few seconds ago. 

“Sorry about him, mate,” Phil sighs, but it’s good natured. There’s a smile on his voice. Tommy relaxes just a bit. “Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to stop.” 

“I’m not wrong,” Wilbur chimes, smug fucker that he seems to be. Tommy doesn’t even bother turning around to flip him off to his face. He flips the bird over his shoulder. 

Wilbur nearly chokes on his laugh. 

Phil only sighs again, heavier this time. He doesn’t say anything about Tommy’s obvious show of disrespect to his son. 

Huh.

That would have gotten him a beating from Dream. Or maybe the promise of one later if he didn’t want to beat Tommy in front of his friends. 

Hell, it probably would have gotten him one hell of a punishment from a foster parent. 

It definitely shouldn’t get crinkled corners of the eyes like it seems like he’s getting from Phil, almost fond despite the fact that Tommy just met him some time in…probably the last day right? He’s not entirely sure how long he was out of it as a bat, but it couldn’t have been too long, though.

At least he’s got two legs again. Goddamn that sucked. 

“Right. Well, Tommy, do you have a coven that we can call to come and pick you up?” Phil asks.

Tommy furrows his brow. “Coven?” He"s never heard the word. 

Phil tilts his head, looking just as confused as Tommy feels. Well, good, he supposes. That makes two of them. 

“Your coven?” Phil tries again.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that is, big man. What’s a coven?” 

“Oh!” Phil’s face brightens, the realization like sun through a storm. “Your sire and the vampires you live with. Or, it’s not always vampires, I suppose. Sometimes there are other supernaturals that live with them, but there should definitely be at least one vampire, especially if you were turned recently. Wilbur and I are part of Techno’s coven even though we’re not vamps.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Phil smiles, and it’s a soft thing, softer than Tommy knows what to do with. “So do you have a coven for us to call?” 

Well, Tommy doesn’t really have a group of supernatural people for him to fall back on. Sure, Dream is probably still looking for him right now, but it’s not like Tommy actually wants to go back with him. 

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

Phil stops cold, taken aback. “Nope? You don’t have a coven or you don’t know their number? ‘Cause if you don’t know their number, names would be good. We can always make a few calls and try to figure it out. I’m sure they’re missing you.”

Ah. Well Dream is probably missing him, but that’s maybe less in the ‘I want you around’ kind of way that Phil has in mind and maybe a little more in the ‘I’m going to kill you when I find you again’ kind of way. Which is significantly less heartwarming. 

Besides, it’s not really Tommy’s problem if his kidnapper wants him back. That’s not really a problem that he’s looking to solve, anyway. The farther from Dream Tommy is, the better. 

Tommy just shakes his head. “No. Not really.” 

Phil blinks, then glances over to Technoblade who shrugs. Tommy barely catches the motion from the corner of his eyes. 

“And you don’t know anyone who could be missing a fledgling?” Phil prompts Techno. 

“Already told you, Phil. Covens are usually pretty secretive with new fledglings. I wouldn’t have heard anything.” 

“Right,” Phil says, turning back to Tommy. His gaze is sharp. Tommy feels pinned in place under his scrutiny. He feels a bit like a butterfly pinned to a board, examined like Phil could extract an answer from him just by looking. 

Tommy’s not an expert by any means, but he’s pretty sure that’s not a skill anyone has, supernatural or not. 

He braces himself for an interrogation. They might not know the full extent of it, but it is pretty obvious that Tommy’s excluding information. He’s not exactly being subtle about hiding it. 

Tommy agreed to let them ask him a few questions. That’s fine. He didn’t agree to tell them his entire life story just because they were nice enough not to beat him for accidentally breaking in. 

Which is.

Actually, that’s kind of nice of them. 

Just as quickly as Phil’s examination starts, it ends, and instead of a rapid-fire interrogation, Phil backs off. “Alright,” he glances off to the side, toward the refrigerator before he glances back. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate. We were hoping for a little more than that, but,” he sighs. “I’m not going to make you share if you don’t want to. Maybe we can shelf this for a bit until you’re feeling a little more comfortable.” 

‘More comfortable,’ Tommy almost scoffs. He doesn’t have high hopes, but it’s nice that Phil doesn’t immediately get in his face about it. If Phil didn’t have any questions for him, he’d already be out the front door and trying to get to some type of shelter before the sun rises again. 

“Sure,” he agrees, not because he plans on talking about this anytime later, but because it seems like the fastest way out of this conversation. 

Phil nods, relieved agreement. “Okay. Is there anything you’d like to ask us?”

“What?” 

“Well I figure you’re having one hell of a day, and you just woke up after being out of it for a bit. Is there anything that you’d like to know?” 

Actually, there’s quite a bit that he’d like to know, but now that Phil’s asked, all of his questions have evaporated from his brain. 

Instead, he just ends up gaping, mouth working up and down like he’s a fish. “Uh–”

“Actually, I have a question if that’s alright?” Wilbur speaks up, and Tommy exhales, half-relieved that the attention isn’t exclusively on him, now.

He shifts so his back isn’t turned to the man anymore, instead sitting on the sofa with his back pressed against the weird blue and white striped cushions. 

“Uh, sure.” 

“How did you fly through my window? Don’t you need permission? Vampire and all?”

“He’s young,” Techno supplies before he has a chance to respond, which is good, because Tommy has no idea. “Not even done changing by the look of it. When was the last time you ate, kid?”

Ate? He doesn’t need to eat anymore. That’s what Dream said. That’s why he never gets food. The hunger was just his body adjusting to needing blood. Unless the vampire means when was the last time he got blood? 

Tommy’s eyebrows furrow confusion, turning his body to face him. “Uh, you alright big man? You fed me last? Unless that was a hallucination?”

A huff of air, fast enough to almost be the snort of a laugh. The vampire raises an eyebrow and leans back. “Before that, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid!”

Technoblade–god that really is a weird fucking name– only blinks, deep red eyes staring into his own.

Tommy wets his lips, and if his heart was beating, it would be stuttering in his chest. “Uh, how long was I out?” 

“About a day and a half,” tall and lanky–Wilbur–supplies. 

His eyes go to the couch he’s sitting on so he doesn’t have to meet their eyes. The fabric pattern is almost as fucking weird as the name ‘Technoblade’. Who even puts stripes on a couch?

“Oh-kay,” he does the mental math. He doesn’t think he was flying long, maybe a few hours if that. “Maybe…” He doesn’t really know how long he went between feedings in his cell in the barn. He’ll–he’ll just play it safe. Round down. Make it sound less bad than it probably is. “Maybe…four days?” 

The vampire’s frown deepens, eyes going wider. “Heh?”

“Fuck,” Phil–blonde hair, bucket hat– says, and Tommy’s eyes snap up to him.

Technoblade’s voice goes up an octave. “I meant–what do you mean you got fed four days ago? When was the last time you got blood?” 

Tommy just blinks, his brow furrowing deeper. Are they fucking with him? “I–That was the last time I got blood, big man.” And then, because Tommy doesn’t know when to shut his mouth he says, “Wow, I knew vampires were old but I didn’t think you’d be going senile.” 

A part of him whispers that he shouldn’t be antagonizing the fucking tank of a vampire sitting in front of him, but that part died when he woke up cuddling with the man’s hand. 

He feels the rush of adrenaline anyway. 

But instead of being mad, Technoblade whines a high distressed noise, and his gaze darts over to Phil, who’s still leaning on the counter. Really, the sound is something that doesn’t fit him. It’s like watching one of those videos where they give a cat a deep human voice. It’s just wrong. 

Phil clears his throat. “I think what Techno was trying to ask was when was the last time you got human food?” 

Okay, yeah they’re definitely fucking with Tommy. Vampires definitely don’t need human food. Even if Dream hadn’t told him that, that’s something everyone knows. 

He almost laughs, mouth twisting into a smile while his eyebrows stay furrowed. “Um when I was fucking human?” 

The silence that follows is almost crushing. Tommy fights the urge to cower away from their shocked expressions. 

“What?” he glares.

Wilbur is the one who breaks the silence, voice clipped and tense. “And how long ago was that?”

Tommy turns his glare to him. Why the fuck is this relevant? He’s sure he’s already overstayed his welcome. He crashed through their window, he messed up Wilbur’s desk. Fuck. Technoblade let him drink his blood. He owes them. 

He swallows. This conversation keeps derailing from how he expected it would go. There’s far less yelling on their part and far more concern that he’s not prepared for.

“I don’t know, a few months ago?” He says because it was , and he’s too deep into this topic to lie without getting caught . Then he mumbles, “Kind of hard to tell from my cell, though.”

The room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

The expected reaction almost settles him except for how every single other person in the room freezes. 

His eyes stay fixed on the sofa again, locked on it like if he doesn’t look at anyone else, then they can’t hurt him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Phil’s hands go to his face, and, yeah, okay Tommy can kind of see why that one got that reaction. At least he’s not entirely lost in this conversation.

It almost makes him want to laugh–of course this would be the one piece of information that they react normally to. 

He almost wishes it wasn’t. 

“Sunshine, how is it that every single sentence that comes out of your mouth is more concerning than the last?” Wilbur asks, voice shaking from his spot beside Tommy on the couch. 

Tommy blinks a few times, moving his hands so he’s sitting with them trapped between his legs and the couch. He shrugs, a small, unhappy grin crossing his face. “I have a talent.” 

Techno snorts a laugh from his chair. 

Tommy’s eyes snap up from the couch. 

“Techno!” Wilbur shouts.

“What? The kid’s funny.”

“That’s really not the point! He just said he’s been locked up in a cell the entire time he’s been a vampire!”

Techno shrugs. “Trauma makes people funnier.” 

Tommy’s grin widens, skirting the border of panic and relief. His voice shakes when he says, “I think you’re just jealous you’re not as funny.”

“What? No,” he whirls on Techno, finger pointed. “Don’t encourage him.” 

“Or what? You’ll bite me? Little late for that one, Wil. I’m a vampire. Don’t think your bites’ gonna do much.” 

Wilbur’s mouth falls open, face contorted with indignation. 

Tommy leans back, ready to watch them verbally (or maybe actually?) tear into each other.

“Boys!” Phil beats them to it.

Wilbur whines. “But Dad, Techno–”

“No. Shut.” Phil points a finger. 

“Yeah Wil–” 

“You too. Shut.” 

Techno’s mouth falls shut. 

Phil straightens out from leaning on the counter, and Tommy’s smile drops, relief suddenly overshadowed by anxiety. 

“Ok here’s what’s going to happen,” His hands pat the granite countertop like a judge"s gavel. Tommy shrinks back, not ready for his verdict. Can’t they just go back to when Wilbur and Technoblade were going to kill each other? That seemed better than whatever Phil is going to say. 

“I’m going to make you something to eat,” Tommy opens his mouth to object, “--and yes even vampires need human food sometimes.” Tommy closes his mouth, shrinking into himself. “And then Techno is going to give you some blood.” 

Tommy’s gaze whips to Techno who nods when he realizes that Tommy is looking. 

“And Wilbur is going to make up the guest bed and figure out who the fuck turned you and give their information to the proper authorities so that this never happens again. Does that sound good to you?” 

Tommy jolts, perking up, his head shooting up past how his shoulders were shielding his ears. “What?” 

“Is that alright, mate?” Phil asks again, voice still steady, almost earnest. “At the very least, I’d like to get some food and blood into you. We can always talk about your sire later. I don’t suppose there’s anyone I can call for you?” 

“No–no one. I–” there’s no one who would pick up. He knows Tubbo’s number, but it’s not like they’ve spoken recently. But– ”Wait–” The words get caught in his throat. Later? What? Tommy was planning on taking off as soon as he could. He doesn’t even know these people despite the fact that they’ve done more for him than anyone has since even before he was kidnapped and turned into a vampire against his will. 

The foster system can be unforgiving, especially for kids like Tommy. 

Phil stays quiet, watching Tommy like he’s waiting for him to continue. 

For a moment, Tommy can only gape. Then, he scrambles, looking to find his words. Dream always got mad when he had trouble talking, and these people don’t seem to be like Dream, but he’s not about to truly test their limits any more than he already has.

They’ve tolerated him so far, banter and all.  

“You’re,” he stutters, and Phil nods. “Why are you asking me?”

Dream never asked his opinion on things, and when he did, it was usually a trap. 

This doesn’t feel like a trap. 

Traps rarely do. 

But Phil is still smiling, even as his eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Because, mate, you deserve to have a say in your own shit. So? Food? Blood?”

“I–” Tommy stutters, the words lost on his tongue. “Sure?” he says because that seems like the answer that Phil wants. 

“Okay,” Phil nods and turns into the kitchen where he starts to fumble through the cupboards. “Which would you like first?”

 He’s still reeling from the fact that he gets any of either at all. Where’s the catch? Why are they offering this? 

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s alright, mate. You have nothing to apologize for. Now–”

“No,” Tommy cringes. He didn’t mean to interrupt, but Phil stopped talking and is now looking at him from across the counter with a look that says ‘go on’. 

“I mean,” he licks his lips. His tongue is still mostly dry. “Why aren’t you kicking me out of your house? Why are you helping? I mean I kind of broke in, and yeah it was an accident but–” he gestures helplessly. What aren’t they seeing? Is he missing something? 

“We’re not kicking you out, kid,” Techno says, and Tommy almost jumps, having half-forgotten that he’s still sitting there. 

“We’re not about to kick out some random kid, even if you did scatter my music all over the floor,” Wilbur adds, with a gentle smile that Tommy doesn’t fully understand.

“But why?” He just wants it to make sense. He’s been nothing but a bother since he’s shown up. They definitely didn’t sign up to deal with a crash-landed vampire, much less one as new and as troublesome as Tommy.

No one’s wanted to help him like this before.

Dream certainly didn’t. 

Phil only smiles, soft and sad, and says, “You need help, and that’s something we can provide.” A pause, then, “You deserve to be helped, Tommy,”

He says it like it’s so easy. Like that in and of itself is a good enough explanation. 

Tommy short-circuits. “Oh.” 

His breath catches in his throat. It’s a familiar feeling, one so distinctly human that he’s almost surprised to hear it except for how his breath would stutter for hours at a time the first few days after he was changed, panic swirling in his gut. 

Eventually, he’d stopped, panic still sitting in his throat, breath steady. It was around the time  when he realized that no one was coming to save him, that Dream wasn’t going to let him go, and when Dream finally did show up to feed him, he’d get his hopes up all over again, and it would start all over again. 

He sniffs. 

He’s vaguely aware that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he blinks furiously to keep them at bay, and when that doesn’t work, he swipes a hand across his face. 

How has no one ever wanted to help him before?

His breath stutters, quiet, barely-there sound he doesn"t mean to make. 

“Kid–” Techno starts from across the room. 

“Oh–” weight shifts on the couch behind him, shifting closer. “Sunshine. Can I hug you? Can I hug you, Tommy? Please?”

And normally Tommy would say no. He barely knows these people, and even if he did, he’s a big man. He doesn’t really need things like hugs, but today has been a lot. The last few months have been a lot. 

Maybe this whole life has been a lot. 

He sniffles and nods, and then Wilbur’s warm arms wrap around him, trapping him gently against a warm chest, far warmer than he’s used to.

A gentle hand combs through his hair, and he turns, not quite ready to push his head into his shoulder, but hiding his face from the rest of the room. 

This is stupid. He’s stupid. He shouldn’t be crying, whining baby-vampire noises in an almost-stranger’s arms, even if he did save him from the brink of starvation. Even if they’re offering to do it again. 

A gentle hand cards through his hair, tugging gently at tangles and whispering gently. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright now,” rocking back and forth, a steady rhythm.

Tommy stays there, leeching comfort and warmth, for as long as it takes for his breath to stop stuttering, for as long as it takes for his eyes to run dry, for as long as it takes for his noises to settle, fade into silence. Then, he stays there for a moment longer, face burning, embarrassed and not quite ready to face the room. 

He takes a deep breath. He can’t stay here forever, even if Wilbur has made no move to force him to let go. 

He pushes back from Wilbur, gently turning away from his grip. Wilbur hesitates for a moment but releases him without complaint, quietly retreating to his side of the sofa. 

Eyes trained downward, he whispers a muted, “thanks.”

He doesn’t look up to see if Wilbur responds, instead turning to face the rest of the room, to face their judging stares. 

Tommy nods and glances up. 

No one is looking at him.

Phil and Techno are in the kitchen, pulling down ingredients and looking down at a lit stove and a small pot. 

For a moment, Tommy feels lost again, like he’s drowning. Where are the harsh stares? The gazes of people he needs to defend himself against? He’s used to laughter from foster siblings or people at school. He’s used to Dream’s mocking derision. 

His breath stutters again before he can stop himself, his breath beginning to hiccup–

A steady hand finds his shoulder, Wilbur still behind him.

Tommy’s eyes trace his arm back to his face. Wilbur nods, squeezes his shoulder, and then stands, making his way around the island and into the kitchen. 

“What are we making?” He asks, strutting right up to the worn steel pot and reaching to dip the spoon into whatever’s cooking there. 

“ You’re not making anything,” Techno stops him before the spoon can make it past the lip of the pot. “Phil and I are making soup.” 

Wilbur pouts. “I’m a good cook.” 

“Tell that to the grilled cheese I had to pull out the fire extinguisher for,” Techno retorts. 

“That was one time.”

Phil snorts. “Face it, mate. You can’t be the one cooking if we want what we’re making to be edible.” 

Wilbur sniffs. “Well I thought the grilled cheese tasted fine.” 

Techno makes a noise, almost a whine, high and pained. “It crunched . It was charcoal.” 

“Adds to the experience,” Wilbur waves his hand like that should be obvious. “Tommy, you get it, don’t you?”

Tommy blinks a few times. He’s still sitting on the couch. He was not expecting to be drawn into the conversation. “What?” 

“Crunchy grilled cheese,” Techno supplies, nose pinched between his fingers. 

Tommy glances between them. Eyes still slightly red, a shit-eating grin spreads over his face. “Well, I mean, I personally feel like grilled cheese needs a little added ‘something’.” 

Techno’s face contorts more, and Wilbur laughs , high and joyful. “Finally someone who shares my culinary sensibilities.” 

“Remind me to never let either of you into the kitchen,” Techno drawls, somehow both monotone and pained at the same time. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that potatoes taste better raw.” 

Tommy barely hesitates. “Well–”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before Wilbur is spitting out another cackling laugh.

“No,” Techno points at Tommy, and Tommy can’t keep his poker face any more. He starts laughing, too, tears welling in the corners of his eyes for a totally different reason than a few minutes ago. Techno turns back to Wilbur, still pointing. “No.”

Wilbur only laughs harder, wiping the corners of his eyes with a sigh.

“Sorry to interrupt your food-atrocities, Wil but, soup’s done,” Phil pipes up. “Would you mind getting a bowl?” 

“Only one?” Wilbur asks, sounding half surprised. 

“This one’s for Tommy. If you want some, you can get it yourself.”

Wilbur reaches over Phil’s head, tall bastard, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two blue ceramic bowls. “But Dad, you know I can’t cook.” 

“Oh, now you can’t cook, you little shit. Where was that a minute ago?” Phil rolls his eyes, reaching to take one of the bowls. He reaches into the pot and emerges with a ladle he uses to spoon soup into the bowl. 

Tommy watches as he reaches into a drawer, pulls out a spoon with a clank of metal on metal and rounds the counter so he can hand it to Tommy.

Bowl outstretched, he says, “Well it’s not burnt, mate, but I hope it’s good anyway.” 

Tommy blinks, and then huffs out a laugh again, accepting the bowl from Phil’s hands with a small, “Thanks.”

He stares down at it. It’s some type of broth, probably chicken if the smell is anything to go by, and not much else. There are few veggies and a few noodles that float, lonely in the soup. 

It’s more food than he’s seen since he was kidnapped.

Dream starved him for a week before turning him. He’d waited until he was shaky and sick, begging for some morsel of food.

He was still starving after he was turned, too. 

“Sorry there’s not much in there,” Phil says, back in the kitchen, snapping him from his contemplation of the broth. “I thought we should get you started on food slowly since it’s been a while. We can see how that sits, and if you’re still hungry, we’ll get you more.” 

Tommy nods, wide-eyed, then turns back to the broth, plucking the spoon from where it was leaning on the wall of the bowl. 

A spoon has never felt so foreign between his fingers as this one does, but then, that makes sense given how long it’s been since he’s used one. 

Slowly, he lowers it into the bowl and glances back up at Phil who’s watching him with a patient smile. He nods, and slowly, just as slowly as he dipped the spoon, he brings the broth to his mouth. 

Hunger roars to life in his stomach as soon as the flavor hits his tongue. He rushes, spoon clattering against the bowl to get more. Who knows the next time he’ll get something this good?

A hand falls, heavy on his shoulder.

Tommy flinches, the spoon clattering into the half-full bowl with a splash, as his gaze jumps up to Techno who’s standing beside the sofa. 

“Slow down there, kid,” he rumbles, and the sound vibrates through Tommy’s shoulder and into his core. Hesitantly, he lets his shoulders relax, fairly certain he’s not about to be hit, at least. “You don’t want to experience the soup a second time around.”

Tommy nods, and Techno removes his hand, opting to walk around the front of the couch and to sit on the other cushion. His hands fall behind his head, a deep sigh audible from Tommy’s careful perch on the edge. 

He contemplates yelling, telling Techno to move. He wants to say he feels crowded, even with Wilbur sitting on the chair across the room and Phil still standing in the kitchen.

He almost does, opening his mouth, the words sharp on his tongue, but they die before he can get them out. It’s just.

This is Techno’s home. Or at least the home of his friends. So far, Techno’s been nothing but kind to him. He fed him–it’s a kindness far greater than anything Dream ever showed him. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Techno opens his eyes, making eye contact. 

The hand on his shoulder was gentle. It didn’t even make his bruises hurt. 

“You should eat,” Techno says, and Tommy jumps again, turning to go back to the bowl he’s cradling in his lap.

It’s not bad soup. It’s warm and salty and savory, and it sits in his stomach like a stone.

He sets the spoon down when there’s still about a fourth of the bowl left. 

“Had enough?” Phil pokes his head up from his own serving of soup at the counter. 

Tommy nods. “Yeah, sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” the bowl is pulled gently from his hands. Tommy lets it go without resistance. “Did you want to get some blood right now? Or did you want to wait a bit?” 

Tommy almost says that he wants to get blood right now, except for how his stomach is already cramping at the idea of him putting anything else in it. If he eats anything else right now, he might actually puke, and then he’d be right back at square one. “Can we wait?” 

“Of course. I’m sure Techno won’t mind.” 

Tommy glances over, half-expecting to see Techno reacting in some way to what Phil said. Shaking his head, nodding like he did earlier. Instead, he’s just leaning back on the back of the sofa, hands pillowing behind his head. 

He almost looks like he’s sleeping except for how his eye slits open, and glances to the side, meeting Tommy’s nervous stare. He nods, a small jerk of the head. 

“Oh.” He fully expected Techno to take back his offer. Dream would do that sometimes when he said he wasn’t being good enough. He’d offer blood and then decide that, actually, Tommy didn’t deserve it. 

How many times can Tommy’s world get flipped on its head in a day? He should start trying to keep track. 

“Now, mate,” Tommy’s attention jerks back to Phil, and he knows he’s coming off as jumpy. That used to bother Dream, too. “You don’t have to tell us what happened right now, but we should at least talk about next steps from here.” 

“It’s nothing bad,” Wilbur speaks up from his spot on the chair, leaning forward. “We just want to ask your opinion. Nothing’s going to happen if you don’t want it to.” 

Slowly, Tommy nods. He doesn’t quite trust this, the easy kindness, the food, the offer of blood later, but he wants to. 

So far, they’ve done nothing but help him, even after how he showed up in the first place. They have no reason to get on his good side, to try to trick him. This isn’t a foster home. They’re not getting money from having him at their house. 

He isn’t kidnapped again, as weird as this whole situation is. 

He lets his gaze drift back to Phil who waits until he has his attention to keep talking. “Now, it sounds like you don’t have a place to stay right now, is that right, mate?” 

Does Tommy have a place to stay? 

Obviously, his cell is out of the question. Being locked in a barn for months on end is–was–bad. He’s free from that now, thank Fuck, and judging by these three’s reaction to finding out he was in a cell, he’s willing to bet that they think the same thing.

Thank Fuck. 

Outside of the cell, though. He’s not really sure. The house he stayed at before is probably not going to want him back. As far as they know, they probably think he’s a runaway. 

“I mean I can always go back to the foster system,” he says. “They’ll probably take me back.” He’s only 16. His birthday passed sometime when he was locked up. It’s odd to find vampires or just about any magical person in foster care, but it’s not entirely unheard of. 

The bar is low, but at least it’s somewhere to go. Legally, he’s pretty sure they have to take him in, vampire or not. 

Except Phil is frowning. “Is that what you want? It might be hard to find a vampire to feed you in the system. Most vampires don’t get turned until they’re adults. You won’t be able to have human blood–or any other non-vampire blood–for at least another few years while you finish turning, and blood banks don’t usually have vampire blood.” 

Wilbur chimes in. “That’s why you can’t have Dad’s or my blood. Werewolf blood is bad for you, even though we’re magic, too. That’s why we had to call Techno in.” 

Tommy blinks a few times, “You’re werewolves?” 

Phil nods. “And you and Techno are vampires, but that’s a little beside the point, mate. Do you know anyone you could stay with for a while to make sure you don’t starve?”  

Tommy just blinks a few more times, filing that information away for later when he has the brainpower to process it. He’s still reeling a little from the everything else going on . Two of the people he"s talking to being werewolves ranks pretty low. “Well I mean, I don’t exactly know that many vampires, big man,” He glances at Techno who’s still leaning back on the sofa. “He’s the first one I’ve met that hasn’t been a massive dick.” 

Techno grunts acknowledgement. 

Wilbur and Phil exchange a look. Wilbur turns to him first, “You’ve never met another vampire?” 

“I mean. I’ve heard of a few? I think one of my teachers a few years ago was one? Met a few werewolves here and there, maybe a merling once?”

“He was human until just a few months ago,” Techno’s head tilts up from where he was resting. “That’s not exactly surprising. Supernaturals are pretty insular.” 

Phil sighs his agreement. “Sure, I just–” 

“Sorry, but why are we even still having this conversation?” Tommy interrupts. “Just drop me off at the nearest police station, and they’ll figure it out or something.” 

Nevermind that he actually despises the idea of going to a police station, but he can’t remember his social worker’s number and he doesn’t know how far he is from L’manberg in the first place. 

“We’re not dropping you off at the police ,” Wilbur’s shouts, high and offended. 

“Wil,” Phil says, almost scolding.

“What it’s true! The police don’t know how to handle supernaturals, much less a fledgling vampire–”

“Wil!” Phil interrupts. Wilbur falls quiet, grumbling. 

Phil turns to Tommy. “I’m not exactly comfortable putting you in a position where you might not be able to get blood, Tommy. From the sound of it, you aren’t getting enough as it is.”

“As a fledgling, you need blood two or three times a day,” Techno grunts, pushing himself so he’s sitting upright instead of leaning back. “Do you think you’re going to get that in foster care?”

Tommy doesn’t bother answering that. He knows the answer already, and he gets the feeling they do too. “So what? Are you just going to keep me here?” 

“Not if you don’t want to,” Phil says. “You’re not a prisoner. We have some friends who might be able to take you on if you don’t want to stay here. Tech, do you think that Skeppy’s coven would–”

“I’m not letting Skeppy take care of a fledgling.” 

“I’m not saying Skeppy would be the one taking care of him, but do you think his coven would–”

“No.” 

Phil sighs. “Right, well,” he turns back to Tommy. “We can figure something out.”

“Niki might know someone,” Wilbur adds. 

“That might work. Isn’t she dating a vampire right now?” 

“Yeah, Puffy, I think.”

“Do you think maybe she would be interested in–”

Tommy glances away, the beginnings of panic brewing in his gut. They’re just discussing his future like he’s not right here. He doesn’t know these people, and he’s not entirely sure this isn’t a trap. He’s only now starting to think that maybe Phil and Wilbur and Techno are just genuinely kind people, but even then, he could be wrong. 

He could be so wrong. 

Months of cold nights, trying to bury himself under thin piles of straw and nothing else prove that. 

Years of packing up the same red backpack, being shuffled from house to house because no foster family could ever learn to love him enough to keep him around proves that. He doesn’t even have the backpack anymore.

He doesn’t know what these people could possibly want from him. All he knows is that he’s been assured of his safety far more times than he’s actually been safe. 

Even before Dream kidnapped him, he looked over his shoulder in distrust, waiting for someone to snap at him for something he can’t anticipate. 

At least the foster system is the devil he knows.

These people won’t take him back to the foster system. Or at least they don’t want to. Maybe they will if he pushes the issue.

He isn’t really sure that he wants to go back to the system. He’d always dreamed of emancipation or just waiting out the system until he can legally be in charge of himself. 

Relying on someone else isn’t really independence, but it might be better than being shuffled from house to house. 

Still, Tommy doesn’t know how to handle this kindness. He doesn’t know how to trust that it won’t turn into darkening bruises and days starving, locked away where no one can hear him. 

The beginnings of a–some type of noise, something scared–bubbles in his throat. He swallows it down. They can’t know he’s scared. 

If they find out he’s scared, all this might go away. 

A hand falls on his shoulder, and Tommy’s attention snaps away from Phil and Wilbur’s discussion with a jump, back up to the vampire beside him.

“You doin’ alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Tommy manages, his voice choked.

“It’s alright if you’re not. We’re dropping a lot on you right now, kid. Gods know I would be overwhelmed.” 

Overwhelmed. Ha. That’s one word for feeling like your entire world has been put in a blender. 

He sniffles, blinking hard.

“Oh kid,” Techno says, his voice a rolling rumble. “Come ‘ere.” A request, not a demand. 

Tommy looks up at Techno, looking for any type of anger or malice. There is none. Only furrowed eyebrows and gentle concern. 

Slowly, Tommy leans toward Techno, cool hands stabilizing him against Techno’s side, arm wrapped around his shoulder. It’s a hug, but it"s not restrictive. Steady and protective, but not pinning him. Tommy can still move. 

Tommy breathes, the air coming out shaky, and this time, he’s answered by a hum that has him leaning further into Techno’s side, relishing the contact. 

Techno adjusts him, moving him so he is tucked closer to Techno"s side. Techno is warmer than room temperature, but not by much–it"s nothing like Wilbur"s burning hug. It"s nice. Tommy doesn’t protest. 

Here, he can feel the lukewarm heat in his bones. Techno’s arm tightens around him, and Tommy’s eyes drift shut. He feels safe, here in the embrace of a vampire–in a non-quite stranger’s house. 

There’s a part of him that wouldn’t mind if this kindness is a lie as long as he can have this right now. 

“We don’t have to figure out where you’re staying right now, kid,” Techno says. “It can wait as long as you need to figure it out.” 

Tommy nods, sluggish against Techno’s chest. He has time. They"re not forcing him to choose right now. 

That. That helps. His eyes open, glancing back up at the vampire holding him. 

Red eyes blink down at him, still gentle, still kind for all that this man looks like he could snap Tommy in half. 

Tommy’s tired. Not just in the sleep kind of way, although he can feel his eyelids starting to get heavy. Just. In general. 

He knows he’s going to have to worry about where he’s going to stay in a bit. He’s not sure if he’s going to argue for going back to foster care or staying here or going to another house, but–

It’s nice that he gets a choice, even if it’s all a bit much right now. 

“Okay,” he says, whispers. 

Techno’s arm shifts around his side, pulling him into a more comfortable position. His eyes drift shut. 

“That’s it. You can sleep if you want.” A deep voice rumbles beside him, the sound the only thing real against the conversation behind it–two voices blending into background noise. 

The room goes silent for a moment. 

“Is…” a voice, Wilbur, Tommy realizes vaguely, “is–did he fall asleep?” 

Tommy pries his eyes open, and finds the man staring from his place on the chair, sitting leaning forward, like he can get close enough to tell. “Mm-nope.”

“Oh, looks like you woke him up,” Phil says from the kitchen, the smile audible in his tone, even if Tommy can’t quite turn his head to see him past Techno’s shoulder. 

“Good–” Techno says. “He still needs blood.” 

Tommy glances back at Techno. Blood? They were serious about that? He knows they said he would get some earlier, but somehow, he didn’t expect them to enforce it, and Tommy wasn’t about to ask.

“What about it?” Phil asks, and when Tommy strains to see him, Techno shifts so he’s in their line of vision again. “Are you ready for some blood, or are you still too full?” 

Tommy pauses, taking stock. He can still feel the broth in his stomach, but it’s not painful anymore. He could–he could eat. If they really do want to give him blood.  

“Mate?” Phil prompts when Tommy doesn’t reply. 

Tommy starts. “Oh, uh.” He glances past his shoulder at Technoblade. “I could–if you–” he swallows. The room stays quiet, patient. “Yes, please.” 

Techno says beside him, and Tommy feels tension drop that he didn’t even realize he was carrying in his shoulders. He doesn’t know why it helps, but it’s not something he wants to figure out right now.

He’s not ready to sit down and contemplate anything new today.

Maybe later, when he’s ready for the next big breakdown. For now, he’s had enough for the day. The question goes on the backburner. There are a lot of questions back there. He puts that concern on the backburner, too. 

He just wants to feel the calm that comes with being fed, with being here.

“Alright, are your fangs ready to bite yet, kid?” Techno asks, and Tommy feels his voice more than he hears it, resting on Techno’s side.

“What?”

“Can your fangs pierce skin yet, or do I need to bite my arm for you?” 

He–he doesn’t know. He was never allowed to bite Dream. Does that mean he won’t get any blood? Does he need to bite Technoblade? He opens his mouth to respond and nothing comes out. 

This confusion must show because a few moments of silence pass, and then Wilbur is standing up and walking across the room, squatting in front of Tommy and Techno. “Here, show me your teeth?” 

Tommy watches him, half-expecting an aggressive hand to reach to his face and force his mouth open. His eyes close against it. 

No hand comes. He opens his eyes, and, oh, Wilbur is still squatting in front of him, patient. 

Slowly, Tommy pulls back his upper lip, hoping that’s what Wilbur wants. 

Wilbur leans forward without reaching. “Open your mouth a little more for me, sunshine?” 

Tommy opens his mouth. 

“Mmm,” Wilbur hums. “They’re definitely longer than a human’s.” He hums again. “I don’t know. Tech, what do you think? He probably could.” 

Techno shifts underneath Tommy as he leans to the side glancing around Tommy’s face. A moment passes, then he grunts. “Not fully grown, but if you want, you probably could bite.” 

“I–” Tommy stutters, the words getting caught in his throat. Are they asking him to choose? Is there a right answer here? What does he want? 

He runs his tongue over his teeth. The slight curve of his fangs still feels weird, even after a few months. They’ll probably feel even weirder when they’re fully grown. 

“It’s whatever you want. No right or wrong answer. I won’t be mad either way,” Techno says, and Tommy sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling sharply. 

“Um. I–could you?” Tommy asks, half-cringing, expecting a rejection.

Instead, Techno only nods, and says. “Alright. You ready?” 

Tommy nods. He’s ready. He’s thirsty. He hopes he doesn’t get any blood on their weird white and blue striped couch. 

Tommy tilts with Techno when Techno pulls his wrist to his mouth and pulls it away with a cut. 

The smell is rich, strong. Tommy’s leaning toward it before he even realizes he’s moved. He shudders when he realizes what he’s done. Dream always made him wait. 

Techno only chuckles. “Drink. You need it.” 

Tommy doesn’t need a second invitation. He surges forward, and presses his fangs against the cut until all he can taste is mouthful after mouthful of good-rich-food . A hunger he wasn’t aware of roars to life in his stomach at the taste. 

A soft, content feeling grows in his chest that Techno matches, deep and relaxing, and he drinks until he’s warm and satisfied.

Cool body pressed against his side, his eyes droop while he drinks until his fangs unlatch from the arm, pulling away without his input. 

A thumbs rubs circles into his shoulder, gentle and steady, and he leans back against the sofa, content for once. It"s a foreign feeling. 

Techno is steady. He doesn’t push Tommy away, even after he stops feeding. He just lingers, a steady, quiet presence that loosens the muscles Tommy clenches in his jaw and sends him reeling into a light, soft headspace he can’t bring himself to pull himself out of. 

For the first time in a long time, he feels safe. 

“Hey, mate,” a quiet voice close to him whispers, and his eyes crack open, leaden and already falling shut again. He blinks, slow as molasses and glances at the man beside him, blonde hair–Phil. “Before you go back to sleep, do you want Wil to make up your room now or do you just want to crash here?” 

“‘ere’s good.” He slurs. The words blend together, his tongue putty in his mouth. He can figure out the rest in the morning or whenever he wakes up. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to start taking up space here, ready to commit, but he is ready to go to sleep. 

He’s ready to sleep as a person for the first time in days. 

There’s a lot for him to figure out later, but these people are kind–have been kind so far. Maybe, just for now, he can rest and let himself recover. 

His eyes are drifting shut before he can decide otherwise. 

The last thing he remembers is something soft and heavy being draped over him as he drifts off to sleep.