Chapter Text
The sun had since dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark cooling shadows across the quiet streets. A soft, muted light flickered in from the streetlamps as Puffy and Tommy stood in front of a cozy-looking house that looked almost too nice for someone like Tommy to live in.
Tommy had never been in a house like this before. Not like the dark, cramped places Dream had kept him in. The door in front of him felt too solid, too permanent for his liking. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot, wings half-tucked against his back, though they itched to unfold, to stretch. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not with strangers.
Puffy, standing next to the phoenix, was chatting animatedly; partially with her hands, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He couldn’t focus on anything except the way his heart was pounding in his chest, thudding against his ribs with a speed that made his head dizzy. He was tense, his body coiled like a too tight spring, ready to either bolt, freeze, or fawn. He had to fight the urge to press his back to the door and escape— run, hide, get away.
“Tommy,” Puffy’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned toward her. “You’re gonna be alright here. I promise.” There was a reassuring smile on her face, but it only made Tommy’s stomach churn worse. He wished Dream was here, the thought of the spider hybrid brought a small amount of comfort to his nauseous mind.
She knocked on the door, and Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a broad-shouldered man with messy blonde hair and wings that looked too big for his frame—at least to Tommy’s wary eyes. The man gave a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, more serious.
“Puffy, you’re here!” The man’s voice was deep, with a warmth that was almost too much for Tommy to handle. “Come on in. We’ve been expecting you.” He stepped aside, ushering them into the house.
Tommy hesitated, unsure if he should even move. He could feel the man's eyes on him, trying to read him silently, trying to understand the hybrid. He couldn't bear it, the pressure of someone looking at him like that. He shifted his weight again, barely catching the man’s next words.
“Philza Craft,” he said, extending a hand, but Tommy stiffened at the gesture. It was too much. His wings curled tighter, instinctively, and his feet remained rooted to the floor. Dream had always told him that contact with other Avian's was dangerous considering they were territorial, and even now, in a strange, new place, that warning clung to him like a shadow.
Puffy noticed his hesitation and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Tommy,” she said softly. “He’s not going to hurt you. Philza’s good.”
Tommy flicked a glance at Philza’s hand but refused to take it. Instead, he nodded stiffly. “I’m... Tom...Tommy,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. Dream would have scolded Tommy, he had always wanted better responses.
However, Philza’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened even more, but Tommy didn’t see it. He was too busy trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. He could tell that Philza was used to being in charge, a leader of sorts, the kind of person that people naturally gravitated toward, the father figure. But Tommy couldn’t trust that—not yet.
“Well then mate,” Philza said, his voice practically bubbling with enthusiasm. “Come on, let’s get you settled in. You must be exhausted from the journey. Come on in, Wilbur — show Tommy to his room, please?”
Tommy flinched, instinctively pulling away as another figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The second man was tall and had dark, messy hair like Philza’s, but there was something different about him—something that made Tommy feel like maybe he was more approachable. He was wearing a worn t-shirt with a band logo Tommy didn’t recognize, a red beanie which smothered his dark hair, and dark jeans that didn’t seem to fit quite right.
Wilbur, as Philza had called him, offered a half-hearted smile. “You can show him around, can’t you?” Philza asked, his voice almost too eager.
“Sure, no problem,” Wilbur replied with a shrug, his voice lighter and more casual. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s go check out your new room.”
Tommy was quiet as he followed Wilbur upstairs, his heart thumping evermore in his chest. It wasn’t that he was purposefully being rude, Dream had taught him otherwise, but Tom couldn’t help it. Being around people — especially other hybrids made him nervous. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the walls and become invisible like a Phantom.
Wilbur’s voice broke through the silence. “So, this is your room,” he said, gesturing to a small, tidy guest bedroom at the end of the hallway. “This is your space for as long as you need it, Tom.”
Tommy stared at the room, unable to process it at first. It didn’t look like very much — the room had a small bed with blue sheets pressed against a wall, a large window that let in just enough light for him to see the dust motes dancing in the air. An empty bookcase sat beside a desk, and a closet took up most of the last wall, empty except for a few clothing hangers. The room felt too open, too... comfortable, to...nerve wracking.
He blinked rapidly for a moment, not sure if he should be excited or terrified right then. “It’s... it’s nice...” he mumbled, still not entirely convinced that this was all for him. He wanted to feel relief, to feel something, but all he could focus on was how unfamiliar everything was. The bed, the desk, the empty closet, the air.
"You can hang up some stuff later when Dadza takes ya' shopping," Wilbur said, patting him gently on the shoulder, though Tommy flinched at the contact. "It’ll be fine. You’ll get used to it.”
Wilbur left him alone in the room then, and Tommy stood there for a long while, not sure what to do. The bed was too soft. Too... permanent. He had never slept in a bed like this before. Dream had never given him something like this. He always had been told to sleep on the floor, his wings bound tight to his back, caged from the moment he could remember his own name.
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Downstairs, the smell of baking potatoes hit Tommy’s nose, making his stomach growl. His first dinner with the Crafts, this would be an experience. He really wasn’t sure what to expect. A part of him wanted to skip it — skip the whole damn evening, really — but... another part of Tommy was too hungry, too curious about how these people were going to treat him now that he was here.
Philza greeted him when he entered the dining room, and Tommy instinctively ducked his head, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. The table was full of food — more food than Tommy had ever seen in one place. There were stacks of mashed potatoes; which Wilbur's brother Techno said he had made, roasted vegetables, and what looked like a perfectly cooked roast chicken. His mouth watered, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch anything.
“Sit, Tommy,” Philza said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “Don’t be shy!”
Tommy instantly obeyed, his wings tucked tightly behind him as he sat down in the chair. He glanced at the plate in front of him, his eyes widening at the assortment of food Philza had put onto there. He wasn’t used to this much. Dream never gave him this much, said Tommy could survive with less, and Tommy couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the thought of it. Should he really eat it all? Should he ask for less, maybe? Would they think he was greedy if he kept it?
The silence at the table was quite thick and uncomfortable for the Phoenix, with only the sound of utensils clinking and the occasional murmur of approval from Wilbur, Techno, or Philza as they took bites of their food. Tommy kept his eyes down, focused on the plate in front of him, unsure of what to do. He had never had dinner with anyone like this before — people who didn’t demand something from him the moment he tried to eat.
“Eat up,” Philza encouraged, and Tommy finally picked up his fork. He was careful to take small, measured bites, not wanting to seem too eager, but the food was so good—so much better than the scraps he was used to.
After the meal, Philza went over the rules of the house. They were simple and reasonable, the kind of rules a person could expect in any normal home. No leaving the house without telling anyone, no messing around with the other kids, and—perhaps most importantly—everyone had to contribute to the chores around the house. It was a fair system. Philza was even going to help with some of them.
“Alright, Tommy,” Philza said, his voice suddenly serious. “You’ve got chores, but don’t worry. I’ll be there to help. This isn’t about making you work all the time. It’s just about keeping things running smoothly.”
Tommy’s mind was absolutely reeling as he processed the words, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he tried to remember everything. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what Philza was saying—it was that he couldn’t believe it. Was this really happening? He was actually being treated like a person here, not a tool, not a servant.
Tommy sat quietly after the meal, waiting for Philza to tell him he could leave. That was how it always worked with Dream—wait until you’re dismissed. Tommy had no idea how to navigate this, how to act like he wasn’t still the frightened little creature Dream had raised.
Philza, noticing the hesitation, furrowed his brow. “You can go whenever you’re ready, Tommy. No rush.”
Tommy blinked, confused. “I—I don’t have to wait for you to say it’s okay, sir?” He felt strange asking the question, but he had to know.
Philza chuckled softly, his tone warm. “You can call me Phil; and no, Tommy. Not here. You don’t have to ask for permission to leave the table. You’re not a prisoner.”
Tommy felt something in his chest loosen. He stood up, semi unsure of what to do next. He wasn’t quite used to this feeling — the sense that he could do something without being punished for it. Dream would have thrown him in the closet again for even thinking of excusing himself.
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Later that night, Philza took Tommy to the store. It was bright—so bright, with so many colors, so many things to look at. Tommy clung to the cart, his eyes squinting against the fluorescent lights. The whole place felt alien to him, and his nerves flared.
Philza bought him new clothes, toiletries, and a few books. Tommy didn’t know how to read well, not really. But he wouldn’t tell Philza that. Not yet.
The moment they passed by the stuffed animal aisle, Tommy’s eyes were immediately drawn to a small, scraggly-looking stuffed spider with too many legs. He hesitated, but then Philza simply picked it up and dropped it into the cart, not asking, just knowing.
Tommy didn’t protest. He didn’t ask if it was okay. Instead, he held the spider tightly in his arms once they got home, naming it “Shroud” in his head, not daring to speak the name aloud; besides- Dream never let him name things. For the fear of Tommy getting attached to things.
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At night, after everything had somewhat calmed down, Tommy sat on his bed, staring at the book in his hands. He turned the pages slowly and carefully, squinting at the unfamiliar characters inked out. He didn’t know how to read all of it, but there were a few words he recognized from back with Dream. “Big men don’t give up,” he muttered to himself, trying to remind himself that he couldn’t give up, no matter how hard it was.
But he couldn’t sleep. Not really. The bed was too soft, too unfamiliar, it hurt his brain. Tommy stripped the sheets off eventually, curling up in a corner of the room, making a small nest like he used to do. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing or the bed.
Tommy fell asleep there, his arms around his new stuffed spider, finally feeling... somewhat alright.