Archive of Our Own

Read the tags for warnings fuckheads /aff.   

Tommy’s hands always appear to be busy, one way or another.  
 
It’s something Wilbur picked up quite quickly about the boy, how his fingers are always occupied; buried in endless tasks that he commits himself to mindlessly; enjoying the activities he practically hurtles himself into with the promise of always finishing them, no matter if he grew tired or bored of the slog at hand.  
 
Right now, those hands are buried in leather, clutching the fabric in place as Tommy searches in his odd purse of trinkets for safety pins. He’s precariously perched on the armrest of Wilbur’s sofa, legs swung over each side as he looks down over his work.  
 
His eyebrows are furrowed, blue irises alight with focus as his pupils dart through a mishmash of supplies. They sort through multicoloured thread, swiping everything backwards with his index finger in a fruitless effort to find what he’s looking for. Wilbur can see the way his lips tug downwards, curling into a frown as his nose scrunches up. He doesn’t dare interrupt whatever thoughts are going through Tommy’s head, not even through stifled giggles as he watches the kids expression flicker through what looked to be all five, hell, even a sixth stage of grief before finally his fingers stopped ruffling through the bag, turning towards Wilbur with a pout.  
 
“Wil,” Tommy drags out the nickname for a gruelling amount of time, being faux-annoying by nature.  
 
Wilbur is only endeared by it, watching the way the small downy feathers behind his ears fluff up. He cocks his own head to the side in bird-like acknowledgement, a mimic of how Phil does, having spent most of his childhood around the older avian. “What’s up, Toms?” He asks, not bothering to hide the knowing grin working its way onto his expression. 
 
Tommy has been hunched over for hours, a determined grin plastered on his face when he stole Wilburs favourite coat away, with little protest from the man himself, who had been flattered Tommy wanted to add his own touch to it. He’d trailed after the boy as he’d dragged the jacket onto the couch. 
 
Tommy’s eyes narrow a tad, but he otherwise ignores the look Wilbur is giving him. “I can’t find my fucking pins, Wilbur,” he complains loudly, releasing the fabric pinched in his hands in favour of sinking into the backrest with his arms crossed, a sullen expression on his face. 
 
Wilbur laughs, warmly smiling at him. “Well, why don’t we take a break then?” He suggests, because Tommy really deserves one right now. He’s been at it for hours. 
 
The boy frowns. “Do I have to? I want to finish!” He whines, but Tommy knows he’s lost the moment Wilbur turns back to him with a sterner gaze, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Fine,” Tommy concedes with a scowl, getting up off the couch– 
 
–Or trying to, at least, tripping over his wobbly legs and falling right back into his seat with a shouted ‘Fuck!’, probably forgetting that his legs would be completely asleep with how long he’d been in that one spot. 
 
Wilbur huffs fondly, picking up his supplies to make room for himself, despite Tommy’s half-hearted protests. 
 
“I think somebody's getting cranky,” he teases lightly, flicking the boy in the arm with the biggest, smuggest grin. He watches as Tommy, very predictably bristles, head whirling fast enough to make him dizzy as he jabs a finger in Wilburs direction. 
 
“I am not,” he insists, but the grumpy expression on his face, and his reddening cheeks suggest otherwise. 
 
Wilbur doubles down immediately. “You are!” He sings, watching delightedly as Tommy goes a bright shade of tomato red. Teasing him will never get old. Ever. And Wilbur will carry that fact with him to the grave. 
 
Tommy groans, folding his arms and pulling his legs up onto the couch in crisscross applesauce fashion, shoulders rising up to his ears. “Shut up,” he mumbles, lips twitching with the urge to smile right back, because he really does enjoy their banter. 
 
He barely notices Wilburs arm snaking comfortably around him, too focused on acting as grouchy as possible in attempts to keep up the lighthearted mood, to keep Wilbur content and joking for as long as possible, because he’s scared of losing it.  
 
He sinks backward into the couch with a sigh, glaring playfully at his brother. Wilbur smiles even wider, pouring all his love into making the goofiest smile possible. 
 
And then the arm brushes his neck, falling over his shoulders, and the effect is instantaneous. It’s like a switch has been flicked in Tommy’s head, every thought that usually compels him to pull away from the embrace silenced, replaced by a déjà vu inducing voice that bounces around and forces him to do the exact opposite. He leans into it happily, ignoring his usual rules and setting them aside in hopes of just enjoying this moment. 
 
And then the voice makes him chirp, all too suddenly, and that plan is entirely thrown out the fucking window. 

//  

Tommy doesn’t move away. 
 
Wilbur’s surprised by that, eyebrows perking up an inch or two because he would be the first to admit, Tommy wasn’t too openly receptive to touch. The kid would swat hands away with a snarky comment or a quip, and then go on with whatever he was doing. 
 
It made Wilbur somewhat sad, because he was always stuck by the urge to reach out and hug the boy, always urged to drag a comforting hand through his hair and embrace him in warmth, to swaddle and cradle and carry him just like a little kid. He supposes that part of him belongs to a younger Tommy now, 
 
But Tommy was a peculiar kid, always entirely closed off and not in an unkind fashion, but more in the sense that he seems deprived of that loving warmth, the touches that Wilbur would be more than happy to supply him; the care that he deserved, because he’s a genuinely good kid. 
 
So as Wilbur drapes an arm tentatively over his shoulders in an attempt to comfort the boy, he expects that very same treatment as usual. To be swatted at and batted away with a tense withdrawal on Tommy’s end covered up by a strained smile, because it hurt the kids pride too much to let himself be loved. 
 
Which is why he’s pleasantly surprised when Tommy does the polar opposite, sinking backwards into the touch with a slump in his shoulders and a– and a– wait. 
 
“Was that a fucking chirp?!” Wilbur blurts out impulsively, eyes widening a fraction as his head whirls to gauge Tommy’s expression. 
 
A mistake, he realises as the kid jerks, a hand flying over his mouth and cheeks flushing red in embarrassment, shoulders rising and pulling away from Wilbur, completely frozen up. His face is a mixture of sheepishness and raw horror, and Wilbur devolves into gentle, hurried shushing because he didn’t mean to come off like that, and he didn’t want to scare the boy off. 
 
“Wait– Tommy, no, I didn’t mean that in a demeaning way, swear it, I just–” He babbles nonsensically, his own face flushing red, if not redder than Tommy’s own, continuing to blubber uselessly in attempts to apologise, how could he be so careless– 
 
Tommy laughs weakly, brow scrunching and lips perking up and down in pure bewilderment, resting back unconsciously into Wilburs arm with still shocked chuckles escaping him, and Wilbur deflates in relief. 
 
He didn’t ruin everything. Tommy wasn’t scared of him; he didn’t completely strip them of all the progress Wilbur had built up to try and coax Tommy out of his shell. 
 
Something curious pipes up in the back of his mind, and Wilbur is far more … careful with how he articulates his question this time.  
 
“Was it though? I’ve never heard you chirp before, Toms,” he asks, trying not to be obnoxiously happy - chirping means Tommy’s comfortable enough around him to let those primal, involuntary noises out. It means he sees Wilbur as flock; as family. (As what Wilbur sees him as already.) 
 
He gets a slight nod into his shoulder, followed by a more timid, quieter peep. Wilbur melts in adoration, and he tries to imitate a coo back in response, despite how foreign the sound was on his tongue. 
 
It earns him another, louder, braver chirp, and he looks over tentatively, only to find Tommy grinning widely up at him, pupils slightly contract but otherwise just happy. 
 
Wilbur grins right back, squeezing him slightly and pulling him closer, still completely amazed by the fact Tommy isn’t trying to stop him from doing that. In fact, it’s still quite the opposite, with Tommy ending up almost completely shuffled up against Wilbur’s side, leaning against his ribs and ducking his head under his arm. 
 
It brings a question to the forefront of his mind, a new one, because this isn’t normal for Tommy, yet the boy is acting like the affection is the most second nature thing in the world, easily pressing up against Wilbur in a way he’d only ever seen matched by Phil when he first became more than just ‘the foster kid’ to his father.  
 
“Tommy,” he says, voice saccharine-sweet. He’s still utterly terrified of sending the kid reeling again, the tone switch making his head spin and keeping him on his toes, dizzy and wary and hyper aware of his brother as he holds him. “Are you… imprinting?” He asks slowly, watching awe-filled as the boy nuzzles impossibly closer with another happy noise, arms wrapping around Wilburs waist in a hug. 
 
Oh. Oh shit, he completely was. Tommy was imprinting on him. Wilbur doesn’t think anyone could smile larger or wider than he was right now, grinning ear to ear down with a fondness that was reserved only for his brother. 
 
He lets out a second wordless coo, for the hell of it, because Tommy’s too lost in his instincts for Wilbur to care if it sounds scratchy or alien, because he’s absolutely giddied with excitement, not only because of the imprinting, but what it means. 
 
Tommy’s going to be a fully-fledged avian! All grown up, just like Phil. Wilbur thinks his wings are going to be absolutely stunning when the colours start to come through, imagining bright reds and whites streaking through them already, in the same pattern of the child's downy feathers he remembers from when they had just come through. 
 
Wait, wings. Tommy was going to have fully fleshed out wings, and Wilbur ran through every single responsibility that came with that in his head. They were gonna be large to fit such a large personality, of course, and he was prepared to be there to balance his brother. They would definitely need preening, and Wilbur would need to call Phil and Techno to help with that. 
 
Prime, he was buzzing with excitement. He was going to be there with his brother every step of the way to make sure the transition goes smoothly, and he hopes he’s enough to support the boy through the bumps in the road, because he wants to be there. 
 
He wants to be relied on; he wants to be a pillar. Wilbur is determined to fill the role as an older brother to the best of his abilities, the very best, and he knows just who to call to ensure everything goes just fine. 
 
With an avian fledgeling half out of it, lying happily against him with a pleased hum or chirrup every now and then, Wilbur decides he has a very important person to ring up. 

//  

Phil snorts at Tommy’s disgruntled expression, particularly how his brow was completely furrowed and the boy managed to somehow still look angry even with his entire body pressed into Wilburs side, fingers tangled in the older man's sweater. 
 
He notes the distinct lack of wings on the boy's back, despite how it looks like he desperately wants to coil them around Wilbur and himself, to trap them in one giant hug. The fledgeling looks too lost in his own instincts to even hear him though, almost dazed, so he instead diverts his attention to the eldest of the two, who is currently smiling down at the boy underneath his arm with a dopey grin, a lopsided turn to his lips as Phil restrains the urge to coo at them. 
 
“What’s ruffled his feathers, mate?” He half jokes, smiling at his own quip. Wilbur just shrugs, and mouths something along the lines of ‘bird-brain’ in response, like he expected that to explain why Tommy was clinging to him like a lifeline. 
 
At least the boy seems to be more in control than he was when Wilbur first called, vividly recalling hearing multiple happy ‘mrrp!’s audible in the background every once in a while. His own wings had fluffed up a bit at that, Chat trilling different variations of ‘nestling!’, ’fledgeling!’, ’chick!’ and the seemingly most accurate variation, ‘baby-bird.’  
 
Phil, truth be told, couldn’t agree more, absolutely thrilled at the sound of his son chirping, a warm, wingbeat like warmth rushes around his chest in gentle spurs, a feeling that was nothing short of fond for his boys.  
 
Tommy’s head jerks up, a glare portraying his offence even as he sinks impossibly closer to Wilbur, cheeks flushing a bright pink while he nestled further into the man's side. “Fuck you and fuck your puns, Philza,” he sneers, with no real heat behind the words. Phil watches in something akin to curiosity as his ears flick upwards, the crimson fluff behind them rustling against the movement. 
 
It’s adorable, a clear sign of Tommy’s unfleeting boyhood, and a headache as the bird in Phil’s brain demands him to scoop the ‘nestling’ up right there and then. 
 
Tommy probably wouldn’t appreciate that though, despite how his own eyes seemed to dilate at similar thoughts, and Phil wasn’t keen on having to ward off an extremely protective Wilbur Soot if he even tried to pry Tommy’s vice grip off. So instead, he settles for a simple hair ruffle, the bird seemingly content with the feeling of his fingers combing through unruly blonde curls for the time being. 
 
Tommy made an affronting noise, face scrunching up as Phil tousles his hair, but making no move to lean away from the touch, frozen between resting against Phil’s hand and curling further into Wilbur. It leaves him right in the middle, planted stiffly so he could get the best of both worlds. 
 
The three of them stay like that for a long moment, standing in the wooden doorway basking in each other's presence before there was an awkward cough over Phils shoulder, followed by the clearing of a throat, the first indication Techno had made that he was even there. 
 
“Uh.” He deflates slightly as the attention turns to him, never shrinking under their gazes though, because he’s Technoblade and he never gets scared. “Hey Tommy,” he greets, not taking his eyes off the kid. “Wil,” he adds offhandedly, clearly unbothered by the huff Wilbur gives him in response. 
 
Tommy murmurs something unintelligible into Wilburs side, but it sounds like enough acknowledgement from what Phil can hear, and perhaps as such Techno doesn’t bother asking for him to repeat himself. 
 
He and Wilbur are having a silent conversation over the boy's head, eyes flickering in a silent language the two avians aren’t privy to. From Phil’s perspective, it smells suspiciously like competition, and he has a tickling feeling the two are going to be fighting over Tommy’s affection these next few hours (or days, imprinting is unpredictable after all). 
 
Phil claps his hands together, regaining all three of his boys’ attention, with the additional loud chirp, which immediately got a reaction from Tommy. The boy pries his head out of Wilbur’s jumper to whirl it around to face Phil, ears twitching keenly looking for the sound. 
 
“Let’s go inside, shall we? It’s late, after all.” 
 
Tommy nods dutifully, before his ears twitch again, going a bit red as he realises what he did. He observes as the blonde curses out something or someone underneath his breath, seemingly talking to his version of Chat. 
 
Yeah, adorable. He thinks with a satisfied hum, trailing happily after his sons as they make their way back into the one-storey house.  
 
(He thinks he can get used to Tommy being all soft like this.) 

//  

Tommy’s building a blanket fort, Techno realises with nothing short of glee.  
 
He’s been rushing around the living room, nabbing the pillows and blankets that Phil keeps taking out of the linen cupboard, not even questioning where the strange amount of soft items are coming from.  
 
And Wilbur and Tommy apparently, own an abhorrent number of cushions, the cotton stuffed structure taking up the entire passage between the living room and the dining table. It earnt a sly eyebrow raise from him, but Technoblade was entertained beyond belief by the spectacle. 
 
His lips upturn into a half smile, the closest thing the man can get to his brothers over expressive ear to ear grins, and while it's not the same blinding-white toothy smile as theirs, it shares the exact same sentiment, making it all the more special. 
 
And he reckons his little brother could earn thousands of those little half beams, no matter whatever the golden boy already thought of his ability to make Techno smile.  
 
It feels good, watching Tommy do something for himself, especially with how rigorously he makes sure to take care of them. Techno can remember one instance that sticks out like a sore thumb as an example for how much the boy truly cares for them. 
 
“What the fuck, Techno?!” 
 
The look on the man's face as he whirled around to face him told Tommy everything he needed to know, as he eyed the blooming purples and blues all over the man's features. He had been wearing this sheepish grin and everything, like he knew he’d fucked up by getting caught, because Tommy wasn’t just gonna let him go now after seeing the extent of his injuries like that. 
 
“What are you doing here?” Techno had asked, tensing up quite a few fractions. He had not been prepared to deal with his sixteen-year-old brother at four in the morning, especially not while he looked like he just got run over a dozen times over. 
 
“What am I doing here?! I live here, Technoblade. You’re in my kitchen.” Tommy had told him matter of factly, and Techno blushed in embarrassment, not particularly enjoying being told off by someone he deemed (and still does deem to be) a literal child. 
 
Technoblade had pinched the bridge of his nose with between two fingers, his thumb and his index, face scrunching up. “Listen, I can go–” He had started, only to be cut off almost as immediately as he suggested the idea. 
 
Tommy had spluttered then, as if the suggestion was the most ridiculous thing imaginable. “Absolutely not.” He’d said, “Get–” “–Here–” “–Sit down–” and then suddenly Techno was being dragged by the hand towards the well-worn sofa, Tommy having forced him to sit in Wilbur’s spot despite how Techno side eyed his usual armchair. Gremlin. 
 
“I can’t bandage you up if I can’t reach you,” the kid put it simply, and Techno had grimaced. As if that wasn’t the cherry on the fucking cake, apparently Tommy wasn't completely blind and had noticed his plethora of injuries. “Stay here, I’ll go get a first aid kit.” 
 
Usually, Techno would’ve hated being talked down to like that, but he had been too sheepish about his state to give a proper shit. Besides, it had been… nice, almost. 
 
Tommy cares, like, genuinely, really cares and it always shows in the little things, even if the boy tries to put on a closed front. It’s clear as daylight that the boy loves them, and would happily do anything for each and every one of them just as Techno would do for him. 
 
It made something proud swell in his heart, extremely warm and fuzzy and the thought of his little brother caring about him. Even if he doesn’t verbally admit it often. 
 
So, he had let Tommy tend to his wounds, let him berate him for getting into that fight and allowed himself to be wrapped up in a blanket and dragged onto the couch to watch movies that night, watching his brother, his scrap, his treasure nervously side-eye him, as if terrified he would disappear. 
 
He feels the same now, the same warmth blooming throughout him as he watches Tommy scurry around, observing the obviously slowing movements as the boy grows sleepier, finally dragging more of his worldly possessions into the fort. The warmth is love. 
 
Tucked under his arm were two plushies, a cow and a cat, Techno reminds himself to ask for their names later. In his hands, taking care not to let them drag on the carpet were two sweatshirts, one pink and one blue that Techno immediately recognised as his and Wilbur’s. 
 
Phil’s hat was the last addition to the nest before the boy dumped all of the belongings inside, managing a mischievous series of chirps as Phil tried to find his missing accessory. 
 
“Why don’t you take your wings out, love?” The man asks eventually, still doting over the boy despite his best efforts to conceal the way his ‘mama-bird instincts’, as Techno and Wilbur have taken to calling them. The same instincts are pecking holes through his skull in attempts to regain control and to absolutely smother the boy in affection. Techno’s honestly surprised he’s lasted this long. 
 
Tommy shakes his head distractedly, locking arms with Wilbur and leading him into the fort, dumping him unceremoniously in the pillows with a low croon that sounds suspiciously like ‘stay’. 
 
Phil trills worry, but it doesn’t seem to get through to Tommy, who simply walks right past him with a simple twitch of his ear, acknowledgement but also non-compliant. Techno raises an eyebrow, wondering why he won’t take his wings out. 
 
Aren’t avians supposed to enjoy having them out around their flock? He hates the idea that Tommy is scared of keeping them out for some reason, yet that seems to be the most likely reason for how uptight he’s being about them. 
 
“Trinket,” he starts, making sure his concern is prominent in his tone. Tommy perks up slightly at the nickname, straightening up slightly as he continues his beeline towards Techno. “are you scared of–” 
 
Tommy peeps, cutting him off. The boy takes his hand, clasping his smaller one in it and closing his fingers around Techno's with a happy hum, dragging the man half unwillingly after him towards the nest. 
 
Techno sighs, and stops trying. No, this won’t work, he thinks to himself, because talking to the runt right now is like talking to a brick wall. The sound is heard, sure, but there's little to no response back at all. Techno supposes that’s to be expected, because it seems Tommy’s Chat is in charge right now, but he hopes he can get his answers sooner or later.  
 
He gets the same treatment as Wilbur, and this time he’s 99% positive he can hear the words behind the trills, but he says nothing, instead rolling his eyes fondly and leaning back into the cushy surface behind him. It’s his seat, he realises happily as he half drags himself up to sit on that instead. 
 
Of course, Tommy would make sure that it was included in the fort, his thoughtful little treasure. Techno brightens significantly about it, and let his gaze pan over to Wilbur, who is staring at him with a cut-throat glint in his eyes again. Techno grins, it is his turn with the child, since the boy wasn’t attached to Wilburs hip anymore. 
 
Techno grunts, a playful warning as Tommy left them, most likely to go and fetch their father.  
 
Sure enough, moments later Tommy returned, Phil in tow directly behind him, the adult avian grinning widely down at him, eyes blown wide as they entered the nest.  
 
Wilbur and Techno both immediately make grabby hands towards their brother, fighting over who Tommy would go to for cuddles. Techno makes a plethora of noises, chuff’s, rumbles, and purrs. He needs to hold the runt.  
 
Annoyingly, Wilbur was seemingly doing the same, making Tommy freeze looking between them as he placed Phil carefully at Wilbur’s side, dilated pupils flicking around rapidly at both of them and seemingly having an internal debate with himself over which packmate to sit with. (This theory is increased by the quiet chattering and chirping sounds he makes, as if he’s honoured, they’re both fighting over him.) 
 
Eventually, to Techno’s internal (and external) delight, the boy started to take a slow step towards him, peeping louder, but unsurely. 
 
And then Phil, the cheater, chirps back, and Tommy practically runs over to plant himself in the middle of their dad and Wilbur, immediately being pulled into a hug by the latter, who smirks victoriously over to Techno, knowing he’s won. 
 
“This is favouritism,” Techno complains half-heartedly, crossing his arms. 
 
Wilbur sticks his tongue out, and Phil just cocks his head, smiling. “I wanted him closer to me, mate,” Phil reasons, and Techno huffs. 
 
“Favouritism,” he repeated, but he was already over it as he watches Tommy snuggle closer to his brother, the happiest little smile on his face.  

//  

Tommy watches the glimmer of Phil’s wings underneath the ceiling lights, nothing short of envious as he watches them gleam and glitter like obsidian, or onyx, sparkling perfectly. 
 
He’s not sure why it’s only bothering him now, but he feels a deeply rooted form of jealousy, because he wants his wings to shine like that, yet… 
 
He can’t bring himself to ask his flock to preen him, (can’t even take his wings out without going completely rigid) unused to the unfamiliar weight between his shoulder blades. The best example he has for what it feels like is: 
 
Imagine you have short hair, only just long enough to pull back into a ponytail for the first time, jutting out behind you and startling you a bit with the new, stark addition behind you. It makes it odd to lean your head back, worried about messing it up or getting it caught somewhere.  
 
Wings are the same, not an unwelcome difference per se but definitely still a complete oddity until he gets used to them. They bump into things, knock others over, and are a general nuisance to have out at all, despite the primal urge to flaunt them, to show them off, to swaddle his family in them and never let go. 
 
He only feels embarrassed when he has them out, the feathers unruly and unkempt, ruffling in the most disorderly of fashion as they tangle with each other, loose and old feathers alike itching painfully. He definitely needs to preen them sometime, but he’s rarely by himself, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask Phil, Wilbur or Techno to preen him. That would just be extra humiliating.  
 
But he watches bitterly as Phil shifts around, perfectly cared for feathers shuffling behind him in perfect formation and Tommy is struck by the sudden need to run his fingers through them, to make sure they stay perfect and glowing and- 
 
He’s reaching before he can think better of it, tentatively brushing the palm of his hand over them with a rewarding trill from the bird, cooing enthusiastically at the development. 
 
“Tommy?” Phil startles slightly, wings jolting slightly at the sudden touch, eyes going wide for a split second before he recognises the familiar size of his son's hand as it trails through his feathers. “What are you–” he begins to ask, voice deceivingly neutral. 
 
“Shh,” Tommy cuts him off in a breathy whisper, staring starry-eyed at the feathery appendages as they move underneath his fingers. 
 
Phil goes still, and Tommy almost, almost takes his hands away, pausing with a new spike of worry that he was overstepping, he was being too much he was being too pushy and upfront– 
 
–But Phil just shifts so he has a better reach of his wingspan, flexing them slightly so Tommy has a better view of the dozens, hundreds of primaries, and Tommy lights up instantaneously, just barely catching the fond twinkle in the man's eyes as Tommy sets to work. A dazzling pride sets in that makes the bird roar up with affectionate warbles and croons, attentively listening to Phil as the man guides him through the process of cleaning his wings, following as close as possible until he’s satisfied with the position and shimmer of each and every feather. 
 
“If you would let me, I would preen you too, my little eyas,” Phil presses softly, and Tommy is excruciatingly tempted by it, the bird chirping encouragement for him to agree, and for him to finally take his wings out. 
 
Tommy just hums stubbornly, shaking his head. He’s not ready. (He never will be, if this keeps up.) 
 
“Not yet,” he answers, letting a tiny bit of hope into his voice, and he lets himself desire. The bird screeches, disappointed, but Tommy ignores it, falling back into Wilbur, finally appeased by his work. 
 
Phil smiles, and the olive branch is laid out between them, an idiom of surrender for now on his father’s part, a similar emphasis on the ‘now’s and ‘yet’s of the conversation. Not yet. He mulls the answer over, deeming it close enough to stop his insistence for now.  
 
They both allow themselves to hope, as Tommy begins to drift off in Wilbur’s arms, exhausted from the rather eventful day. 
 
‘Not yet’ wasn’t a no. And Phil is content with that, till he’s ready. 

//  

Tommy’s asleep, finally. 
 
He’s yet to let go of Wilbur again, arms wrapped around his torso loosely, but still encircling him even in his currently unconscious state. He’s quietly snuffling breathes, the exhausted wrinkles slowly leaving his brow as he relaxes, further into dreams. The man can’t help but pull him closer, coaxing Tommy’s sleeping form gently up the couch until the boy is almost completely curled up in his lap, save for his legs, which drape over Wilbur’s and dangle over the armrest till they’re barely nudging Techno’s armchair. Phil sits next to Wilbur and their sleeping beauty, watching them both with a revering expression that Wilbur cherished. 
 
Techno doesn’t appear phased by the socked feet that continuously brush against him, so Wilbur doesn’t bother moving Tommy and risk jostling him into wakefulness.  
 
Wilbur smiles tiredly down at him, unable to blame the child for being so tuckered out. It has been a day for all of them. A good one, at that. One Wilbur knows they’ll remember for a long time coming. 
 
Tommy’s imprinting, he reminds himself with a lopsided grin, squeezing the boy tighter as he plants a sloppy kiss on the kid’s forehead. His boy, his little brother, all grown up. He couldn’t be prouder of him either, absolutely overjoyed with all the affectionate cuddles Tommy is giving out, no strings attached.  
 
Wilbur soaks in all of it, like a planet in orbit of the sun, lazily lying half-baked in its rays like a cat. Tommy is the warmth radiating off of it, dragging Wilbur along with him in a way that makes Wilbur’s eyes crinkle in happiness, ever ready to be there with him. 
 
“So,” Techno drawls, inevitably breaking the comfortable silence. 
 
Wilbur makes a non-interested expression. “So,” he repeats, stubbornly keeping his eyes trained on Tommy. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to have this conversation, but he was quite enjoying his Tommy cuddles, and didn’t want them to end. Not even to talk to his brother. 
 
“He’s imprinting,” Techno tacks on awkwardly, and Wilbur can feel the gaze creating holes into the back of his head, all the questions the man probably wants to spew at him at the speed of light. Instead, all that is heard in the house is quiet snores, and the occasional rustle as Phil’s wings brush against things. 
 
Wilbur hums, something of a mumble coming out but too unintelligible for either Techno or his father to hear - he does that purposefully, with a cheeky grin that fell as he falls into his thoughts. Tommy still doesn’t have his wings out, he thinks to himself, what was he doing wrong? 
 
He lets out a half-frustrated huff, not mad– never mad at Tommy, but frustrated all the same. It felt like a major let down that the boy wasn’t comfortable enough to have his wings out yet, even in the phase of imprinting. 
 
The silence carries on, a tiny bit heavier with Wilbur’s suddenly downward spike in his mood. He feels sullen, a little rotten over this, because he’s allowed closer than anyone, he is currently closer than anyone, yet Tommy is still somehow uptight, to the point where not even his instincts will change that. 
 
“Wil,” Phil starts carefully, voice lowered as to not wake up the sleeping fledgeling in Wilbur’s lap. 
 
Wilbur’s gaze flicks up towards him, allowing himself to loosen up at the concerned look on Phil’s face. 
 
The man smiles, a small line that curves upwards, pulling his lips up into a half-amused half-worried smirk. It’s the kind of face that has always made Wilbur’s worries wash away, the face Phil gave him when he was little and did something good, a look of pride that deteriorates all the bad feelings in the world. 
 
“We can’t help you if you won’t tell us what the issue is, Wilbur,” Techno says, and Wilbur sighs, falling back a little into the backrest, but not enough to disturb Tommy. 
 
“There isn’t an issue– it’s,” he pauses, thinking hard about his words. “--It’s stupid, but I just can’t wrap my head around it,” he reiterates, rolling his eyes. He knows he’s being vague, but he can’t help it. It’s embarrassing to admit his woes aloud, especially in front of his little brother. 
 
His little brother, who is sleeping. Who won’t even hear him, probably. With a long, drawn-out breath, Wilbur attempts to explain. 
 
“It’s Tommy– He hasn’t had his wings out, like, at all, Phil. I’m worried for him. What if something happened to them?!” he fumbles with his words, trying to organise a thousand thoughts a second into something cohesive, something that describes his concern. 
 
Phil nods, seemingly aware of this already. That alone is a whole other can of worms Wilbur doesn’t even want to delve into, so he leaves it be. Techno is the same, which Wilbur supposes isn’t any more surprising, the man has always been an over-analysing, observant prick. 
 
He wonders why they didn’t say anything, despite the fact that the sentiment is extremely hypocritical considering the circumstance. Wilbur sucks a breath in through his teeth, exhaling shakily. Another nervous habit Tommy picked up off of him, he knows, but he can’t help it. The fresh intake of oxygen feels slightly grounding as it rushes down his throat, which satiates his nerves for now. 
 
“You want him to let us preen him,” Techno says, it isn’t a question as much as it is a statement, a sure understanding piquing his tone. 
 
“I do,” he admits, allowing his shoulders to untense at the reminder that his family is here, and they’ll figure this out. For their sake, for Tommy’s.  
 
Phil rubs his arm comfortingly, trailing his hand up and down in a repetitive motion. “You’ve gotta be patient with him, mate,” he coaxes, eyes caught on a stray tuft of gold in Tommy’s hair that he brushes distractedly out of the boy's eyes. 
 
Wilbur raises an eyebrow, unamused. As if he hadn’t been patient already. 
 
Techno snorts, chuckling lowly under his breath at them. He receives two twin-exasperated expressions, but goes on regardless. “Very helpful, Phil,” he says dryly, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “You need to build trust, entice his instincts. Whatever,” Techno explains, and it’s actually helpful advice. Wilbur sags in his seat slightly, grateful for his brother not saying as much vague could-mean-anything-shit as Phil.  
 
“Make a nest,” Techno continues, and Wilbur crosses that right off of his mental checklist. “Throw him some birdseed, just let him know you’re there,” he suggests, and Wilbur snorts. He’s not gonna give Tommy birdseed, the kid would just throw it in his face probably. “Just wait for him, Wilbur. He’ll come around.” 
 
Wilbur sighs. “I know, but I wish we could speed things up a bit.” he says wistfully, frowning slightly. 
 
Techno and Phil share a look, and then another one with Wilbur. A silent discussion takes place, a debate between the three of them. It ends in Wilbur finally smiling slightly, a new determination set on his face to match his brother and father’s. 
 
None of them noticed their youngest as he stirs awake, a build-up of stress ready to spew out of him like a volcano as he, unbeknownst to them, hits a breaking point. 

//  

There it is again, the silent conversations. Tommy’s sick of this shit.  
 
He’d woken up in Wilbur’s lap, watching his family's gaze wash over each other as they silently communicated some weirdass cryptic message he can’t even begin to decipher, and he can’t help but feel left out of the loop, especially with Wilburs eventual withdrawal above him, a grin on his face. 
 
Sue him, he’s envious, filled to the brim with pent up feelings. He lets himself explode, just this once.  
 
Tommy rolls his eyes, making a confronting noise. “Hello?” He pipes up snarkily, snapping the trio from their thoughts.  
 
Wilbur has the gall to look surprised at the sudden noise, and even Techno and Phil seem to flinch slightly. Tommy’s not sure if he likes it better or worse when the attention is back on him, because Phil keeps giving him a look and it's too fond and too worried at the same time. Nobody’s telling him what the fuck it means though, and it's making his nerves spike. 
 
“What’s up, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, keeping his face even as if he’s trying not to scare Tommy off.  
 
Tommy grits his teeth, face falling into a pout. “What’s up? What the fuck is–” he gestures wildly with his hands, the limbs flailing and pointing consecutively to the pile of pillows, to Wilbur, to Techno and finally to Phil. “--All this?!” He finishes, clenching his jaw. His family is acting weird and he doesn’t– well, saying he doesn’t like it would be a lie but… 
 
…It all feels too good to be true, if that makes any sense at all. It feels like he’s building up this warm place in his heart, opening it to the point of vulnerability and he just wonders when they’re going to pull the rug out from under him. 
 
“I’m not mad, I’m not– But I just,” he huffs frustratedly, hands clenched into fists as he lets them droop from Wilburs sweater. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Why are you here?”  
 
Wilbur makes a sad noise behind him, arm frozen between reaching and letting it droop to his side. Techno’s face is flat, a constant poker face as always. But Tommy has known the man long enough to see the slight wilt in his expression, the way the edges of his brows pinch and the small glimmer of happiness he lets show escaping him. He doesn’t dare look at Phil, carefully diverting his gaze away from the corvid avian. 
 
Everything, together, feels like a punch to the gut to Tommy, because he didn’t mean to make them upset, but his brain is screaming that he hurt his ‘flock’, whatever the fuck that entails. “I don’t– Why are you– Why am I– fuck,” he stumbles over his words, cutting himself with a curse because he can’t seem to get anything else out right now. 
 
His instincts have been going absolutely haywire all day, and he wants to know why. He feels odd and he feels new and he feels content in a way that he’s never felt, because he’s Tommy fucking Innit and nothing ever ends well for him. 
 
“Fucking… Why...” He breathes, but the rage is quickly draining, leaving him a miserable, exhausted, ungrateful little kid in Wilburs arms, and he hates it. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it! 
 
So why do all the signs point to a happy ending for him now? One where he can forever be engulfed in Techno’s bear hugs, cuddled up to Wilbur and entrapped in Phils wings, always with them, because they care and he’s absolutely terrified of it. Because he’s being ungrateful, and he doesn’t deserve this, any of this.  
 
“Tommy, mate,” Phil croons slowly, shuffling so he’s positioned in front of Tommy, talons curling around his own and intertwining them together, “what’s wrong, fledgeling? What did we do?”  
 
He sounds so genuine, actually concerned, and it breaks Tommy, leaving him a shell of his former anger.  
“What’s wrong with me?” He cries, falling forward and crashing straight into Phil’s chest, waiting arms already prepared to catch him. “Why am I so needy all of a sudden, I don’t- I don’t mean to be greedy, but I–” he blubbers pitifully, unable to form his words into a sentence as fast as they pop into his head.  
 
He wants and he wants and he takes, and the issue is he doesn’t feel guilty for it. They make it too easy to accept the little touches, nights he should be thanking them for a thousand times, and they never ask for anything in return. 
 
He doesn’t want to stop taking, he wants to steal away their soft touches and warm laughter as long as they’ll allow it, but he wants to give it back somehow. As if this is a debt, and he needs to repay their kindness. “I don’t understand!” He yells for the hundredth time through ugly sobs. 
 
Techno, surprisingly, is the next to speak up. “Tommy, you’ve done enough already,” he chuckles wetly, and Tommy realises he’s somehow let all of his thoughts slip aloud. 
 
And Tommy allows himself this one mercy, picking his head up from the now waterlogged splotch in Phils shirt to look up at his brother. “What?” 
 
“You’re imprinting, Toms. On us,” Wilbur stresses, the dopey smile back on his face, with just a hint of desperation behind it this time. “That means we’re your family, right?” 
 
Tommy pauses, and lets the bird answer. It’s an instantaneous yes, which he relays on with a curt nod back to his brother. Face wet with tears both shed and unshed, slipping in ugly streaks down his cheeks. He couldn’t care less though. 
 
“Then you know you’ve done enough, Tommy,” his father finishes for them. 
 
Phil squeezes him, Wilbur and Techno both sharing a similar expression, a flicker in all of their eyes that Tommy’s never known before them; love.  
 
“That's all we could ever ask for,” Phil concludes, and Tommy falls back into his embrace, because he’s too weak to let go. “You’re all we could ever ask for.”  
 
“Why?” He asks quietly, because he just can’t stop himself. He’s ungrateful, he’s undeserving, unworthy, even, yet they still want him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. 
 
Phil hugs him closer, whispering sweet nothings into his ear until his voice is hoarse and dry, promising him the sun and moon, the world, if only he asked. 
 
He doesn’t understand, but… 
 
He thinks he’s okay with that. He knows they’re okay with that. 
 
And it’s everything he could ever ask for, too. 
 
He’s still crying as he props his head up over Phils shoulder, arms wrapping around him, one under his arm and the other over, pulling his dad closer into the hug. “I love you,” he whispers, only for his family to hear. He’s crying happy tears now, confused, but happy. 
 
He gets three immediate replies, the same phrase repeated straight back to him with zero hesitation, and finally does the one thing he’d been wanting to do this entire time. 
 
Tommy finally wraps his wings around his flock, dragging them all close and completely locking them in his world, of reds and pinks and whites, as well as the yellows that tip his oversized feathers. “Thank you,” the bird says, and Tommy pulls it into the hold too.  
 
“It was nothing,” he replies wordlessly back to it in a muffled chirp against Phils sleeve, and for the first time, he’s not lying.  

//  

“I finished your coat.” Tommy says timidly, holding it up for Wilbur to see. 
 
He’d been working on it all morning, hoping to finish before dawn breaks, his own way of reciprocating his family's love over the past few months. Phil tells him he doesn’t owe them anything, but he wants to give back to them, and this is how. 
 
He’s far more open with his feelings nowadays, happy to share any weight that's hanging over him with his flock. The bird, or… Shroud, as he’s taken to calling them, is also far quieter now, which he’s endlessly thankful for. God forbid they were as loud as they were while he was imprinting, he doesn’t think he could have handled that. 
 
Wilbur gasps, and Tommy immediately averts his gaze, wings rustling behind him in anxious anticipation, making a sort of brushing sound as they sweep against the floor.  
 
They’re brighter now too, and much healthier. He and Phil have taken to preening each other at least once a day, with long afternoons spent either in Phil’s house or his, carefully going through each other’s wings and making sure they were both to the spickest, spannest condition possible. Tommy’s had grown in fast, larger than Phil’s by almost two metres at full length, still retaining their original red and gold pattern, with a lot fewer of the pink and white downy feathers, much to Techno’s despair. He liked them, because they ‘matched’ or something.  
 
It feels good, to be able to wrap them around his family at a moment's notice, dragging them in until they’re swamped in his feathers and trapped in his clutches, ready to be hugged. 
 
They could probably escape whenever they pleased, but they were forever happy to humour him, always returning the embrace as well as they could even without wings. Tommy thinks it's a win-win situation, he gets hugs, and they get the greatly esteemed ‘Tommy-time’. 
 
Phil says they look like a falcon's wings, and Tommy finds he agrees, beaming at the idea of being such a cool breed of bird.  
 
“I love it Tommy, thank you,” Wilbur says, lightly pulling it from his hands to pull it over his shoulders, looking adoringly down at it.  
 
The brown leather's old tears were now patched up in different shades of blue, denim, cotton and polyester fabric patches alike spotting it and covering up its old tears. But that wasn’t the most eye-catching thing about it. 
 
Its hems were designed in a pattern made specifically to resemble four animals, golden embroidery showcasing a crow, a falcon, and two pigs playing happily. He as so, so proud of it, and that greedy, wanting part of himself hoped Wilbur was too, lighting up at the praise about his work.  
 
“I love you,” he says, embracing Wilbur in a half hug, headbutting his shoulder softly in a way he’d picked up from Techno, one of his now favourite ways to greet his family. His left wing wraps around the mains back, not entrapping the two but joining him in curling around the man's other arm.

Wilbur simpers down at him, eyes crinkling slightly in fond adoration, wrapping one arm around his torso and squeezing him lightly.   
 
“I love you too, Sundrop,” the man whispers, and all is right in Tommy’s world.