Chapter Text
Friday nights are takeout nights. Phil gets home from work late and he picks up his usual from a local Chinese place. Usually this leads to eating it in the living room while watching whatever shitty cable piece he found to put up on his television. He’ll have a few drinks, drown a few sorrows, and usually pass out on the couch in the dark and depressing quiet of his home.
Except this Friday, his solitary routine is disturbed. Instead of nursing his headache away, he cradles his head in his hands as the sounds of two pairs of footsteps echo upstairs. In the room Samantha decorated. What would she think of all of this? She’d be better than him, he’s certain of that, probably already have both boys swaddled in blankets and sipping on cocoa.
Foster care had been her dream. It’s why the spare room upstairs is dolled up with children’s books and knit blankets and extra toiletries. It’s why he qualifies as an emergency placement, a last resort option. It’s why two boys are now wandering around the second floor of his modest government salary home.
His hand clutches their files that he’s already read over three times.
Wilbur Soot: 17. 6’6 with curling brown hair and wire glasses. He was close to being a lifer in the system as he would turn 18 in a little over a month with a lengthy file to boot. Relatively quiet kid with his fair share of incidents. A large amount of which seemed to involve a Tommy Innit, who happens to be the second boy creaking the floorboards over his head.
Tommy Innit: 14. The 5’11 blue eyed blonde’s file was somehow even larger than Wilbur’s despite being nearly 4 years younger. A documented spitfire who fought the world, and maybe the world deserved it, Phil remembered thinking, as he waded through all the shit Tommy had had to go through. There were laundry lists of abuse, fights, stealing, and shouting matches which seemed to quiet a bit four years ago when Wilbur appeared in his file.
Other than medical and school records, that was it. Neither had any siblings, alive (or traceable) parents, and zero living family to be found. The two had been deemed inseparable, rare and quite odd for two nonbiological brothers in the system, but any attempts at separation had ended in disaster. Keeping them together was easier for everyone than trying to keep them apart.
Phil didn’t like how the files made them seem like unruly shelter dogs instead of people. It didn’t tell him what type of music Tommy liked or if Wilbur wanted coffee or tea in the morning, it was more like reading a rap sheet. They were kids, not criminals.
He recalls the first time he saw the two. Tommy looked small as he clung to Wilbur’s side like it was the only thing keeping him standing, eyes red from crying. Wilbur’s arm held him close, his blond hair tucked under his chin, practically daring someone to try to take him away. His eyes weren’t watery, but Phil had seen his fair share of victims to know that haunted look. The men at the station called it “ghost eyes” from the way people got shook up seeing a corpse.
And this had been a particularly grim and bloody scene, his stomach pit growing at the idea of what was now branded into the brains of those two boys: their foster parent splayed out and bleeding, eyes gone glassy-
God he wanted a drink . Samantha would smile and hand him something strong after a day like this. That probably wasn’t the best solution for two traumatized children. His hands slip down his face as he sits at the table, his elbows resting on the worn wood. The fuck is wrong with him? He is terrible at this, he didn’t want this. He was never supposed to do this alone. And his headache is pounding-
“Mr. Craft?” Phil looks up to see Wilbur towering over him, hesitantly.
“Mhmm? Yes, Wilbur?” Phil tries to rub the anguish out of his face before meeting Wilbur’s gaze.
“I was going to get a cup of water for Tommy, if that’s alright sir.”
“Of course, of course.” Phil waves him off, “you can just call me Phil, mate. Cups are in the cabinet to the right of the microwave.”
Wilbur nodded and proceeded to walk silently across the kitchen to complete his task. The kitchen seemed smaller with Wilbur in it, as he ducks under hanging pots and pans Phil had never had trouble walking under. In his head, he wishes he had some flowers or knick knacks, his countertops seem far too bare, anything to liven the place up. Phil had run interrogation rooms that were less tense.
“You know, you’re both free to get some at any time. You or Tommy. Food, water, whatever you guys need.”
Wilbur flips up the stainless steel sink handle, filling up the cup. “Thank you sir, we appreciate it.”
As Wilbur turns to leave the kitchen, Phil eyes the takeout menu on the fridge and feels like hitting himself in the forehead. He is a goddamn idiot. “Kid, uh, did you or Tommy get to eat today? I know how these sorts of things get.”
“Not since breakfast but really, don’t trouble yourself-”
“Oh no mate, I’m starving too. Will the both of you eat chinese? I’m not in a cooking mood.”
Wilbur nods with a thin smile. “We’ll eat pretty much anything.”
Phil tries to smile back, hoping it looks more reassuring than terribly exhausted. “Great, do you need a menu? I have one on the fridge.”
Wilbur shakes his head, “Whatever you order will be great.” But before he entirely left Phil to flounder alone trying to pick the best Cantonese entrees for two strangers, he pivots and says almost quietly, “I think Tommy likes sweet and sour. He, uh, can’t handle spicy stuff.”
Phil gives him a grateful thumbs up and internally cringes at himself.
About an hour later, Phil is unpacking boxes upon boxes of chinese food onto his kitchen table. It is absolutely far too much for only the three of them, but leftovers are always handy to have and he had no clue what else to get for them. So he convinced himself ordering seven entrees was reasonable and made sure to tip the delivery girl well. He hasn’t seen either boy since Wilbur rejoined Tommy upstairs.
Phil hears footsteps as one of the boys descends the stairs. As Tommy came into view, he froze seeing Phil. This wasn’t the famous Tommy Innit, self proclaimed government assigned annoyance, of his file. The boy in front of him was quiet, gaunt, and looked like he wanted nothing more than to bolt out the front door and never stop running.
“Hey mate, I’ve got Chinese food if you want some. Wilbur ordered for you, hope you don’t mind.”
Tommy doesn’t move any closer, hunching his shoulders, glaring a bit at the floor and chewing his lip. “I thought Wil was down here,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“I’m sure he’ll be down in a second,” Phil smiles. He’s shit at smiling. “Can I get you a plate? Chopsticks? I also have forks, chopsticks can be a bit of a pain sometimes… Anything to drink?”
Tommy just stands in the doorway, occasionally glancing behind him, rubbing his shoulders like he’s cold. His breath seemed to shake a bit.
“Hey, if you’re cold mate, I can turn up the heat or I’ve got a wood stove in the other room, or uh, I’ve got tea-”
“Just fuck off, will you?” Tommy burst out, biting and angry before his eyes widen like he realized what he’d just done.
But as much as the words sting, Phil finds himself a little relieved that there is still a fire burning behind Tommy’s eyes, until he watches it suffocate and go up in smoke.
Tommy starts mumbling, words once clipped now spilling out of his mouth. “I’m sorry- I didn’t- no, no, it’s my fault just- don’t- I’m sorry.” Phil feels his heart drop, because as much as Tommy seems terrified out of his wits, he stays frozen where he is, grimacing through pleading apologies, as if he’d rather the floor swallow him whole.
Before Phil can even think of how to respond, a much faster set of footsteps race down the stairs. “Tommy?” Wilbur calls with an undercurrent of panic. His shoulders relax slightly as he glances in the kitchen, seeing Tommy standing across the table from Phil.
“Just setting up dinner,” Phil tries to explain, trying to ignore the way Wilbur subtly moves Tommy behind him.
“Oh, thank you. It looks perfect.” Wilbur smiles and it almost seems real. Phil hates how much better he can fake this than him.
Tommy tugs on Wil’s sleeve before speaking up, “I’m not hungry.” He even tacks on a “sir.”
Wilbur places his arm around him and looks to Phil as if to gauge his reaction. Phil feels his detective brain take over again. The target is defensive, obviously protective over the younger. Wilbur knows his way around words, full of pleasing “thank yous” and “sirs” that make Phil’s skin crawl. He wasn’t sure what Wilbur trusted less: him alone with Tommy, or for Tommy to keep himself out of trouble without Wilbur there to bail him out.
Now, Tommy is all bark and no bite. The fourteen year old, who resisted authority at all costs according to some half-wit psychologist’s paper, looked to Wilbur for everything. Even now, he buries his face in his brother's sweater, probably content to skip a meal or two if it meant he got to stay there. He reminds Phil of a soldier with pure, unadulterated loyalty to his leader, but completely lost without him.
But they aren’t soldiers or generals, they are boys. Boys who are scared and wary and who wouldn’t be after the day they had? For godsake, these are fucking kids who had to stumble upon their caregiver bleeding out. The damn string of robberies in that part of town he’d been investigating for two weeks turned deadly. Even Phil himself isn’t immune to his own brain that tells him the only reason these two kids are in his house at all is because he feels guilty. Guilty that he failed to stop this in time, before people got hurt. Undeserving people like Tommy and Wilbur who deserved a safe home and warm food and to stand in a strangers kitchen without that much fear in their eyes.
He also knows that his presence is doing nothing to help that situation. So he grabs his kung pao chicken and a box of rice as he says “I usually eat my dinner in the living room if you don’t mind eating without me. Of course you’re free to join if you like. And Tommy, don’t force yourself to eat if you aren’t feeling good. Just remember to come and get me if you have any questions or need anything else, alright?”
Wilbur nods for the both of them and Phil leaves them alone, settling in to watch some documentary on how scary smart crows are on the nature channel. It’s interesting shit, but he finds himself only giving it half of his attention because his heart warms every time he hears muffled laughter from the kitchen table.
---💗---
Wilbur told Tommy to wait up for him while he took a shower. He tries, he really really does, but his stomach is full and the blankets beneath him are soft. The room is painted a comforting baby blue he prefers to the white he’s grown accustomed to. At the bottom of the bed, there’s a homey quilt that he admired the stitching on and the lamp glows dim, the kind of light that weighs on your eyelids. Most importantly, he’s never been more exhausted in his life.
Tommy is hollow. He has cried every tear he’d been allotted in this life today and he cried most of them into Wilbur's sweater. He’s probably ruined it the way he ruins everything. Now Wilbur was going to lose two sweaters he liked in a day.
What the fuck?
Why is he thinking about sweaters? Dream is dead . Dead. Not getting back up again dead. Ashes to ashes dead. Dead with a bullet hole in his chest, gurgling blood-
Tommy feels his brain go fuzzy again, and his body is lead on the mattress. Like that time Wilbur snatched pain killers for him when he fractured his wrist. It took four days of sweating in feverish pain before his foster parents took him to a doctor. He didn’t know if they just didn’t notice or just didn’t care. He also wasn’t sure which was worse. But Wilbur had been there. Wilbur tried to steal their car one night to take Tommy himself which at least got their attention. Wilbur wrapped his arms around him and wrote messages on his back and told him stories of all the dumb stuff he did to impress a girl once in middle school until he fell alseep.
But right now Tommy was alone and his brain was fuzzy and Wilbur wasn’t there.Wilbur should be there. No, no. No. No, Wilbur said he wouldn’t leave again. He wouldn’t leave him alone. But Tommy was alone on the comforter, shivering despite the fact that Phil kept the thermometer up much too high in his opinion. Alone. And the walls were moving in on him. His heart quickens. He’s trapped. Confined by walls painted with roses, lovely and sweet and marred with thorns. Dream had had roses. Except the roses were dripping, making blossoming red patterns against the perfect white and he recoiled in horror as the walls were now blood splattered. What if it was Wilbur’s blood? Why wasn’t he back yet, why was his blood on the walls? And now Tommy was alone and Wilbur was gone and…
“Tommy?” And the soft shake on his shoulder makes him jump out of his skin until he recognizes the t-shirt with some stupidly niche band and the warm brown eyes that look at him like they want to take all of the hurt away.
Saying nothing but a half strangled “Wilbur” as he throws himself at him, Tommy grasps his brother tightly in his arms. He can feel his heartbeat now, letting its calming thump ease his half conscious nightmares away. Wilbur is alive, and warm and in his arms. His hair is damp and smells of some drugstore shampoo. And now he is wrapping his arms around Tommy the way he always did. Every embrace is a silent promise. A promise that as much as Wilbur was Tommy’s, Tommy was Wilbur’s.
Wilbur leans into gravity and lets him and Tommy topple over so they’re laying on the bed, Wilbur’s head on a pillow and Tommy’s on Wilbur's shoulder, still draped over him. A familiar hand rubs his back and Tommy lets the rhythm sooth him. And the exhaustion overtakes him once more.
---💗---
It rains that night. The kind of thunderstorm that shakes a house to its core as wind rattles the walls. A torrential downpour against his window panes will usually have Phil deep in a comforting sleep, but a crack of thunder rings out and Phil is awakened by a cry that has him jolting out of his bed, scrambling half blind out of his room.
He stretches out his sore joints as he makes his way toward the closed door at the end of the corridor before he pauses for a moment. Everything is silent, except the storm raging outside of course. Did he imagine the scream? But as he approaches the door looming in front of him he hears a choked up sort of noise. Not so imaginary. His steps are careful now, not wanting to startle either of them as he finds himself next to the door, hearing the hushed voices.
“Shhhhhhhh, we don’t want to wake him. We’re okay. You’re okay,” comes one, and he thinks it’s Wilbur’s.
“I’m not okay, nothing's okay.” Tommy’s voice is husky from tears.
“Everything’s okay, because you know I'd never let anything happen to you,” Wilbur says firmly
“You can’t say shit like that.”
“I can and I will. I promise Tommy. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Don’t say that,” Tommy pleads.
“Well I did, and I’m not taking it back,” is Wilbur’s even reply.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he groans.
“And you’re my itty bitty baby brother,” Wilbur teases.
The thump of a pillow comes through before Tommy responds. “I’m gonna be taller than you one day, you just wait and see.”
“Growth happens in your sleep gremlin, so if you want to catch up you better start actually getting some REM.”
The sounds of some shuffling around comes through the door and then the room goes mostly quiet.
Phil sort of realizes that he’s been listening in on their private conversation, so he creaks open the door to find Wilbur sat up in bed with Tommy’s head in his lap, hand running through his curls. Wilbur looks up at Phil with worry, as if expecting a rebuke for waking him or being up past bedtime. Phil mouths towards him, “Is he okay?”, pointing at the sleepy boy atop Wilbur’s legs.
Wilbur nods back, before looking back down at the mess of gold curls fondly. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles and Tommy presses closer to Wilbur but doesn't stir. As Phil turns to leave, feeling a little useless at having done nothing to help, he steals another glance at the pair. There’s a feeling, deep in his heart to the point it’s almost instinctual, but he can’t shake the truth of it: Wilbur looks at Tommy as if he is the only good thing left in the world.