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Tommy is going to die.
He’s going to die– quickly, probably. Maybe. Hopefully. With any luck, the wolf will kill him before it starts eating him, or feeding him to its weird little wolf babies. Whatever it’s planning on doing with his poor, mangled corpse.
The wolf circles him again, its eyes bright and calculating. Like it’s judging him. Tommy’s breath hitches, grip tightening on the knife in his hand.
He doesn’t want to die, but if he does, he’d really like to die fast .
The wolf lunges, snapping at Tommy’s shoulder; Tommy dives to the side, barely dodging as the wolf's maw snaps shut. It skids, its weight carrying it forward as it scrambles to reorient. Tommy doesn’t wait around to watch it gather itself, sprinting for the treeline.
He ducks under a set of branches as the wolf snarls behind him. Close, too close . God he’s fucked, he’s so fucked. He needs an out, he needs somewhere the wolf can’t reach. If he could climb–
He screams as teeth dig into his calf, throwing him to the ground and dragging him backwards. He kicks, swearing and scrabbling at the loose snow as he’s pulled away.
No .
He’s not– he’s not fucking going out like this. He’s not gonna get dragged back to some den to become fucking live wolf food.
He twists, shifting the knife in his hand as he wrenches himself towards the wolf. Slashing blindly at the closest part he can reach.
The blade sinks into one wide, wild eye.
It drops him with a screech– a sound Tommy’s pretty sure wolves aren’t built to make. Yanking back its head, taking Tommy’s knife with it. It twists and shakes and screams like it’s trying to shake it off, but the knife remains buried firmly in the now weeping socket. It wails, slamming its face blindly into a tree–
And then falls, twitching, to the ground.
Tommy stares wide-eyed at the wolf, chest heaving. It doesn’t move. The knife is buried further now, its hilt dug deep into what remains of the wolf's eye.
It’s… dead.
The stupid fucking thing is dead. Tommy’s alive, and it bashed a blade clean into its brain. He's survived, top fucking dog. He laughs, choked and frantic. He’s alive.
His leg is numb. Fingers frozen and unresponsive.
The adrenaline is fading, and in its place a sharp, blistering pain pulses in his calf. Tommy can’t look at it, he can’t. That thing's teeth were fucking huge, he doesn’t want to see what's left.
The snow is falling faster now. No. No. Absolutely fucking not. He did not just survive getting chewed on by the world's biggest fucking wolf to die of hypothermia. He needs to move. He needs–
There’s a cave, sort-of. More of an outcropping than anything else. It's a shield from the wind and snow though. And it's within crawling distance.
He’s not going to die here.
He drags himself forward, inch by bloody inch, frozen fingers clawing at the snow. It’s practically up to his chin, catching his shoulders; his fucking face is numb.
It feels like years before he finally manages to claw his way to shelter, though ‘shelter’ might be pushing it. The wind is less biting, and the snow isn’t threatening to bury him anymore. But he needs to get to work. He needs a fire, or something. Heat. More walls to block off the wind. He needs to bandage up his leg before he fucking bleeds to death. Needs to actually look at it first, which. Fuck. And then he needs– he needs–
He sags against the stone, the surface digging into his cheek.
He’s tired.
Closing his eyes is a death sentence, and he’s already decided he’s not going to die. Fuck fate, Tommy makes the rules now, and he’s decided he’s going to live. He can’t close his eyes, he can’t stop now. He needs to move .
He blinks, the world tilting gently in front of his eyes. His head feels light.
Red stands out stark and bright against the snow.
Maybe just for a minute. Not– not for long. He’s not going to sleep, he just needs to get the world to stop spinning. That’s all.
Tommy shuts his eyes.
Someone is talking to him.
They’re talking, shaking his shoulders. A warm hand on his cheek, practically burning on his skin.
“Kid-- kid, I need you to open your eyes for me,” they say, voice low and urgent.
Tommy doesn’t want to open his eyes-- it sounds exhausting. He’s so tired. And the ground feels warm, something soft brushing his cheek-- no, he’s not on the ground anymore. He’s been shifted, face pressing into soft, fuzzy fabric, an ungloved hand patting at his face.
“Kid,” the voice says again. And Tommy forces his eyes open.
There’s not much to see, just the hazy blur of a face above him. Something– pink? Tommy doesn’t know. Not worth all the effort of opening his eyes, he thinks.
“There you are, hey,” the voice-- shape-- man?-- says. “Just hold on a few minutes, alright? I’ve got you.”
Tommy doesn’t want to hold onto anything-- he’s tired. More than tired, he’s exhausted . Everything hurts.
The blur shifts, and the world tilts. Pain flaring dully in his calf as he’s shifted, something warm wrapping around him like a cocoon before arms lift him up off the ground. Tommy screws his eyes shut. No, opening them definitely wasn’t worth it. He resents any and all implications to the contrary, he’s surpassed the need for sight.
“You got this far,” the stranger grumbles, their voice rumbling against Tommy's cheek. “Don’t go dying on me now.”
Tommy doesn’t answer, just lets his head loll back against the stranger's chest. And drifts.
Tommy is cold.
Not just cold; freezing. It sits in his skin, ice all the way down to his poor, aching bones. He’s cold, and more importantly, he’s alone. Alone-alone- alone . So alone he can feel it, howling in his chest like some forlorn thing . He thinks he’d do anything to change it-- he doesn’t want to be alone. He wants to be warm. Warm and safe and loved, and not alone .
It’s not just cold either: his throat is raw and hoarse, pressure pounding just behind his eyes. The blanket feels like sandpaper on his skin, and he hurts all over, an ache creeping all the way down into his bones.
He dimly registers the sound of voices in the far-off distance. Too far. They should be here with him, not standing around doing who-knows-what. He whines, some odd instinct dragging the hoarse sound from his throat. Come-here-help-me-I’m-lost.
There’s a pause; someone tuts quietly. And then– then someone runs a hand through his hair. And it’s warm, warm like safety. He leans into the touch, chasing it even as it tries to pull away. Emphasis on ‘ tries .’
Someone coos.
“Aww, look at him,” a voice above him says softly. The surface he’s laying on– the bed, he knows what a fucking bed is, he’s not that far gone– dips and Tommy can feel how close he is. He wants to reach out, grab hold and not let go. But everything hurts, so he whines again. And they shuffle closer.
“He’s young,” someone else notes from somewhere else in the room. He can’t figure out where, but he knows it’s too far. He wants them closer, all of them. Close and warm to chase off this ice in his chest. “Fucker must have been desperate to try and turn him like that, especially on our territory.”
“Or just stupid,” someone else snorts. That one's familiar. They’re all familiar, sort-of.
He forces his eyes open, squinting up at the person sitting beside him. The light is practically blinding, leaving stars flickering over his sensitive eyes. The man shifts, blocking Tommy from the worst of the glare.
It’s… just some guy. Brown hair, yellow sweater. Strange eyes that should probably make Tommy want to run and hide, glinting in the flickering lantern light in a way that screams animal . But it’s so– so familiar. Safe.
The man coos as Tommy lifts his head, ignoring the way his muscles scream at the motion. Trying to find the others, because they’re not here, they’re all the way across the room, sitting in their stupid little chairs while he’s laying here freezing. It’s just so fucking rude.
His head aches. Everything hurts.
He burrows into Yellow Sweater’s leg with a whine. He shouldn’t have moved, he should have just stayed still with the one source of warmth that hasn’t betrayed him yet. But no, he had to get greedy, and now his head is pounding . He screws his eyes shut.
“Aw, mate,” Blonde Bitch says softly. A chair creaks, and Tommy can feel him coming closer, like the air itself is moving around the guy just to let Tommy know he’s approaching. Tommy whines again, trying to lean towards him. “It’s okay. We’re here, we’ve got you.” A hand rests on Tommy's shoulder. “You’re gonna be alright.”
Tommy shifts, trying to inch closer. And pain, bright and sharp, lances through his calf. He stiffens, gritting his teeth and burying his face further into Yellow Sweater’s leg. Blonde Bitch tuts, shifting closer, and Tommy relaxes. Just slightly.
He can feel it now. All wrapped up tight in bandages under his pant leg. Vague memories of a– a dog? No. Wolf. He remembers the wolf, he remembers running through the snow, and he remembers the snarling, blood on the snow, gnashing teeth –
He shivers, and someone pulls the blanket higher around him.
He doesn’t know who they are. But he knows they’re safe, that they’ll protect him. He’s in their domain, and that’s a good thing.
“You’re alright bud,” Yellow Sweater coos, “you’re okay.”
“I don’t remember being that bad when you turned me,” Pink Hair says, and the bed dips behind Tommy. Perfect.
“I think there’s a few key differences in the situation,” Blonde Bitch mutters. He sounds amused.
The hand in Tommy's hair stops, moving to press against his forehead. “I don’t like this fever,” Yellow Sweater mutters, brushing sweat-sticking hair away from Tommy’s face, “I don’t think I've ever seen it get this high.”
“He was almost hypothermic on top of the bite by the time Techno got him back– honestly it’s just a miracle it took so fast.” Blond Bitch says, a hand resting on Tommy’s cheek. “I don’t think we would have made it in time otherwise.” He pauses, thumb brushing along Tommy's cheekbone. “It’s going to be a hard turn. No matter which way it goes.”
“He’ll be fine.” Pink Hair says, and Tommy is suddenly acutely aware of how far away he’s sitting. The rest of them are nice and warm and close– could be closer, but Tommy thinks he’d say that if they were laying on top of him– and this bitch is practically halfway across the continent. Fucking bastard. Absolute wrong’un. Abusing poor, sick teenagers like this. “We’ve got him, now.”
“What happened to ‘we don’t need anymore pack members,’” Blond Bitch teases. Pink Hair huffs.
“There’s no guarantee he’ll want to stay once his first moon hits.” The bed shifts, and Tommy decides enough is enough. He summons all his strength and reaches out, leadened arm blindly swiping behind him for the warmth. It mostly just smacks against the bed; Pink Hair is just too far out of reach, too busy talking bullshit and not making sense to come closer so Tommy can fucking sleep. Tommy whines again, and Blond Bitch laughs.
“Mate, I'm not too sure about that,” he says, shifting closer. Which would be great if Pink Hair would get the fucking message. “He seems pretty attached.”
Pink Hair grumbles, finally, finally, shifting closer so his knee is pressed against Tommy’s back. And something in his head shifts.
Safe , it mutters, Warm and Safe.
Pack.
He relaxes, going boneless against Yellow Sweater's leg with a sigh. Finally, these fuckers really don’t know how to stop talking. Blah-blah-blah. Fevers, turning, whatever. Who cares? Not Tommy. He’s got other shit to worry about, like sleeping. Which sounds pretty fucking good right about now. He thinks he could spend a few good years doing it honestly.
He still feels like absolute shit, but there’s something fuzzy and soft in his brain, content to sit and enjoy the company. Nothing else matters.
He curls up with a sigh.
“Yeah,” the Blond Bitch says softly, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder, “I think he might be ours now.”
Tommy doesn’t know what that means, but it sounds right. He’s theirs, and they’re his. Family. Pack .
Pink Hair flops down on the bed behind him, shoulder and side against Tommy’s back. Blond Bitch shifts so his leg is bumping against Tommy’s, hand still settled on his shoulder. Yellow Sweater, codename: Tommy’s New Pillow , keeps running his hands through Tommy’s hair. And finally, finally, Tommy feels warm.
He falls asleep, warm and safe. Surrounded by pack .
There’s hair in Tommy’s mouth.
He scrunches up his nose, pulling his head away from the large fluffy bastard he’d been drooling on-- serves him right, shedding all over the place when reasonable folks are trying to sleep. Tommy swears some days he can hardly take a breath without getting a lungful of fur. They need to get some dog brushes or something, this just isn’t going to work.
He huffs, trying to wipe the hair off his tongue with the back of his hand. Disgusting, why does he live with such terrible, inconvenient creatures?
The shape by his head rumbles, low and warm as a snout pokes its way out of the pile. Golden eyes blink lazily as it tilts in a silent question.
“You’re shedding, big man.” Tommy mutters, leaning back against the wolf. Phil is curled up on his other side, Wilbur draped over his legs like a massive, fuzzy blanket. They’re all sandwiching him in, and maybe when he’d first got here he would have hated it. Would have felt trapped, helpless in the face of these massive monsters. But now? “Who fuckin’ built you like this, huh? I bet there’s more hair than brains in you.”
Techno huffs, warm breath tousling Tommy’s hair as he rolls his eyes.
Wilbur's tail wags lazily as he twitches in his sleep. One of those chasing dreams. Tommy is so going to make fun of him later-- a great big wolf with a tiny little dog brain.
“Technoblade more like fuckin’-- Techno– Techno-hairball.” Tommy says drowsily, pressing closer into Technoblade’s side. Technoblade runs the warmest out of all of them, especially when he’s shifted. Tommy won’t go within a mile of him in the summer, but right now? He’s a walking, sometimes talking heat pack.
Phil makes a low, snorting sound from Tommy’s left, lifting his head and gently nudging into Tommy’s side. Tommy lifts his arm, giving him a few gentle pats. Lets him shove his snout against Tommy’s chest.
“Clingy,” Tommy mutters, scratching idly behind Phil's ears. That weird little voice in the back of his head is muttering something about pack again .
Phil says it’s a side effect of the bite. You get nipped, spend a few weeks feeling ten steps from the grave, and then the full moon hits and you flip a coin; either you’re a werewolf, or you get a bunch of weird werewolf-adjacent traits and pack instincts. Something about making sure important humans are cared for, makes it easier to bond. Et cetera. Tommy doesn’t really care, just knows it really, really likes when the rest of them get cuddly, pressing in around him with that little voice muttering safe, safe, home .
He brings up a hand to rub at his eyes, ignoring Phil’s soft snort as he stares up at the ceiling. Blinking sluggishly.
Contrary to what Phil says, he’s not too different now that he’s gotten nipped. He’s always been territorial, snappy. Always held on too tight to things. Techno called it loyalty; Tommy calls it not knowing when to fucking quit. But with his-- with his family, his pack , it’s not-- it’s not bad, really. It’s good. They don’t care, when he gets territorial. Don’t care when he doesn’t want to leave things behind, don’t care when he clings and won’t let go. They just laugh and let it happen. Swept up in his riptide without a care in the world.
Tommy would do anything to keep them all right where they are.
Well, maybe not exactly where they are.
“Fuckin-- Wil.” Tommy smacks the wolf draped over his leg. “My leg's falling asleep. Wil --” He shoves at Wilbur’s fuzzy head. He’s heavy, a few hundred pounds of pure wolf trying to give Tommy a dead leg. “Fucking move .”
Wilbur grumbles, shifting in his sleep. He sleeps like a log-- no. Not a log. Something worse than a log. A brick. Or a Wilbur , because he’s just bad enough that he gets to be his own metric of terrible.
He rolls further onto Tommy's leg, and Tommy hisses as pins and needles shoot up the deadening limb. “Fucking– bitch, wake up you hair-brained–” He tries to shove Wilbur off with his other foot. Techno rumbles behind him. “Don’t fuckin’ laugh at me you– you bitch!”
Phil is laughing too, Tommy knows he is. He’s doing that stupid little dog-laugh he does. Tommy shoots him a glare, and he just snorts.
They’re all terrible, Tommy decides. Giant, terrible, smelly dogs who he only stays with out of pity. They’d just be too sad without him, wouldn’t know how to cope. And anyone who says otherwise is committing slander.
“Fuckers,” Tommy mutters, flopping back against Techno, accepting his fate as they all settle back in. Phil shoves his snout back against Tommy’s chest, Technoblade's tail wagging lazily. Wilbur twitches, like he’s trying to run in place. Tommy yawns.
He’s so gonna make fun of Wilbur for this tomorrow.