Archive of Our Own

The first time the scrawny little seven-year-old places a loaf of bread, two cans of Spaghetti-O's, and a jug of water on Techno’s counter at Essempi Supermarket, Techno has to do a double take.

The kid is blond, blue-eyed, and barely tall enough to see over the conveyor belt. He stands on tip-toes as he chucks both cans up, and manages to hoist the jug of water as high as his shoulder before Techno takes it from him. He can’t be older than eight years old.

“Easy there, buddy,” Techno says, lifting the jug and sliding it across the scanner. The monotonous beep that resounds has become so frequent he barely takes note of it. “This one’s pretty heavy, isn’t it?”

He smiles, aiming to be friendly, but when he looks back over at the kid there’s a scowl painted across his face. Okay. Maybe not the type for trivial conversation. That’s fine, Techno usually isn’t either. It’s his sixth hour of shift-work, though, and he’s so bored he’s started stacking the register’s coins into mini Leaning Tower of Pisa’s on the counter. Speaking of which…

Techno swipes the quarters off the counter, away from the judgmental eyes of the kid, and clears his throat. “So ah… where are your parents? I’m assuming they’re the ones with the cash.”

He turns to the register to dump the coins, and when he turns back, the kid is glaring daggers at him again. He digs in his coat pocket for a second—little hand rifling around the puffy, red fabric—and withdraws a twenty, which he slaps on the conveyor belt directly in front of Techno.

He doesn’t say anything else, just stands back as Techno’s brow pinches.

Warily, Techno takes the bill and turns to the register. This is officially getting weird. He’d sort of been joking when he asked about the kid’s parents, but now… where are the kid’s parents? Did they let him run in here all by himself? He’s like… seven! Perfectly kidnappable—not that Techno’s an expert in that field or anything.

“Wait.”

It’s the first word Techno’s heard out of the kid’s mouth, and it rips him from his thoughts just in time to see a tiny handful of coupons waving up at him.

“Take these, too,” the kid’s high, squeaky voice demands. And Techno dutifully reaches over the counter and takes them.

“Listen, kid,” he says as he rings up the Spaghetti-O's, water, and bread. “You really shouldn’t be in here without an adult. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, and this is an Essempi-Mart. A-K-A not the highest security establishment.”

“So you’re saying I could steal from here, if I wanted to?”

“No. I’m sayin’ you could get kidnapped.”

The kid doesn’t respond, and Techno turns back to bag the groceries for him. “Tell your parents to come in with you next time.”

“Okay,” the kid mutters, but he’s not really paying attention. His eyes are fixed on the bagging system as Techno spins it around.

As soon as everything's packed away, the kid tears his bags from the bagging hooks and clutches them to his chest. He’s so small, Techno thinks. If he stacked the kid’s three bags up like his quarter towers, they’d be exactly his height. Maybe even taller. There’s no way a child this small should be in here alone. Especially not so close to Christmas, when the stores are packed with last-minute shoppers and kidnappings become a more common occurrence. Just the other day, Techno saw a MISSING poster taped to the telephone pole outside.

“What are you doing?”

Techno blinks. “Ah… closing the register?”

The kid’s expression contorts into a scowl again. “I need my change. You owe me twenty cents.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

It takes Techno five seconds to slide two dimes from the register. He hands them to the kid, who shuffles them into one of his three bags, then turns and starts waddling to the exit doors.

“Do you need help with that?” Techno calls after him. “Let me— I can help you carry them to your parents’ car. The water's heavy.”

The kid shakes his head, blond hair flying, and calls back, “No thanks! They’re right outside the doors!” Then, before Techno can move to help him, he slips out the door and disappears in the entryway.

Well, at least he said they were right outside. Techno sinks back against the register, eyes glued to where the tiny mop of bright hair had vanished into the outer world.

Only three hours left until he could do the same.

God, Techno thought, exhaling as he popped the register back open and started extracting coins. I need a raise.

Techno isn’t working long hours for no reason. No. This is strategy.

You see, Techno comes from a family of four. There’s Phil, his dad, who works as an architect with some firm whose long and complicated name Techno can’t be bothered to learn. ‘Antarctic’ something (why it’s called “Antarctic” when the firm is located in the bright, sunny state of California is beyond Techno’s comprehension). Then there’s Kristin, who Phil married two years ago. She owns a tiny bookshop on Wilshire Boulevard, which Phil and Techno frequented for months before Phil finally garnered the courage to ask her out.

“Ask her,” Wilbur would hiss, sticking Phil in the ribs as they stood in line for checkout. Phil would smile and nod, then promptly chicken out upon reaching the front desk. That was fine, though, because Kristin wasn’t much better. It took Techno and Wilbur weeks of goading to get her to pop the question.

Wilbur, the final member of Techno’s little family, is his twin. Bushy haired, bright eyed, he’s everything that Techno isn’t. But he’s also Techno’s other half, his partner in crime, and his accomplice for late-night ice-cream runs at the McDonald’s down the street. They do almost everything together, and that—in Techno’s opinion—pretty much makes up for their lack of physical similarities. Wilbur is Techno’s best friend. He’s family, and Techno loves his family.

Which is why, at five P.M. on a Friday, Techno clocks in for another long night shift.

He needs the money. With Christmas coming up and three family members to buy gifts for, he needs cash. So he works long hours. He picks up shifts. Tonight, he’s picked up a coworker’s who’s out sick with the flu. It’s that nasty time of year when everything is going around at once, so Techno isn’t surprised when he gets the text: Can you work tonight?

He pops a vitamin C, then heads over.

Now, pushing one of the stocking carts down the pasta aisle, he thinks picking this particular shift may not have been his brightest idea.

It’s only six, and he’s tired. Exhausted, one might say. He’s been working the night shift for nearly a week now—with continuous morning hours to compliment it—and the routine is getting tedious. His limbs are heavy when he pushes the cart, and all he really wants is to migrate his way to the toilet paper aisle, build himself a fort, and lay down in the middle of it (he’s seen someone do that before—a coworker named George—and despite the obvious lack of effort put into George's shift that day the managers let him off with a warning).

Techno doesn’t give in to temptation, though. Instead, he plops down on the spaghetti aisle’s linoleum floor, and starts unloading containers of parmesan cheese one by one onto the bottom shelf.

He’s been there five minutes when the voice speaks.

“Excuse me, sir?”

It takes Techno a second to realize it’s talking to him. The voice is high pitched and sweet, oddly familiar, but no one calls Techno “sir.” He’s only seventeen, and according to his father, he looks even younger. Half the time, he gets away with avoiding customers on shift because they think he’s too young to work here—a nice perk to his age. He’s not the biggest fan of socializing.

When Techno turns around, though, the boy standing behind him is even younger.

“Ah, kid, what are you doin’ back here again?” Techno asks, shoulders sinking in recognition. “Your parents—”

“Are here,” the boy fires back before Techno can finish. He shifts on his feet—clad in little red rain boots, Techno realizes, with mud stuck to the soles—and points to the top shelf. “Can you get that down for me?”

Techno follows the boy’s finger to a jar of pasta sauce, way at the top, and huffs. He pushes to his feet, grabs the jar, and when he returns it’s to find the kid smiling for the first time Techno can remember.

“Thank you!” the boy says, wrapping both arms around the pasta sauce and squeezing tight.

“Is that all you need?” Techno asks. He takes a glance down either side of the aisle, looking for a cart, a basket, parents. None of the above appear. Instead, the boy hoists the sauce higher and bobs his head.

“Yes. Thank you, Mister.”

“Techno,” Techno corrects, and the boy’s heels plop back to the ground. “My name’s Techno.”

“I’m Tommy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.”

“You too. I have to go now.”

“Sure,” Techno says, and waves as Tommy scurries out of the aisle and toward the front of the store.

When he sits back down, there’s a warm, cozy feeling in his chest. He likes kids. Kids are funny, and cute, and do stupid shit that Wilbur (who used to volunteer at a daycare) complains about but Techno always finds secretly hilarious. Like throwing spaghetti at the walls during lunch because it looks like Spider-Man’s web. Or trying to cook up new concoctions with every ingredient under the sun, only to make something resembling mud that the adults now have to try, because if they don’t, the kid will cry.

Techno pushes the last canister of cheese onto the shelf, then stands up.

The kid’s name is Tommy. Tommy, who doesn’t act quite like a kid, but can’t be any older than seven. Tommy who’s voice is funny and sweet, like a child’s, but uses it to ask for his change, or for food from a shelf that he shouldn’t have to carry. Tommy whose parents Techno still hasn’t met.

A cold, uneasy weight blankets over the warmth in Techno’s chest. Something is wrong, here. He knows it.

He just has to figure out what.

He sees Tommy more often, after that.

Maybe it’s just because he’s conditioned himself into picking him out of a crowd, now, or maybe it’s because Tommy is genuinely coming in more. Either way, Techno finds him, and they get to talking.

It’s never about anything important. Half the time, it’s Tommy leaning against the counter and scuffing his boots against the floor until they squeak while Techno talks about, well, anything. Greek myths or his favorite books, school or home, his mom’s bookstore and his dad’s architect firm that’s name makes no sense in California (Tommy agrees with him on that). Techno admits he’s been working more to save up for his family’s Christmas gifts, and when he asks Tommy if he’s getting his family presents too, he just shrugs and says he doesn’t get much allowance.

That’s one thing Techno’s noticed more and more of: Tommy’s refusal to talk about his home life. At first, he thinks maybe he’s just abiding to the ‘Stranger Danger’ rule everyone learns as a child. But then he’ll ask the simplest question, something along the lines of “Does your family have any traditions during the holidays,” and Tommy won’t respond. He’ll shut down entirely, or move on to a topic so far from the original that Techno will wonder if he was listening at all.

Techno asks him how old he is (seven; Techno was right), and what his favorite food is (macaroni and cheese from Sam’s Diner, next door). He asks him if he has any pets (no, unless a pet rock counts) and if he has a favorite color (bright red, like his boots). In return, Techno tells him his own answers. He’s seventeen, likes pizza but also any form of potatoes, and doesn’t have a pet but Wilbur is practically desperate to obtain a capybara (whatever the heck that is). His favorite color is light blue.

“Like my sweater!” Tommy grins, tugging at the hoodie he’d been wearing. It’s old and worn, faded to more of a grey than blue, but Techno smiles and nods anyway.

When Tommy beams up at him, he knows the white lie is worth it.

When he’s not busy and Tommy stops by, Techno shows him around the store. He teaches him his favorite ingredients, and tells him about all the recipes Phil can make. When he talks about how Wilbur burned their last lasagna, Tommy giggles and asks how to make it.

“What do you make for Christmas dinner?” Tommy asks one day. He’s only popped in for a bit, telling Techno his parents are waiting for him in the car and all he needs is two bottles of Coca-Cola for them.

“Well,” Techno hums, scanning the two drinks mindlessly, “if we’re feeling up to it, Dad will make ham, and I’ll help him with potatoes. Wilbur makes the green beans, because they’re easy, and Kristin helps a little with everything.”

“That sounds like a lot,” Tommy mumbles, and when Techno peeks back over the register Tommy’s frowning to himself, absentmindedly picking at one of the stickers stuck to the side of the counter.

Techno shrugs. “Other times we just order pizza. Or Chinese food.”

“Do you think Sam’s Diner makes pizza?”

Techno hums, ringing Tommy up. The total is just barely four dollars, so instead of making him pay, he digs in his own pocket until he finds four crumpled bills and shoves them into the register.

“They might. You could go next door and ask them. Or you could ask your parents to read you the menu.”

“I know how to read, stupid,” Tommy snarks back, and Techno chuckles.

He hands the sodas over the counter, and when Tommy starts to pull bills from his own pockets, Techno shakes his head.

“I already paid for you, kid. Don't worry about it. Tell your parents I said Merry Christmas.”

Tommy stares at him for a second, mouth popped open like a goldfish’s. Then he clicks it shut, and nods his head.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers back, soft and barely audible. Then he takes the soda, whirls on the heels of his little red boots, and hurries off to the exit.

Techno watches until the boots disappear, then sighs.

He has a feeling his Christmas greeting isn’t going to make it back to anyone.

The next shift starts like this.

It’s morning. Techno’s making his rounds through the store, half-awake because the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, and desperately praying no one will ask for his help. This is the easiest part of his early shifts. Walk around the store. Make sure everything looks in order. Make sure no one needs help, which no one usually does at seven in the morning, thank god. It’s almost always quiet. Always boring. It’s—

There’s a giant smash, then a continuous series of crashes from the aisle right next to Techno’s. He freezes.

Shit. That was not quiet, nor boring.

By the time he books it around the edge of the aisle, the crashing has slowed to single drops of glass on tile. Like snow, it’s shattered all across the floor, glistening and winking in the sun as Techno takes in the mess of olive oil, glass, and—

“Tommy?”

Tommy, jeans soaked in oil and red rubber boots gleaming in the light, kneels in the middle of it all, hands desperately trying to sweep up a mess that just keeps spilling out again.

“Tommy, no, don’t touch the glass!” Techno swears, and before he can think it through he’s crunching through the glass, keeping ahold of his balance by gripping the empty shelves beside him. When he reaches Tommy’s side, he bends down and snags both his wrists, yanking them away from the glass.

He’s bleeding. He’s already bleeding, fingertips torn and red, and Techno swears again and presses the hem of his Essempi apron to the cuts.

“What were you thinking?” Techno asks, continuing to hold there as the oil seeps around them, carrying glass to the edges of the aisle. “You don’t touch glass! Not ever with your hands. You could get hurt! Like, like this! And—”

Tommy’s hands are shaking. Cupped between Techno’s palms and his apron, the kid’s hands are trembling like leaves. It takes Techno a second too long to recognize it, but when he does he ducks his head down, trying to see past the curtain of blond hair obscuring the kid’s face.

“Tommy?”

When Tommy looks up, he’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers out, words spilling out like… well, like the oil spreading all around them. “I didn’t mean to knock them all down. I just wanted one! But I couldn’t reach. And then when I climbed on the shelf I slipped, and I caught myself but I knocked a bottle over, and it knocked another one over, and another, and another, and then they all fell and I couldn’t catch them and I tried picking up the glass and—”

Tommy cuts himself off with a sob, and Techno instinctively pulls him closer. His knees are still in the glass, he realizes, so he hoists him up and carefully—oh so carefully—sloshes his way back out of the oil. Only once they're on solid ground again does he set Tommy down. 

The poor kid is covered in cooking oil. It’s soaked into his jeans and splattered all over his boots. His long sleeves evidently hadn’t been rolled up before he started trying to scoop the mess up, because the oil has stained the hems yellow.

There’s glass stuck to his knees—just little shards, easy for Techno to pick out of his jeans and toss back to the floor, but it makes Techno’s heart twist every time Tommy winces. He kneels in front of him until every last piece is gone, then looks up at the teary, pink and puffy-eyed face.

“There,” he says, brushing himself off and standing up. His hands are covered in oil, and so are his clothes. His clothes that he’ll have to be in for the next seven hours, because his shift has just barely started.

He ignores that reality for now, focusing on Tommy. “Better?”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy wobbles out again, not answering. “I didn’t mean to make a mess or… or make you mad.”

“Mad? I’m not mad.”

Concerned, sure. Not thrilled about having to clean up a mess of oil and glass later, for certain. But he’s not mad. How could he be? Tommy’s only seven. He hadn’t known any better. Plus, for the third time in a week, there are no parents around who would have been able to help him. No adult running to his aid. He’s alone.

“You were yelling,” Tommy says, sniffling. “About– about the glass?”

“Oh. No, Tommy. I’m not mad. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself. It was an accident, and—”

The rest of his assurance is cut short as someone clears their throat behind him. Techno turns, and is met with the front of his manager’s Essempi apron. When he tilts his chin up, a scowl and crossed arms greet him.

“What happened here?” Techno’s manager asks.

“Uhhhh…” Techno glances at the pond of cooking oil and glass in the middle of the aisle, then at the kid, quivering beside him. The decision he makes is easy. “It was an accident. I knocked a bottle over, and then the whole row came crashing down. My bad.”

He ignores the sound of Tommy’s mouth popping open in surprise, and stands. “I’ll clean it up, and you can take the cost off my next paycheck. Sorry.”

For a second, he’s not sure his manager believes him. His eyes flick to the spot behind him, where Techno knows Tommy’s standing, then back to Techno’s face. Finally, he sighs and lets his arms fall slack.

“Fine. Be more careful, next time. There’s going to be a big rush to the baking aisle now that it’s getting close to Christmas, and I don’t want customers complaining that we don’t have supplies in stock. And apologize to his parents, please.”

“I will,” Techno promises.

He watches his manager go, then turns around, fully intent on asking Tommy where his parents actually are. Why they hadn’t come running when they heard the crash. Why they hadn’t been there in the first place. He has his sneaking suspicions, of course. But this is his excuse to ask. To maybe have a chance at a real answer.

When Techno turns around, he is met with open and empty air.

Tommy is gone.

Turns out, cooking oil is fucking expensive.

Maybe not a single bottle of it, but dozens of bottles? Glass bottles? Techno’s not just taking money from his next paycheck. He’s taking money from his next three paychecks, which, in turn, means more work.

There are only eight days until Christmas. A week and a day. Techno’s gotten gifts for Phil and Kristin by now, but Wilbur’s been talking about this one telescope forever, and Techno’s been forced to listen, and because of that he’s been saving. He has. There’s a stash of cash under his bed, and a bigger stash in his bank account. But now—after what Wilbur’s stated referring to as ‘The Great Oil Spill’—he’s going to have to work extra hard to catch up.

He clocks into work at two, and stays until closing at eleven. As he’s packing up, he takes a glance out the window and realizes it’s started to rain. It’s been much colder lately—a front that’s gusted in—so he wraps his jacket around himself and pulls up the hood, praying it shields him from the icy droplets enough to make it to his shitty sedan.

He clocks out, locks the door behind him, steels himself, then walks quickly and purposefully (the technical term is ‘runs’) to his car. He practically throws himself into the driver’s seat, and as soon as the engine coughs to life he slams the button for the seat-heaters. They’re half broken, but still functional, which is about all he can ask of anything at the moment.

After his teeth stop chattering and his fingers are warm enough to wrap around the wheel, he puts the car in reverse and peels toward the parking lot’s exit.

The nice thing about leaving at this time of night is that there’s hardly anyone around. On the sidewalk leading to the store, on the streets surrounding it—it’s all empty.

Techno flicks his windshield wipers on, cruising past the thin alleyway between Essempi and the diner next door, and that’s when he sees it. Between one windshield swipe and the next, his headlights sheen off of something bright red and plastic-y in the alley. As quickly as the light catches them they’re gone, pulled back behind the diner’s dumpster, but it’s too late. Techno—without stopping to think about how stupid, or terrible, or what the consequences of seeing this would actually be—is already pulling over and getting out.

He hasn’t even left the parking lot yet. Essempi’s lot and the diner’s are conjoined, and the exit is still about twenty feet from where he’d halted in the middle of the road. But his heart is pounding and adrenaline is rushing and he’s not worried about the rain or the cold anymore—not for him, at least.

Those were Tommy’s boots.

When Techno enters the alley, it’s dark. The diner’s overhanging roof cuts off some of the rain, which is good, but it also cuts off the parking lot lights, and makes the wind whistle ominously overhead. It’s a bit like entering a cave, Techno thinks. Then he stops thinking, because about five steps in he hears shuffling, and a tiny cough, and all the suspicions he’s had—the fears—click neatly into place.

“Tommy?”

Techno rounds the corner of the dumpster, and sure enough, there is Tommy. He’s curled up against the wall, knees to his chest and trembling violently. There’s a blanket tossed over his knees, but it’s covered in dirt and grime and is so torn at the edges it’s like it’s been through a paper shredder. Beside him, three plastic bags of groceries sit, and it makes Techno sick to realize they’re all the things Tommy has been buying from his store. His work.

Under the bags, a pile of clothes is sat gathering dirt and water from the rain. There’s a toothbrush, there, and a stick of toothpaste so mangled it can’t have much life left in it.

“G-go away,” Tommy demands, pulling on his best scowl. It’s terribly ineffective. Mostly because Tommy looks too tired to put any heat behind his eyes, and he’s shivering too hard for the words to come out clearly. It’s a slurred and miserable attempt at anger, and Tommy seems to know it.

He sinks back against the stone behind him, tucking his knees further to his chest.

“P-please,” he says, still miserable. “T-this is… my house. I d-didn’t say y-you could come in… b-bitch.”

Techno ignores the horribly stuttered attempt at a curse word, and crouches down in front of the kid. “You can’t live here, Tommy. This isn’t a home, it’s an alleyway.”

“It's m-mine”. Tommy shivers, and before Techno can think twice he’s yanking off his own coat and shoving it over Tommy’s shoulders.

Tommy shoves weakly at his hands, but the fight is easy. Too easy. Tommy trembles, then coughs, and Techno succeeds in looping the coat around his back and pulling the hood over his blond curls. When he’s done, Tommy’s staring up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Tech’,” he whines. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you warm. C’mon. Can you get up?”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere…”

“Tommy. It’s freezin’ outside right now. Don’t make me sit out here and argue with you. I’m bringing you to my house.”

“Y-your house?” Tommy blinks slowly, and Techno’s chest squeezes.

“Yes. How long have you been out here?”

“Mm…” Tommy leans his head back against the wall, thinking. “The diner c-closed at nine.”

Techno pulls his phone out, and the screen lights up. It’s eleven twenty-five. If what Tommy said is true, he’s been out here in the cold and rain for nearly two and a half hours.

That seals the deal for Techno. Without thinking about what Phil might say, or how Wilbur and Kristin might react, he gets his hands under Tommy and scoops him up.

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ you out of here.”

He doesn’t expect the way Tommy fights back. He thrashes and kicks like his life depends on it, getting a good enough punch in on Techno’s jaw that he’s pretty sure he’ll have a tiny, fist-shaped bruise the next morning. But eventually the cold must get to him, because halfway back to Techno’s car he sinks into Techno’s hold, curling closer to the heat and closing his eyes.

Techno pretends like the sight of Tommy conceding so easily doesn’t scare the crap out of him, and plops him in the backseat without bothering to make him sit up. He buckles him in lying down, then trudges to the driver’s side and hops back in.

“‘S this a k-kidnapping?” Tommy whispers as the car kicks back to life. “Y-you warned me ‘bout those. Am I gonna die?”

“Of course not. But you would, if you stayed out there all night. It’s cold and wet. And you’re little.”

“‘M not little.”

Too little to be striking it out on his own, homeless, Techno thinks. But they can get to that part later. For now, he’s mildly concerned Tommy’s got some level of hypothermia, and would rather get him warm before he even thinks about getting him talking.

He pumps the heat as high as it’ll go, and eases on the gas.

“Is it warm back there? Comfortable?” he asks Tommy, fifteen seconds later, as they pull up to the end of the parking lot.

There’s no response, and when Techno looks back, Tommy’s completely passed out. He’s got one hand pressed to the heater in front of him, the other clutching Techno’s jacket to his chest, and his breath is whistling in and out steadily. Asleep.

Well. He supposes that answers his question.

Gently, Techno presses the gas down and slips onto the road home.

Walking in the door with an unconscious, homeless child in his arms is a lot harder than it sounds. For starters, there’s the doorknob, and there are Techno’s hands carefully cradling Tommy to his chest. Between the two, there is a massive gap of frigid space Techno has to breach.

“Who designed these?” Techno grumbles, trying to squat and shove his key into the door handle for the fifth time. It’s a struggle with Tommy’s head lolling about in his arms. The first time, he’d nearly rammed him into the door. By now, his fingers are growing stiff from the cold, which isn’t helping matters. “I’m suing them. I’m suing them for emotional and child damages. They’ll owe me millions.”

Finally, the key clicks into place. Techno sighs in relief as he manages to twist it, and kicks the door open.

“Home!” he calls, careful not to whack Tommy’s head on the doorframe as he slips inside.

The house is warm, as always. It wraps around him like a hug, the golden-lit entryway leading him further in and toward the center of the house. The living room is off to the left, but when Techno pokes his head inside no one's there. Next stop, the kitchen. It’s just across the hallway, through a doorway on the right, and the sounds coming from inside practically guarantee someone’s in there.

Sure enough, when Techno enters, Wilbur’s standing at the counter. He’s covered in flour, hands buried in chocolate-colored dough that he’s trying—and failing—to knead.

“Techno!” he cheers, but his focus doesn’t waver from whatever concoction he’s creating. “I’m making late night Christmas cookies. You wanna— Oh.”

The oven chirps, a warning beep, and when Wilbur looks up his eyes land smack dab on Tommy’s sleeping face. For a second, neither of them move.

“Where’d you get a kid?” Wilbur finally asks, and like his words are magic, the whole house comes to life.

The back door slams shut, and both Phil and Kristin’s voices carry into the kitchen. They slip in through the mud room, shedding coats and kicking off boots from whatever expedition they’d been going on outside, and when their eyes lock on Techno and Tommy, they widen.

“Techno,” Kristin gasps, feet instinctively carrying her across the floor to him. Her hands brush over Tommy when she gets close, brow creased. “Who’s this?”

“Remember the kid who knocked all the oil down at work? The one I saw that one night, coming in alone? This is him.”

“That’s Tommy?” Phil asks, slotting into place behind Kristin.

Techno nods. “He’s really cold, Dad. I found him in the alley between Essempi and Sam’s Diner. He said he lives there.”

Wilbur shoves his way in, peering over Techno’s elbow at the tiny boy held in the crook of it. “How old is he?”

“Seven.”

“Jesus,” Phil mutters, reaching forward. Techno hands Tommy over willingly, letting his dad carry him to the living room and settle him on the couch. “Did you ask him where his parents were?”

“I don’t think… I don’t think he has any,” Techno admits. He’s had his suspicions, but finding Tommy living behind the dumpster practically confirms it. “Or, if he does, they’re not the sort of people he should be staying with anyway.”

Phil hums sympathetically, and Kristin takes his place when he backs away, smoothing a blanket down over Tommy. He’s started shivering again, which Techno thinks is a good sign. As soon as the blanket’s over his shoulders, he sighs, and all the tension in his face smooths out.

Techno uses the moment to take Tommy’s boots off, piling them on the floor next to the couch before tucking the blanket back over his socked feet.

Tommy’s always looked small—in the checkout when he could barely reach the register, in the aisle surrounded by a mess he couldn’t control—but Techno thinks he looks even smaller now, curled on his couch with his mouth popped open, exhaustion and terror and too much stress for a seven-year-old to carry weighing down his shoulders. He can’t imagine what it would feel like. In fact, he doesn’t even want to.

So he doesn’t. He leaves the adult discussions to Phil and Kristin, and slips out of the room to make hot cocoa. It’s almost one in the morning, but Wilbur had been up anyway, and there was no chance of any of them going to sleep now.

When he comes back to the living room, Phil and Kristin are on the free sofa, talking in hushed voices, and Wilbur is sitting on the floor beside Tommy like a guard dog.

“I brought you cocoa,” Techno mutters, sinking into place next to Wilbur. He’d brought three mugs, actually. One for Wilbur, one for himself, and an extra small for Tommy. Just in case he woke up.

“He’s okay, right?” Techno asks, turning to Phil. He and Kristin are both scrolling through their phones, probably trying to figure out who to call, who to talk to about a homeless child. Techno doesn’t really care. All he cares about is if Tommy’s safe or not—if the blooming pink in his cheeks is a good thing, or if they need to be calling a hospital. “He’s not gonna, like, die of hypothermia?”

“No, no, he’s fine,” Phil assures. “You did the right thing bringing him here, though. Kristin and I were just out wrapping the pipes. It’s supposed to get cold enough to freeze in the next couple hours.”

Techno steals another glance at the boy passed out behind him. What would have happened if he hadn’t pulled over? If he hadn’t seen the flash of red boots, or hadn’t recognized them? He couldn't blame Tommy for not seeking out better shelter, he was a kid who shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. Techno doubted he knew it was going to get so cold so fast. But that meant he would have been out there, alone and freezing, probably all night. He would have frozen. He could have died. 

“Can he stay here?” Techno blurts out. He doubts his family will turn Tommy away, that’s why he’d brought him here, but he has to make sure. He can’t put him back out in weather like this. He can’t. “Just for… for the night?”

Phil’s expression softens. “Of course, Tech. He can stay on the couch, and one of us can stay with him so he doesn’t wake up confused.”

“I can stay,” Techno says. “He knows me. With anyone else he’ll just freak out.”

“Okay, then you stay,” Phil concedes, and clicks off his phone. “I think we can finish figuring this all out tomorrow. Want blankets?”

Techno nods, and five minutes later he’s arranging blankets and a pillow on the sofa, getting comfortable for a long night. He thought about bringing Tommy into his room for the night, giving him his half of the bunk, but Wilbur was in there too, and Techno didn’t want to wake him in the middle of the night if Tommy decided to wake up. So Tommy stays on the couch, and Techno takes the smaller one across from him, tucking his knees in until he fits.

When he closes his eyes, it’s to the sound of Tommy’s quiet snoring, and the knowledge that he’ll have to call his boss tomorrow and request a shift change.

When Techno wakes up, there’s pressure on his lungs. It’s not very heavy. No more than the weighted blanket spread across his bottom bunk. So instead of kicking whatever it is off, Techno just sighs and cracks his eyes open.

Pale light is just starting to bleed through the cracks in the blinds. He’s on the living room sofa, a fact he’d forgotten, and there are two different blankets sliding off of him to the floor below. One is Phil’s—fuzzy green and gray with crows embroidered along the hems. The other is from his own room. Neither are the weighted blanket, though. Instead, the weight on his lungs seems to be coming from one, very small, very blond child. A child who looks about one step away from stabbing Techno’s eyes out.

“It’s too early for this,” Techno grumbles, then tucks an arm around Tommy and rolls sideways, pinning him to the couch.

“Hey!” Tommy shrieks, kicking and flailing his limbs as best he can with Techno holding him down. “Where am I? You kidnapped me! You drugged me!”

“Those are bold assumptions coming from a seven-year-old who could have frozen to death last night.”

Tommy huffs, giving up the fight in favor of sinking into the space between Techno and the back of the couch. It’s warm there, Techno knows, and Tommy settles in with a sigh.

“I would not have frozen to death,” he argues.

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the Tommy who laid shakin’ and shiverin’ in my— Oof!”

Techno jolts back as Tommy jams his knee into his stomach. He rolls sideways, and by the time he realizes he’s reached the edge of the couch it’s too late for rescue. He topples to his demise—the floor—and Tommy cackles.

“That’s what you get for—achoo!—kidnapping me!”

Techno grunts as he sits up, rubbing the shoulder he’d slammed into the carpet and glaring at the kid, but he’s not mad. He couldn’t be. Especially not when Tommy rubs his nose and sneezes again.

“I don’t feel so good,” Tommy mumbles.

“No kiddin’. You’ve probably got a cold from stayin’ out in the rain. That would certainly explain you passin’ out so quickly in my car.”

“Your car?”

“Yeah. I drove you here. This is my house. Well, my family’s house.”

At Tommy’s blank stare, Techno frowns. “You don’t remember last night?”

Tommy’s eyes slide to the living room behind him—the pictures on the walls and the empty mugs of cocoa on the coffee table. When he’s finished looking it all over, he looks back to Techno.

“This is your house? With Wilbur and Kristin and Phil?”

Techno smiles. “Yeah. I live here.”

“It’s big.”

“Well, it’s much bigger than your place, that’s for sure.”

Tommy stares at him for another second, blank-faced, then something cracks. Something splits, right down the center of him—like the first glass cracking on the floor of the grocery store—and everything starts leaking out.

“You saw my place?” Tommy whispers.

Techno nods slowly, and Tommy sinks backward in slow motion, like oil crawling away across the tile. “I found you last night, freezin' in the alleyway.”

“You saw…?”

“I saw your blanket, your groceries, your clothes. …You.”

Tommy’s eyes squeeze shut, bracing in anticipation, and Techno knows it’s now or never. He either topples the rest of the bottles now, or the one stays leaking forever, spreading and spreading until someone slips and they all crash down anyway.

“Tommy,” he whispers, reaching for his hands. Tommy keeps his eyes squeezed shut, as if not seeing the mess coming will keep it from happening. “You don’t have any parents, do you.”

It’s not really a question. After everything Techno has seen, and especially after last night, he’s one-hundred percent sure that Tommy is on his own. There is no one there on Christmas, or birthdays, or ever—for that matter. How long it’s been this way, Techno has no clue, but it’s at least been that was since the start of December. Since the first shift Techno peered over the counter and found a seven-year-old footing the bill.

Like dominoes, the rest of the glass comes crashing down.

Tommy shakes his head, and the next time his blue eyes crack open there are tears in them.

“No,” he admits, for the first time.

Techno extends his hand out further, but Tommy only eyes it distrustfully before tucking his arms to his chest. Techno takes the hint and doesn't reach farther.

“How long have you been homeless?”

“I’m not homeless. I have a home.”

“A dumpster isn’t a home, Tommy. I mean a real home. With someone who takes care of you.”

Tommy’s lower lip wobbles, but he doesn’t cry beyond the tears already built up in his eyes. Techno’s not sure if he should be impressed or horrified at the steadfast way he clings to the edge.

“Three months,” Tommy admits. And that’s such a long and short time simultaneously that Techno wants to wrap Tommy in a hug and never let him go.

“Why didn’t you tell someone? The police would have found you somewhere to stay. Somewhere warm, and good.”

Tommy shrugs. “I don’t have any more family. And someone at my old school said people who don’t have family go to live with strangers, and it’s horrible. They don’t get to play, or have snacks, or do anything on their own.”

“That’s not necessarily true.”

Tommy’s expression pinches, lip trembling harder, and Techno realizes right then that this is probably not what Tommy needs to hear. He does not need to hear that his pain could have been prevented. He’s seven. He doesn’t know any better. This isn’t his fault.

“I’m sorry,” Techno rectifies. “That must’ve been hard.”

Tommy doesn’t respond for a moment, just tucks his knees to his chest and his chin to his knees. It’s the moment right after the glass has shattered, and everything is on the floor, about to come flooding out. Techno knows it. Tommy knows it. Everyone who heard the first shattering knows it.

Tommy sniffles, and that could be passed off as just his cold. But then he coughs, and hiccups, and chokes, and he finally takes Techno’s hand as the first sob wracks through him.

“Tommy,” Techno says, guilty and pained. “Hey, hey…”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, just presses his face to the gap between his knees and cries. It’s a little like the day Tommy had been kneeling in the middle of the grocery store aisle, desperately trying to sweep up a mess already too far out of his control. Except this time the mess is much bigger, and Tommy has been trying to keep it all in for a much, much longer time.

When Techno offers him his other hand, Tommy takes it immediately. And when Techno tugs gently, the way he’d pulled Tommy’s hands away from the glass in the store, Tommy crumples forward and into his arms.

“I don’t feel good,” Tommy repeats, sniffling and shaking in his hold. “I want to go home, I want my mom, I-I—”

He cuts himself off with another sob, and Techno rises to his feet, gently rocking him as he moves from the living room to the kitchen. Tommy clings to his neck, face buried in his shoulder as he lets it all out. The grief and pain, the stress and terror—all of it. The whole mess.

Techno lets him. He digs through the cabinets while Tommy cries, fishing out the thermometer and a children’s brand of ibuprofen. It’s old and probably expired, shoved to the very back of their supply cabinet, but it’s better than nothing. He grabs a plastic cup while he’s at it, and fills it with water from the fridge. Then he carts everything back to the living room, and sets all but Tommy down on the table.

Tommy stays in his arms, sobs dying to shudders as Techno sways him back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” Techno repeats, once Tommy’s tears have all but dried against his shirt, “I know you don’t feel good. Can I take your temperature?”

Tommy sniffles and nods, pulling away, and Techno powers the thermometer on to tuck it under Tommy’s left arm. Sure enough, when the device chirps, the light flashes orange with a low-grade fever.

“Techno?” Tommy asks, and Techno pulls his eyes off the thermometer to look back at his face. It’s tear-streaked and pink, cheeks flushed with his fever.

“You’re all good,” Techno says, clicking the thermometer back off and dropping it on the coffee table. “Just a little fever, but we have medicine, and if this medicine doesn’t work I can go get more. Dad won’t mind. I can—”

“No, Techno.”

Techno pauses as Tommy sniffles, thick and disgusting, and fists a hand into Techno’s shirt.

“Yeah?”

“If I can’t stay in my house, where am I going to go? I don’t— I don’t want to go to strangers.”

“Well, uhhh…”

Techno is saved from trying to answer by Phil stepping into the room, floorboards creaking as he leans up against the doorway.

“Good morning,” his dad yawns, crossing his arms over his pajamas and watching the two of them. “Fever?”

“A tiny one.”

Tommy sniffles, clinging tighter to Techno’s chest, and that’s when he remembers Tommy was completely passed out last night. He has no memory of Phil, or Kristin, or Wilbur.

“Tommy, this is my dad,” Techno introduces, gesturing up at Phil. “His name’s Phil.”

“Hiya, mate.” Phil grins, crossing the floor to sit beside Techno. “How’re you feeling?”

“Bad,” Tommy grumbles. Then, after a moment of deliberation, “You’re old.”

Phil laughs, then Tommy sneezes, and then Wilbur’s joining them too, popping his head into the room just as Techno’s mouth splits into a grin.

“Morning Tech, Dad, Tommy,” Wilbur says, as if it’s been the four of them all his life and not just since one A.M. last night. He walks over and plops down, criss-cross, beside Phil.

“Mornin’ Wil. Tommy, this is—”

“Wilbur,” Tommy says, head raising from Techno’s shoulder. “I know. Can you really find anywhere in the world just by looking at a picture?”

Wilbur's eyebrows shoot up, then he laughs, rubbing the early morning sleep out of his eyes. “Almost anywhere. I’m not the best, yet.”

“Did Tommy take any medicine?” Phil asks, gaze shifting to Techno.

“No. And that one’s old.”

“That’s fine. I can go out and get more later. If Tommy is comfortable enough to stay with Kristin and Wil by then, can you come with me?”

There’s something else in Phil’s gaze. Something underneath the question. If it hadn’t been there, Techno would have said no, would have stayed behind because right now Tommy is stuck to his shirt like a leech and he doesn’t think he’ll be thrilled having to let go. But, because of the look in Phil’s eye, he nods his head.

“Uh, sure. Yeah. Maybe let’s just have breakfast first.”

They have breakfast. Tommy sits in Techno’s lap for the first half of it, but by the time Techno’s plate is empty Tommy has moved to his own chair beside him, rambling as he pokes at scrambled eggs and toaster waffles.

When Techno brings up him and Phil leaving to get medicine, Tommy is too enthralled in a story Wilbur's telling him about a woman he saw selling dolls on the beach to really care. He only clings to him a little bit before letting him go.

On the ride to the store, Phil asks Techno everything. How long has Tommy been living behind the dumpsters? What happened to his parents? Didn't he have any other relatives? Techno answers with as much as he knows, which isn’t a lot, and Phil sighs and says they should probably get some authorities involved.

“No,” Techno says automatically. “We can't do that. Tommy said doesn’t want to wind up living with strangers.”

“We’re strangers,” Phil replies, parking the car in front of Walgreens and turning to face him, “and he’s staying with us just fine.”

“He knows me,” Techno shoots back, “that’s why he’s comfortable here. He doesn’t want the government to decide his life for him.”

“He doesn’t, or you don’t?”

Techno goes silent for a moment. “Maybe a bit of both.”

He can feel Phil’s eyes on him when he looks down, avoiding the Dad Gaze and staring pointedly at his lap. He knows he’s being stupid, and maybe a little selfish—because he likes Tommy, has grown to see him almost as a little brother—but he hadn’t been lying. Tommy said he didn’t want to live with strangers.

Finally, the keys jangle out of the ignition, and when Techno raises his head Phil is getting out of the car.

“Come on,” Phil says, smiling in defeat and jutting a thumb toward the Walgreens. “Let’s just worry about getting him well, first. Then we can talk about where he’s going to stay.”

When they get back to the house, Kristin, Wilbur, and Tommy are all piled around the coffee table, completing a puzzle. Tommy’s not very good at figuring out where the pieces go, but he’s great at smacking them into place, and giggles when Wilbur tells him his role is the ‘Puzzle Sticker.’ The one who glues it all together.

Techno gives him his medicine, and half an hour later he’s back to his usual Tommy self, wandering the house and asking questions about everything. The photos on the walls, the books on Techno’s shelves. He infiltrates their room (Techno holds the door open) and leaves with a bucketful of new questions answered.

At some point he gets tired again. His nose starts to run, and his cough starts to itch, so Techno carries him to his room and lets him sprawl out over his bunk. He gives him the weighted blanket, and Tommy curls into it with a sigh.

“I like your house,” Tommy admits, tired eyes drifting from Techno’s face to the room behind him. “And your family. They’re very nice.”

“Yeah?” Techno says, sinking down to sit on the floor beside the bed. “That’s good to know. I like them, too.”

Tommy yawns, and his eyelids flutter. “I like your grocery store, too. Some places didn’t like when I made messes. But you… you…” Tommy yawns again, and when Techno leans forward, trying to prompt him into finishing, Tommy’s eyes are already closed.

Techno huffs a laugh. “Wilbur really tuckered you out, huh? Givin’ you the whole little brother experience.”

Tommy, naturally, doesn’t respond.

Techno ruffles his hair on the way out.

Tommy stays another night. Then another. By that point, Techno’s pretty sure Phil isn’t even thinking of contacting authorities anymore. But, to make sure, he asks, “Is Tommy  stayin' for Christmas?”

Phil sighs, taking a right on L’manberg Street. They’re headed to Essempi, dropping Techno off for his final shift before Christmas. He’s almost got enough money saved for Wilbur’s telescope, now. Just a couple dollars short. It’s change he could probably just borrow from Phil, but this is his first year with a Big, Important job that isn't dog-walking for the neighbors, and he has this stupid desire to get the gifts himself.

“Yes,” Phil eventually says, and Techno tries to ignore the excited leap his heart does. “After that, we need to sit down and talk, though. Seriously. I know he says he’s got nowhere to go, but we can’t keep holding onto him forever. Not without proper documents.”

“Documents? What sort of documents would you need?”

Phil doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, he pulls up to Essempi’s front entrance, and clicks the unlock button on the car doors.

“Get out of my car,” he teases, and Techno, with a fond roll of his eyes, does as he’s told.

That shift he doesn’t see Tommy, but for the first time in a while he’s not disappointed about it. He knows he’s at home.

Christmas comes too soon and not soon enough. Techno wraps gifts all Christmas Eve, letting Tommy help him by sticking on the tape. He’d gotten over his sickness a couple days ago, charging through it the way young kids do, and since then he’d been a ball of energy. Up and down the stairs, through the halls; Techno stumbled in on a particularly sweet moment when he’d been using that unending energy to help Kristin and Phil bake cookies.

The next morning, Wilbur is up first. He wakes Techno up when he leans over the bunk bed’s railing and says, “Merry Christmas!”

“Urgh,” Techno responds, rolling sideways and nearly smacking into Tommy.

Tommy's climbed into Techno’s bed nearly every night since Techno went back to sleeping in his own room. His excuse is that the cot they set up for him on the floor gets too cold, but Techno thinks it’s more than that. Especially when Tommy whimpers and tosses in his sleep, and when Techno eventually sighs and lifts up his covers, he bounds in like a terrified puppy.

Sleeping alone is a lot harder when you’ve experienced first hand how lonely it can get, Techno supposes.

Either way, Tommy shifts beside him, and Techno is up.

He pushes up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as Wilbur practically catapults out of the loft.

“Slow down,” Techno whines, carefully sliding past Tommy to the end of the bed. “You’re gonna wake Tommy up.”

“‘M already up,” Tommy mumbles. He yanks his arms free from Techno’s weighted blanket, and reaches up to rub his eyes. “W’as the hurry?”

“It’s Christmas, Tommy,” Wilbur whispers excitedly. “C’mon! You’ve got gifts!”

“Gifts?”

Techno feels the corner of his mouth tilt up when Tommy turns to him, furiously blinking the sleep out of his utterly-bewildered eyes.

“What gifts?”

“Christmas presents. Remember the ones we wrapped? You have some, too.”

He expects Tommy’s eyes to clear, for a smile to grow, for him to get excited. Instead, Tommy tilts his head.

“Why?”

“Why?” Wilbur gets it out first, spluttered and surprised. “What do you mean ‘why?’ You’re living with us.”

“I’m not family. I thought… Christmas is for family.”

The bedroom goes silent for a minute. Neither of them know how to respond to that, Techno thinks. He certainly doesn’t. Because technically, Tommy’s right about one thing. He’s not family. Not by blood. Barely even by relation, because Techno’s only known him for about a month now, and Wilbur and the rest of his family's known him for even less. But he’s not not family either. Techno doesn’t… Techno’s not sure what he is.

“You’re family,” Wilbur finally says, decisive. “You’re… you’re Tommy. Christmas is for you, too.”

Tommy’s expression clears, but before Techno can add anything else to what Wilbur’s already said, Tommy’s sliding out of bed and heading to the door.

“Okay, let’s go then,” he says, and when he turns, he’s sporting the wildest grin Techno’s ever seen.

He laughs. “Alright. Merry Christmas, Tommy.”

Techno’s hours of work were not for nothing. Phil’s dark green robe is wrapped around him as soon as he opens it, and Kristin’s necklace—a locket with a picture of all three of them inside—glitters when she clasps it around her neck. Wilbur is ecstatic when he opens his telescope, and Phil smiles approvingly when Techno proudly says he paid for it all by himself.

Then there’s Tommy’s gift. It was a little last minute, but Techno had seen the state of his clothes in the alley, and he’d taken it upon himself to buy him new ones. A t-shirt for the warmer days—which California has many of—and a thick, red-knit sweater for the colder ones. Tommy’s favorite color. His eyes go big and round when he puts the sweater on, then curls his arms around himself and melts.

“Soft,” he mutters, near-reverently, and Phil and Kristin both crack up.

From Phil, Techno gets a book of myths he’d been dying for. From Kristin, a new pair of boots. From Wilbur he gets a little, lockable trunk which’s inside has been painted and etched to look like a glimmering, sparkling arctic scene.

“You’ve been working so many hours,” Wilbur says, shrugging, “I figured you’d want a place to put your earnings. Didn’t realize you were saving them all up to spend on us.”

“Did you make this?”

“Yeah. It took me forever, and don’t get me started on the little dogs I carved out in the snow. It’s supposed to be sorta a music box, too. If you twist the handle on the bottom, I composed the music for it.”

Techno’s grinning before Wilbur’s even finished speaking. By far, that’s one of his coolest Christmas gifts.

At some point during the gift giving chaos, Tommy crawls into his lap. He’s got his red sweater on, a Christmas hat on his head, and light-up sneakers pulled onto his feet. There’s a stuffed cow he’s dubbed ‘Henry’ clutched in one hand, and a blanket in the other, and he's grinning practically ear-to-ear as he snuggles in.

“Have you had a good Christmas morning?” Techno asks.

“Mhm,” Tommy hums, leaning back and tucking Henry to his chest. “I wish I’d known to get presents. I didn’t get you anything.”

“Actually,” Kristin pipes up, and when Techno looks up she’s pulling a final present from under the tree. It’s flat and square shaped, like a photo, and she holds it out to Tommy expectantly, “I think you got us one after all. Open this.”

Techno can’t see Tommy’s face from where he’s sitting in his lap, but he watches the way he slowly reaches out, taking the present from Kristin’s hands. He sees how his hands falter around the paper for a split second, confused, before he tears into it.

It's a frame. A plain black photo frame, complete with a solid backing and glass front and, when Techno squints through the overhead light’s glare, there are words inside it. They’re in thick, fancily scrawled font, so it takes Techno a second to make out his dad’s name—Philza Craft—and then the words above it.

Certificate of Completion: Congratulations to PHILZA CRAFT and KRISTIN CRAFT for completing foster care orientation. You are now ready to take the next steps toward foster parenting.

“A piece of paper?” Tommy asks as Techno’s heart skips a beat. As the air starts to sting his eyes.

“Really?” he asks, looking to his dad for confirmation. He’s leaning back on the sofa beside Kristin, trying and failing to hide his smile.

Phil nods, and Techno’s eyes sting a little harder. 

“I don’t get it,” Tommy says, frowning. “It just says… S… cer…tif…tifi…cat? Cer-ti-fi-cat of com…comp…”

“It’s a certificate of completion,” Phil gently explains. “Something Kristin and I have to do in order to—if you want us to—keep you for longer. So you can be part of our family for real.”

“Me?” Tommy asks.

Kristin nods. “You. I know you don’t want to live with strangers, but if we call some people and they decide it’s best you go into foster care, we can take you in. You can stay here. It’s important we let someone else know what’s going on, though. What if you have other family?”

“I don’t,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “I— They’re dead. My mom and dad. They’re gone.”

It’s the first time what happened to Tommy’s parents has been admitted out loud, and Techno pretends it doesn’t kill him a little to realize how much grief Tommy must’ve been living with. How much he still had on his shoulders.

How many times had he asked about them at the store, only to remind Tommy that they’re gone?

“There could be other people besides your mom and dad,” Phil cuts in softly. “We just want to make sure. Then, if there’s no one else and you still want to stay, you can stay with us. You can live here.”

Tommy’s gaze drifts back to the framed piece of paper in his hands. Absently, he drags his thumb across the top. “For how long?” he whispers.

There’s a beat. A pause. A moment when the whole living room looks to Phil and Kristin and holds its breath for an answer.

“Forever?” Phil starts, meekly, with a nervous smile and a shrug. “For as long as you want to stay?”

“We want to take care of you,” Kristin adds on, and suddenly Tommy goes very, very still in Techno’s lap.

“Take care of me?” he asks, voice quivering for the first time. “Like—” He turns to Techno, eyes wide. “Like a real home?”

It’s an echo to their conversation the first time Tommy woke up inside their house instead of in an alleyway. Techno had asked how long it’d been since he’d had a real home, where someone took care of him, and Tommy had answered. Three months. Nearly four, by now. Until now.

Techno nods. “Like a real home.”

Tommy’s breath hitches, then stills, and that’s all the warning Techno gets before the tears well up.

“I can stay with you?” Tommy asks, practically whispers, and Techno nods.

“Yeah. I— Of course you can. Would you—” He shoots a frantic glance at Phil, but he’s sitting back, watching the scene unfold with an amused, fond expression. Techno clears his throat and tries again. “Would you like that?”

Tommy bites his bottom lip and nods, hard. “Mhm,” he says first, as if he can’t trust himself to speak without shattering. Then, once he takes a breath, “Yes please.”

Techno smiles, and then Tommy smiles, and then Techno's been strangled to death (hugged) by a seven-year-old who—despite wandering into Techno’s grocery store to buy merchandise Techno was selling—had somehow wound up sticking himself on the counter instead. Somehow wound up coming home with him. Somehow wound up in his house, in his home, in his heart.

Incredibly annoying, really. Almost as annoying as the five gallons of oil he had to mop off the floor a few weeks ago.

Techno smiles, and wraps his arms back around Tommy.

"Merry Christmas, Tommy. Welcome home."