Chapter Text
Tommy was having a shitty day.
It was more of a series of days, really. A shitty past few weeks, if you will. A shitty couple of months, even. A shitty year if you include all the time he spent being fucking kidnapped.
This isn't even the shittiest day, all things considered, but it’s definitely the fucking weirdest.
The four-armed bitch is looking at him again, eyes blown wide with fear like he thinks Tommy’s gonna break straight through the glass and go for his throat. You’d think after having him locked in here for weeks the guy would realize he’s not exactly the Hulk.
Still, he makes a half-start towards him anyways, baring his teeth like a feral dog, and revels in the way he jumps half a foot in the air and scrambles back to avoid him. It’d be a lot funnier if he still wasn’t trapped in a glorified fish tank.
And then there’s the pig fucker. He lets his eyes shift over to him, looking him up and down.
That’s new. Four-arms hasn’t brought anyone back here to gawk at him since he was stuck in the tank in the first place, but it was only a matter of time. If what He said is right, he’s the only human around for lightyears. He’s surprised he hasn’t been turned into a circus attraction already.
Still, this guy doesn’t actually look like your typical circus-attendee, if you catch his drift.
He’s big, for one, the biggest space-fucker Tommy’s seen thus far. A couple feet taller than him and nearly four times as broad in the chest. He's an ugly fucker too. He lets his eyes linger on the scars criss-crossing his leathery face, and the two big tusks jutting out from his bottom lip. He’s definitely some sort of boar-man thing if the tusks and ears are anything to go by. Not the weirdest thing he’s seen in space, but it’s up there. He’s got red eyes, for fucks sake. Between that and the whole cloak and dagger thing he has going on, anyone else probably would have been scared shitless.
But not Tommy. Because Tommy was a fucking man.
He spits at him, instead. “What the fuck are you looking at, bitch? I could take your ugly ass any day!”
Predictably, he doesn’t respond. He hasn’t been around anyone who’s been able to speak English in a long, long time, but his face does shift a little. Something like rage flashes in his eyes, for just a second. It’s so quick Tommy wonders if he just imagined it.
He spits at him again, just for good measure, before he starts his usual routine of pacing back and forth in front of the glass just to watch four-arms twitch. Fuckin typical. What a coward. What did he think he was gonna do? He weighs what, ninety pounds soaking wet? He’s been able to count his ribs for the past few months, and gets dizzy when he stands up for too long. He wasn’t going to be busting through solid glass as thick as he is around the middle anytime soon.
Still, he’ll take what entertainment he can get in this hellhole. So what if it’s mean? He’s the one in a fucking cage.
The pig turns to four-arms sharp enough to make him flinch back, growling something in a low, rusty sounding language that shares an eerie resemblance to the sound Clara’s old diesel truck makes when the engine turns over. Four-arms chitters something back in his own annoying, meek little voice, quickly correcting himself when the pig gives him a look.
Then, the pig pulls something out of his pocket. He’s seen these things before, like the alien version of an iPhone, and leans closer to get a better look at the holographic screen. It’s nonsense, of course, but the swiping motions he’s doing with his fingers are familiar, like he’s scrolling through Twitter. A few weird symbols come up, and he dismisses them.
He isn’t able to get a good look before glass shatters somewhere in the front of the shop, and alarms split the air.
He jumps back with a shout, and barely has enough time to blink before the pig is reeling back his meaty fist and clocking it against four-arm’s temple hard enough to make him wince in sympathy. He falls to the floor in a heap of limbs, and the pig sets his eyes on Tommy.
His heart is pounding out of his chest, the flashing lights and blaring of the alarms already making him dizzy. He scrambles to the far end of the tank as fast as his shaking legs will let him.
“Stay back!” He snarls, lips pulled back over his teeth, “I’m fucking warning you, pig face!”
He doesn’t stop.
He matches right up to the metal door, not even bothering with the handle as he rips it off it’s fucking hinges.
His heart drops to his shoes. He snarls again, baring his teeth like a dog, the same thing he’d done to four-arms, but the pig doesn’t even blink. He clenches his shaking hands into fists, but what can he do? The guy can bend metal like play-doh, just standing is making him all lightheaded and shit. What the fuck is he supposed to do?!
Still, still, he’s not gonna let himself be bought and sold like a fucking animal. Once was more than enough, thank you very much.
The flashing red lights paint him in crimson, leaving his face in pure shadow. He tosses the remains of the door to the side with ease. He catches the glint of narrowed eyes and razor-sharp tusks, and prepares for the worst.
He expects him to come marching forwards and grab him by the neck. He expects to have his throat ripped out, or head crushed in by those big, meaty fists that knocked out four-arms with one hit. Every part of him is tensed, muscles coiled tight like a spring trap, adrenaline lighting sharp in his veins, heart pounding in his chest.
None of that happens, though.
The pig just… Looks at him, head tilted to the side. He doesn’t make any efforts to drag Tommy out of the tank, which he appreciates, but he doesn’t just leave either. He just. Stands there. Shifting his weight from hoof to hoof. Looking at him with those heavy red eyes.
Tommy stares back warily, untensing inch by inch the longer they stare at each other.
...If Tommy was a lot more fucking stupid, he’d say that it almost looked like he was struggling to find the right words to say. Of course, that would be fucking ridiculous, because as far as he knows they’re in the middle of fucking space, millions of miles away from Earth, so there would be no possible way-
“Safe.” The pig eventually growls at him, in his rusty, diesel-engine voice. “Follow. Now.”
For a whole three seconds, all Tommy does is blink.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck. They’re in the middle of fucking space how the fuck-
Wait a minute.
Was... Was he being fucking rescued?
The pig huffs in frustration at his lack of a reaction, and growls again with more insistence. He jerks his head towards the opening in glass where the door had been. “Follow. Now!”
His heart jumps again, and he scrambles forwards towards his rescuer, stumbling on still-trembling legs. “A-alright, okay, big man. Lead the way.”
The pig just tilts his head at him again, huffs out a long-suffering sigh through his nose, and turns around with a swoosh of his brown coat around his hooves. Tommy follows right at his heels.
...Was following some random alien one of his best ideas? No, probably not. Hell, following some random alien was the thing that got him into this whole mess in the first place, but it’s not like he had a ton of other options. What, was he just gonna sit around and wait for four-arms to wake up? Hell to the fucking no.
So, at least for now, he follows. The pig man strides confidently through the back rooms of the pet shop, with Tommy carefully picking his way through behind him, watching everything suspiciously with narrowed eyes. He doesn’t have a hundred pounds of muscle to his name, okay? If he could afford stomp around like he owned the place, he would.
He avoids the tanks along one wall with the animals sleeping soundly, and steps lightly over the spilled back of food on the floor, walking quickly on his toes and trying to pick out shadows the best he can with the lights still flashing and alarms threatening to burst his eardrums.
Predictably, he’s lightheaded after the first few steps, but he shakes it off, doing his best to block out the alarms. The pig seems to notice him lagging behind, and adjusts his own quick pace accordingly, hovering by the purple curtain covering the entrance to the main part of the shop so he can catch up.
He doesn’t seem upset by his slow pace, which helps to loosen the knot of anxiety in his chest just that much more.
And besides. He spoke English.
...Tommy can’t remember the last time he talked to someone. Really talked, without Him just barking out orders and commands. There’s some small, pathetic part of him that just wants to talk to someone again.
It’s a little pathetic, maybe. But still. Still. There’s just something about the pig man that makes him trustworthy. Something about the look in his ruby red eyes when he first saw him in the tank, eyes flashing with indignation and fury on his behalf. Something about the way he’s looking at him now, head tilted to the side again like a puppy. He’s a lot less terrifying when he’s not leering over him.
He wants to believe he’s being rescued. He wants to believe it so badly.
He looks him over again. He can’t see his face through the shadow of his hood, but he’s pretty sure he’s not mad at him. Like. Seventy percent sure. He’s gotten pretty good at reading alien body language. A handy skill to have in space.
When he’s caught up, the pig brushes aside the curtain and steps through first, letting Tommy trot behind in the shadow on his coat.
He blinks furiously in the bright yellow light of the main shop, shaking his head to try and clear the sunspots. There’s so much noise, here, all set to the wonderful blaring of the alarms. Chirping, barking, screeching, howling. He could hear it in the back, sure, but there were at least a few stone walls and a thick pane of glass muffling it. And he’s not even gonna mention the smell, like the shitty zoo they used to have at the county fair but somehow worse.
God, it’s so fucking loud. He’s gonna have such awful tinnitus when he gets somewhere quiet again.
He doesn’t even see the other guy at first. Walking behind pig man is like standing behind a brick wall, it’s only after his eyes finally adjusted to the obnoxious amber-colored lights that swung overhead, cashing horribly with the bright red of the alarms, might be add. Okay when he could finally manage to hear himself think over the noise, did he glance around his shoulder to the front window of the shop.
Or, what used to be the front window.
You see, what used to be a perfectly good window, purposefully tinted black so you couldn’t see inside, and adorned with hanging bird cages, was now just a black hole.
A giant, gaping hole with shards of glass strewn about, and dented metal from where the hanging cages were sent sprawling. Ah, so that’s were the squawking was coming from. Apparently, space birds don’t enjoy their houses getting crumpled like tin cans. He doesn’t blame them.
And, standing dead center in all of the chaos, is another alien.
He was halfway in through the shattered window, dusting broken glass off his dark-green jacket. His head is dipped down, some kind of weird, striped hat shielding his face from view, but he doesn’t focus on it for long, attention quickly drawn to either side of him.
Wings .
Honest-to-god bird wings, each one taller than he was and nearly three times as broad. Glossy black and grey feathers shift, catching and throwing the amber over headlights and the flashing alarms as he shakes glass off of them too, flapping the ends and brushing them off with gloved hands.
Tommy is completely frozen in place, watching him with wide eyes, still half-hidden behind pig man. The pig either hasn’t noticed him, or is equally as dumbfounded, because he doesn’t move from where he’s standing, just in through the curtain.
Actually, now that he’s mentioning it, it’s probably the second one. There’s literally a door right there, and this guy chose to jump in through the window and set off all the alarms.
Then, he turns towards them, and Tommy’s veins fill with ice.
...He’s a little ashamed to say that his first coherent thought after just “AHHHH!” is , “Holy shit, it’s fucking mothman!”
Well what the fuck was he supposed to think?! He turns towards them sharply, all crouched over like some sort of predator, wings flaring as if he had just noticed their presence. His face is completely pitch black and featureless under the hat, and those eyes, perfectly round and bright red, like he’s staring at twin stop lights or directly into the pits of hell-
Oh, wait. No. Those are googles.
He lifts a hand to his face, and in one smooth movement the googles are pushed up into his hat, and his black mask is pulled under his chin. The face it reveals is shockingly human-like, honey-blonde hair trying to escape his hat and fall over his nose, sharp blue eyes with slitted pupils. There are black markings across his face, feathers trailing down the side of his jaw like ears. Almost human, in a way that puts him on edge.
His face lights up when he catches sight of pig man, and he chirps out a greeting, expression apologetic.
The pig man rumbles out a response. He can’t make heads or tails of their conversation, but since the pig hasn’t tackled him yet, he assumes Mothman is probably safe, and lets himself relax just a little. He’s still tensed to run if things go south, there’s an opening right there, but he knows he won’t get too far. A last resort, he decides, resigning himself to his fate. There’s no way he’d be able to move around both of them fast enough. Hopefully they’ll take him on a ship and he can just steal an escape pod. Or the whole ship. Beggars can’t be choosers.
It turns out he doesn’t really need to speak their language to get a gist of the conversation. Mothman is an open book, expressions shifting like water as the two talk. His face goes quickly from sheepish, to concerned, before settling in confusion, head tilted and eyebrows pinched.
Then, pig man steps out of the way, and those bright blue eyes zero in on him.
He does not squeal, because he is a big man who was not afraid fuck you, but he does try and scurry back behind the pig-turned-barricade as soon as possible.
Mothman just cranes his neck to get a better look, eyes filled with something disgustingly like pity. He snaps his teeth to show he means business, he’s a big fucking man, thank you very much, but Mothman just starts cooing at him instead.
Fucker. He’s not some pet.
The pig grumbles out something else, and Mothman nods and coos along, still tilting his head to try and meet his gaze. He glares back, but all he does is ruffle his feathers and make that cooing sound again, the kind of noise you’d make to a lost puppy caught out in the rain.
Tommy bristles, opening his mouth to snap back, but he’s cut off by even more fucking alarms.
It’s far off, this time. The high pitched wailing of a siren in the distance, but closing in quickly. What, did this planet have fucking space cops or some shit?!
Mothman’s ear feathers twitch, and his eyes go hard. He nods again, determination settling in his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, and he steps carefully back through the hole he came in from. Pig man starts moving fast, and Tommy moves faster to stay right on his heels, keeping the pig between him and Mothman. He’s seen the guy knock someone out in one hit and bend metal with his bare hands, if Mothman tries anything, he’s confident the pig can snap him like a toothpick.
They burst out into the street like a bat out of hell. A large, heavy hand closes around his upper arm, and they take off down the road.
It’s so jarringly different from the pet shop that it's almost scary. Through some noise filters out through the shattered window, once they get away from it the city outside is completely silent and still. A cold wind blows in from up the barren street, kicking up dust and making him shiver. He blinks sharply, eyes adjusting to the dark as he stays stubbornly at pig man’s heels.
He squints at the arm holding him close. Pig man’s, big enough to wrap around his whole upper arm, gripping him firmly but not quite harsh enough to bruise. He lets his gaze travel up the arm to pig man’s face as he’s frog marched along, nearly having to jog to keep up with his larger steps. His ruby red eyes flicker to him occasionally, but otherwise stare straight ahead.
He swallows, and the sirens get louder. No turning back now.
They duck down an alleyway, and he follows blindly into the dark, squinting to make out shapes in the shadows. Neither of them give him enough time to get a good look at their surroundings before they’re off again at a brisk walk, tugging him along.
He can barely see anything, no matter how hard he blinks and squints to try and get his eyes to adjust. The buildings are all dark and the same shade of greyish blue, so it all just blends together like one giant, ugly bruise. Only the other alleyways stick out, slashes of tar-black between buildings like knife wounds. He thinks he catches a glimpse of movement, once or twice, but as soon as he tries to get a better look they’ve already moved on.
They move quickly between buildings, weaving down side streets small enough to make him wince. For the big fucker pig man is, he can sure as hell move fast on his hooves. They check over their shoulders every once in a while to make sure he’s still behind them, eyes glinting in the dark as the sirens get closer and closer.
Finally, they yank him sharply into the smallest side street so far, barely large enough to fit the width of pig man’s broad shoulders. He clenches his teeth hard enough his teeth ache, leans his head back against the brick wall, and holds his breath.
If the space-police works anything like it does back on Earth, being caught won’t mean anything good. At best, he lives out the rest of his life behind bars or glass, getting poked at with needles and pointed at by snub-nosed kids on school field trips. Worst case, they send him back to Him.
Pure terror, ice-cold and sharper than glass floods through his veins at the thought. Yeah, fuck that. He’d rather stick with pig man any day.
The sirens get even louder, footsteps cutting through the silence of the city like gunshots. He clasps a hand over his mouth, just in case, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He risks a glance up at pig man, who’s still staring straight ahead, face like steel and perfectly calm. If not for the way he kept glancing back at him, hand tense on his arm, he’d think the guy was having just any normal Tuesday.
Just who the absolute fuck are these people? What the hell did he get himself into? Did he get rescued by the fuckin’ space mafia?!
The sirens are on top of them, then. A glimpse of flashing lights reflects off the brick walls, and the hand on his arm tenses again. He clenches the hand not over his mouth into a fist, and peers out into what little of the other alleyway he could see. He thinks he catches a glimpse of a shadow along the far wall, and he freezes.
It’s quiet, for beat. The only sound his blood rushing in his veins, heart a steady ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum in his ears.
They wait.
Then, the lights fade, and the siren eases off. In a few moments, it’s nothing more than background noise, a faint wail in the distance as it retreats in the opposite way it came. A few more, and it’s completely gone.
He sags against the wall in relief, gasping in air like a drowning man as his shaking legs threaten to buckle underneath him. Holy fucking Christ that was close, but he doesn’t get more than a few seconds to recover before he’s being tugged out of the side street, and they’re off again.
They walk for a while.
Slower than before, thank god, and he doesn’t have to jog to keep up anymore. They walk down side streets and alleyways, still, and he’s only able to catch a glimpse of main roads between gaps in buildings, but even those are strangely empty.
He still hasn’t quite recovered from the close call of before, and he can still feel the nervous Jack-rabbiting of his heart, the electric thrum of adrenaline in his veins. Yeah, talk about a fuckin’ adrenaline rush, he feels like he’s just downed a six pack of Coke and topped it off with enough sugar to send a grown man into cardiac arrest. Wired up and ready to go.
He moves lightly on his feet, still tensed and ready to spring, eyes flicking from building to building, looking for threats. Just in case.
The pig and Mothman don’t seem as tense anymore. The hand around his upper arm has gone from yanking him around like a rag doll to lightly tugging him this way and that, grip loose. They chatter lowly to one another in a series of soft grunts and chirps as they walk, heads leaned together, leaving him unsupervised on pig man’s other side.
He gets a better look at the hand now that his eyes are adjusted. The leathery, heavily-calloused skin, the slightly-sharpened black nails. The mirad of scars across his knuckles tell stories of fights long past, and people long dead.
He’s not paying attention, Tommy realizes with a jolt.
He could leave, if he wanted to. He gives the hand another critical once over as he thinks. He could break his grip pretty easily, he decides, it’d be child’s play for him to twist his arm loose and make a run for it. They just passed another main road, and these backstreets are a maze. It’d be easy to lose them.
Freedom. So close he could taste it, sharp and clean on his tongue. He won’t lie and say it’s not tempting. He watches the dark alleys pass with longing pulling under his skin.
Pig man gives him another little tug as they turn down a different street, and he crashes back into reality. He shakes his head, shoving away the thought. Running would be a really stupid fucking thing to do. He literally ran from the cops five minutes ago, he was an accomplice now.
Besides, pig man rescued him for a reason. He was his best shot at getting off this hellhole planet and back home.
When he’s pulled out into an open road, he goes.
He follows right at pig man’s left shoulder as they walk, still keeping him as a barrier between him and Mothman. He gives the guy another glance over in better lighting, as they step out into an open street, and the stars glimmer brightly overhead, dusting them all faintly in blue and silver. There’s no moon, but after walking through pitch-black side streets, there might as well be.
He seems harmless enough, thin, with laughter lines around his eyes and a gentle sort of smile. Tommy knows better than that, though. He shoots him a glare and shuffles closer to pig man’s side. His own personal bodyguard, he’s really living in the lap of luxury, huh?
He’s calmer, now that the adrenaline has started to ebb off, but that comes with another problem.
He’s fucking freezing.
An ice-cold wind blows at from his back, and a shiver violently runs through him. The thin white shirt and sweatpants(?) he's dressed in do next to nothing to keep out the chill. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, breathing warm air into his hands every once in a while to warm up. It’s worse now that they’re not penned in by brick walls, the icy wind nipping at any exposed skin.
Pig man doesn’t even spare him a glance but unfortunately, Mothman takes notice. He looks back when he shivers, and his eyes go all soft again. He makes that same cooing sound, spreading the wing between him in the pig in an invitation.
He glowers at him. Yeah, fuck that. He’d rather freeze to death than get any closer to some random alien. Following them is enough, thank you.
He rubs his arms again. They better get to where they’re going soon, It’s fucking freezing.
They make it to an intersection.
It looks the same way they do on earth, weirdly enough. No signs or crosswalks, though, just four empty roads meeting in a cross. It’s silent as a tomb, their footsteps and quiet conversation the loudest things for what seems like miles.
He looks up and down all three streets cautiously, but there’s nothing new. No sirens, no other footsteps or shifting shadows. Just the same grey buildings disappearing into the same black, lightly star-speckled sky. If someone were to tell him that they were the only people on the entire planet, now, he’d believe them.
Then, it’s not so quiet anymore.
It starts as a quiet hum. He thinks it’s just tinnitus at first and ignores it, but then he catches the way the pig shifts, tilting his head as he looks towards his horizon, and he catches on when the sound gets louder.
It’s an engine.
Not the purring of a car or the rusty growl of a truck, it’s closest to the sound of a motorcycle, if anything, but even that’s not right. It’s a hum, the low, thrumming sound you get when you listen to a fast song with the bass turned up way too high. A low, rolling sort of noise that ebbs and flows. It starts soft, but eventually it’s loud enough he can feel it in his chest, thrumming alongside his heart.
Two red dots appear on the horizon, cutting through the dark and dust. Headlights.
It’s a hoverbike, and it’s coming straight at them.
He’s heard of hoverbikes, of course, but in the same way he’s heard of personal helicopters, real hoverboards, and super yachts with put-put courses. Rich people shit. The kinds of things that probably only exist in movies, and that the stuck up kids that lived a few streets over always bragged about owning. The kinds of things a foster kid like him would never see in his lifetime, much less own or ride on.
But there’s one right in front of him, hovering just above the ground as it roars down the streets, red flames licking from the exhaust pipes. The rider laughs maniacally as he revs the engine, and the resulting sound makes the windows in the nearby building shudder, and his sternum rattle in his chest. He can feel the shuddering of the engine in his teeth.
The headlights get closer and closer, and right when he decides to try and dive out of the way, they swerve to the left as the bike shrieks to a stop.
The rider dismounts, shucking off his black helmet and tossing his dark, grey-streaked hair free. He, too, looks almost looks human, but the illusion is lost when he turns towards them.
His face is greyed out and ever so slightly translucent, catching the starlight as it shifts strangely over what should be smooth skin. His ears are pointed, almost fin-like, adorned with golden jewelry that glints as he brushes his hair out of his face, and though his eyes are brown, they flash an unnatural green-yellow when the light hits them just the right way, like an animal caught in a camera flash.
He’s grinning, showing off pointed canines as he greets the others with a drawl, leaning against the front of his bike.
Tommy watches him warily from behind the pigs arm, tracing his movements. He looks cool as hell, from the black leather biker gear to the silver streak in his hair, but there’s something about him that just screams danger! This guys a fucking psycho!
He talks to the others in a low, thrumming sort of voice that rises and dips like music. He’s not quite as much of an open book as Mothman, but he’s a lot easier to read than pig guy. The smile melts off of his lips the more they talk, lips pursing as his eyebrows pinch together. It only takes a few moments for his eyes to slip off of the pig man to meet his gaze head on.
His expression shifts even more, and he scowls, talking loudly to the others as he glares with those strange flashing eyes. Complaining, it seems like, or just plain talking shit. Tommy scowls right back, sticking close to the pig’s shoulder and curling his lips back over his teeth in the start of another snarl. Oh, he’ll give him something to complain about-
Mothman snaps something at him, chirping voice bordering on a screech, and he jumps.
For a second he thinks it’s aimed at him, but no. His feathers are all fluffed out, bristling slightly in biker guy’s direction, and there’s the faintest snap of teeth, like a mother hen chastising her goslings. He can’t get a good look at his face from where he’s standing, but he makes himself pretty fucking clear.
He jumps again when pig man tosses his head at both, growling something impatiently, and shifting his weight to his left, blocking him a little more from view. Biker guy’s scowl only deepens, but after a few moments of tense staring, he gives in with a shake of his head.
Tommy just blinks, lost. What the fuck just happened? Did they… Did they just… defend him?
He doesn’t get the chance to think about it for too long before Pig Man, now with a capital ‘P’ and ‘M’, is lumbering towards the bike, and he’s forced to follow at his heels, head still spinning.
Biker guy shoots him one last glare over his shoulder before he puts his helmet back on, and he and his flashing eyes disappear behind black-tinted glass. The other two don’t bother with helmets, Pig Man getting on just behind the biker guy. He turns and levels his gaze at Tommy, patting the seat behind him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means. They want him to get on. They want him to get on that.
Mothman chirps comfortingly from his right when he steps back, unsure. His blue eyes are round with sympathy as he urges him forwards with a smile. He bites back a hiss, he was not scared, thank you very much, he wasn’t some child who needed to be coddled. He just. Has never been on a motorcycle before. That’s all. He wasn’t scared. Not one bit.
Mothman chirps again, and he bristles, stepping up to the bike. It’s beautiful, really, all glinting black and silver metal with red accents, leather seats a little worn from use, but otherwise in perfect condition. It’s bigger than any motorcycle he’s ever seen, not to mention it’s fucking floating, and he has to jump more than he’d like to get himself on the seat. His fingers brush over the leather, and the entire thing hums underneath him with a strange energy.
There’s another coo from behind him, and he turns sharply to snap his teeth at Mothman, but Pig Man beats him to it by rumbling something over his shoulder.
He gets a good look at his face this up close and personal, ruby red eyes calm as they meet his. He jerks his head forwards, and it takes Tommy more time than he’d like to admit to realize what that meant, hold on tight.
That’s what you’re supposed to do when you ride motorcycles, right? It’s what they do in movies. Pig Man has no problem looping both his giant arms around biker guy’s waist.
He hesitates, but scoots a little closer on the seat, and when he doesn’t get snapped at, inches a little closer than that. Sue him, he’s freezing and The Pig gives off body heat like a fucking stove top. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he buries his hands in The Pig’s brown coat. It’s thick and loose, so it’s easy to find a good grip, and less embarrassing than grabbing him by the waist. He gets a nod of approval before The Pig turns back to the front, speaking in a low voice to the biker guy.
The bike shifts as Mothman gets on behind him, and his heart starts up again, beating rabbit-fast in his chest. He can’t see what he’s doing, and it’s not long before he can feel him settle in, just a little too close for comfort. .
His hands tighten in Pig Man’s coat, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. This was fine! It was fine. Pig Man saved his ass from four-arms and the space police, the guy can speak English! He trusts him. Sort of. Besides, Mothman hasn’t done anything but chirp and coo at him, and is only a few inches taller than he is. Birds are supposed to have brittle bones, right? He could totally kick his ass if he needed to.
It was fine. He was fine. Fucking fine.
The bike rumbles again, and Mothman shifts. He flinches when two thin arms appear on either side of him, but they don’t touch him like he’s expecting. Instead, Mothman leans in real close and wraps them around Pig Man’s waist, boxing him in.
He screws his eyes shut. He’s never been a big fan of small spaces, and the feeling of two bodies pressing against him is overwhelming. God, when was the last time he’d been this close to anyone ever?
It’s a bit of a squeeze, all four of them on a bike made for two, maybe three, max, and they just barely fit. He can feel the solid weight of Mothman at his back, breathing in his ear, and his nose is filled with the smell of leather and burning fuel, something similar but not quite the same as gasoline. Dark grey feathers enter his field of vision as Mothman pulls them close, and he shudders when they brush against the bare skin of his upper arms.
...It’s warm, though. A welcome relief from the cold wind that bites just beyond the shield of feathers. Not that he’s grateful , or anything. He’s no fucking pussy, he can take the cold. Fuck you.
The bike rumbles again, and whatever biker guy shouts back to them is drowned out as the engine roars to life. Pig Man rumbles something in response, and pressed this close, he feels it more than he hears it. Mothman chirps something back right in his ear, because of course he does, and that’s all the warning he gets before the bike roars off down the street.
He’s never gone this fast in his life.
He wraps both arms around Pig Man’s waist, personal space be dammed, and presses his face into the back of his coat. The wind rips at them, tearing through his hair and pulling at any exposed skin, raking cold fingers down his spine and making his stomach roll with every rise and dip of the bike.
It’s not like riding in a car, hell, the closest thing he could compare it to was riding a rollercoaster, but even that wasn’t right. They glided, no turbulence, no grinding of wheels of asphalt or speed bumps to slow them down. He risks a glance to his side, and regrets it almost immediately. The grey buildings pass in a dizzying blur that makes his head spin, and he goes back to trying to bury himself in Pig Man’s coat the best he can.
Its awful. It's exhilarating. Wind in his hair, bike rumbling underneath him, the rest of the world nothing more than a blur of speed and the humming of adrenaline ice cold and electric under his skin.
A whoop rises in his throat, but the second he opens his mouth, his breath is sucked right out of his chest. He can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or scream.
He’s never felt more alive.
They ride for what feels like hours, rising and dipping over hills. They only turn sharply twice to avoid the sirens, which disappear into nothing more than an echo in the wind.
He’s given up on trying to look around at this point, content to lean his head against Pig Man’s back and let himself relax, just a little.
...It’s warmer than he thought it would be. He wasn’t kidding about Pig Man giving off heat like a stove-top, the guy was a walking radiator. Moth man’s feathers press tighter and closer around him as they drive on, and the wind glides right off of them like water off a duck's back. If he ducks his head down, he barely feels it at all.
He’s warm, too. Not like Pig Man, but warm. Stable.
The bike doesn’t shake or rattle like a car, gliding smoothly over the roads without hitting a single bump. There’s a gentle rise and dip as they go over hills, a sway when they turn corners, but even that’s smooth sailing. Even the sharp turns from earlier were nothing like being tossed around in the backseat of a car.
It’s pretty fucking comfortable. Really fucking comfortable. A lot more comfortable than he’s been in a long, long time.
He buries his face in Pig Man’s coat. He smells like leather, and something else. Tea, maybe? Something like that, earthy and faintly spicy. The smell of not-quite-gasoline still clinging to the fabric from the hoverbike’s exhaust pipes. It’s almost comforting.
He lets himself drift.
-
“-keeping it, Phil.”
The Elytran’s wings bristle, and he clutches the sleeping child in his arms just that much closer. He lays it carefully on the bed, fingers brushing gently through its greasy, matted hair.
“I know, I know.” It sighs, “ But it’s not like we can just leave it. It’s just a baby! It’ll just get killed.”
“I can’t believe you brought that thing on my hoverbike.” The Phantling on the Elytran’s other complains, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly as he glares at the child on the bed. "you don't know what kind of diseases it has-"
The Piglin behind both of them smacks him lightly upside the head. “Shut up, Wil. The adults are talking.”
“You little-“
“Enough, you two.” The Elytran interrupts before the fighting can escalate, eyes never drifting from the pale, too-thin face of the child. “You’re gonna wake it up.”
The Phantling huffs petulantly, but falls silent.
It’s quiet, for a beat, as all three of them watch the child on the bed. He looks small, curled up in a ball in the center. His clothing is barely more than tatters, the grey shirt and pants ripped and dirty, exposing dark bruises on too-pale skin. They can just barely make out the shape of scars as well, far too many for a child so small. His chest rises and falls slowly with every breath. It’s pitiful.
“...What if we bring it to the Council?” The Piglin finally says. The Elytran nods at the suggestion.
“That’s an idea.”
“The sooner we get it off the ship, the better.” The Phantling huffs, “What if it has fleas?”
“It doesn’t have fleas. Humans don’t get fleas.”
“Says who? Tubbo?”
“Enough.”
-
He wakes to muffled conversation.
“Do ——- translators even w—k?”
“— guess w—- nd out.”
He frowns, burning his face deeper into the pillow. His stupid foster siblings always wake up at the crack of fucking dawn, can’t they see he’s trying to sleep?
“T—- translators —-e a bust, Tech. I think—u got ripped o—.”
“I sto— them,—yways.”
He rolls over with a huff, fucking idiots. They only get to sleep in on Saturday’s, you’d think they’d at least try to make the most of it.
...Was the mattress in his room always this soft? He could have sworn it was a lot shitter than this. Did they get new blankets, too? When did that happen?
“Wait, l—k! I think —- waking up.”
No. No that’s not right. None of this is right-
“Hello? Can you hear me, little one?”
“...It looks pretty asleep to me.”
“Let it sleep, it looks like it needs it.”
He drifts.