Chapter Text
Tommy did not want to admit he was fucked up. He wanted to believe that he was a normal teenager who went to school and had a loving family that did not throw him away into a shitty system. A teenager who hadn’t been to juvenile prison for stealing and being under the influence underage.
But, as Tommy sat on the bench in front of the foster care building that he had been in most of his life and knew he could not pretend. He was recently returned to foster care by his newest foster family after staying with them for only one month, as they were unable to provide the consistent care and stability he needed. They said he was too much to handle, that he did not get along well with the other children the couple already had. Tommy kept facing the same situation, and he was exhausted. He knew there was no hope for him, especially since he was not looking for help. He knew his only option was to wait until he was eighteen, when they could legally kick him out.
The only problem was, he had no idea what he was going to do after that. He had no friends, no close family. He has been saving money in case he is left on the street and must survive independently. He is fourteen as of last week, which means one more year closer to it happening.
He cannot decide if he is excited or scared—either way, it means that he does not need to be shoved into random houses for a month (sometimes longer), only to be mistreated most of the time or completely out of place in a full family.
The blonde teenager let out a heavy sigh, raising the blunt he had pinched between his fingers—the blunt from the same pack that his social worker, Puffy, told him to discard—to his lips. He draws the smoke into his lungs before exhaling. The sensation made his brain feel better, but God, it made his mouth feel gross. The con does not imply he had ever thought of quitting anytime soon, not when it was his only source of comfort.
As he stared into the sunset once more, he knew that it was close to the building's curfew. Which meant Puffy would come searching for him, see him smoking again, scold him, and then confiscate his pack. He has grown desensitized to most things, but Puffy was the only person he respected.
He does not like disappointing Puffy—she had been with him through his worst cases, and she was there when he first entered the system. She was the one who comforted him when he got caught running away from previous homes. She was there for him after a foster home decided hitting children and locking them into closets was the best option for discipline.
Deep in his thoughts, he did not even realize a person was approaching him until his blunt was stolen from between his index finger and thumb. He frowned, glancing at the perpetrator who had done it, only to see a familiar face. It was Puffy—her fluffy, split dyed hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
She was in a coat, considering it was getting chilly out. Tommy did not have a coat, only a ragged red jacket that had definitely seen better days.
“Tom,” The older woman sighed. “What did we talk about? No more getting high.” She frowned in disappointment, stubbing the blunt’s fire out on the arm of the bench.
Tommy glanced away from Puffy, staring at his hands in his lap. He started to pick at his cubicles again, the skin around his nails irritated and red.
“I know,” he muttered. “Sorry. ‘Ts hard. Smoking makes me feel better,”
She was quiet for a moment before letting out a soft tsk. She gently placed a hand on the younger boy's shoulder, offering comfort. “I’m aware it seems like that, but smoking does you more harm than good.”
Tommy stayed quiet, just picking at the skin around his nails as a fidget. Tommy used to be loud when he was younger. Before everything went to shit—before he was forced into foster care. He learned from countless abusive foster homes that being quiet was safest for him; being too loud always got him into trouble.
Puffy frowned as she observed Tommy. She had been looking after Tommy for the past couple of years he had been thrown into the system, and she saw the decline of energy and saw the way he became more closed off. She wished every night that she could remove all the trauma he had, and wished she could go back in time to prevent him from being in the system.
“Why don’t we get you inside?” Puffy offered a soft smile and rubbed his back soothingly. “You need to start packing anyway. Your new foster family will be coming on Friday.”
Tom let out a frustrated huff through his nose. “I told you I don’t want to go to any more of those fucking homes.” He reminded her through slightly gritted teeth. He already knew how it would end—him being the troubled child he always was. He would sneak out, piss off the family, and either they’d try to hit some sense into him or just send him away within a month. It was the same routine, and Tommy was tired of it.
“Tommy, I told you this time would be different. And I mean it,” She said in a serious tone. “I pulled a lot of strings for you to get into this family. I know them personally. I promise, cross my heart, that you will be safe,” Tommy was quiet for a couple of moments. Puffy sighed before continuing. “If this doesn’t work out—which I strongly believe it will—I swear to you this will be the last home. You just need to trust me, kiddo.”
The teenager's jaw tightened. He trusted Puffy, really, he did, but he lost hope in finding a good family. The only remotely good homes he was put in (his definition of a good home was the ones that did not beat him) kicked him out because he was reckless, loud, rude, or didn’t get along with the other teens in the house.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I trust you. But don’t blame me when this turns out to be a waste of time.”
—
Tommy woke up the next morning with his alarm blaring in his ear. He let out an annoyed grunt and smacked his phone to mute the alarm. He decided to skip packing last night after Puffy brought him back to his room because he was too tired, so he decided he would wake up early to pack to make up for it.
He regretted it. A lot.
When Tommy smoked a blunt, he felt like shit the next day. Head pounding, nauseous, and mouth tasting like leftover weed. It was not fun. But he can’t really act surprised—he signed up for this. He finds that the pros of getting high beat the cons.
He let out a heavy sigh before shifting out of his bed. His mattress was uncomfortable and unforgiving on his back, and the blanket he used was old, ratty, and he couldn’t remember the last time he washed it. He found some sort of comfort in it, though.
Tommy didn’t have much to his name. He had his bag, a few t-shirts, jeans, shorts, a hoodie, headphones, his phone (and charger), headphones, a razor, and his weed. And one last thing—one thing he valued more than life. His stuffed cow animal, he dubbed the name “Henry” when he was younger. It was the only thing that survived the house fire of his, the same house fire in which his mom sacrificed her life for him.
Tommy frowned as he held the stuffed animal in his hands. The fur, once white (and black with spots), was now gray, with stains. One of the eyes was missing, burnt off by the fire. The fur was slightly matted, and it was no longer fluffy, more stiff than anything. If Tommy smelled it hard enough, there would still be the scent of ashes lingering on it.
He doesn’t remember much from his childhood. The fire burned down his house, which he remembered vividly. But he didn’t remember his parents that much. He remembered his mom rushing out of the house with him in her arms, and he remembered her leaving him on the safe side walk to go back in to look for his dad. Other than that, it was hazy memories, nothing too clear for him to understand.
The main thing that stuck with him (besides the fire) from his parents was his mother singing him to sleep, and his father playing with him outside. Through faint memories, he remembers when his father used to carry him on his back or shoulders, no matter how tired the man was. He remembers his mom teaching him to embrace himself.
Tommy let out a huff. “It doesn’t matter if I remember them or not,” he muttered bitterly to himself. “They’re dead. Been dead for eleven years. I’m fine on my own.”
He snatched his old bag from the ground—it too was red, like most of his belongings. Similar to his shoes, it was scuffed up and had multiple cigarette burns. It still did its job, so Tommy never bothered getting anything new.
He emptied his small dresser and dumped his clothes onto the bed. He didn’t have many clothes, just enough to have his bag nearly busting out the seams. He made sure to change into something clean, adding his clothes inside his bag. He pushed down on the items to make everything fit before zipping it up. He wasn’t leaving today, so he just left his essentials alone.
Just as he zipped up his bag, there was an aggressive knocking at the door. “Breakfast, Thomas!” A voice called out, grainy and rough on the ears. Shirley—the typical old, white woman who hated her job and every single child in the universe. She specifically liked to target Tommy, though, as if his life wasn’t hard enough. She was one of the foster care home social workers, but instead of actually helping the children like she was supposed to, she just talked shit and complained twenty-four seven. Tommy wasn’t sure why she hadn’t been fired yet.
“I’m coming!” He yelled loud enough for her to hear through the door before muttering under his breath, “Fucking wanker.”
When he stepped out of his room and into the long hallway, Shirley was already gone, which he was grateful for. He knew if the woman saw him, she'd immediately smell the weed from last night on him, and he really did not need her hot breath flooding his nostrils.
Tommy shuffled down the long hallway and into the cafeteria, already regretting getting out of bed. It was full as always, and the loud chatter did not help with his headache. There were kids arguing, chairs scraping, one kid crying and throwing a tantrum because he didn't want oatmeal. Tommy scowled, wishing he had brought his headphones.
He sighed quietly under his breath and stepped in line to grab a tray. After he grabbed the required breakfast and awkwardly smiled at the old women behind the counter, he walked towards his usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria. It was near the trashcans, so no one wanted to sit there, but it was worth ignoring the smell for Tommy to sit alone.
"Tommy!" A loud voice was suddenly heard yelling across the cafeteria, accompanied by small feet hitting the ground rapidly.
He sighed internally, already knowing who it was.He didn't even have to look up. Fuck. He barely had enough time to set his tray down before a small blur crashed directly into his side.
He stiffened ever so slightly. No matter how long he had known her, he still wasn't used to her being so physically affectionate, especially around others. "Clem—"
A little girl wrapped her arms around him before he could even finish speaking. "There you are!" She announced proudly before pulling off him. She put her hands on her hips, as if she had just accomplished something insanely difficult. "I couldn't find you,"
Tommy sighed dramatically once more. "Maybe because I was hiding," He pointedly responded, raising an eyebrow as he moved to sit on the bench of his lunch table.
She squinted her eyes. "Why?"
"Because I didn't want to be found,"
Clementine considered this, silent for a few moments before responding. "Oh," She hummed, still staring at him like she was trying to dissect his brain. She then climbed into the seat next to him anyways, disregarding his wishes to be alone. Typical Clementine.
He acted bothered, but he didn't try to move away once. "Y'know, most people take hints," He muttered as he took a bite of his cereal bar.
She smiled happily as she took a sip of her juice. "I'm not most people, silly,"
"Clearly," He muttered. Clementine only grinned harder like she'd just won something. She then leaned forward, peeking at his tray like she wanted something. He glanced at her, quirking an eyebrow. "What?"
She kicked her feet lightly beneath the table, still drinking from her small juice box. "Mm. Are you gonna have your apples?" She asked, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
He deadpanned at her. "Have you already gotten breakfast?" He questioned, to which she nodded with a smile. He squinted at her. "Then why do you want my apples?"
He was questioning her like he hadn't already made up his mind. Although Tommy always acted bothered around Clementine, he loved her as if she was truly his little sister. Tommy was already in the system when he first met her three years ago. Back then, she was only five. She was scared, confused, and didn't understand why she was there instead of with her mom and dad.
In that short amount of time of them meeting, it was like Clementine imprinted on him. She was always by his side, and even when she wasn't, she was demanding to be with him. It always hurt when Tommy left temporarily for a foster home—not knowing if he'd ever return again.
"I'm still hungry, and we aren't allowed to get more," She pouted. Tommy narrowed his eyes at her—she knew what she was doing. She was guilt tripping him.
"Fine, fine, you can have it." He grabbed the small plastic bag of apple slices and sliding it over to her.
She beamed and ripped open the bag, happily beginning to munch on the slices. She looked at him again. "Can we go outside today? I wanna bike ride again."
"It's too cold out, Clem." He told her, which made her huff in disappointment.
"But I saw you outside by yourself last night," She mumbled. Tommy tensed slightly at the reminder of last night. It wasn't that Tommy getting high was a secret, but he tried his best to avoid it around Clementine. Mainly because he did not want her to see him doing drugs and think "hm, maybe I should do that too".
He took a large bite of his cereal bar, so he had a reason for a delayed response, giving him time to think about how he should respond to her. "I wasn't playing outside; there's a difference. And the ground could be too icy for riding a bike."
She seemed to buy it because she didn't keep prodding, just grumbled under her breath and munched angrily on her slices. Tommy, naively, thought that was the end of it. That maybe she'd ramble on about her dream last night, or just talk about her day and talk his ear off.
He should've known better.
"What about after lunch?" She perked up, staring at him.
"No."
"Mayybeee... After group time?"
"No."
"Tomorrow?"
Tommy's eye twitched. "No."
"The day after tomorrow?"
He glared at her. "Clem."
She blinked innocently, playing as if she had no idea what she was doing. "What?"
He pointed at her, the cereal bar in his hand. "You're doin' that thing. Stop it. You know it's annoying."
She tilted her head, acting clueless. "What thing?"
"The thing where you ask me a million questions because you know I'll eventually say yes."
She gasped dramatically, placing her free hand over her chest. "Me? I would never." She continued to blink at him. Why, and how, were her eyelids moving at that speed?
Tommy deadpanned. "Clementine."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Thomas."
He choked slightly on his food. "I told you not to call me that."
"You call me Clem and Clementine all the time. Why can't I call you your name?"
"That's different." Tommy defended with a grumble.
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it fucking—I mean bloody—is."
She kicked her feet happily under the table, proud of herself getting a rise out of Tommy. This was probably her favorite part of her day—banter with him. "You said a bad word." She sing-songed.
Tommy opened and closed his mouth, trying to look for an excuse. His mind drew a blank in the end, so he just muttered, "...Shut up."
"Nooope, you said a bad word." She had a playful twinkle in her eye.
"It wasn't even that bad of a word." He grumbled, trying to defend himself. It was a poor attempt.
"Yes, it was, it was the f-word!"
Tommy groaned and rubbed his head. This definitely was not helping his headache, but he couldn't really blame Clementine. He could never blame her. "Clem, please—"
"Can we bike ride now?" She asked sweetly.
"I've told you no at least five times now."
"Pleeeasee?" She drawled out, reaching to tug on the sleeve of his hoodie.
"No."
"I'll wear my helmet," She bargained.
"My answer is still no. That's not the issue, it's freezing out—"
"I'll wear my coat too," She tugged harder.
"Clem—"
"And my gloves!"
"Clem, please."
"And the scarf Ms. Puffy got me."
Tommy was staring at her now, and she was staring right back. Unblinking. She wasn't even eating her apple slices anymore; the little menace was just watching him with wide eyes and a hopeful smile. She knew exactly what she was doing.
After a few moments of the staring contest, he broke eye contact and let out a long, heavy sigh through his nose. "Fine."
Her eyes widened, like she wasn't expecting this. But she knew that Tommy eventually caved. "Really?" She was kicking her feet so excited that she was squirming a little in her spot with pent up energy.
He turned to her sharply, as if he was trying to stop her from getting too happy. "Inside only. In the gym," He pointed at her. "And if I bust my arse trying to teach you how to ride that stupid bike again, I'm throwing it away."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She squealed enough to draw a few glances from other tables. Before he could react, she launched herself at him again at his side for a hug. Tommy stiffened on instinct, almost dropping his food.
"Clem—" He muttered, trying to remind her that he wasn't all that comfortable with hugs.
"You're the best!" She squealed again, squeezing somehow harder.
He stopped fighting her affection, knowing that any resistance was futile. "Oi, watch it," he muttered, though there was no real bite in it. After a second, when he realized that she wasn't detaching herself from him until he showed some reciprocation of affection, awkwardly reached up and patted her head. "Calm down, you gremlin."
She only beamed at him again. She leaned into his touch, and Tommy tried very hard to ignore the warmth in his chest. He took another bite of his cereal bar.
He'd never admit it, but he'd been planning on saying yes from the beginning.
—
Clementine was already bouncing in the balls of her feet, impatient to ride the bike. Tommy knew it was going to be slippy on the gym floors for the bike's wheels, so he was strict about her safety.
"Stop moving so much, I need to buckle your helmet," He said. He was crouched down as he buckled the straps of her helmet beneath her chin and tightened it on her head, ensuring that it wouldn't fall off. "Tilt your head down and shake your head; tell me if it feels loose."
Clementine pouted. "Tom, can I just get on now?" She whined, stomping her foot lightly on the floor. But the teenager was not willing to budge on this.
"It's either this and you listen to me, or we don't bike at all." He stated firmly, looking at her with narrowed eyes to show he meant business. She huffed through her nose and rolled her eyes, but followed his instructions anyway.
As she tilted her head down and shook her head side to side to make sure it didn't fall off, Tommy started to fasten her knee pads. She frowned, her gaze tracking to the elbow pads also on her body. "Is really this necessary?"
Tommy didn't glance at her. "Yes. You can fall off the bike easily on this floor, and I don't want you complaining about injuries."
Yes, that was one hundred percent the reason. He didn't want to deal with her complaining, so obviously he was making sure the injuries would be minimal. He definitely wouldn't feel guilty if she cried, and he definitely wouldn't blame himself if she got hurt.
Deeming it safe enough, he shifted to stand on his feet. She smiled the moment he gave her a nod, running off to get her bike that was leaning against the wall. She practically skipped there—and it definitely didn't bring a smile to his face or anything.
Behind him, he heard the gym doors creak open. He turned to look over his shoulder, revealing Puffy. She was wearing a smirk on her face, like she's been watching for a while now. She also held a cup of coffee in her hand.
Tommy tensed and immediately narrowed his eyes, getting suspicious of her look. "What?" He scowled without much heat.
She hummed innocently, crossing her arms. "Nothing."
Tommy rolled his eyes. "Bullshit. What're you looking at me like that for?"
Puffy was quiet for a moment as she glanced over at Clementine, who was trying—and failing—to push her bike on her own while wearing enough protective gear to survive the apocalypse. Her smirk turned into a soft smile. "Most parents don't even force their kids into this much protective gear."
Tommy blinked at her. "Well, I'm not her parent," He looked at Clementine. "And the knee pads were necessary."
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Mhm,"
"And the elbow pads. So are the helmet and gloves."
"Mhm."
Tommy frowned, already offended by her responses. "Why do you keep saying 'mhm' like you don't believe me."
Puffy smirked around the rim of the mug as she took a sip. "No reason."
"Y'know for some reason, I don't believe you," He scowled at her smile. He crossed his arms, getting defensive. "C'mon, Puff, spit it out already."
The older woman just chuckled and shook her head slightly. "Nothing, kiddo. I just find it cute." And to the teen, that was the worst sentence he ever heard in the world. He looked deeply offended.
"Cute?" He repeated, like he didn't believe what he was hearing.
"Mhm," She nodded. "You should've seen yourself. 'Tilt your head down and shake it side to side, Clementine.'" Puffy imitated, putting on a serious voice. "'No bike unless you follow the safety regulations.'"
Tommy's ears immediately began turning pink. "I do not sound like that. I have never sounded like that," She didn't say anything in response; the older woman just raised her eyebrow to show she was unconvinced. Tommy bristled at her reaction. "I don't!"
"You do." She retorted.
"I sound cool," But his voice was turning whiny from protest. "I'm awesome and fucking buff."
Puffy laughed outright. "Sure you do, bud."
Tommy crossed his arms, lips pursed together. If Puffy didn't know any better, she would say that Tommy was pouting. "Look, someone's gotta make sure she doesn't crack her head open," He was grumbling under his breath. "It's not because of anything else."
She hummed, just taking a sip of her coffee. "Of course."
"'S not funny." He glared at her again.
"No, sweetheart, it really is," She teased playfully. But when she heard him groan and bristle in offense, Puffy's expression softened slightly. "You're a good kid, Tom."
He immediately scoffed, not used to blatant affection. "Yeah, alright." He muttered.
"You are," She insisted. "Tommy, you're fourteen, and you've got a six-year-old over there wrapped in enough padding to survive being hit by a truck."
"I already told you, that's not worrying; it's being prepared!" Puffy raised a pointed eyebrow. "Stop looking at me like that. She's clumsy, okay?"
Puffy just smiled into her coffee. "Whatever helps you sleep at night." Before Tommy could retort, he could see Clementine rushing over to him since she finally managed to pick it up and steer it over.
"Tommy, I got it up," She announced happily before noticing the older woman next to him. "Hi, Ms. Puffy. What're you doing here?" She smiled at her. The site nearly melted Puffy's heart—despite what the girl had been through at such a young age, she still had that childlike joy in her expression. All because she had Tommy in her life.
"I just came to check on you two." She responded with a sweet smile.
Clementine, seeming to buy her response, just grinned. "Well, look at how good I am at riding a bike now," She tugged on Tommy's arm, wanting him to help her on the bike. She wanted to show off for Puffy. They both found it adorable (but Puffy let it show more than Tommy did).
He moved to help her, hands around her waist as he lifted her onto the seat. He didn't let go until she found her footing, balance, and began to move the pedals. Yet, even then, Tommy wasn't too far behind her.
"Look, look! I'm the flash!" She squealed happily, pushing her feet faster.
"I see, Clem!" Puffy called back, taking in the scene. It's been a while since she has seen Tommy this lively, even if he was just trying to keep up with a hyperactive child on a bike.
Clementine turned her head over her shoulder to make sure Puffy was really looking, but she forgot that was against TommyInnit's Safety Rules™. A few moments after diverting her attention from in front of her, she was losing her balance and slipping.
She yelped in surprise, but it wasn't long until Tommy lunged and caught the handlebars and the child before she could fall.
She tilted her head to look at Tommy and blinked at him. "Oops." Though, there was not an ounce of guilt on her face.
Tommy stared at her for a moment before letting out a huff. "This is why I put you in gear," He grumbled, dragging her off the bike. It clattered sideways to the ground. "You're clumsy."
He could already hear Puffy laughing quietly. He snapped his head around to look at her, and the older woman just grinned larger. "I'll leave you two alone for now," she said before waving and turning on her heel and leaving the gym.
Tommy looked down, feeling Clementine tugging on his arm again. "I wanna ride more!" She was already bouncing on her feet in excitement.
So despite Tommy's sigh of exhaustion, he helped her on the bike and continued to chase her around.
—
It was late. Tommy had finished brushing his teeth ten minutes ago, and now he was laying on his back while staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, not with the knowledge that only tomorrow he was going to be shoved into another family. Usually, he'd trust Puffy's promises and words. She had no reason to lie to the teen, but after all the houses he has been to, he truly believes there's no hope for him when it comes to finding a forever home.
He let out a miserable sigh and turned to his side, curling under his blanket. He was exhausted in more ways than one, but anytime he tried to close his eyes, there were images and flashbacks to his past foster homes.
Old memories flood back, and all Tommy could think about was how unfair it was. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget his homes. His brows furrowed, and he clutched Henry to his chest, as if he was a toddler again having a bad nightmare.
He was eleven again. He lost count of how many foster homes he had been in already. All he knew was that everything smelled like bleach
Younger Tommy sat stiffly at the kitchen table, swinging his feet nervously beneath the chair. His face hurt a lot. He'd only been at the foster home for a week. A whole week without getting yelled at. A whole week without anything bad happening
He remembered thinking that maybe this one would be different. His foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison seemed nice. They smiled, they bought him clothes and a nice toy. He remembered lying awake in bed, hugging Henry tightly, and thinking that he'd gotten lucky.
He tried. God, he tried his best to stop them from getting mad at him, like the rest of the foster homes. He used manners—used please and thank you. He kept his voice down since others from the past said he was loud and obnoxious. He even stopped sneaking snacks.
So for a while, it was great. Until Tommy made an accident.
It was dinner, Mr. Harrison had come home late from work. Tommy knew that the man was often exhausted after work, so he left him alone while Mrs. Harrison comforted him. He was just trying to get a cup of orange juice with dinner.
And just his luck, the cup slipped right out of his hands and onto the floor. It had been an accident. He remembered his fingers slipping. He remembered the glass shattering on the ground, making a mess on the clean, tiled kitchen floor.
That's when Mr. Harrison stood up from the dining room table, his feet thudding on the ground, to come and see that one of the expensive cups had been broken.
Tommy remembered apologizing. "I'm sorry" repeated over and over again. But the words didn't serve to help him; it only agitated the man looming over him.
He remembered the man was usually sweet to him, lifting his hand.
Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to remember. He hated remembering that foster home. It wasn't his most traumatic home, not even by a long shot, but it hurt when he remembered thinking for the first time that there was a possibility that it would be his forever home.
He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to think about how quickly kindness could disappear, didn't want to remember learning accidents weren't allowed. Didn't want to remember crying quietly into Hentry that night with a pain in the side of his face because if he cried too loudly, it would only make things worse.
He remembered that same night, staring at his bedroom ceiling and making himself a promise. A promise never to trust friendly people, never to trust promises, and never to get too comfortable in someone else's home. Because eventually, everyone got tired of him. Everyone.
His eyes snapped open, and the wall of his room came back into focus. He noticed that his breathing had picked up as the memories came flooding back. He took a sharp, deep breath, trying to slow himself down.
Tommy swallowed hard and rubbed at his eyes angrily. "Stupid," he muttered to himself. He was fourteen now, not eleven. That home was years ago; they were gone. Tommy knew that, but his stupid brain never forgot. It never did.
Before Tommy could roll onto his other side, there was a faint knock at his door. It was quiet, almost hesitant. And he had a feeling he knew who it was.
He sighed quietly underneath his breath as he pushed his blanket off him and left Henry on the next to his pillows. His feet hit softly on the cold floor as he made his way to the door. He turned the doorknob, and the person who was there wasn't a surprise.
"Clem," He said, frowning at her nervous face. "What're you doing up? It's late."
It was not unusual for the little girl to sneak out of her room and to Tommy's. She often had nightmares, so she came to him for comfort. And every single time, without fail, he let her in with opened arms. He didn't even complain when she fell asleep in his bed and snorted in his ear.
She shifted in her spot, clutching her stuffed moth plush to her chest. "I couldn't sleep. Bad dreams," Tommy didn't say anything, just stepped to the side so she could come in. He shut the door behind her and watched as she scurried over to his bed.
As she clambered in his bed, gladly taking his blankets as her own, she looked at him. He was clearly tired, but he wasn't showing any annoyance with her. He just climbed into a spot on his bed.
Of course, Tommy never got angry with her for wanting to sleep with someone. He remembered being young and sneaking into his own parent's bed because he had bad dreams. He remembered when he first came to the orphanage and had nightmares—he had no one to comfort him. He would never want that for Clementine.
"Were you having bad dreams too?" Clementine suddenly spoke, looking up at him with curious eyes.
"No," he said. It technically wasn't a lie because Tommy never fell asleep. But he was having bad flashbacks. He decided that Clementine didn't need to know that.
Clementine was quiet for a few moments, breaking eye contact and staring at her plushie. Tommy looked at her again and frowned, his brain going back to his earlier concerns—he was leaving tomorrow for a foster home. And Clementine had no idea. It was not like this has never happened before, but telling her he was leaving without knowing if he was coming back.
"Hey, Clem," he spoke.
"Hm?" She hummed, still staring at her plush.
"I leave tomorrow. For a foster family."
Clementine, considering she's young, she smiles. "Really? That's good!" She said with childlike joy, excited for Tommy. She hasn't experienced any bad homes yet—which Tommy was grateful for. He didn't want her going through what he had.
Tommy just shrugged. "Suppose."
The smile never left her lips. Even when she said, "You'll come back, right? LIke usual."
Tommy was quiet because she was right. That's what always happened—he'd disappear for two weeks or a couple more, and he'd come back. But there was always a chance that he wouldn't come back. But Clementine knew that. Kids in the system get good at understanding things adults don't explain.
She continued, "You always come back."
God, this was getting uncomfortable and tense. He didn't know what to say to Clementine because he didn't know how to predict the future. Usually, he'd say he would come back without hesitation. But this time felt different.
He eventually looked away. "I don't know, Clem. I don't know if I'll come back."
The smile vanished from her face. She looked away, looking down in her lap. "But I don't want another Tommy." She mumbled sadly.
Tommy tried to ignore the tightening in his throat at her words; they struck right to his core. The blonde, uncomfortable with emotions, just reaches up and ruffles her hair. "Good, 'cause there ain't another me. I won't be gone forever."
Her eyes sparkled a little with hope. "Pinky promise?" She questioned, reaching out her hand, pinky sticking up in the air. Tommy smiled softly at her.
He nodded. "I pinky promise." He locks his pinky around hers before pulling away. At his side, she was now shuffling to lay down and get comfortable, ready for sleep now. But Tommy couldn't sleep, not with this feeling in his chest.
He knew that he would come back. He knew it. He always did.
So why was he feeling so doubtful?