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There’s a boy sitting at the bar.
He’s folded in on himself, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into the woodgrain, his fingers loose around a glass of cloudy lemonade. The drink’s gone flat—bubbles long dead, ice melted to pale ghosts. An oversized hoodie drapes off his narrow frame like borrowed skin, the faded print on the back peeling and illegible, some forgotten band’s name eroded by time and too many washes.
Tracing his gaze downward, Wilbur notices the kid’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants far too big for him—thick fabric pooling around his ankles, the cuffs soaked and streaked with dirt and grass as though he’d just trudged through a field. His shoes might once have been white and red, but the colour’s long since surrendered to a muddy brown. The soles are barely hanging on, held together by strips of duct tape, and the laces are frayed to the point they look ready to snap at the slightest tug.
Wilbur used to do that too.
When money was tight—which, as a kid, was always—he’d stitch things back together, tape over holes, glue the soles of his shoes until they were more adhesive than leather. Anything to make it all last just a little longer, until his parents finally remembered he probably shouldn’t be walking around in rags.
It always took them a while. Longer than it should’ve, really. But back then, he hadn’t had any other options.
He wonders if this kid’s the same—waiting for someone to notice, to care enough to help—or if he’s managed to scrape together a job, the kind Wilbur never could.
Either way, it’s obvious whoever’s supposed to be looking after him is doing a shit job.
And seeing as there’s a bright backpack tucked in the boy’s lap—half-hidden beneath that oversized hoodie and stuffed to the brim with god-knows-what—it’s clear the kid isn’t planning on going back anywhere anytime soon.
Wilbur slides into the seat beside him, casual as he can manage, turning just enough so his face is angled away while he waits for the bartender. Even so, he can feel the boy’s eyes on him—sharp, curious, a little wary. Neither of them say a word. The silence stretches thin between them, humming with unspoken things.
From the corner of his eye, Wilbur catches the boy inching his drink closer, shielding it with one arm as though Wilbur might lunge over and snatch it away. The motion’s instinctive—too quick, too defensive. Neglect, then. Or at least, he's used to having his food taken or not having a lot of it.
Wilbur lets out a soft hum and glances over, casual as can be, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. The boy freezes for a heartbeat before nodding back, uncertain but polite.
“You seem a little young,” Wilbur says, resting his elbow on the counter, voice threaded with teasing warmth. He nods toward the cloudy lemonade. “He didn’t give you tequila, did he?”
The boy bites his lip, and—barely there—a small smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, quick as a secret.
“Nah. Just lemonade, unfortunately.” The kid sighs like he’s genuinely disappointed the bartender didn’t let him drink underage. Wilbur huffs a quiet laugh, head tilting as he studies him.
The boy’s voice is deeper than he expected, but there’s still a childish lilt threaded through it, softened by a faint rasp. It sounds a little out of practice. Maybe he doesn’t talk much. Maybe he hasn’t had anyone worth talking to.
“Shame,” Wilbur sighs, propping his chin in his palm. “Guess you’ve got to follow the law.”
The kid snorts—a quick, involuntary sound—but it dies almost as soon as it’s born. His face drains a little of colour, eyes darting back to the lemonade as his shoulders creep up defensively, like he’s just remembered he isn’t supposed to laugh.
…Oh?
Maybe that’s why he’s alone.
Wilbur’s mind ticks over, quiet and steady. Petty crimes—shoplifting, running off—aren’t rare among the less-lucky foster kids. And this bar’s a long way from the main part of the city. If the kid walked here, it would explain the soaked cuffs and muddy shoes. The fields out this way would’ve been half-flooded after the rain earlier.
It’d also explain why he’s here alone, this late at night—dressed in worn hand-me-downs, clutching that overstuffed backpack like it’s the only thing he owns. He hasn’t set it down once, arms wrapped around it tight, like he’s half-expecting someone to snatch it away if he so much as looks the other direction.
“Do you have a tab going?” Wilbur asks, catching the bartender’s eye. He gives a small shake of his head—a silent message not to worry about it—then turns his attention back to the boy.
The kid blinks, staring at him like he’s trying to decipher the question. There’s a flicker of confusion in his expression, something wary underneath it.
“A tab is when you buy a drink knowing you’re going to buy more,” Wilbur explains, hands moving as he talks, sketching the rhythm of his words in the air. “So instead of fishing out cash or a card every time, the bartender just adds it all up, and you pay when you’re done. Makes sense?”
The boy listens carefully, posture shifting from wary to attentive. By the time Wilbur finishes, he’s sitting a little straighter, nodding once.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, gaze dropping back to his lemonade. “I—uhm…” He pauses, brow furrowing. “I only had enough for one, but he didn’t make me pay right away. Does that mean he thinks I started a tab?”
The boy’s voice wavers, thin and uncertain, and Wilbur catches the way his fingers tighten around the glass—knuckles whitening—before he forces himself to let go. There’s a nervous energy to him, a tension that hums just beneath the skin.
Wilbur reaches out, resting a steady hand on the kid’s shoulder. The boy flinches at the contact, a sharp, instinctive recoil—but Wilbur doesn’t pull away. He just waits. And, after a few breaths, the tension bleeds out of the kid’s frame, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly beneath Wilbur’s palm.
“No, don’t worry,” Wilbur murmurs, tone low and easy. “He probably just gave it to you on the house.”
But the reassurance lands wrong. Instead of easing, the boy’s expression pinches tighter, eyes darting nervously as if that somehow makes it worse—like being given something for free must come with a hidden cost.
Ah.
Wilbur exhales softly. He’s so much like Wilbur was at that age, it’s almost startling.
“Oh, bud,” Wilbur gives the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. He’s just doing it ’cause you’re a kid. It’s not a pity drink or anything.”
The boy’s bright blue eyes flick up to meet Wilbur’s brown, cautious but searching. He bites his lip, gaze wavering, before his shoulders finally loosen a little.
“...’Kay. Sorry, I just don’t want to get in trouble.”
Wilbur waves it off easily, pulling his hand back—but not before noticing the way the boy leans, just slightly, as if to follow the warmth. The moment he realizes it, he stiffens, straightens, pretending nothing happened.
Cute.
A quiet, amused breath slips from Wilbur. Maybe this is what Philza felt like, the first time he’d found him—half-starved, filthy, elbow-deep in a trash bin. Then again, probably not. Wilbur certainly hadn’t looked cute, covered in muck and smelling like roadkill.
Still, who knew? Philza had always had strange standards.
“It’s fine, bud. I was the same,” Wilbur says with a small smile, watching closely as the boy’s head lifts, just slightly, at that. “I remember being so worried I’d do the wrong thing when I was passing through foster—that some adult would get so mad at me, you know?” He gives a soft shrug.
The boy fidgets, fingers tracing the rim of his glass before he takes a slow sip, clearly using the motion as an excuse not to reply. Wilbur hides a grin behind his hand. Cute. The kid’s really a sweet one—shy, careful, testing the ground before he steps.
"Foster?" The boy asks, hesitant.
Wilbur only nods encouragingly, rewarding the question with a warm smile. "Yeah, I spent a few years in the system before I got picked up by my dad." Wilbur leans on the counter, his eyes flicking down to how the kid's feet are slowly beginning to swing under his seat.
"But it felt like forever, you know?" Wilbur continues, "I only got adopted after I ran away, funnily enough. My dad took me in, gave me a place to stay for a while. I just never left." Maybe Wilbur didn't get adopted legally—until Philza realised the cops could take him away and he strong armed the legal papers out of a terrified social worker—but a little white lie never hurt anyone.
The boy bites his bottom lip, worrying the skin with his teeth as he stares down at his glass. "And— and he's good to you? Or, he was?" Wilbur softens at the kid's shaky voice, "Yeah. He's a real sweet guy, paid for my college and everythin'. Made up for all the shitty years. He was good to me, even when I did the wrong thing. Wouldn't get mad at me."
Wilbur tilts his head, lowering his voice as he talks, "He's the kind of father I want to be. That I know I can be."
The boy looks at Wilbur for a long, long second, long enough that Wilbur can see the boy's knuckles turning white around his glass. Then, quietly: “...Would you?”
Wilbur blinks. “Sorry?”
“Would you get mad, I mean. If—if a kid did the wrong thing.”
For a heartbeat, Wilbur just stares, momentarily stunned. Then he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He can practically feel his heart doing somersaults. The kid’s reaching out first.
It’s almost unbelievable. Gods, when Philza had found him—filthy, half-starved, prickly as a feral cat—it had taken ages before Wilbur had let his guard down enough to even speak properly. But this boy? He’s already offering a sliver of trust, fragile and uncertain, but there.
Maybe the kid had good intuition? Or hey, maybe Wilbur's not as terrible at socialising as Techno claims he is.
Wilbur schools his face into calm neutrality, even as his chest feels ready to burst, but he can't help himself from smiling at the boy. “No, of course not,” Wilbur says easily. “Like I said, my foster dad, Philza, never did either. He was big on the whole gentle parenting thing, you know?”
…Aside from the whole kidnapping people bit—but, well, nobody’s perfect.
The boy hesitates, voice trembling slightly as he asks, “And you, uhm… you’re for that too?”
Wilbur nods, leaning in just enough to soften the space between them. “Yeah, I definitely am. I don’t think yelling or hitting ever helps anyone, especially not a kid. It doesn’t fix mistakes—just makes people scared to make new ones.” He shrugs, casual but sincere. “Kids mess up. Everyone does. That’s how you learn. It's an adults job, a parents job to help them learn.”
The boy’s gaze flickers down, his hands tightening around his glass until his knuckles pale. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “And what if the kid did something bad? Like—like really bad?”
Wilbur tilts his head, studying him. “Really bad? Like getting into a fight?”
The boy swallows hard, eyes fixed on the lemonade, as if the swirling ice might offer him an answer. “No,” he says softly. “Like… committing a crime. Would you be mad at them then?”
Man, Wilbur thinks, he’s on fire tonight.
A runaway foster kid with criminal leanings?
It’s practically déjà vu. Philza’s going to be thrilled—the old man’s always nagged him about “grandkids,” and Wilbur supposes this is finally the day the man gets what he wants.
“Probably not,” he says after a beat, tone easy but steady. “I’d like to think my kid had a reason, you know? I’d want to hear them out, make sure they understood what they did—but I’d never hurt them for it.” He softens his gaze, meeting the boy’s eyes squarely. “No matter the crime. They're my kid, after all.”
Silence falls—thick, humming. The kind that feels alive, like even the air’s holding its breath.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
“...Even murder?”
Bingo.
The kid whispers it—barely audible, like the word itself might get him arrested. His eyes dart around the bar, shoulders curling in tight, as though expecting a cop to burst through the door and drag him off in handcuffs.
Wilbur leans in, lowering his voice until it’s just between them, soft and steady. “Even murder,” he says. “I’d never hurt my kid. And I’d never turn them in, either.”
The boy’s breath stutters, chest rising sharp and uneven. He stares at Wilbur, eyes wide and glassy, as if trying to decide whether to believe him—or whether this is some cruel trick.
Then, quietly, with the smallest tremor in his voice:
“...Tommy. My... my name’s Tommy.”
Wilbur’s smile warms, spreading slow and genuine. He extends a hand across the small space between them. “Pleasure to meet you, Tommy. My name’s Wilbur Craft.” His tone softens as the kid's eyes widen upon his last name, his words threaded with a warmth he doesn't bother to hide.
“And I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
If you’d told Tommy two days ago that he’d be sitting in a car with a member of the Craft family—and that said Craft wasn’t hauling him off to the nearest police station—he’d have laughed himself sick before sprinting in the opposite direction.
Because seriously—how the hell do you even know he committed a crime?
And yet, here he is.
Wilbur hums under his breath as he drives, fingers tapping an easy rhythm against the steering wheel, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it is—for people like him.
The Craft family aren’t just known; they’re famous. They’re the kind of name whispered in back alleys and police stations alike—the first faces that come to mind when someone says gang.
They practically run half the cities in the country, and if the rumours are true, their influence doesn’t stop at the border. Some even say they’ve got ties overseas, the kind that make politicians sweat.
They’re also rich as fuck.
Like—royalty rich.
Like mega-super-insane, could-buy-a-country-and-still-have-change rich.
And he’s sitting in one of their cars.
Tommy curls his arms tighter around himself, shoulders hunched, as if that might make him smaller and hopefully less noticeable. He risks a glance at Wilbur, just as the man reaches down to fiddle with the radio, humming under his breath like they’re on some casual Sunday drive.
“Do you like any specific kinds of music?” Wilbur asks, voice light, conversational—like he hasn’t just kidnapped him.
…Wait. Has he?
Tommy hesitates. Does it count as kidnapping if Tommy went willingly? Isn't that how they kidnap most underage people anyways, with, like, candy and shit? It's not like Wilbur's going through legal channels for this...
Then again, Tommy exactly be talking be the 'legality' of things, considering everything he did—
Tommy blinks, dragging himself out of the spiral of his own thoughts. “I—uh, I listen to pretty much anything,” he says quickly, then adds, quieter, “I like stuff with acoustic guitar, though.”
The last part slips out half-mumbled, like he’s embarrassed to admit it—but apparently, it’s the perfect answer. Wilbur lights up instantly, his grin wide and genuine. “Really? You’ve got good taste,” he says, almost proudly. “Did you know I play acoustic guitar? Write my own stuff and everything.”
He flicks on the radio as he talks, twisting the dial until some random channel crackles to life. It’s country music—not exactly Tommy’s usual pick—but it’s mellow, warm. Not bad at all.
“Do you release it?” Tommy asks after a moment, eyes fixed on the little lights of the radio’s volume display, watching them rise and fall with each note like a heartbeat.
Wilbur lets out a thoughtful hum. “Nah, not really. I play at a few local bars sometimes, but I’ve never been big on putting it out there for everyone, you know? Feels… too public.”
Tommy nods faintly, dragging his gaze away from the soft glow of the dashboard to stare out the window. It’s dark—really dark—the kind of pitch-black that makes everything outside look shapeless. He doesn’t recognize a thing. No landmarks, no signs. Just endless stretches of road and trees.
The only reason he’d gone to that bar in the first place was because he knew people there wouldn’t ask too many questions or call in a missing kid.
“I reckon it’s good,” Tommy murmurs, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. He leans his head against the cool glass, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve got a nice voice.”
Heat floods his cheeks the second the words leave his mouth. Through the faint reflection in the window, he can see Wilbur’s grin spread—small at first, then blooming into something downright smug. The bastard preens under the compliment, shoulders lifting, chin tilting up as if basking in invisible applause.
Tommy groans softly and buries himself deeper into his oversized jacket, trying to hide from the warmth crawling up his neck. He shuts his eyes, lets the darkness press close, and tries to breathe slow—steady—quiet.
He doesn’t really know what he’s gotten himself tangled in yet. Not fully. But he knows Wilbur promised to keep him safe, to make sure no one came looking, no one called the cops. And Tommy knows that Wilbur wants a kid—and maybe wants him—in a way that makes his stomach twist with something he can’t name.
Which...yeah, Tommy can do that. He can be good. He can fold himself into whatever shape keeps him fed and warm, grin on cue, the kind of small, practiced sweetness people mistake for innocence. Foster homes taught him the craft of pretending; lying isn’t theatre for him, it’s habit, the only language that ever got him a second bowl or a dry blanket.
Wilbur seems… do-able. Soft enough to be coaxed, sharp enough to keep things interesting. Tommy tells himself he’ll play the part: stick around, learn the rhythms, let Wilbur sort out the whole “Tommy killed a man” mess.
Be charming, be quiet, don’t give anyone reason to look too closely. If Wilbur grows tired, Tommy will slip away—age out, disappear into the city’s indifferent crowd—and no one will miss him for long.
Simple enough.
Tommy’s shaken from his thoughts when something soft lands in his lap. Untangling himself from the cocoon of his jacket, he blinks down at the baby-blue blanket draped over his knees. For a moment, he just stares at it, unsure what to make of the gesture—then, hesitantly, his fingers brush the fabric. It’s impossibly soft, the kind of warmth he hasn’t felt in a long time, like clouds spun into comfort.
When he glances up, Wilbur’s watching him with a small, knowing smile, the faint hum of country music filling the quiet between them. “It’s a long drive,” Wilbur says, eyes flicking back to the road. “You can get some sleep, if you’d like.”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. He only runs his thumb along the edge of the blanket, feeling the way it catches on his skin. He hesitates, fingers tightening around the soft fabric. Does he really want to fall asleep in the car of a man he’s just met? Does he want to take that risk—to let his guard down, even for a moment?
Wilbur’s voice cuts through his thoughts, calm and unbothered. “You can charge your phone, as well.” He holds up a white cord, gesturing to where it’s plugged in beneath the radio.
Tommy blinks at it. His phone’s on its last legs, barely holding charge anymore. It would be smart—safer, even—to have it full. A line to the outside world, in case everything goes to hell.
He nods once, muttering a quiet “thanks” as he takes the cord, his fingers brushing Wilbur’s for a fleeting second. The phone gives a tired little bloop when it connects, screen flickering to life before settling to charge. Tommy sets it gently in the cup holder, then pulls the blanket up to his chin, tucking himself into the soft folds.
It smells faintly like detergent and something warmer—cedarwood, maybe. A domestic kind of scent that makes his chest ache in ways he can’t name.
Gods, he must be more tired than he thought. The moment he settles, warmth cocooning him, his eyelids start to drag like lead. The hum of the car, the steady rhythm of the road, and Wilbur’s voice—low and smooth, like honey stirred into tea—blur together in a comforting haze.
“No problem, bud,” Wilbur murmurs, the words just brushing the edge of Tommy’s consciousness. “You get some rest, yeah? I’ll wake you up for food later.”
Tommy tries to nod, or maybe he just thinks he does. The world softens at the edges, sound dipping into a dreamlike fog.
The last thing he properly feels is the faint tug of fingers adjusting the blanket higher, tucking it under his chin with a care that feels almost parental, just before a tender kiss is pressed to his forehead. Then he sinks into sleep, the car’s hum carrying him off into dark, weightless quiet.
Watching the kid now asleep, practically dead to the world in the passenger seat, Wilbur allows himself do shimmy with joy. It's childish and a little silly, but gods, he has a kid now! All he has to do is cover up some murder, fix up Tommy's records and he'll be home free, with a new, wonderful boy to bring home.
Tommy's a good kid, a little skittish but smart and clearly able to handle himself. Philza will be so pleased.
Speaking of, Wilbur connects his phone to his car's speakers, calling his father. He glances over to Tommy, but the kids out cold. Cooing, he gently traces a over Tommy's cheek, looking over how pale he is. Hm. He'll have to work out a diet for him, to get his nutrients back him and keep him healthy. Poor thing.
He'll ask Techno, he's always good with that kind of thing.
His dad picks up on the second ring, his familiar profile picture popping up in the car's screen. "How's my favourite song bird?" Philza's voice crackles over the speaker, a smile blooming on Wilbur's face.
"Hey, dad. I'm good, I'll be heading back home in a few days."
"A few days? I thought your job was holding you out till next week?"
Wilbur pauses, glancing to Tommy, still fast asleep. "I found something more important." He murmurs, turning back to the road. "I need you to change some files, for me."
Philza hums softly, and he can hear the older man shuffling around on the other end. "Of course, love. Name?" Wilbur gently tugs the kids hoodie down a little, checking the tag on the inside.
"Tommy Innes."
"Tommy's their legal name?"
"Ah, sorry, Thomas. But the kid doesn't use it."
His dad pauses, and Wilbur prepares for a moment before he's peppered with questions, "Kid? oh my god did you get me a grandkid? What do they look like? How old are they? Did they bite you?"
Wilbur snorts, peeling off the road to turn into the freeway. "Yes, I did, and he's adorable and has the sweetest blonde curls and lovely blue eyes, he's about thirteen and no, he didn't bite me. He's smarter then I was as a kid." Wilbur gently pulls the kids hood back over his head, smiling softly as Tommy curls up, tugging the baby blue blanket up tighter.
Philza coos over the phone, a vauge shuffling of papers coming through. "How cute! Did you give him anything?" Wilbur shakes his head before abruptly remembering Philza can't see the motion.
"No, didn't need to. We just talked a little and he came along with."
"Well, you've always had a way with words."
Wilbur snorts, "Yeah, tell that to Tech. He still thinks I'm a bumbling idiot."
Beside him, Tommy makes a small noise of discomfort, Wilbur immediately reaching out to gently rub his hand up and down the boy's back, glad for the empty roads at this time of night.
"Anyways, I just need you to alter his files, get him sent around as a foster placement. Oh, and I'll need you to cover up a murder." Wilbur lists off, changing the music on the radio to something a little more lofi, trying not to wake Tommy up with anything louder.
Philza hums in response, "What'd you do?"
"Nothing, actually. Tommy did. S'why he came with so easily, I promised I could get it sorted. He told me the douchebags name, I'll send it through to you." Wilbur glances to Tommy again, his face softening at how small the boy looks in the back seat.
Such a sweetheart.
"Try and make it a little humiliating. Tommy told me the dickwad tried to beat him with a beer bottle, s'why Tommy attacked him in the first place. I have no doubt Tommy ain't the first foster kid the guy had attempted to hurt."
"Alright then. Send me through any more info you find, alright, love? I'll set Techno on it."
Wilbur smiles, "Thanks dad. Love you."
"Love you to, song bird. You get home safe, alright? And message me a photo of Tommy!!"