gooseinnit

“Uh— Phil?” The man calls over his shoulder, golden eyes never leaving Tommy’s face, “I need your help over here.” Tommy bares his teeth, wings fluttering threateningly. He doesn’t want the man to get help, he wants him to go away. Another man steps into view. This one is short and blonde, with wings a hundred times bigger than Tommy’s, and he’s dressed just as nice as the first man. He hasn’t seen Tommy yet; he’s looking at the big pink one. Mouth open like he’s going to speak. Tommy hisses again, louder this time. And the man's head snaps towards him— which doesn’t scare Tommy. He doesn’t shrink back, doesn’t try to tuck away his wings with a whine. Because he’s big. He’s big and scary; nothing is scarier than him and he knows it, because he says it. “Oh,” The man says softly, expression falling at his eyes dart across Tommy’s face. “Oh, mate.” - Or Tommy is a small little gooseboy who gets picked up by some bewildered ambassadors and their son. Shenanigans ensue.

This can’t be happening. The ring didn’t fit him less than a minute ago, and now it’s stuck. It’s stuck and Tommy’s wearing a big ‘I stole something and I'm a fucking idiot’ sign on his hand. Forget the guards, it’s expensive enough that if someone sees him wearing it he’s dead. He doubts many people would stop at just trying to pull it off of him. He pinches himself. It hurts. This is not a nightmare. Not in the literal sense at least- it’s definitely a metaphorical nightmare. Tommy’s worst nightmare, specifically. This is the worst day. In which Tommy is a street kid, SBI are the royal family. And there's magic.