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Adjusting to parenthood is… well, an adjustment. Tom knows that all couples go through a period of having to rearrange their lives, their routines, their whole sense of the world around a tiny life that depends on them completely. It's nothing revolutionary. Parents have been figuring it out for centuries.
But their situation? Tom feels justified in thinking he and Maddie's case is just a little bit extraordinary. For starters, they're adoptive parents. Adoptive parents to four anthropomorphic alien children.
With superpowers.
Yeah. There aren't any parenting books for this scenario (he looked). That means that the Wachowski household is, for all intents and purposes, winging it.
Sonic is both the easiest and the most difficult. Easy because he really just wants to belong somewhere, instead of looking in from the outside.
But also hard, because. Well. Sonic doesn't know how.
He hovers around in the mindset of 'Me and Tom are besties, partners in crime, amigos' even after they get him moved into the attic, like they're just having an extended sleepover.
Maybe Tom and Maddie could have intervened sooner. Done more to impress upon the teen that he was a part of the family now– not just a friend being given a place to stay. But they were just as new to this as him. Unsure what to say, how to make him feel welcome. How do you convince a kid that he's safe now? That he doesn't have to keep one foot out the door?
Terrible as it sounds… the fact that Sonic had been on his own for so long helps. He's lonely and touch-starved, even though he does his best to hide it. But slowly, as their lives start to ease back to a new kind of normalcy, things fall into place.
Movie nights have always been a Wachowski tradition– and apparently Sonic had been a part of it, too, even before they knew about him (which broke their hearts when he told them). So naturally, they keep up the weekly ritual post-Sonic. The movies have to be chosen a bit more carefully– nothing too graphic, no sex scenes, No, Sonic, we're not making exceptions just because you used to watch thriller movies unsupervised.
There's popcorn and fizzy soda and probably more candy than Sonic really should be eating this late in the day, but eh. Tom settles in his usual spot, where normally Maddie would slot in beside him so he can drape an arm around her. Instead, there's a hedgehog launching himself onto the cushions– making them bounce a little on purpose– and grinning eagerly, popcorn bowl in hand. And running his mouth, of course, because he's "–so excited to watch a movie in here instead of just looking through the window–"
Ouch. "Alright, buddy, take it down a notch," Tom placates, gently extracting the popcorn before it ends up all over the floor. Sonic grins sheepishly but settles down, just in time for Maddie to come in, survey the change in seating arrangements, and settle on the opposite side of the hyperactive hedgehog like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Which… it is.
Despite Tom's reservations about the amount of snacks on the coffee table– there's no denying Sonic's metabolism, but come on– the blue boy ends up nodding off a little over halfway through the movie. Tom blinks and goes still as he feels a warm, furry body settle against his side, a tiny breath of a sigh as Sonic goes lax with sleep.
When he looks up, Maddie's grinning so wide it looks like it might hurt. "O-M-G," she mouths, not daring to speak aloud even though there's currently a rather loud drag race happening on the television. Tom would bet his badge she'd be taking a picture right now, if it weren't for the fact Sonic's right between them and her phone is on the coffee table, too far to reach.
And… yeah, same. Tom's heart clenches as Sonic's weight settles more solidly, as a hand sleepily reaches for his arm and holds on. Like he wants so badly to be allowed this, to stay, even in his sleep.
Tom carries him up to the attic after the movie's over, mindful of his quills and his greasy fingers. Sonic manages to drool on his shoulder in the five minutes it takes before he's being lowered into his little racecar bed.
He could hardly care less. He gives the sleeping boy a kiss on the forehead and draws the covers up with a murmur of, "Night, kid."
He thinks Sonic's asleep. It's why he let himself have the moment at all, given the hedgehog's contrarian squeamishness about 'mushy stuff'. Which is why Tom is so surprised when that same hand that had held onto him through the movie reaches out now, catching his wrist loosely. His eyes aren't even open.
"C'n you… stay?"
Tom falters. His heart feels like it's going to burst. Maddie's probably getting ready for bed downstairs, turning off the TV and rinsing the popcorn bowl and throwing away wrappers. He should go help, maybe.
Or maybe he should stay right here with his son.
"Sure, pal."
He sits on the edge of the bed next to Sonic, hand caught in a smaller gloved one, until his breathing goes deep and slow and he starts to drool on the pillow.
His son.
Tails he had at least expected. When Sonic launched out of the portal in Hawaii along with an actual, literal avalanche and a little orange fox hoisted over his shoulder, something in Tom had just known.
They were adopting another child.
Sonic's frantic pleas for help for the little guy– Tails, apparently, though Tom really doubted that was actually the fox's name– only solidified that certainty. And when Sonic sped off to stop Robotnik's latest plot (something about a master emerald), it was Tails who jerked up and tried to follow, before either Tom or Maddie could even open their mouths to call after him.
Yeah, they were definitely going to be making room for this little guy in the attic.
It helped that he was adorable. Sonic was cute, too, of course; humongous eyes and twitchy ears and squishable pawpads (Maddie had just about died the first time they saw Sonic's hands). But Tails was little. Like, really little.
"How old are you again, pal?"
"I'm eight!" Tails chirps happily, ferrying a wrench over from the table. Tom's under the truck with an oil pan at the ready, trying to get the bolt to come loose by hand. Tails shimmies in next to him and starts using the wrench to get it off like he's done it a hundred times. He's confident with tools in a way Tom would have envied as a kid, but at the same time, he'd stood on a little stool next to the stove to watch breakfast being made like it was magic.
"Sheesh. I was twelve when my dad taught me how to change oil," Tom remarks, shifting to make sure the pan's in place. Tails unscrews the bolt the last bit and quickly withdraws as the oil starts to pour out.
"Yeah! We did it!"
"Nice job, bud." He reaches over a little awkwardly to give the kid a high five. They watch the oil drain for a moment before Tom reaches for the rag stuffed in his pocket.
"What's next?" Tails asks eagerly.
"Next is the oil filter," Tom indicates towards it. "I think I should probably handle this part. It can get pretty messy, and we don't wanna end up with oil all in your fur…"
Later, once they clamber out from under the truck and Tom gets a better look at the kid, he realizes it was a moot point. Tails' back and hands have managed to get a bit of oil on them despite his best efforts to keep his thick, fluffy fur from the worst of it. At least they'd had the foresight for him to remove his white gloves (Why do they all wear gloves, Tom wonders idly for the nth time).
Tails looks like he thinks he's in trouble as they wash up with the hose before going inside. The Fast Orange helps a little, but he's definitely gonna need a bath, too. "I'm sorry, Tom…"
Tom. He's not Dad yet, but Tom doesn't let any of his own hope or disappointment show. Tails had come to them with his own baggage– being rejected for his mutation, being picked on as a 'stray', having to fend for himself from such a tender age. It'll take time.
Luckily, they have all the time in the world to love their precocious little fox son, to show him they're family.
"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry for," Tom reassures as they head for the master bath. They've got fur shampoo and conditioner for the kids, as well as a massive bottle of bubble bath Sonic had pleaded and pestered for at the store. "You were a big help, kiddo. Getting a little dirty is just a sign you worked hard."
Tentatively, those big fluffy ears perk back up. "…Does this mean you'll let me install rocket thrusters next time?"
Tom laughs in surprise, starting the faucet and putting the plug in. Then, because the kid deserves it, he pours in a few capfuls of bubble bath, which immediately starts to foam up and make the bathroom smell like bubblegum. "No, I don't think that would be street legal, pal. How about I show you the spark plugs instead?"
Yeah. Tails is going to be just fine.
Knuckles is… complicated.
That's not to say that he's particularly needy, as raising a child goes. He's actually the opposite; he goes to bed at the same time each evening without prompting, gets up with the sun to meditate in the morning, only protests about the 'green plant matter' on his plate until he's told it's spinach and it's good for him (Sonic tries, unsuccessfully, to sneakily pass his own veggies off to the echidna).
What's hard is that he's older than the other two. They don't know for sure; when asked, Knuckles informed Tom and Maddie that he wasn't exactly sure of his age, since he was orphaned around six years old and had been on his own ever since. "Do not fret, Mister and Missus Wachowski," he added. "I am by my own estimation very near to adulthood. I will be forging my own path through life quite soon."
When gently questioned for more about what 'adulthood' constituted for the boy, they found out the age of majority for Knuckles' tribe was shortly after puberty. As in– he was still barely a teenager.
Oh boy.
They did their best to make sure Knuckles knew he was part of the family. Sonic ended up being an ally in that regard, always kidding with his adopted brother about them both just being kids, about how they had a lot of growing up to do, and that they should enjoy it.
Sonic shouldered a heck of a lot more than he really should've in regards to both his siblings.
"C'mon, Knucklehead, it's not that serious," the blue boy ribs, elbowing Knuckles lightly. They're at the furniture store picking out beds for the two new additions; Tails had already pointed out an airplane bed excitedly, so Maddie had decided to take him to the food court for a bite to eat (and more importantly, a chance for each of them to bond with their new kids one-on-one).
Or, mostly one-on-one in Tom's case. Sonic's dragging Knuckles from display to display, encouraging the stoic echidna to test out different mattresses and, "Oooh, what about trucks? They're big and heavy like you!"
"These depictions do not resemble a 'truck'," Knuckles points out, peering at the truck-themed sheets Sonic's pushing under his nose. "Where is the 'bed'?"
"It's a different kinda truck, a, uh– a semi!"
"'Semi' what?"
"A semi truck! Come on, try to keep up! …"
Yeah, Tom kinda feels more like a glorified cart-pusher than an active participant right now. He watches the boys flit around the kids' department, other shoppers wisely deciding to give them a wide berth and an employee hovering nervously across the aisle, and sighs. Oh well. If Sonic taught them anything about parenthood, it was that there was no engineering– or predicting– family bonding moments. They just happened.
Hopefully with a minimum of cataclysmic events or mustachioed evil geniuses.
Finally, they load their purchases into Tom's truck ("See? This is a truck, Sonic. You cannot convince me the little 'semi-trucks' are remotely the same sort of vehicle…" ) and then unload them up to the attic with a little help from their superpowered children. And then Tom finds himself alone with the echidna as he's assembling the new beds.
Sonic had bailed pretty much immediately after getting a glimpse of the assembly instructions, which would have required him to sit still and be quiet to help out. Tails was wilting like a flower by the time they got home, so he'd been put down for a nap in the guest room. Maddie's clinic ended up calling her in for an emergency case, leaving him alone with all three for an unspecified amount of time.
He reassured his wife they'd be fine. Tails was asleep, Sonic was… hopefully not getting into any trouble outside, and Knuckles had surprised both Wachowskis by offering to help with assembling the bed frames.
"I do not see a slot 'B'," the echidna states solemnly, holding a peg in his big, mitted hand. "The paper lies."
Tom peers at the diagram, then the piece they're working on, then back. "I think we're looking at it upside-down," he surmises, frowning.
They flip the piece and consider it anew.
"Aha!" Knuckles declares, pointing at a slot that looks about right for the pegs they need to insert. "Is this B, Mister Wachowski?"
"Tom's fine," Tom reminds him. They get all the B slots pegged up, and then it's time to join the two pieces to form a corner of Tails' airplane bed. Knuckles is strong– like, crazy strong. Strong enough to hold both parts steady while Tom fiddles with making sure all the pegs slot into the join, and then wait patiently as he quickly does the same on the other side. "Phew. I dunno how I woulda done this by myself," he admits once the frame is standing on its own, ready for the decorative airplane pieces.
"I still do not trust the paper," Knuckles remarks in his usual solemn tone. "However, it does indicate that this is a 'two person assembly' on the front."
"Sure does. Thanks for helping, kiddo."
Knuckles cocks his head. "I am not a 'kiddo', Mister– Tom."
Tom sucks on the inside of his cheek and starts laying out the airplane pieces. Part of him wants to push back, to correct him about being a kid. He's so young– too young to have eyes that hard, to speak so stiffly, to sound like he doesn't quite know how to laugh.
Instead, he shrugs a shoulder like it's no big deal and says, "My bad. How about 'champ'?"
"As in, 'champion'?"
"Yep."
Knuckles considers for only a few seconds before nodding. "This I will accept."
"Alright then, champ. Let's see if we can't conquer the rest of these instructions together."
He was wrong about Sonic being the most difficult.
It's Shadow.
For the first few weeks after he's brought home– broken and bleeding and looking more like a cornered animal than they'd ever seen the others– Shadow hardly speaks unless spoken to. When he answers, it's with his spine ramrod straight and a kind of stiff, hierarchical formality that Tom is woefully, painfully familiar with.
He won't pretend that being a sheriff in a small town is even remotely similar to living in a top secret military bunker, but he knows the cadence that grows out of being in that kind of environment for long enough. The way Shadow defers to him as the top of the pecking order, the wariness in red eyes as he tracks exit points and blind corners.
The fascination with Tom's police accoutrements that he tries very, very hard not to show.
"You know anything about guns?" Tom asks, trying to sound conversational as he straps on his gear. Shadow's sitting at the table, Maddie at the sink with Sonic and Tails 'helping' her do the dishes from breakfast. Shadow's offer to assist was gently declined, due to his leg still being tender after the splints were removed (in spite of Shadow denying as much and acting like the stairs aren't still a challenge for him).
Shadow looks away immediately, like he can take back his own gaze. "I– yes. A little," he hedges, ears flicked back.
"You don't say?" He encourages, holstering his handgun. After they'd reconciled the whole mishap where Shadow just about killed him, Tom's been trying to be subtle about probing for common ground. Trying to break Shadow of his terrible, awkward stiffness, to make plain that he's allowed to be here and that they're not going to turn him out (or turn him over to GUN) if he breathes too loudly.
When Shadow just nods, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, Tom purses his lips. Maddie glances over her shoulder to catch his eye and raises her brows in a silent 'you got this'. Right. "…You know," he starts, tentatively, "I haven't been out to the range in awhile. Maybe you and me could go down there sometime and talk shop?"
The way his wife's eyes widen, Tom thinks that might not have been the wisest move, but it was all he could think of. Sonic's head whips around so fast he just about stumbles off the stool he's standing on. "The shooting range?? You said we're too little to go out there–!"
Shit. "I said you're too little, bud," Tom corrects, moving around the table to boop his first son's nose. Sonic makes a face and leans away, flicking soapy water at him in protest.
"Shadow's literally the same size as me!"
"He's also five decades older," is Tom's counter.
"That doesn't count! He was frozen or whatever!"
At the table, Shadow's still sitting with his shoulders square and his chin level, though his eyes are fixed on the contents of his coffee mug. Tom gives his wife a quick peck and then leans down to hug Tails, then Sonic, who looks like he wants to keep arguing the point until Tom's late for work. "I promise, as soon as you're sixteen I'll take you out there too," he reminds him as he straightens, reaching for his keys. "But not before then, Blueberry."
"Ugh, Daaaaad! Not in front of everyone!"
—
A week or so later, Tom sees his next opportunity to engage with their most recently adopted alien child. Shadow's on the couch watching television by himself. Maddie's at work. The rest of the boys are outside playing waterguns– he can hear Knuckles bellowing something about dishonorable conduct, followed by Sonic's distinctive laughter and Tails' cheering counter, so it's probably fine.
"Mind if I join you?" Tom asks, and waits for Shadow to nod before settling into the armchair and scooting the coffee table closer to himself. He needs to do some maintenance on his duty gun. Red eyes flick towards the table as Tom lays out an old rag he uses to keep oil from getting all over everything and starts setting out his tools.
The sound of Sonic crying out dramatically drifts in from the back porch. "Sounds like they're having a good time," he remarks. Not 'Why aren't you outside playing?' or 'The boys'd prolly love to have you join. Then they'd have an even number for teams.'
"It's too hot," Shadow answers the unspoken question anyway. He's perceptive as hell sometimes.
Tom hums and unloads the magazine, then checks the chamber. "Confirm clear for me?" He asks nonchalantly, pointing the handgun down and holding it out to him. Shadow blinks, then leans over to inspect it himself.
"Clear."
"Thanks." He puts the gun on the table to start disassembling. "All that black fur prolly doesn't help on a sunny day, huh?"
Shadow hasn't moved back over to the corner of the couch he was perched on. He watches as Tom locks the slide back, flips the takedown lever, and separates the slide from the frame. "I can withstand temperatures up to two hundred degrees fahrenheit," he says, instead of agreeing about it being hot outside.
Tom tries not to falter. How the hell does he know what his upper tolerance is? Not for the first time, he wishes that Commander Walters was still around so he could shake the man for answers about what on earth was done to Shadow. And punch him himself, probably, because for heaven's sake, he was just a kid.
Shadow seems to realize he's said something 'wrong' despite Tom's best efforts not to react viscerally, because his ears flick back and he reaches for one of his Inhibitor Rings, twisting the metal band on his wrist slowly. It's the closest thing to fidgeting he seems to allow himself. "I– am also not a fan of direct sunlight. Sir."
Oof. Yeah, he's beating himself up about it, for sure. Instead of correcting him, which would probably just make the kid clam up even further, Tom glances at him consideringly. "Me neither. I'm more of an autumn guy. You wanna help me out with this, instead?"
That gets Shadow to look up again. His eyes flick from the disassembled gun, to Tom, then quickly back down at the parts. "Do… you need help?"
"I could always use a hand with maintenance. I was only gonna do this one, since it's what I bring with me to work," Tom reveals, wiping his hands off and then standing up to go to the front closet.
Shadow watches him as he opens the lock box on a shelf and pulls out his backup gun. The lock box is new– after they found Sonic rooting around in the linen closet upstairs for sheets to make 'the most epic pillow fort ever!', they'd realized they needed to reconsider storage for things that Sonic (and Tails, and Knuckles) should definitely not have access to.
He does a quick check of the chamber and then returns to the living room, holding it out for Shadow to confirm clear before sitting down at the couch instead, shifting the oil rag with everything else so that it's spread out more evenly across the coffee table. "We keep this one by the front door as a precaution. Maddie's trained, but I'm the one who does upkeep since it's kind of part of my job," Tom explains, setting the second handgun closer to Shadow. "It could probably use some maintenance if you want."
The dark-furred hedgehog looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself for a moment. Like he's weighing the amount of trust Tom's displaying– showing him where they keep another firearm, offering to let him handle it– against his own reservations, trying to do the emotional math in his head.
Tom picks up the disassembled barrel and a bore brush. "You don't have to, though. It was just an offer since you're cooped up in here."
That– the offer of an out– seems to do the trick, because Shadow scoots a little bit closer (still a respectable distance between them) and picks up the gun. "I'll help."
"Awesome. Thanks, bud."
Whatever Shadow's version of knowing 'a little' about guns is, it's 'more than he should considering how old he actually is' in Tom's book. Shadow gets the gun disassembled and starts doing maintenance on each piece like he's being timed. Each component laid out in perfect alignment: slide, barrel, recoil spring, frame. Not a drop of oil or a single smear on his white leather gloves (again with the gloves). Tom's still putting his personal arm back together when he's finished, setting the newly cleaned and maintenanced gun on the coffee table with something between satisfaction and reverence.
"Damn," Tom remarks thoughtlessly. "I mean, darn. You're good."
Shadow tucks his chin a little. "I… After– I used to help with maintenance sometimes, when I wasn't resting or being tested or running laps in the Harvester."
He says it so casually, like being used as a living battery cell to charge GUN's experimental armaments was just another Tuesday, instead of a borderline war crime against a literal child. Tom just nods, swallowing down the reflexive, protective instinct. "Oh, wow, so you really know about guns, don'tcha?"
"I– I've never. I've only actually used one once. I-in Shibuya."
Right. Sonic had said something about the other boy snapping up a discarded gun and then shooting at him while tearing down the street on a motorcycle, 'Like an action hero or something! It was so friggin' cool, Dad–!' No wonder he was hesitant to mention it at all.
"Well that's no good," Tom offers, racking the slide to make sure everything cycles smoothly. "Now we definitely need to go to the shooting range sometime. I mean, if you think you'd be interested. We still need to figure out hearing protection," he adds, because Shadow seems to respond best when he's offered the option to decline, instead of feeling like he has no choice but to comply.
The light coming through the windows has started to turn warmer, more direct, as the afternoon stretches out the way summer days like to do. Shadow's fur, usually a deep inky black, looks almost more like a dark brown, lit up by the backlighting behind them. He looks young. Younger than Sonic, sometimes, with how rare it is for his face to unpinch from that perpetual frown.
Right now is like that– his mouth's still set in a flat line, but his eyes are open wide and brow unfurrowed, looking at Tom like for once he's not considering which answer is right rather than what he actually wants.
"I'd… like that."
Tom almost wants to throw his fist up in victory, the way Sonic might after winning a round of MarioKart, but he contains himself for the sake of his newest, prickliest son. "Awesome."
—
Shadow's definitely the most difficult of their four kids, but it's not because he's hyperactive or precocious or strong enough to lift the truck (which he is, but knows better than to do so, which is something Knuckles had to be expressly told).
He's… selective with his words, and thinks he needs to constantly prove his worth and his competence and usefulness to be allowed to exist, and damn hard to strike up a conversation with. He was raised in a military bunker where he was treated less like a child and more like an asset.
But he's their child now. And they'll keep proving it to him, day after day, until Shadow starts to believe it for himself.