Work Text:
“I can’t do it.” Tommy stood in the doorway, red knuckles gripping the frame, eyes cast downward.
Phil spun around from his desk. “Do what?”
“My hairs’ all--” Tommy gestured to his greasy mop of hair, toes tapping on the carpet. Phil noticed the sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way his legs swayed slightly. He’d been running a fever since this morning, but insisted on staying on his feet, running around doing chores and picking up after Wilbur.
Always the doting duckling.
Tommy had been sick a couple times since his adoption into the family, and all three of those times he’d denied it and hidden it until he was practically a dead-man walking.
“Ah, ok. I’m coming, go find towels for me.” Phil turned back around to click off his computer. Tommy was asking for some semblance of help! What a weight off his chest that was.
He could feel Tommy’s eyes on the back of his head for a few more moments before the boy shuffled out
Said boy had bunched heaps of soft, maroon bath towels into his arms, spinning around to catch them as they repeatedly fell from the dryer.
He barely bit back a furious groan. His head hurt, and there was somehow sweat dripping down from it into his eyes. The shame of being sick hurt more than the physical symptoms of it.
“This is a miserable existence, Techno,” Tommy snapped around his arms. To blow some of the steam? Maybe. He was sure Phil would having something to say about how biting at his siblings showed his growing comfort around them-- how much he was settling in-- something sappy.
“It’s not the plague,” Techno called from the living room.
“I know. I’m just-- tired.” Tommy slammed the dryer closed with his heel and wobbled through the kitchen to the base of the stairs, shimmying up one step at a time. He swore he could feel the energy draining out of his bones. His legs felt like sandbags and his eyes must’ve been held down by them with how easily they closed on their own accord.
When he reached the top he heard water running in the bathroom but waddled right by, dumped the towels, and dragged his feet into the bedroom.
The ladder. It spawned before him like an infinite mountain. His bunk was up-top, something he’d demanded when he moved in, and something Techno had obliged without too much of a fight. Normally Tommy relished it, but now, all he wanted was to pitch over. Could he really even pull himself off the ground?
He fell forward, narrowly missing the floor, face first into his older brother’s bed. The fluffy, messy, blue comforter fit around his body like a perfectly fitting mould.
The window-light faded away as darkness clouded Tommy. It was like a weight was pressing him into the bed, further, further down. He could barely breathe out of his nose, and his head was burning, back cold, mind foggy. Everything was stuffy, but he was so, so tired.
A hand rested gently on his back. Tommy lifted his chin and twisted around. Phil furrowed brow met him.
“What.”
“I left you for three minutes.” Phil was rubbing his back. Tommy sunk his face back into the cold sheets.
“You’re gonna give your germs to Techno. Cmon’.”
“Techno won’t get sick. He doesn’t ever get sick.” I always get sick.
Tommy let himself be lifted off the bed, to his feet, which he forgot how to stand on, and be guided to the bathroom. Steam was rising from the tub. He wanted to sleep now. Maybe when he woke up he wouldn’t be sick and tired.
Techno’s pink hair stopped in front of the open door. “Was Tommy in my bed?”
“Yeah-- I’ll change it when I’m done in here,” Phil said.
Techno put a hand up as he walked away. “Don’t worry about it.”
And then the attention was back on Tommy. Phil guided the boy to sit, which he hated, but appreciated, because his brain-to-body-connection was shit right now and he’d barely heard a word Techno said.
“Lean your head over the tub, Tommy,” Phil said gently. Tommy breathed out and nervously scooted to the bathtub to tip his neck back over the edge. He didn’t like how vulnerable his body felt like this. He looked up at Phil, instinctively searching for that reassurance, searching his adopted-father’s eyes for some hint of malice. Phil turned the water warmer and met his gaze.
There was a time when Tommy couldn’t have Phil looking at him. Couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be seen. He’d jolt up at the man walking in the door, hurry to look busy, scramble out of the way. There was a time when asking for help was as far away and impossible as anything, when he lived here, and he survived day by day, and he wasted away.
Tommy blinked as Phil put a hand on his hair and scratched his fingers through it. Warm water followed and flowed down his scalp and over the hand, still rubbing rhythmically. Tommy melted in more ways than one.
Phil was different from everyone else. Phil loved him.
He let his eyes fall closed and hands go limp at his sides. He felt as Phil shampooed and massaged his roots. He felt the little rubs near his ears, at his hairline, at the base of his neck.
If only little Tommy knew he could feel, be, this safe. That someone would wash his hair and rub his head.
What seemed like forever later, the shower knob squeaked off and Tommy slit his eye-lids barely open. It was bright, and his spine hurt, but his head felt lovely. He caught himself selfishly wishing that his hair had been dirtier and that this would have taken longer.
Phil sat Tommy up and let the boy lean into him as he gently worked a towel through his hair. He was woozy, and still high off that safe-feeling he was trying to get used to when his adopted-father helped him to his feet and walked him to his bedroom.
Techno sat by the window with a little book in his big hands. “He can have it. I’ll just take the top tonight. There’s no way you can throw him up there,” the teenager said without looking up.
Phil let out a relieved breath. “Thanks Techno.” The sound was close to Tommy’s ear, and he couldn’t control himself from following it and leaning further against his adopted-father’s body. Phil slung an arm under his when he started slipping and took most of the weight off his sand-bag legs.
When he was finally guided into bed, everything was warm, but this time, he was clean. He buried his face into the techno-smelling comforter. (His brother turned a scrapy page in the corner.)
“Alright,” Phil said. “See you at Dinner, Toms.” His Thumb rubbed beside Tommy’s eye.
Tommy looked up again, searching one last time for that safety, that certainty that this man was good. That this was good. Phil bent over and kissed his forehead.
“Thanks, Phil,” he whispered.
Phil’s hand brushed past his face as he stood and the door creaked and clicked shut behind him.
Tommy sunk further into the mattress.
He lost consciousness to the sound of Techno’s far off breathing.