Stolen Chances

Chapter Nineteen

Tommy doesn't know how long he's been there in the dark empty closet. The floor, much like the rest of the warehouse, was made of concrete, not holding any heat in it, causing Tommy's body to be wracked with shivers.

It's dark, the industrial door not letting any light leak through the cracks, and he's alone in the quiet. He thinks he can hear footsteps out in the hall, but that might just be him imagining things. His arms had gone numb after the first hour, being locked behind him in cuffs, and one of them crushed under his body weight from when he was first thrown in here. No matter how he positions himself, his arms remain sore.

Thankfully, his lip stopped bleeding; the blood scabbed over his nose and the split lip. So now he's just battered and bruised in the dark, not even able to lick his wounds.

The sad thing about all of this is that he finds himself lonely. Here he is locked in a closet by some criminal, and all he wants more than anything is a hug. He thinks about Tubbo and Ranboo, wondering if he had just told them that maybe none of this would have happened. The crafts probably would have called social services and gotten them sent back into the system. Then again, perhaps Tubbo would have been feral enough to work with them.

Poor Ranboo wouldn't want to be wrapped in any of this. He hoped they were both doing alright, maybe found a cheaper apartment to fit the duo better. They always worked better together anyways.

He thought about Wilbur. Would he go searching for Tommy after he practically disowned the man? Did the Craft's forgiveness go as far as walking into a clear trap? He misses Wilbur before the near-death and dislikes his roommates. When he could pretend the explicit threats were just banter between brothers. Did he see Wilbur as a brother? The man called him that when lying to Ponk. He didn't know if that was part of the deception or the beginning of Wilbur caring for him.

He misses Wilbur despite this. Where he could live in the illusion of someone willing to kill for him. Wilbur scares Tommy. But he thinks he's okay with that.

He closes his eyes again, resting his head against the cold concrete. He almost preferred Schlatt's interrogation to this.

He doesn't cry. But he wants to.

He hears something rattling outside of the door. Footsteps stop right outside the door, and Tommy can't tell if they're real or not. Then, finally, he hears a weak cry and realizes it's coming from him. The heavy door makes a loud scraping noise against the floor, and Tommy holds his breath, hard with the lack of air going through his broken nose.

He ducks his head despite everything telling him not to cower. He doesn't want to die, not really. He just didn't want to be left behind.

The door jolts open as if someone slammed into it. Tommy can't hide the whine he lets out as he squeezes his eyes shut. He just didn't want to hurt anymore. He wanted to be held by Wilbur again and banter with Phil and eat Technoblade's food.

Light floods behind his eyelids as someone enters the room, a small muttered "fuck" following it. He isn't sure if this is real or if he's losing it finally from the dark. But then, warm hands find his shoulders and check his pulse. Then, a sigh of relief, "I'm getting you out of here, kid." A voice he doesn't recognize tells him. He feels pressure on his wrists lift as the handcuffs are removed, and he finally moves his head. His eyes are heavy and blinking sore as they adjust to the light.

A man crouches in front of him, trying to drag him up from his curled fetal position on the ground. He's wearing a white bandana tying his long black hair back. "The crafts will tear this place down any second. We have to get going."

The crafts were coming for him.

Wilbur was on the way.

The man practically carries Tommy out of the room, bearing most of his weight. He has a slight limp he can't tell if his leg was hit at some point or maybe from the pain in his ribs. He felt tear tracks dragging down his face splitting through the blood and grime. He can make out shouting and gunshots somewhere, but his head's pounding is so disorienting, too disorienting.
As they turn a corner, he almost falls from the man's abrupt stop; weakly lifting his head, he spots the barrel of a gun pointed at them.