Tommy's body is thrown from unconsciousness in one motion, a sharp inhale accompanying the realisation that he is absolutely, thoroughly fucked.
Persantine.
What is Persantine? A little voice in the back of his head tells him that it's a blood thinner, which is fucking stupid because he doesn't have any pulmonary issues.
Somewhere, in the form of a glitch in time and space, Tommy Craft has been lied to.
He has to know.
To calm his shaking hands and heaving chest, Tommy stares at the morning light dancing on the ceiling above him for a minute. Just long enough to regulate his breathing, then he's off. Dragging himself to his chair, he practically flies out the door. The medicine cupboard is in the downstairs bathroom, last he checked. Too bad the last time Tommy had to worry about refilling his day boxes was at age fourteen.
Ever since then, Phil's been doing it. Pester an adult about an extremely long word you can't pronounce one time and suddenly you're no longer allowed to touch your own tablets.
He scoots out onto the landing. Techno's and Wilbur's doors are both closed, unmoved from when they retired the night before, so neither of them have gotten up yet. Tommy knows this because they're both careless fuckers, constantly leaving shit open to slam in the late autumn breeze.
So, raising as little ruckus as he can, he rolls onto the lift, clicks and waits.
The jolt of movement as the lift begins to whir makes Tommy's stomach lurch. He didn't eat a lot yesterday; with his supplier being so stingy, choosing to stockpile whatever food he manages to lay hands on seems sensible. Ergo, cue the all-too-familiar pang of hunger in his gut.
Thankfully, the lift reaches the first floor before Tommy has the chance to throw up what's left in his stomach. Not bothering to check for early-riser Phil, who is probably in the basement like he usually is first thing in the morning, he beelines straight for the bathroom. Pushing open the door, he stops to think about how terribly this plan could have gone.
In reality, there is no plan to speak of. Tommy's impulsive streak continues; it's just go, go, go and hope he doesn't die.
Okay, maybe not die.
The cabinet is above the sink, which makes Tommy's life so much harder. He rolls closer, backing in so that he has a better vantage point to work from as he decides how he's going to go about this.
Getting the little doors open is the least of Tommy's worries. He does that in a flash, barely even trying as he reaches for the ridge. It swings outward with minimal effort, exposing the contents and holy fuck that's a lot of bottles.
In that cabinet is evidence of every single medication he's ever taken. If someone were to shine a light into the space, the array would cast a yellow glow throughout the entire room. It surprises Tommy how many of them are empty, standing dormant while they wait to be sorted from the full ones. He'd have thought Phil would take more pride in organisation, seeing as though keeping track of this shit is literally life or death.
Oh well. He can confront his father about his terrible, possibly life-ending habits later. Right now, he needs to focus on finding Not-Persantine. It has just now occurred to him that Phil never told him the name of the new drug.
Sus? Definitely.
Reaching any of the bottles would be a mission and a half. While it's all good and well being able to see, getting his hands on one is another story.
Tommy leans back, so focused on finding Not-Persantine that he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him.
"What in the actual fuck are you doing?"
YOU ARE READING
Run ~ SBI
FanfictionTommy's lived his whole life in a wheelchair with his father taking care of him. When things start to fall through the cracks and memories of a different life become apparent, what can Philza do to keep control? Is Wilbur going to keep up? Will Tech...
