Work Text:
Wilbur wakes up to a weight thrown across his legs.
Groaning, he tries to turn over, but the weight is too heavy, preventing him from going back to sleep. Blearily squinting his eyes at his clock, Wilbur thinks it’s close to 9am, but he’s also not wearing his glasses.
One of his hands feels around the lump on his legs, and he sits up when he feels the warm, solid body of a human.
“Tommy.” Wilbur rubs his eyes, reaching over blindly for his glasses. Already, the clear sight of Tommy sprawled across his legs wakes him up. “What’re you doing?” His mouth feels full, stuffy from sleep.
Incomprehensible mutters come from his 14 year old laying on top of him, and Tommy shifts, climbing up Wilbur’s body, while also forcing Wilbur to lay back down, to rest his head on Wilbur’s chest.
Soft blond curls tickle Wilbur’s chin, and he laughs softly as Tommy quickly goes into a deep sleep. Wilbur runs a hand through Tommy’s hair, and is amused when he realizes Tommy’s still above the covers.
At this point, Wilbur’s awake, and he wonders why Tommy’s being so obviously clingy when the teen normally strays from physical contact. Tommy doesn’t usually stick himself to Wilbur like a bug other than when he’s trying to suck up to Wilbur or if he’s sick.
And as far as Wilbur knows, Tommy hasn’t gotten into too much trouble recently.
Trying his best not to wake the probably ill child sleeping on him, Wilbur scooches to the edge of the bed, grasping for his phone that’s charging on the nightstand. He overestimates, knocking the phone off the stand and winces when he hears it clatter on the ground.
He needs to call Tommy out of school, and to do so, he has to wake his son up.
“Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, brushing Tommy’s head back. Closed eyes don’t open, and Wilbur shakes Tommy back and forth gently, smiling when one of the sky blue eyes crack open.
He looks discontented, but there’s also a haze in Tommy’s eyes that allow Wilbur to assume that Tommy’s sick. “I need to get up,” Wilbur murmurs, “gotta call you in sick.”
“‘M not fuckin’ sick,” Tommy mutters in a way that is totally, completely, convincing. “‘M fine.”
“Bull,” Wilbur says, slowly sitting up again, “c’mon.”
“Noooooo,” Tommy groans, rubbing the palm of his hand all over his face. “‘M tired.”
Wilbur huffs a short laugh, “that’s why you’re not going to school. How long have you been feeling sick?” He feels Tommy’s forehead with the back of his hand, and yep, Tommy’s sick. He’ll check with a thermometer later.
“Hmm?” Tommy hums, swaying back and forth as he sits criss-cross applesauce. Both of his eyes are open, but he’s just staring into space, not seeing beyond his own mind.
Wilbur sighs, Tommy’s more sick than he thought. He pulls back the covers over Tommy’s legs as he gets out of his bed. His phone is somewhat under the bed frame and he has to get on the floor to grab it.
Tommy's still wobbling and staring into nothing as Wilbur calls his school. With his glasses on, he can see it’s nearing 7am and not 9am like how he thought previously. At least Tommy hasn’t already been counted absent since his school doesn’t start til 8.
He’s sent to voicemail, and he gives a concise explanation on why Tommy’s not going to be there. He watches Tommy’s head droop to his chest during the voicemail, and before Wilbur makes another call, and lays Tommy down.
Wilbur quickly calls his work and tells them he’s not going to make it in, and after that, he sets his phone down and returns his full attention to Tommy.
Tommy’s staring into space, and he’s flushed, sweating heavily. His son doesn’t look like he’ll be able to walk, or at least walk safely, so Wilbur slides Tommy off the bed and into his arms. The trip downstairs is short, and Tommy barely stirs at all.
He deposits Tommy onto the couch, and heads to the kitchen, wetting a couple clean rags and putting them into a water filled bowl.
Tommy’s laying on his back with his left hand over his stomach and right hand off the side of the couch. Wilbur squeezes out excess water and slowly places the cool rag on Tommy’s forehead, feeling a little less worried when Tommy sighs.
“Hey Toms,” Wilbur says softly, sitting on the footrest in front of Tommy. “How’s your stomach?”
Tommy gives a noise the equivalent of a urrgghh, groaning as he turns on his side to face Wilbur. Normally sky blue eyes are dulled almost to a gray blue, but they seem a bit more clear than earlier.
“Can–I wanna watch Up,” Tommy says tiredly, near slurring the words. “Can we watch Up please.”
The fact that Tommy said please is amusing, and Wilbur would be sure to laugh if his son wasn’t feeling like shit at the moment. “Sure, Tom,” Wilbur replies, grabbing the TV remote and opening Disney+. Up is easy to get to, having watched it so many times together.
Knowing his back would get sore if he leaned on the couch to watch, Wilbur sits in the recliner, placing his hands behind his head. The music lulls him to sleep, and the last thing Wilbur sees is Carl and Ellie mourning the loss of their baby.
Wilbur is rudely woken up by retching, and he shoots out of the recliner, frazzled. He focuses on Tommy, who’s leaning over the side of the couch and throwing up.
Quickly, he runs into the kitchen, grabbing the designated throw up bowl and places it under Tommy’s chin. He runs his fingers through Tommy’s damp hair, trailing all the way down his neck and frowning when Tommy is practically steaming hot.
Tommy gags, and Wilbur sighs. He hates seeing his kid in so much pain. “It’s okay,” Wilbur murmurs quietly, petting the back of Tommy’s hair. “It’s okay.”
Soon enough, Tommy seems to be finished, and he collapses into the couch, tears still creating shiny lines down his cheeks. Wilbur sets the bowl on the coffee table, wiping away Tommy’s tears with his hands and Tommy’s chin with a towel. Wilbur would trade all of Tommy’s pain for his own happiness if he could.
“I’ll be back,” Wilbur promises, and Tommy nods almost unseeable. Wilbur heads into the kitchen and rinses out the bowl. He also fills a glass with water, carrying both back to the living room.
He sets the bowl underneath Tommy and the glass on the coffee table. Tommy’s staring at the table, face stuck in sadness that makes Wilbur’s heart ache. The movie’s at the point where Russell is feeding Kevin chocolate. Turns out Wilbur hadn’t slept that long.
Wilbur climbs the stairs, heading into Tommy’s room and grabbing his son’s comforter and cow stuffie. Henry should lift Tommy’s spirits somewhat.
“Thanks,” Tommy says, tucking Henry under his arms and holding tight. “Can I have some water?”
It’s almost 8am, and Tommy looks like he’s about to pass out. Wilbur tilts the glass to Tommy’s mouth. “Small sips, okay?” Tommy nods, doing exactly that, growing more lethargic with every movement.
Setting the cup down, Wilbur goes around the room and shuts off all the lights and closes the curtains. Another hand to Tommy’s head reveals slightly cooler skin but they may be a side effect of throwing up. Tommy’s unmoving, and Wilbur sits back down the recliner, pulling out a book to read.
He’s just started reading when a quiet voice comes from the couch. “Love you, dad,” Tommy says, curling into Henry.
Wilbur’s heart melts. Tommy’s so sweet, and he can’t wait to tease Tommy when he’s better. Still, Wilbur responds with only affection, “love you too, Toms.”