Chapter Text
Now, Tommy’s no expert in bug bites, but he’s, like, ninety-nine percent sure that a spider bite shouldn’t look like this. To be fair, he’s also never been bitten by a spider before, but that’s besides the point. And he’s not about to kill the thing either, even if it had attacked him completely unprovoked, which is absolutely outrageous.
Well. Maybe not completely unprovoked.
So what if Tommy had been snooping around in an area of the tube line he’s absolutely not supposed to be in? And so what if he’d found a funky-looking lab in one of the abandoned areas of the track? Granted, yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have jumped at the sound of skittering—which had turned out to be a mouse poking around the room—and unintentionally knocked over a glass case. But it hadn’t been his fault that a spider the size of his fucking hand had instantly latched onto his arm. And yeah, okay, trying to pet the spider may not have been the best course of action, but before he could even move his hand close enough to brush against it, the fucker had chomped down on his arm!
Tommy had then proceeded to swear his head off and gently set the spider down on the ground and pace and panic over the bite for a couple of minutes. It moves barely two feet away, where it now promptly falls over in place and dies. So much for trying to be careful with it. But here he is, with a lump in his arm that’s been swelling for the past eight and a half minutes, and Tommy’s left wondering how the fuck he’s going to sneak back into his room and hide a big red lump the size of a hummingbird on his arm. Because, once again, he’s definitely not supposed to be down here, and he’s also definitely not supposed to be—albeit unsuccessfully—befriending spiders either, not after The Incident in Phil’s office building a few weeks ago.
But he’s snuck back home under worse conditions, so he supposes it can’t really hurt to just leave the weird lab-looking place alone and get the hell out of dodge before this ends worse than one of Techno’s myth books with the weirdos that cheat on each other all the time. Christ, his arm feels awful, though. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass to climb through his window with this fucking lump, but as long as he doesn’t get caught again, it should be fine. Plus, Tommy’s totally a professional at this by now. Truly the best in the business, as they say.
In any case, it’s definitely getting late now, so Tommy ducks out of the abandoned area and heads back to the platform, slipping out of the station with little notice from bystanders. After all, who’s gonna take the time out of their day to dash after some kid clutching his arm and making a mad dash for the exit? Everyone else has much better things to do than that, and Tommy definitely goes completely and totally unnoticed because he’s an absolute master of stealth. One of the platform guards definitely doesn’t start to ask after him as Tommy hurries past, hand still clasped around the bright red lump causing an ever-stabbing pain in his bicep.
The house isn’t too far, thankfully, and Tommy’s starting to feel a little woozy—maybe he should tell Phil he’s been bitten by a giant spider, but he doesn’t really want to go through all the fussing. It’s unnecessary, really, it is, he’s a big man after all, he can handle a little scrape or two on his own. He doesn’t need seven bandages and twelve days of bed rest, Phil. In any case, while the window seems higher than usual, Tommy scales his way back up the side of the house, the backyard spinning in his peripheral vision, and slips in through his still-open window.
It’s quite funny actually, now that he thinks about it; the room’s spinning as well, and Tommy sits down on his bed and takes his hand off of the spider bite, taking a good look at it for the first time since the station. And oh boy, it’s not looking good. He should definitely be telling someone about it. His veins are visible under the raised bump, kind of mesmerizing as they glow red and pulse almost rhythmically beneath his skin. Tommy reaches out to touch it again, with his fingertips just barely brushing against it, but he flinches back at the sensation—he can only really think to compare it to a static shock when it happens.
The room actually swirls now, and Tommy thinks it wise that he lay down on his bed, weird spider bite bump notwithstanding, thank you very much. It’s not the spider bite making him tired, it’s simply the fact that it’s nearing eleven in the evening, and this is typically when Phil comes up to check on him, and Tommy can hide the spider bite underneath his bed covers. A purely strategic move, nothing more. This is absolutely not spurred on by the raging headache he’s suddenly got coming on.
Said headache worsens with the sound of the door creaking slowly open. Tommy should probably ask Techno if he’s got any oil for the hinges—mans oils his collection of swords enough to make ’em America’s next target, he’s bound to have some extra lying around. Regardless, the edge of Tommy’s bed dips with someone’s weight, and his hair is getting brushed out of his face. “Hey, mate, you headin’ to bed?” Phil asks, and Tommy hums. He’s definitely not too tired and woozy to respond. Not at all. “Toms? Are you feeling okay? You’re being quiet, that’s not like you.”
Tommy huffs and forces his eyes open as wide as they can go. He's squinting. “Fuck off, old man,” he tries to say, but it sounds more like an incoherent jumble of syllables. Hm. Maybe he really should have shown Phil the spider bite before his arms had started to feel like lead. Now, he’s just hoping he goes back to normal before tomorrow morning. He’s got classes to get to, things to learn, Tubbos to bother.
Phil frowns down at him and settles a hand on Tommy’s forehead, drawing it back almost as soon as it had touched him. “Shit, Tommy, you’re burning up,” he says, brow furrowed. Tommy grumbles something equally incoherent, and Phil shakes his head. “You definitely can’t go to school like this, you’re absolutely staying home tomorrow. And I don’t wanna hear a word out of you about it either, there’s no way your fever’s gonna fix itself overnight.”
Just about ready to pass out, Tommy pouts, but shuts his eyes anyway. Phil ruffles his hair, and Tommy’s head screams as the door creaks closed. His entire body feels like it’s imploding, like his muscles are being twisted around and turned inside out. His veins feel like they’re pumping molasses through his body, and his eyes are stinging. Everything sounds and smells like too much, even opening his eyes just a sliver is overwhelming; Tommy’s not sure whether he’s hallucinating or if he really can hear Phil’s typing or Techno’s huffs of laughter or Wilbur’s humming, all from downstairs.
It’s definitely his imagination, but he swears he can smell the bug-repellant candle that Wil always forgets is burning on the back porch. And while his brain insists that the smell of Techno’s dye- sensitive shampoo is right in his face, that’s just objectively untrue. Tommy feels like absolute garbage, and every sense of his being completely overwhelmed by so much is definitely not helping. The spider bite is still pulsing, and Tommy hopes that whatever venom he’s been injected with doesn’t, say, end his very short life where he stands. Or, well, lays.
Eventually, though, the exhaustion wins over, and Tommy’s stomach churns with anxiety. He really hopes Phil’s not going to come in with acetaminophen in the morning to find him dead. That would be a rather shitty experience for the both of them.
*****
Thankfully, Tommy does not, in fact, die.
Instead, he wakes up to the smell of pancakes and syrup, and a lazy grin stretches across his still half-asleep face as he shifts to open his eyes, expecting Phil to be standing in his doorway with a plate of breakfast like he always does when one of them happens to be sick. To Tommy’s utter confusion, though, his door is closed and the barest hint of daylight peeking from the curtains illuminates the otherwise empty bedroom. The smell of his breakfast is absolutely overwhelming, though—it’s as if he’s sticking his nose barely a millimeter above it and taking as deep of a breath as he can.
The next thing that becomes apparent to Tommy is that he feels absolutely fine. Invigorated, in fact. And as he goes to check the spider bite from last night, all that remains of it is a smooth pink scar, no larger than a pinprick. Odd, considering that the bite had been around the same size as a goddamned snow globe the last time he’d checked on it. Alright, well, maybe not that big, but big enough to be absolutely mortifying. Tommy feels relief flood through him in spite of his curiosity about the bite, and he lets go of the covers to let them fall back over him.
Or, he tries to, at least.
The damn thing is stuck to his hand.
Tommy hasn’t spilled anything on it recently—he’s been banned from bringing Coke up to his room at all after so many incidents, as a matter of fact—and he knows for sure that his hands aren’t the culprit here, given that they’d picked things up and put them down just fine last night. He shakes his hand a bit in the air, hoping the cover will fall from his hand with little intervention, but it seems pretty stubbornly stuck to his fingers. It falls from Tommy’s palm, only attached to the very tips of his fingers, which, Tommy recognizes, is definitely not a normal thing for his bed covers to do. He shakes his hand a little more vigorously, swearing under his breath when that does absolutely nothing but jostle the few odds and ends perched precariously on the edge of his bed.
The door starts to open, and the creak of it claws at his eardrums. Tommy throws his hands—or hand, the other one is still stuck firmly to his covers, which actually does a pretty decent job of muffling the noise—over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can. The light flooding in from the hallway is also incredibly grating. “Toms? Have you got a headache, mate?” Phil says, sounding as though he’s right next to Tommy, though when Tommy manages to open his eyes and adjust them to the light after a few moments, Phil’s standing worriedly in the doorway with a tray full of breakfast that absolutely stinks.
A shame, really. Tommy had really been looking forward to those pancakes and now all he can smell is the sickening scent of nothing but syrupy sugar. Now he’s nauseous as well. Fuck. He’d really thought he might’ve been able to talk his way into going to school today. Alas, fate has decided he must be fussed over for eight straight hours instead. Tommy nearly gags as Phil steps closer, the smell of the syrup absolutely annihilating his nose. Seriously, it should be a criminal offense or something to put that much sugar in maple fucking syrup.
When Tommy realizes Phil is still looking for a response—and that his fucking bedsheet is still attached to his hand—he abruptly drops both hands back into his lap and blinks his eyes open, though he winces at the light still flooding in from the hall. “My fuckin’ eyes, Phil, Jesus, close the fucking—oh my God, the door, the fucking door!” he groans, his own voice sounding like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. Phil sets the horror show of a tray down on Tommy’s bedside table and hurries over to the door, gently letting it close and wincing just as Tommy does when the hinges scream again.
“Sorry about that,” Phil says, his tone the same as when he’s talking softly, though the volume of it is just a little louder than normal. He smiles down at Tommy and pulls his desk chair over so he can sit at Tommy’s bedside. So fucking fussy. Tommy lets him, though, because while he’s definitely not afraid of whatever the fuck is going on with his senses, Phil looks like he’ll implode with worry if Tommy tells him to fuck off. Brows furrowed and smile clearly half-forced, Phil gestures to the tray beside them. “Have something to eat, it’ll help.”
“Absolutely fucking not, Phil, that reeks,” Tommy informs him, and Phil makes a face like he doesn’t know what the fuck Tommy’s talking about. A bit pissed off now, Tommy points at the offending syrup and scowls. “I’m not fucking eating that shit, it’s gotta be fuckin’ expired or something—it stinks, man, you can’t not smell it, I—stop looking at me like that, I’m not crazy! Smell it, go on, you fucking—you’ll see, Phil, just smell it!”
Looking as though he’d rather be doing literally anything else right now, Phil raises a brow and sticks his nose directly above the pancakes, and he makes a right show of taking a whiff. He doesn’t react whatsoever, and now Tommy understands why Phil’s looking at him like he’s gone mad. “It just smells like good cooking to me, mate, but if you’d rather I make you something else, then that’s no problem,” Phil says in that same infuriating gentle tone, but he’s still being too loud.
“You’re being too fuckin’ loud, I can’t hear myself think,” Tommy whines, rubbing at his face with his free hand and very pointedly keeping his other hand in a totally natural and not at all awkward-looking position on the bedsheets. “Seriously, mans got a massive goddamn headache, I don’t need you yelling at me on top of it, Phil, fucking Christ...”
“Toms, I’m not yelling,” Phil murmurs, and that’s the level of volume Tommy had expected to come with the gentle tone of voice. Matter of fact, Phil almost seems like he’s whispering, but that’s preposterous. He’s been too damn loud for all of the ten minutes Tommy’s been awake for. “You really must be feeling like shit, hm? I called ahead and told the school you’d be out today, glad I took care of that now rather than later.”
Tommy hesitantly nods and chances a whiff of the orange juice beside the pancakes. It smells much more citrus-y than normal, but it definitely doesn’t smell nearly as bad as the rest of Phil’s horrific breakfast. He chances a sip of it and finds that it tastes absolutely incredible. Tommy’s tempted to ask whether this is the good kind of juice or the shitty store brand they usually buy, but he’s worried that Phil will look at him like he’s clinically insane again. In any case, maybe the pancakes will taste better than they smell.
He debates over it for a moment, and Phil raises a brow at him again, and Tommy shoves his shoulder, eyes widening when his free hand sticks to Phil’s green robe just like his other hand had attached itself to the bedspread. A nervous smile on his face, Tommy attempts to make it look like a totally normal gesture of him putting a hand on Phil’s shoulder. Because that’s definitely a thing he’s known for doing. “Uh, thanks, old man,” he says, voice wavering a little and much quieter than it normally is, judging by Phil’s very obviously surprised expression. Tommy’s hand, the damn traitor, does not let go despite his best efforts to force it to. “Also, give me your robe, please.”
“Wha—? Why do you want my robe?” Phil asks him, completely bewildered. Tommy wracks his brain for an excuse and stares at Henry, who’s teetering on the edge of his bed. The tiny eyes of the cow plush stare back at him, and Tommy can almost feel the bedsheets finally, finally drop from his grip. “Uh, earth to Tommy? Are you going to explain why you want my robe or am I going to have to get Techno in here to interrogate you?”
“I’m cold,” Tommy blurts, a blatant lie, but evidently, Phil still believes he’s sick enough to be giving delayed responses. He now has a free hand again, but his other hand is still sticking firmly to Phil’s robe. “I am the coldest I have ever been, Phil, I’m quite sick, you see, and I have to have your robe. Right now. For my sickness. And also healing purposes. I will never recover in this terrible arctic weather, Phil, you must understand. My sinuses, Phil.”
Phil eyes him skeptically for a moment, but he shrugs off the robe—Tommy still clutching it in a way that definitely does not cause any further suspicion to arise—and lets Tommy take it. “You’ve a sinus headache? Might have to schedule a doctor’s appointment then,” he says, and Tommy stifles a snort at Phil’s...eclectic choice of pyjamas. Number One Crow Dad is written across his chest in what’s clearly a five-year-old’s attempt at letters. Whether it’s Wilbur’s or Techno’s from years ago is anybody’s guess. “Right, well, you go ahead and eat, mate, I’ll grab some medicine to help with your head, yeah?”
Tommy nods, and Phil ruffles his hair before slipping through the door—he opens it as little as possible, which Tommy appreciates. The light isn’t too bad when there’s only a bit of it. The pancakes beside him still reek, but if Tommy breathes through his mouth, the smell isn’t nearly as bad. He takes a hesitant and very tentative bite, careful to avoid the syrup, and it tastes absolutely incredible. Which, if the orange juice hadn’t been enough to make him suspicious, this definitely does. Phil might be a decent cook, but his stuff’s never this good.
When he goes to take another, far less gentle bite, however, the plate fucking shatters under his fork. The fork snaps in his hand like he’d just taken one of Techno’s weird laser metal cutter thingies to it. There’s a dent in his bedside table. “Uh, Phil?” he calls, raising his voice just a bit and ignoring the way it makes his head feel absolutely pummeled. Phil slips back into his bedroom, medicine in hand, opening his mouth with the clear intention of saying something before immediately falling silent at the sight of Tommy’s massacred breakfast. A nervous grin breaks across Tommy’s face and he gestures to the plate. “Sorry...?”
Blinking, Phil sets the medicine down and clasps his hands together in front of the thin line his mouth has become, and Tommy hopes to god that the remaining half of his fork isn’t going to stick to his fingers like Phil’s robe is. “Tommy,” Phil starts in what’s definitely a disgruntled mumble, yet sounds like his normal volume, then stops himself, rubbing at his temples. Tommy glances over at Henry’s adorable, itty-bitty face and feels the robe come a bit loose in his—apparently iron —grip. “How the fuck did you do that?”
“Phil, I’m going to be completely and one hundred percent honest with you,” Tommy says, and to his dismay, the half-fork will not unstick from his index finger. The syrup still on the plate is oozing onto his bedside table now, and Tommy frowns. He hopes the smell of it doesn’t linger; he’ll go fucking crazy if he’s forced to deal with that all damn day. Nevertheless, he looks back up at Phil and helplessly gestures—half-fork still in between two fingers—to the debris that remains of the former plate. “I’ve zero fuckin’ idea, big man.”
As he hands Tommy a few painkillers, Phil shakes his head and starts to carefully stack the plate pieces on top of one another. “You can take that with your juice, might taste a bit odd, though,” he says, and Tommy hums, looking back over at Henry. It’s worked the past two times, and it seems to work again, given that the fork slips out of his grasp. He grabs the glass very gently, careful to avoid touching his fingertips to it, and brings it closer to him. For a brief moment, he gets the fleeting feeling that something’s about to go wrong, but he ignores it. He’s in bed and having breakfast, and what could be worse than his shattered plate of pancakes? But as soon as he tightens his grip on the glass ever-so-slightly, it fucking explodes. Phil just stares. “Tommy. What—how did you—what the fuck, mate?”
Completely and utterly panicking, face and hair now drenched in orange juice—at least the smell of the citrus is stronger than the maple syrup now—Tommy gestures vaguely and sputters out a few incoherent syllables. Phil pinches the bridge of his nose, and Tommy smiles apologetically. “Sorry, Big P. Won’t happen again,” he says, though he’s not entirely sure he can make that promise, given that he’s broken an entire fucking place setting’s worth of glassware just this morning.
Phil ruffles his hair and shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, Toms, I’m just wondering how you’ve managed to trash your entire breakfast. My cooking isn't that bad,” he huffs, and Tommy starts to say that no, he actually quite enjoyed the food, he’s just been accidentally incredibly strong this morning and has no idea why, but Phil waves him off. “I’m just messing with you. You need a shower, though, you’ve got juice everywhere. I’ll change your sheets and clean up your table while you’re in there, it’s no problem.”
“Thanks,” Tommy manages, still utterly perplexed. He carefully shifts as much of the glass off of his lap as he can, then realizes that Phil’s robe is still stuck to his other hand. Henry’s really coming in clutch this morning, as it seems. Tommy shifts off the bed, Careful not to step on any stray glass, and heads over to the door, hesitating. “Uh, could you—are the lights off? In the hallway, I mean.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Phil shrugs. “I don’t think so, but you can text Techno and he’ll probably turn them off for you,” Phil tells him, turning back to the mess that Tommy’s breakfast has become. “At least, I think he’s home. I know he said he’d be going out later to grab a new welder’s mask, but the shop doesn’t open for a couple of hours.”
Tommy digs into his pocket for his phone and is incredibly relieved to still find it alive and kicking, given that he’d passed out last night before he’d been able to plug it in. It’s ridiculously low battery, but he’s going to be home all damn day anyway. He opens up his messages with Techno and starts typing.
hey big man
mans gots a headache
can you turn the lights off in the hall
bitch
ur reading my fuckin gmessgaes
fuckign turn the lights off
fuck u bitch
tommy stop texting me, i’m literally turning them off right now.
oh my bad big man thx
He steps into the hall that’s now dark enough that the light doesn’t hurt his eyes, thankfully, and he nods at Techno, who looks him up and down and raises an eyebrow. Tommy raises his own right back—he’s never been able to do the thing with just one, fucking Techno and his stupid niche skills—and crosses his arms. He is well aware that he’s covered in orange juice, thank you very much. Techno, on the other hand, is a bitch and refuses to let him go without further questioning.
“How’d you manage that one?” Techno asks, monotone voice ringing in Tommy’s ears, and Tommy winces, shoulders hunching up. Techno’s face softens a minuscule amount and he lowers his volume, which Tommy will pointedly refuse to admit he appreciates greatly. “That bad, huh?”
Tommy nods. “Fuckin’ keeping me home sick n’ shit, man, this sucks,” he grumbles, and Techno hums. It’s his version of a sympathetic gesture. “Anyways, tell Phil he needs to get rid of the fucking maple syrup, man, that shit’s stinking up the goddamned house, gotta be expired or something. And Wil’s left the candle in the backyard on again—what a dumbass, honestly, how does he always forget—tell him he’s a bitch and I can smell it from my room.”
Blinking vacantly, Techno lifts a hand slowly towards the light switch. Tommy glances back and forth between Techno and the switch, brows furrowed, and Techno flicks it on, eyes widening as if he’s genuinely surprised when Tommy curls into himself and starts swearing up a storm, covering his face with his hands and stumbling back.
“Ah,” Techno says wisely, turning the lights back off and nodding, “you’re a vampire.”
Tommy bursts out laughing, ignoring the way it makes his headache pulse with a wave of pain. “Fucking what?!” he cackles, and Phil comes out into the hallway, broken breakfast in hand. “Phil, you’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this shit, it’s so fuckin’ stupid, Techno tell him what you just—go on, Tech, say it again with a straight face.”
Techno blinks again and turns to Phil, no visible expression of emotion on his face. “Tommy’s a vampire now, Phil, he’s got enhanced senses,” he says easily, and Phil stifles a snort. This just spurs Techno on, and he gestures to the shattered pile of the ceramic, metal, and glass in Phil’s hands. “Clearly a case of vampire strength. We should put him outside and watch him turn to dust in the sun. It’d be funny.”
“We’re not putting Tommy outside, Tech, he’s not a dog,” Phil says, shifting to balance the pile in one hand as he reaches up to pat Tommy’s head fondly. “No matter how feral he acts, he’s unfortunately still a person, vampire or not.”
Sputtering, Tommy whacks Phil’s hand off his head with the back of his own—still hyper-aware of the fact he’s apparently got a case of sticky fingers—and scowls at both of them. “Fuck d’you mean ‘unfortunately,’ Phil, you want me to be a fuckin’ dog?!” he demands, and Techno chuckles quietly. Phil wheezes out a laugh, and Tommy’s head throbs so bad he can’t ignore it this time. “Fuck, shit, s’too loud again.”
Techno tilts his head curiously, but Phil smacks his shoulder and turns to Tommy with a grossly soft look on his face. “That’s alright, mate, we’ll keep it down, go take your shower,” he reassures him, giving Techno a pointed look. Techno just throws his hands up placatingly and turns on his heel to go back to his room. Phil fixes Tommy with a worried look. “Maybe we should get you to a doctor sooner rather than later.”
“No, no, I’m—! Ugh, Christ, Phil, it’s fine, let it go,” he mumbles, shouldering his way into the bathroom and pointedly refusing to turn the lights on. Tommy’s not a fan of showering in the dark —he’s pretty sure nobody is, and if they are, they must actually be a vampire. But anything’s better than the constant piercing pain in his head that the lights have been causing.
Tommy glances at the mirror, surprised to see that there’s no actual indication that he’s sick. He’s not pale, there’s no sheen of cold sweat across his forehead, the bags under his eyes no worse than usual. His eyes, on the other hand, are bright, even in the dim room. Like, brighter than usual. It’s odd. Nevertheless, there’s orange juice all over his face and it’s making his hair all fructose-y, so Tommy hops in the shower and scrubs the citrus and maple syrup smell off of him, trying his hardest to ignore the way all the different products in the shower are just as overpowering.
When he gets back to his room, Phil’s finishing up changing the last bit of the sheets. “Hey, bud, it’s all clean. Wiped your table down and everything,” Phil says, straightening up and dusting off his patterned pyjama pants. It’s the pair with a bunch of lions all over it. Tommy nods his thanks and Phil claps a hand on his shoulder. The lemony scent of the cleaning products hangs in the air. “Get your ass back in bed, Toms, you’re still sick.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright old man. I’m already feeling better,” Tommy huffs, but Phil just crosses his arms and fixes him with an expectant glare. Tommy gets his ass back in bed. There’s a knock on the door, and Phil firmly makes Tommy settle back down while he goes to open it. Techno’s standing in the doorway with a wooden stake. Tommy groans and rolls his eyes. “Fucks sakes, man, I’m not a fuckin’ vampire!”
Techno waves the wooden stake in his direction threateningly. “I’ll believe it when you expose yourself to sunlight, demon,” he says, still monotone, and Phil shakes his head fondly. Tommy glares at him, then reaches over to move the curtains aside and open up the window. He sticks his hand outside and Techno nods, pocketing the stake. “I’ll allow it.”
Phil tuts and walks back over, smacking Tommy’s hand back towards him and shutting the window again. “The two of you are gonna make me go grey,” he grumbles, and Tommy opens his mouth to say that Phil’s well on his way, but Phil playfully glares at him and waves a finger in his face. “Shut.”
Pouting, Tommy crosses his arms. “Fine, but the both of you have to get out, I’ve got big man shit to do,” he says, and Techno snorts. Tommy flips him off. Phil gives him an understanding smile and shoos Techno out, closing the door as quietly as he can behind the two of them. Tommy looks down at his hands and narrows his eyes. “Now what exactly the fuck is going on with you fuckers...?”
His fingertips don’t stick together when he presses them against each other, but he does end up with his hands sticking to the wall and finds himself basking in Henry’s ever-calming presence once again to unstick them. It has got to be the strangest experience of Tommy’s life. He wonders if he can make his hands stick to anything. Tommy’s not going to try the wall again, though, not until he’s got better control of whatever’s going on with his hands. After the plate and the glass, he’s a bit afraid that if he tugs too hard to get them off, he’ll rip chunks out of the house.
A closer inspection of his hands reveals that Tommy’s fingerprints are different—the grooves are a bit deeper and shaped in a more uniform pattern. There are also tiny black marks on his wrists. Maybe not marks, but Tommy thinks he’s going to vomit if he assumes that there are actual holes in his body that had definitely not been there last night, so he’s just going to call them marks. He folds his fingers against his palms, trying to see if they’ll stick, and is immediately and incredibly alarmed when something almost too fast to see shoots out from the...mark...on his wrist.
Tommy looks up at the ceiling slowly, abject horror written blatantly across his face. On the off- white paint is a bright white spider web, about the size of Tommy’s entire fucking torso. Shaking slightly, Tommy looks back down at the mark on his wrist and swallows a bit of bile as he realizes the skin around it is slightly red and raised. That fucking web just came out of his body.
Which means... A grin spreads across his face. Tommy’s got fucking superpowers now.
*****