Chapter Text
The woman in front of him is warm and kind. Her suit jacket and blouse are pressed into seamless condition and without stain, hair carefully styled.
Tommy's own suit was crumpled and had a small spot on the corner of the jacket from the ice cream Tech took him to get. He feels a little self conscious in front of everyone, though the feeling of fur under his fingertips is nice; the court-dog's head thrown over his legs with it's ear under his hand.
“Thomas Taeken. Raise your right hand into the air, please.” He does as he's told, ignoring how much it makes the stupid suit bite at his skin. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Tommy hums, “Yes, I do.”
“Great, thank you. Now, do you know why you're here today?”
He's doing everything in his power not to think about why he's here, who's just across from him, but Tommy nods anyway cause lying is bad and he does know.
“I need verbal confirmation, please.”
“I do, sorry.”
The woman smiles softly at Tommy, eyes creasing at the corners. “No need to apologise. I am going to need you to verbally communicate throughout this hearing. Do you think you can do that?”
“I can.”
“Wonderful. I'm going to need to ask you a few questions about your time with your father, Clay Taeken. I'll need you to be as honest and clear as possible. Don't hide your responses if you think you would get in trouble, no harm can come of you. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
Tommy knows how this is going to go, has been asked these questions by the police and child services, and knows that he can't possibly look over at his dad without crumbling. It's his fault they're in this mess but Tech and the nice lady who's helping his case said it's really just Clay's fault because he did bad things.
It's hard to believe that when it's all he's known.
But Tech said he could get another treat after they're done so long as he tells the truth, so he's going to do his best.
“Thomas. You told police that–” Tommy knew what he told police and knows that he's gotta tell it again to convince the judge he's right.
He opens his mouth and lets it all spill…
When Tommy was younger his dad was his world. He knew that, if he just asked, the man would give him everything he could ever want on a silver platter– give him everything his little heart could ask for.
Clay was attentive, considerate, and affectionate and it's all Tommy could ever need at that age. Three meals a day with a nap and play time. It was perfect! He was even able to accompany his dad to some of his business meetings, so long he was quiet and obedient.
He’s nestled on the floor near the corner of the room, toys scattered about his feet and crayons in their box. There's a lidded cup full of water on the table above him with a few fruits and snacks should he get hungry.
Tommy's dad was busy at his computer, tapping away at the keyboard with a scowl deep across his face. Tommy knew not to interrupt him when he was so focused, the lashes on the backs of his hands reminded him the last time he had.
Even still, he needed to use the bathroom really badly and couldn't work the doorknob on his own– the knob was just a hair too tall and the handle too slick for his fingers to grab. A conundrum, for sure.
With a huff, Tommy gets to his unsteady feet (he has been sitting for hours, after all) and toddles over to the door. Like he knew, the door was much too difficult to open on his own but he needs to use the toilet, so he continues to try.
He doesn't make it.
So, in front of the door, Tommy sits in his own mess with tears budding at his eyes. He dares not make a sound, but can't help the hiccup and subsequent sob.
Clay looks up from his work with curious eyes. A blaze ignites as he sees his kid and the mess that's been made. “Thomas!” He barks, eyes mad. “What the fuck did you do?”
“I-! I'm s-sorry! ‘M s'rry! Sorry! I need- needed to use the ‘otty but I can’t get th’ door!”
“You couldn't- so you wet yourself because you didn't bother asking me to get the door for you? Pathetic, Thomas.” His dad gets up from his chair and stomps over, his footsteps thundering on the ground. “You'll be cleaning this mess up yourself and I'll be buying you some diapers because apparently you can't control your own fuckin’ bladder.”
His father leaves just to come back with a roll of paper towels and a trash bag. “Sop it up and throw the paper towels in there. We will handle your clothes and bath after.”
Tommy doesn't bother complaining, he already knows that there's nothing but a punishment if he does that. Still, the thought of wearing diapers at his age makes his heart hurt while he cleans his mess. Clay takes over afterward to properly clean the mess in his office and then ends the work day early to ‘fix Tommy’.
The pants he wears are tugged off his legs as Tommy is tossed into a bath to clean. Clay was intense, scrubbing at his skin with fervor and leaving patches of red, angry marks on Tommy's arms and legs from it.
He's dried just as roughly and forced into a diaper. “Until you can learn your lesson, you'll be wearing these.”
“But-”
“No. No buts. You knew it was wrong yet you pissed yourself anyway. Ask me to get the door nextime.” His father's voice is stern and the hands wrapped around his small arms are tight.
Tommy knows not to talk back to his father but he was the one who said not to bother him while he's working so he's a little confused. “You tol’ me not to ask if you are workin’.”
“Well you wont have to ask anymore, you've got that diaper.”
He had a point, but that doesn't mean Tommy liked it.
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… “and I wore them for uhh. I think nearly a year?”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I was four though, so my memory is a little foggy on the time‘n stuff.”
“Understandable, thank you. Now, you mentioned cuts on the backs of your hands?”
“Mhmm,” Tommy rubbed his thumb over the back of his other hand, feeling the layers of scar tissue. “I've got scars'n sh-s-stuff from it. On my hands and arms and legs.”
The woman smiles and turns away from him, face falling when addressing the man sitting in the highest chair. “Judge, if you'd allow, I'd like to show the court pictures of Thomas's injuries we have on file.”
The man, the judge, nods. “You may.”
The screen to Tommy's left comes to life with varying images of himself. They were taken at the police station when he was carted off there after accidentally saying too much at school. He's only wearing his shorts. He can remember how cold that place was when he was forced to stick his arms out and let them take photos of his body.
Tommy still feels itchy and gross, like some sorta doll on display.
“There's lacerations to his arms from what we speculated, and from Thomas's victim statement, were often done with Clay's own belt. They travel up his arms to his hands, shoulders, some across his back, and even on the tops of his thighs.”
She grabs a long pointer, like they'd sometimes use in his old classrooms to point at certain things, and approaches the screen. The pointer hits the picture in his arms, tracking the pictures with her words.
“There's some particularly deep ones on the back of his hands and upper arms. Thomas was required to wear gloves for the majority of his life after being enrolled in public school and Clay began making public viewings with his son.
“Now, there's some growth stuntage and bodily atrophy from what we know are years of improper nutrition and meal times.”
The woman turns away from hyper analyzing his body and returns to her post in front of his chair. Her smile is still kind when she looks at him, her eyes reflecting that warmth. “Thomas. You mentioned not being fed in awhile when you first went to Mrs.Harp about another portion. When did you begin preparing your own meals?”
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Tommy must've been five, not long after the diaper incident. Clay was a busy man with a lot of re-spon-sa-bili-tees under his belt. Often leaving the house early in the morning Monday and not coming back until well into Friday night. Meals were prepared on the weekend and set up in little tupperware bins in the fridge.
He watches as his dad prepares for another long week of work, frantically running around the house while shoving stuff in his backpack. “You be good now, Thomas. I'll know if you weren't.”
The cameras in the corners of the rooms stare at him hauntingly, the little red light on the side off for now. Tommy turns his head away from the ever present watchers and to his father with a hesitant grin. “I'll be good, promise.”
Clay stops to brush his hand through his son's carefully groomed golden locks, pressing a chase kiss to his forehead. “Good. Food is in the fridge, you know what to do.”
His father was gone but the warmth of his affection seeped into Tommy's skin and settled nicely in his bones. He's been good lately; cleaning his messes, getting good grades, and even learning how to keep the house tidy! There's not been a reason to add new lashes to his hands or arms in weeks either.
Tommy gets lost in some of his school work, working through his grade school maths with some difficulty. Time passes quickly and soon it's lunch time.
His feet slap against the kitchen tiles as he pads over to the fridge. There's less food than normal in there but Tommy doesn't pay it any mind, grabbing a lunch box and tossing it in the microwave without the lid.
Slimy carrots and unappetizingly dry chicken slides down his throat in small bites. Tommy dares a peak at the camera in the corner and sees the red light on the side blinking at him steadily; Clay was watching. Tommy makes sure to check his posture and look like he's enjoying the meal, just in case his dad would feel disappointed in what he sees.
The rest of the day and the following went all the same with school work, small breaks for play, and unappealing foods shoveled into an awaiting mouth. By Thursday, Tommy quickly realizes why the fridge looked so empty.
There's only one portion left.
He can feel his heart drop at the sight, eyes wide with fear only a five year old can experience. Tommy looks at the camera in the corner but the red light is out– he's alone.
“Uhm, Dad?” He calls to the empty kitchen, making his way out to the living room when the light doesn’t turn on.
As he walks the house, he realizes that none of the cameras are on and watching him. His dad isn't there to help him now.
Tommy prepares his last available portion for breakfast, savoring the bits and pieces until nothing is left. There's no use in keeping any left over when the portions are carefully curated to fill his nutritional needs alone. Dread fills his stomach alongside the meal, glaring down at the final, empty box of food.
With one last look at the camera, Tommy tossed the container into the dishwasher to clean and got started on the day's homework.
The cameras remained unviewed through lunch and into dinner.
When his stomach began hurting from hunger, Tommy decided to try and scrounge a meal for himself. The fridge was as bare as before and no amount of checking was changing that, but there were some packets of noodles and rice in the pantry.
Clay still wasn't checking the cameras.
“I can do this,” he chants to himself. “I can do this, I'm a big man. Big men can do anything.”
The more he says it, the more he believes it.
He grabs a packet of noodles and a pot from under the cabinet. Tommy fills the pot with water per the instructions and tosses it on high, standing on his little step stool. The water takes awhile to boil and he's quick to turn down the burner before the water overflows.
Tommy is having a hard time really making out the instructions seeing as he’s only recently started learning to read, his grades are amazing but that’s only with his dad’s help. The words somewhat swim on the page and a few of them completely escape him, but the noodles somehow come out alright in the end; slightly overcooked and slimy and the water did end up simmering over the top of the pot at one point but edible.
The camera is still dead, even as he watches it intently while eating.
The morning after follows much the same, making whatever he can in the pantry to satisfy the hunger pains for breakfast, lunch, and dinner through Friday. It’s made even better when he finds a few carrots and slices of cheese in the fridge with only a speck of mold on the one slice and a bit of wilt on the stems.
By the time Clay returns, Tommy has successfully fed himself three essential meals. He waits impatiently for the door to open before puffing his chest and holding his chin high with a grin. His dad shuffles in with messed hair and tension lining his shoulders.
“Thomas.” He greets with a grimace. “Were you good?”
“Yes!” He toddled after Clay’s heels. “I ran out of meals on Thur-Thursday but that’s okay ‘cause I made myself food!”
“Did you now?” His father says distractedly.
“Yeah, cause I wouldn’t have food and I was hungry, so I made those noodles in the pantry and even used the stove!”
Clay seems to finally really listen, eyes widened and brows furrowed. “You used the– and there’s no mess?”
Tommy shook his head with a gapped tooth smile, arms crossed behind his back as he practically trembled with excitement. His dad seems to think long and hard before a large smile of his own spreads across his face. “You did your work, made your own food, and even cleaned up after yourself?”
“Mhm! If you checked the cameras, you’d have seen!”
His father’s knees creak as the man kneels down, grin large enough to flash his pearly teeth. He leans forward and scoops Tommy up into his arms with a giggly shriek. Thin hands wrap around broad shoulders as the father-son duo spin in a tight circle once. “You’re so smart!” His father calls. “Fed all by yourself!”
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Tommy fidgets with his hands under the table, pulling anxiously at the skin on the sides of his nails as he chews his lip. The dog, Clara if he remembers properly, sniffs at his hand and dislodges the hold, replacing the pick of his skin with her head. He smiles down at her sadly before caressing over her fuzzy head. “That’s when Clay thought I was ol’ enough to start makin’ my own foods. He’d buy groceries every week on Monday and I’d make them whenever I needed.”
“And you fed yourself three square meals a day?”
“I wouldn’t say squared,” Tommy had to hold himself back from snorting but the dry-humor was in his tone regardless. “But it was food. Noodles, salad, sandwiches, pretty much anything I could make m’self.”
The woman smiled but it was strained, her own hands folded tightly in front of her as manicured nails tapped against her wrinkled skin. “Alright, thank you Thomas.” She walks away to speak to the court as Tommy zones out from her hyper description of the state of his home and body again.
She comes back minutes later without that pleasant smile, face fallen in a way he often sees mirrored in his own.
Tommy inclines his head and smiles politely at her even if he doesn’t feel very stable at the moment. This just barely touched what the court would want him to go over and he was already stressed as all hell. Break couldn’t come soon enough and, as he looked toward the man that’s become his temporary guardian, Tommy could tell Tech felt the same; his eyes were absolutely exhausted but trying his damnedest to keep an air of attentiveness about himself.
They locked eyes from across the room and, with a quick look to his left and right, Tech gave his foster kid an awkward thumbs up with a shaky smile. Stifling a snicker from behind his hands, Tommy was quick to jump back to attention with the weight ever so slightly lifted from his shoulders. “Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“You are registered as disabled in the county, yes?”
“I am.”
“And why is that?”
Tommy had to stop himself from scoffing, as if the ghost pains in his foot and the way the stubs of his pinky and ring fingers don’t ache. Instead, he collects himself and holds his hand up to the court. “I am missing a few fingers and one of my legs up to my knee.”
“Do you know how you got those injuries?”
The blonde hums affirmation with a nod, hoping that’s enough of a verbal response for them.
“Are you able to tell the court how you received those injuries?”
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Winter hit cold and fast that year, the year of his eighth birthday. It was barely November by the time snow stuck to the ground and frost clung to the windows. Blizzards came in droves and blanketed the earth in a never ending sea of white and freezing temperatures. School had been cancelled for the last few days due to the impenetrable layer of snow and Tommy was starting to get antsy with nothing but looking through the windows to keep him entertained.
Clay was busy at his desk from home again, the steady clicking of the keyboard droning on through the house and filling Tommy’s head with the click-clack-click-clack like a bees buzz droning in his ears. It was just adding to the restless stur in his chest. “Dad?” He calls, pulling himself away from the chilled window.
His father hums a note but Tommy knows his attention is on anything but himself. With a huff, Tommy hops off the back of the couch and wanders toward the front door. The snow looks really appealing and, while he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s a bad idea, he can’t help but to want to go play in it.
Tossing one last glance toward his father’s office door, Tommy reaches on his tippy toes to unlock and swing the front door open. It blasts open a lot harder than he expected as wind and flurries get swept into the foyer with the wind. He catches the door just before it can slam into the stopper, gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes shut in anticipation.
“Dad?” Tommy chances another call toward the office before looking back at the winter wonderland just before him.
When his call goes yet again unanswered, Tommy throws caution to the wind with a shit-eating grin.
The snow is immediately freezing against his exposed fingers as he reaches out toward the flurries drifting down. They patter against his face and land in temporary art forms across his long sleeved shirt. Tommy peers close to the little droplets to see the intricate detail each forms and watches them melt in awe.
He isn’t distracted by it for long as he immediately takes off into the untouched snow scape with a shout. The piles are soft under his feet and hands as he takes off toward the backyard, kicking up snow as he runs.
A snow angel made and a few balls formed before Tommy starts to feel the effects of the cold, fingers chilled and shivers chattering his teeth. He brings his fingers up to his mouth to blow on them each and thinks to himself, “T-t-tim-me to g-go in-in-in-side.”
His footsteps are slower than his past prance as cold drags his limbs to a weary shuffle. The snow has fallen this entire time and is starting to get worse as the sun dips lower on the horizon. “Thomas!” Clay suddenly shouts, anger in his tone as the man stands at the entrance of the door. “You-! Why the hell are you outside without my permission?”
Tommy trudges forward to look up at his fuming father, steam practically billowing from his ears as his eyebrows furrow in anger. His arms are crossed and his foot is tap-tap-tapping against the front porch. Tommy stands in front of him shaking to the core with his frozen fingers tucked under his armpits, the shake of his jaw stuttering his speech. “I-I wan-wanted to p-p-pl-play! I was s-s-s-o bo-ored i-inside!”
“So bored you neglected to ask permission nor put on a coat before going out here?”
He had his shoes on and the long pants and shirt his father picked out for him this morning, but the coat he forgot to put on taunts him from just beyond the doorway. Tommy glares at it as if it’s the cause of it all. “I f-for-got, ‘mmm s’r-ry.”
Clay peers down at his son from beyond his upturned nose, looking away to glare at the state of his yard. A sick smile begins to pull at the corners of his mouth before he tames it into that normal frown. “If you think it’s so much fun out here, then you’ll be spending the evening out in it.”
“What!” Tommy shouts, eyes wide with fear and nose already beginning to drip. “No! P-p-ple-ase! I-I’ll ask n-n-next t-t-ti-me!”
Without another word, his father stepped back and slammed the door shut. He could hear the click of the lock from behind the heavy wood. Even with the damning sound, Tommy threw his body weight against the wood and pound his fists. Each thunderous sound paired with a call for his dad– for Clay, but it went unanswered.
Eventually he wore himself out and the cold was too much for him. His short sleeved shirt doing little to stave off the chill. With a whimper, he turned around and slid down the door. There was a faint trickle of warmth from under the doorway that tickled against his fingers when Tommy pressed the shaking digits to the crevice.
“I–I'm s-s-sor-ree.” He mumbled to the doorway.
The sun finally falls beyond the skyline, bathing the world in night. The clouds were heavy and covered whatever light the moon could have shown. Not even the twinkling stars could be seen. With the night brought a drastic dip in temperature, plunging the poor kid on the patio into a catatonic freeze. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore– so bad that Tommy couldn't tell if they were really bending or if that was his body tricking him.
Hours passed like that until the cold turned painful then strangely warm, the tips of his fingers suddenly perfectly warm and toasty. He pressed them to his chilled cheeks as his jaw clattered relentlessly.
Tucking his hands back under his arms, Tommy fell into a fitful sleep. Consciousness floating at the surface of what could only be called a doze, body shivering too violently to find any real sleep.
The door bracing his cold, frozen little boy snapped open just as the sun began to creep over the sky again. He fell back inside the warm house but couldn't get his limbs to move the way he wanted to, whining when he was met with pain. His eyelids wouldn't even open, condensation from his breaths turning to ice that melded his lashes closed.
“Tommy.” His father crouched at his head, a hand scorching with head grabbing his arm. “I hope you learned your lesson.”
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“I ended up with bad hyp-hypo-hypotherma that made the doctor's take away some of my fingers. They were black and stiff and peeling, so I needed them gone.”
“I see.” The woman replied, face tight and eyes sharp as her hands flexed at her side. “And you were…?”
“I think eight? Yeah! It was that year with the really bad snowstorm- the one that all the schools shut down for ‘cause of the cold. I couldn't use my fingers for a while, so I even got outta school that year! Normally cyber still has to work but I couldn't.”
“Do you think you can show the court your hands?”
Tommy hummed affirmative and lifted his hands from his lap, spreading his fingers to show the room his missing joints. Both his pinkies and the ring finger on his left hand were missing, cut off right at the first knuckle. “It's easier to lose the small fingers, the doctor said. If I didn’ have shoes, then I'd been missin’ toes too.”
“And because of hypothermia, the doctor had to remove the dead limbs from your hand. Do we have on record the temperature that evening?”
“Negative twenty seven degrees.”
“Within thirty minutes, Thomas was already experiencing frostbite.”
There were some mutters in the court, specifically on Clay's side of the room. Tommy kept his eyes carefully trained on the woman in front of him. Disgracted by the feeling of a slobbery tongue swiping across his fingers. His eyes met the doe-brown of the dog for a second as she made a mess of his hand.
One of the medical personnel, a doctor Tommy vaguely remembers seeing at some point in his childhood, stands up from the small crowd. They have a manilla folder in their hands as they address the room. “Thomas went without medical treatment for about 28 hours, by which his frostbite became deadly and incurable. His fingers were blackened and tests showed no blood flow to the affected areas, amputation was the safest option.”
Tommy knows that, if this were a real court case and not a hearing, Clay would be all loud and furious. He also knows that his dad could swindle anyone, even the court.
He's glad Clay can't talk this time.
The court continues to discuss his fingers while he twiddles with Clara's floppy ears, eyes trained on the movement of the fur while his mind wanders far away. It's not until everyone begins moving about that he actually comes back to himself.
“Hey Tommy.”
It's Tech, his temporary guardian. He's dressed to the nines in his fanciest suit with his pink hair, faded with roots coming in, slicked back. He's got this almost painfully practised smile on his lips. “Why don't we go get you something to eat, bud?”
His brain is still miles away, his body floaty and tingly but he nods anyway. Food is good, it's a good idea. Tommy vaguely feels his stomach rumble.
Getting out of the uncomfortable seat is more work than he thought it should and his leg isn’t even aching like normal. Tommy's body feels as heavy as lead as he lifts himself from the podium and follows his caretaker out from the room. He spares the chair Clay was in a glance but the man was already lugged out from the courtroom. Still he feels his father's crushing intimidation.
Tech taps the back of his hand once, waiting for the kid to nod before taking Tommy's fingers between his own. “Let's getcha some food.” He murmurs, baritone voice soothing after the whine of the woman.
They're sat in chairs in a private room, waiting on some Mcdonalds to be delivered from the app as Clara lays across his feet, having been allowed to come to comfort him.
“You still thinkin’ about getting that service dog your therapist recommended to you?” Tech says, breaking his fuzzied concentration.
The questions startles him a bit; Tommy completely forgot that his therapist, Miss Pouffey, even mentioned it. The session was a few days ago, Tech having sat in at Tommy's approval, and really they didn't get very far. It was a particularly bad day for his diss-oh-cia-tion, or whatever it's called.
Clara laying against his feet feels really nice and, thinking about it for the first time, having a dog of his own to do that with would be really nice too. A friend to help him through the worst of it– maybe even trained to help with little tasks when his body hates him!
Looking up at his temp guardian, Tommy musters enough energy for a brief smile, “yeah, I think I'd like one.” He bends down to pet over Clara's backside, her tail wagging at the attention. “I like having her, and think it'd be cool havin’ one for me.”
Tech smiles back in that weird half-smile he does, looking down at the boy and dog with a fondness in his eyes. “Alright, we can do that. Ill talk to Miss Pouffey about it.”
Later, when the food finally arrives, he finds that the meal he'd gotten sits like a weight in his stomach as nausea swirls. Tommy takes a few sips of his coke to try and wash the feeling away. “Thanks.” He mutters, eyes vacantly staring at the upper corner as if a camera were present– there's not and Tommy feels a bit disappointed in that.
Tech huffs with a tight lipped smile, chewing away at his burger. “The government paid for it. One good thing they've done.”
Tommy has enough energy for a breath to pass his nose in amusement but nothing more; normally cackling at his foster's humor but feeling spent. “How much more?”
The man makes a questioning sound, looking to the side in thought. “For you? Maybe another hour or two. They've gotta ask some more questions, ‘specially ‘bout that leg of your's. Afterward, I've gotta make a bit of a remark and then we can leave.”
Tommy looks Tech in the eyes for a second before nodding. “I don’ have to come back, do I?”
“Not unless they need more information, but we can ask them to do video calls from now on. Then we don't gotta get all fancied up for the judge.”
He considers this for a few minutes before nodding again. “Yeah, I don’t wanna be back here for as long as I can.”
Tech smiles at the kid before digging back into his meal, Tommy sipping away at his drink.
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“Break concluded, let’s get to the next portion of evidence.”
“Yes Judge, thank you.” The woman– Mrs.Kaitlyn, he finally got her name during break –turns her attention to Tommy with a smile. “Alright Thomas. We’re going to talk about those medications you were forced to take. Do you know what you were taking?”
“No ma’am. Dad would pick them up and put them in one of those little weekly organizers.”
“About how many medications were you taking a day?”
Tommy shied away from the question very physically, feeling self conscious about it all. “I took five a day with six every Monday.” He doesn’t mention that some were just vitamins to help him with his immune system, let alone that they made him feel better sometimes– it feels weird to defend being drugged.
Mrs.Kaitlyn turns away to address his general practitioner again, asking too many questions that they sorta just slid over his brain like water. In one ear and out the other until he was addressed again. “Thank you. Now Thomas,” He tunes back in at his name. “You were taking those medications everyday because of your chronic illnesses?”
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Tommy teased the skin at the sides of his nails with his teeth, pulling and gnawing at his fingers. A hand swats at his own with a rough slap to knock his flesh loose from his mouth. “You know better.” His father scolds, eyes stormy.
There’s a knock at the door and the furious look is swept away into one that Tommy has learned to recognize as faux worry. The door opens with a creak. “Hello Tommy, Clay.” The nurse is all smiles and soft eyes. “What brings you in today?”
The door closes as the blind over the door is twisted shut, the nurse bringing up the clipboard and pen. His father smiles with a grimace as he leans over to take Tommy’s hand in his own. “Tommy here has been feeling overly exhausted and lethargic. He can’t focus the way he should and shakes when he sits up. I’m not sure what’s going on,” Clay pets through Tommy’s curls. “He’s normally not like this.”
Pen scratches at the clipboard as the nurse writes down the symptoms. “How’s his diet been?”
“Rough. He doesn’t keep down the food and eats very little of what I serve him.”
He doesn’t mention that Clay hasn’t been feeding him for nearly a year now and what he does buy ends up being too little to get through the week. Father says that the older you get the less you need to eat, so it must be normal.
“And sleep?”
“Too much, that’s for sure. It’s hard to get him out of bed some days and he’s asleep before seven.”
The nurse finishes writing down what his father says and waves a hand toward the kid. “Alright Tommy, let’s get your height and weight then I’ll start the exam, okay?”
He nods politely and shifts off the table. The nurse mutters something about him weighing less than he should but his height being impressive for his age, writing all this down as well. “I’m going to have you hop back up onto the table so I can listen to your heart, okay?”
His breathing is fine and so is his heart, though they do remark about a hiccup in his heartbeat. “He was born with a murmur, that might be what’s causing that.” Clay explains with a worried look.
When all is said and done, the nurse leaves to go get the doctor. The clipboard with all of the information is left on the counter and, when the door closes, Clay takes up the papers and reads it over. Tommy watches his dad pick up the pen and scribble in a few words of his own. “What’cha doing?”
His dad hardly spares him a glance. “They messed up some stuff on your charts so I’m fixing that up for you. You don’t want your medical records messed up, do you?”
That made sense, Tommy thought as his dad scribbled on the pages, he wouldn’t want to be given something that could hurt him.
The visit ends with some blood drawn, a physical done, and a future doctor’s appointment made with a specialist– someone who works with hearts and someone else to help the family understand the blood work results.
There’s no medication to prescribe now but, after months upon months of doctor’s visits, tests to monitor his body’s reactions to certain stimuli, and Clay fixing his medical papers, Tommy is taking three different vitamins a day and two more medications for his lethargy and irregular heart rate. Some days are better than others and his dad even takes some days off to help him when his heart beats too fast when standing and he collapses.
When out in public, Clay has him use a cane to help his staggering strength and limp, gained after laying in bed for too long. There’s pain in his legs all the time now and it makes it hard to function as normal so he even gets a wheelchair to help. Tommy is given more attention than ever before and so does Clay, who shines when talking about his son to anyone in public, remarking on his strength and overall positive attitude even with his conditions.
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“On paper, you were diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, Muscular Atrophy from bedridden behaviors, and unsolved chronic pain in your legs.”
Tommy nods with a frown, his heart non-stop pounding with anxiety since being brought back into the courtroom. It feels as bad as it did when he tried to sit up in his bed sometimes, though he was weaned off the medications when his dad was taken into custody. Tests were done and medical professionals were delicate in explaining that he never needed them to begin with. “Yeah, it still hurts sometimes but that’s just uh– phantom pains, is what the doctor told me I think. From my missin’ leg.”
Mrs.Kaitlyn hums. “And ever since you stopped taking the medication, have you noticed any signs of that lethargy or irregular heart rates?”
“Nuhuh,” He pauses with a frown. “Well, my heart goes really fast when too much is happening or I'm scared, but it’s not as bad as it was before.”
The judge clears his throat and opens his hands toward his doctors in the stands. “May I have all of the medical documents– forged aswell.”
The court is quiet as the man shuffles through the papers. Tommy can't really see what's written but he knows the bright red pen marking the pages only highlights the inconsistencies. His heart has been racing this whole time, but he’s slowly learning the difference between heart-dying pain and the ache in his chest from anxiety– this was anxiety for sure. Tommy couldn’t help but to reach a hand toward his chest to rub a fist against the aching spot.
“According to these documents, Thomas had had a procedure to amputate his left leg just below the knee, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was the leading cause?”
“Thomas had chief complaints of consistent and progressive pain in his legs stemming from his heel up to his hip. When consulting past tests, it was found that there was a cancerous source in his bones causing the pain and lameness. When a biopsy was conducted, it was confirmed. When speaking to the client and the guardian, it was agreed that amputation was the best solution.” The doctor remarks, sifting through his own papers to check back; those were also riddled with red circles and lines.
“Was there no discussion of limb sparing surgeries instead of amputation?”
“There were, but Clay and Thomas had pushed for the removal at the insistence of quality of life.”
The judge’s lips purse as he looks over the multiple pages from the surgery. His eyes skim before flicking toward Tommy still sitting in the stand. “Thomas. Did you ask for your leg to be removed? Not because your father said so, but rather of your own volition.”
“Volition?” Tommy scratches at the pants over his knee, pain radiating from his leg that’s not really there, before a cold, wet nose nuzzles under his nails to distract from the urge.
“Did you want to have it removed– did you choose for yourself without Clay telling you?”
“Well, Dad told me it was the best option. He said I wouldn’t be in pain anymore and that I’d get a cool new robot leg, so I said yes.”
“Alright, thank you Thomas. You may go sit with your current guardian, Tech Nob Layde.”
Tommy felt like he said something bad, that there was a secret correct answer and he said the wrong one somehow. But, when he looks at the man he’s being housed by, who’s smiling in that quirk-of-the-lip way, Tommy knows he did okay.
There’s a few more minutes of talking, mainly between the judge and the people with all the papers. The words are hard to grasp and slide over his head like molasses. Nothing sticks and, frankly, Tommy isn’t sure he should be concerned about what they are talking about.
Clara, ever kind and fluffy, followed him to his seat and pressed bodily to his legs. Her eyes are lidded as she once again rests her head across his knees. The repetitive motion of petting down her face is soothing, though not grounding enough to tether him to the court long enough to process what's said.
He tunes back in for a second when they call his foster dad to the stand but even then it’s hardly more than a passing thought. He’s exhausted and, while his chest rattles with energy, his mouth opens wide in a yawn and his eyes droop tiredly.
A hand brings him back to the moment as he jumps with a start. Tech is smiling down at him with a glimmer of mirrored exhaustion to his brown eyes. “Let's get goin’ kid.”
Tommy doesn't even bother to argue the name, getting up from the seat with a grumble and quiet whine. The hand on his shoulder moves to his back to gently steer the younger towards the large, wooden doors. A policeman guarding it nods their way before guiding the pair out the room and up to the glass courthouse doors.
He's forced to bid the wonderful dog at his side goodbye when Clara's trainer comes to retrieve the sweet girl. With a final pat to her flank and a longing stare, the dog is given a treat and a final command to follow.
There's a few news sources out there with mics and cameras, chatting amongst themselves. The one-way glass of the building keeps them ignorant of whatever is inside, but the idea of meeting any of them and having those looming camera lenses shoved in his face makes Tommy nauseous.
Techno pats his back once, “We're goin’ this way. It's out the side and leads directly to my car. No one will see.”
Tommy looks to his guardian with gratefulness, leaning more into the man's side. Technoblade takes the weight without complaint and smiles softly down to the boy under his arm.