2

Lawson doesn't touch him all the way out to the car, and doesn't offer to open the door for him. He doesn't always. Sometimes it's a hammed-up joke, and sometimes it's sincere worry. It happens less and less, but this time, the lack of it coupled with the lack of touching leaves unpleasant prickles up the back of Tommy's neck. He's aware that he's fucked up, but he's spent seven months insisting he can do things for himself; he's not sure why today was the breaking point.

Lawson turns on the radio, though, and talks over it, like normal. They debate what to get Lisa for Mother's Day next month, and argue about the lyrics of two songs, and Lawson laughs, eyes crinkled at the corners, and it's okay. It's good.

They go home, change for work, Tommy in nice slacks and a nicer sweater, Lawson in his Coffee Town uniform of khakis, polo, and visor. Lawson drives him to work, and kisses him over the center console before he gets out.

"Love you."

"Love you. Have a good rest of the day."

It's all normal.

Except for the fact that Lawson doesn't press him about his new doctor at all.

Immediately after the shooting, when Tommy still relied on a walker and was struggling to come back from having his colostomy reversed, Lawson didn't sit in the waiting room. He came back to the exam room each time, nodding along, taking notes on his phone, asking the doctors lots of questions. Tommy was torn: he loved spending so much time together; loved Lawson's big hands righting him when he stumbled, and guiding him, and squeezing him supportively on the arm, the neck, the waist, the thigh. He loved that Lawson's love was writ so large in each pointed inquiry, and each follow-up, and each frown.

But a part of him, selfishly, resented the necessity for that particular brand of care. Forehead kisses and soup deliveries instead of sweaty, tangled nights and dinner dates. They were newlyweds, but instead of a honeymoon, they were going on never-ending trips to the doctor.

Before he was prescribed something to help him sleep, he used to lie awake at night, Lawson's breath warm and even in his ear, where he was curled carefully around Tommy, not holding him for fear of hurting him, and his eyes would sting with unshed tears of frustration. He was so grateful, and so thankful, and so in love; was so lucky to be alive, and to have this second chance with the love of his life, to wear his ring on his finger. And yet they'd already lost twenty years, and they were playing invalid and caretaker, rather than husbands.

He hates himself for those thoughts, but they keep cropping up like mushrooms, his mind gone to damp, dark ground where flowers struggle to thrive.

When Lawson stopped coming back to the exam room at appointments, per Tommy's request, he still grilled him all the way home about what the doctor said.

But not today.

He goes to work, he sells insurance policies, and deals with client woes. Lawson's waiting in the parking lot at five, and he grins, and offers one of Coffee Town's head-sized chocolate chip cookies across the console. "Brought ya something, handsome."

That, at least, is normal, and the knot of tension that has been slowly winding tighter and tighter all day in the pit of Tommy's stomach unravels by a few turns. "Ooh, my hero."

"I try." Lawson flexes his arm, as though it's a joke, but, well, damn. Tommy's in love with his biceps, and bites them as often as he can in appreciation.

They go home, and relieve Nancy the nurse. They check on Bill – there's a Family Feud marathon on the Gameshow Network and he invites them to watch with him – and then change into more casual clothes. "Dad, Tommy can keep you company. I'll start on dinner before Mom gets here," Lawson says, and Tommy bites back a sigh. Not because he doesn't enjoy visiting with his father-in-law – quite the opposite – but because he hates the idea that he needs to rest. That he can't stand at the counter at Lawson's shoulder and help.

Over chicken parm – Tommy missed this sort of home-cooking so much in his twenty years away, but feels a stab of guilt that he can't run it off – Lisa asks about his appointment.

"How was Dr. Wilson?" She sounds excited, fork poised above her plate. "Could she tell you anything new?"

Tommy's bite of pasta sticks in his throat before he swallows it down like a lead ball. "She was…"

Fine, he starts to say. But Lawson's gone still beside him, big body poised in an uncharacteristically careful way. He wants to know; he's wanted to know all day, and, Tommy realizes with a drop in his stomach, he's been waiting for Tommy to make the overture. Because he's tired of making it himself? Because Tommy's pushed him away one too many times?

Shit.

It's easier, somehow, to look across the table and tell Lisa instead, while guilt churns his half-eaten dinner. He's honest: "She was different than I expected."

Lisa's brows go up. "Really? In a positive way?"

He pictures Dr. Wilson's bright smile, and takes a deep breath, and wills some of his useless tension away. "Yeah, definitely. A little more laid back than some of the others I've seen, but more helpful, too."

"Oh?"

Needlessly, stupidly, his face warms. "She says that it's normal to still be…" Falling. Going numb. Staggering. Nearly braining himself in the shower. "Struggling," he settles for. "She said there's no timeline on nerve regeneration and that I should – should give myself more time." His teeth grit on the last, and he swallows, and works to unstick his jaw. He had no idea he was so prideful until this all happened; he thinks Lawson would laugh if he said as much. Ha! Baby, you've always been a tyrant. "She, um. She showed me a better way to walk. So that I don't trip so much."

"Oh," Lisa says again, delighted this time. "That's wonderful."

Beside him, Lawson lets out a deep breath. "Is that what that was? Earlier?"

Tommy turns to him, wondering what he'll find, and Lawson looks relieved. He was worried about Tommy's new, more purposeful gait.

Tommy is so, so tired of making this man worry about him. But he can't keep the defensive edge from his voice when he says, "Yeah. She thinks I'm, like, throwing myself forward with each step – not like that," he says, when Lawson grins, and nods. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"Boys," Lisa says.

Tommy glares at him, then faces forward again and reins in his flash of temper. "She said that the reason I keep falling is because I can't anticipate when my nerves will fail to fire, and–" He realizes he's never said this aloud to any of them, not even Lawson. When he trips, or even falls, he says it's fine, I'm alright, stupid feet. Lawson must know some of it, thanks to all those early appointments he attended, but Tommy doesn't give voice to his body's failings. "The nerves are still repairing themselves," he says, face getting warmer; he feels the weight of their gazes – though kind, encouraging – keenly. "And sometimes the signal…I guess it glitches. That's why my toes drag, or my legs go numb, or – or I can't feel them at all."

Lawson's fork clinks down heavily on his plate.

Tommy continues, "If I'm walking like normal, and the glitch happens, I can't catch myself in time. So she wants me to try moving slower, and taking smaller, less committed steps."

Lisa makes a hmm sort of face. "Well. That makes sense."

Tommy tucks back into dinner, and is thankful when discussion turns to one of Lisa's newest tailoring customers.

~*~

"There – right, yeah, there – oh God."

Lawson breathes a quiet laugh, breath cool by the time it fans across the back of Tommy's neck. "Good?" he asks, innocently.

Tommy grunts in reply and turns his face into the pillow.

Several months back, when his abdominal wounds had closed up and been deemed fully healed, one of his doctors suggested massage therapy to help keep him loose and to relieve the soreness inevitable with overcompensating for his lower body weakness. "You can go to a professional, or your partner can learn some simple techniques and help you at home."

To no one's surprise, Lawson leaped at the chance to help, and Tommy was grateful not to have to show off his gunshot scars to a stranger at a massage parlor. Lawson bought a book, watched some online tutorials, and Dana hooked him up with a whole kit of oils.

Tonight, it's after ten, Bill and Lisa are retired to their room at the other end of the hall, and Tommy's stripped down to his boxer-briefs, belly-down on the bed while Lawson kneels over him and works his magic.

Lawson has big hands. All of him is big, in a long, lanky sort of way, and Tommy loves every part of him, but his hands are just…magic. Broad, squared-off palms, and long, strong fingers that knead into the sore muscles on either side of Tommy's spine just right. He has a penchant for finding knots Tommy didn't know he possessed, and then teasing them loose with firm pressure. The oil is fragrant, and turns his back slippery, and the glide of fingertips, the faint, slick sound, is hypnotic.

Also, Lawson sitting on the backs of his thighs, knees bracketing Tommy's hips, his weight dipping the mattress while he strokes over Tommy's shoulder blades, is sending pleasant tingles of awareness down to the cradle of his hips. A slow heat builds there, a faint stirring in his boxer-briefs. Nothing urgent, yet, but a tease of pleasure-that-could-be.

That usually happens when they do this. Sometimes something comes of it…but not always. And when it does, it's always gentle. Careful in a way that things have never been between them. Or weren't. Before the shooting.

Tommy turns his head again to ask, "What scent is that?"

"Frankincense." Lawson leans a little more weight and digs in with his thumbs, until Tommy grunts again. "You like it?"

"Yeah. It's…" Thinking is getting harder and harder as Lawson continues to work him over. It's not the only thing getting harder. "Earthy," he settles on, and Lawson chuckles, low, and deep, and quiet. Just for this room, and the small space between them.

"It's supposed to be good for your skin. And help you relax."

"Mm. Yeah. It's working."

"Yeah?" Lawson sweeps his palms out to the points of his shoulders and then smooths them firmly down the backs of his upper arms. "You were really tight tonight, babe."

There's a lewd comment to be made there, but Tommy resists. He hasn't wanted to ask outright; keeps hoping he can tease and suggest Lawson into taking the lead.

"Yeah, well…"

Lawson's hands smooth back up his arms, and inward along his shoulders, joining at the base of his neck and kneading there in a way so good that it hurts. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, and Lawson eases off the pressure.

"No, no, it's good. I like it."

There's a pause, and then Lawson starts digging in again. "Well, what?"

"Hm?" Tommy closes his eyes and tries to arch up into the touch like a cat, hungry for it.

"You said, ‘Yeah, well…' Yeah, well, what?" Lawson works oily fingers up the back of his neck, and traces his hairline. "Dr. Wilson get you all out of sorts?"

"No." That's not a lie, but it's not the truth, either. "I mean…physical therapy always sucks," he finishes, lamely, and berates himself for choking on the words.

The problem is, if he had to dig down to the root of it, he spent a very long time pretending to be something he wasn't. Hiding his wants, and his hurts, playing a part, running every single thing he said through a filter before it left his mouth. I love you so much, I've loved you for the whole twenty years we were apart and was trying to get back to you, please hear me out, is what he wanted to say the moment he walked into Coffee Town and laid eyes on Lawson. But he was an asshole instead, playing Tommy Cattaneo, glowering, insulting, hurting.

He got his happy ending. But those twenty years of police work took their toll, and he's learning just how much of one every day.

"She bend you up like a pretzel?" Lawson asks, a laugh lurking in his voice.

"Not today. It was mostly just walking." He shifts his hips, but not far, because he can't, because Lawson's straddling him and he's heavy. God, he loves that. A little more heat builds between his legs. "But you can do that, if you want." He doesn't have to fake the way his voice gets raspy at the end.

Lawson's hands still again. And stay still, this time. Tommy hears Lawson's breath, a little rough, a little unsteady. He doesn't get the impression it's because he's turned on.

Tommy twists his head around and sees that Lawson is staring at his back, his lashes low, his jawline sharp and square as he tenses it. He doesn't look angry, but there's something wrong, there. A depth of thought, of worry, that in turn makes Tommy worry.

"What?"

Lawson's hands move again – but only to grip on either side of Tommy's neck, right at the join, long fingers wrapping over to lay against his collarbones. His voice is quiet when he says, "I didn't know you couldn't feel your legs at all." When he swallows, it sounds thick and painful, and his lashes flicker fast, dark fans on his cheeks.

Tommy's chest clenches. "It's only sometimes. And I'm not sure that's even the right way to say it. It's not like they're not there, it's just–" He cuts off when Lawson's eyes lift and flash to meet his own, full of impossible hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me?" It's not accusatory, but sad. Terribly, awfully sad.

Tommy wants to punch himself in the face for putting that look on Lawson's.

"I thought you were feeling better."

"I am. Law, I am."

His gaze drops again.

"Let me up. I wanna turn over."

Lawson moves off his legs, and then, to Tommy's dismay, moves to sit on the side of the bed, feet on the floor. He grips the mattress, and his shoulders slump, looking narrower than they really are inside his plain gray t-shirt.

Tommy twists around to lie on his side, propped on his elbow. He can feel his legs at the moment, and they respond accordingly, only the faintest pains shooting down the outsides of his hips and wrapping around his thighs. Familiar pangs he's long since learned to dismiss.

He slides his hand in the crook of Lawson's elbow. "Hey."

Lawson's head only half turns, his gaze askance, wary.

Oh, Tommy thinks. I've really fucked up.

Voice gentle, he says, "I didn't tell you because it wasn't something new. I've been dealing with it off and on the whole time."

"I thought–" Lawson starts, then shakes his head, and looks away again.

Tommy sits up, which isn't as effortless as it used to be, his muscles gone soft and unsteady from disuse. And isn't that stupid? He should have been working on his stretches, on his Pilates, his upper body exercises, and instead he's kept putting it off. When I'm better, he always thinks. When I'm healed.

But maybe he never will be.

The thought puts a lump in his throat that he swallows down, so he can pet up and down Lawson's arm, raking through the dusting of golden hair there.

"What?" he prompts. "What are you upset about?"

Lawson shakes his head again, and breathes a humorless chuckle. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

Tommy frowns. "What?"

Lawson turns to him, then, and the hurt from before has been carefully screened with something wry and shielding; the sort of look Lawson gave him before the shooting. Before he learned every truth there was to know about Tommy. "‘What are you upset about?'" Lawson parrots. "Baby, you've been upset for months. I'm just trying not to rock the boat."

"I haven't–" he starts, and then frowns again, and Lawson's look says gotcha. Unhappily.

"Look, I get that you want to be independent, and do things for yourself. You were this, like, Big Bad Cop or whatever – or, well, Little Bad Cop, y'know – and I know you don't like it when I'm always helping you, or touching you, or–"

Horror floods across Tommy's tongue like bile. "Stop," he snaps, harsher than he means to.

Lawson does stop, mouth half-open.

"Don't say that. I always want you to touch me. I don't ever want you to stop touching me."

Lawson's mouth slowly closes. His brow furrows. "Last week, when I tried to hold your arm when we stepped up onto the curb at Walmart, you slapped my hand away." His voice is flat, tamping his hurt down even deeper, and Tommy hates himself, he really does.

"But that wasn't – it wasn't that I – it wasn't because you were touching me. I–" His next breath hitches, and his chest squeezes tight, and the long-healed wounds in his gut tweak and pull as though fresh, because this – the consequences of every dismissal and brush-off – are far worse than he first suspected. His husband thinks he doesn't want him to touch him, and he doesn't – he can't–

An image of the mental health booklet fills his mind, and Dr. Wilson is damn smart, because she picked up on something Tommy has never admitted: he's not doing well with his recovery. Mentally. Emotionally. He's not handling it, and in the process, he's punished the person he loves most in the world.

His breath comes in choppy little gasps.

"It's okay," Lawson says, his tone still terribly flat.

"No, it's not!" He's loud, too loud, loud enough that Lawson's brows fly up, but he doesn't care. This is important, and he's too emotionally stunted by his current physical state to express it properly.

The booklet. He needs the booklet. He's not opened it yet, stuffed it on the bottom of the stack and left it on top of the dressing table that's become his since moving in, but there must be something useful in it. If nothing else, he can give it to Lawson, and maybe he can page through it, and, with its help, decipher what Tommy's trying to convey.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. Stands. And his left leg buckles.

He collapses.

Or, he would have, had Lawson's arm not caught him around the waist, and spun him, and lifted him. Lawson sweeps him up effortlessly, with a quick, "Oh, shit," an automatic reaction, and pulls him up to sit sideways across his lap, locked securely in both arms.

Tommy flings his arms around Lawson's neck in his own automatic gesture, and winds up with his face jammed up under Lawson's chin, gasping and panting and flooding with hot embarrassment and shame…and regret. The regret is worst of all, knowing how much damage he's done each time he's rejected Lawson's help.

"You're alright," Lawson murmurs quietly against the top of his head, his heart racing under Tommy's palm where it rests on his chest. "I've got you. You're okay."

And that's true, isn't it? Even when he was being a prickly asshole, Lawson's always had him, since the moment he woke in the hospital, fuzzy with drugs and helpless with pain, Lawson's wet-eyed face swimming above him like something from a dream.

Since before that. Since he knelt in the gravel at Tommy's side, head haloed by the sun, and pressed his hands to Tommy's middle to staunch the flow of blood. I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry.

Tommy's sorry, too.

The hot, spiked ball of emotion in his chest lurches up his throat, and his eyes fill with tears, and his next exhale is a rattling sob against the quick-throbbing pulse in Lawson's throat.

"No. No, no, it's not okay," he gasps. Once the tears start, he can't blink them back, and then he's just crying into the collar of Lawson's shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Law. I never meant – I don't want–" He hiccups, mortified, but unable to stop.

"Oh, baby." Lawson sounds heartbroken. He rubs up and down his back, the way slick with massage oil. "It's okay."

Tommy grips tight handfuls of his t-shirt and cries. "No, it's not, Lawson! It's not okay. I can't–"

Lawson stiffens, and, belatedly, he realizes why. I can't. Lawson has admitted – haltingly, in the dark, only vulnerable enough to say so in a moment of post-coital looseness – that the last thing Tommy said to him twenty years ago was I can't, and that it had fucked him up for a long time. That Tommy's bitten back I can't risk telling you why I'm leaving for your own safety sounded like I can't be with you. I can't love you. I can't keep doing this.

Fresh panic floods Tommy's veins. His heart beats wildly, trying to punch through his chest, and his wrists, and his eardrums. Forget breathing, he's not sure he can.

He shoves back – he feels Lawson's arms start to loosen, prepared to turn him loose if that's what he wants, and Lawson's expression is shuttered and closed-off and every kind of wrong – and grabs Lawson ungently by the face, a hand on either side of his jaw. It probably hurts, but Lawson doesn't pull away; his eyes widen, and he goes still, thighs tensed under Tommy's.

Tommy knows he's still crying openly, tears hot and slick down his cheeks, nose running, and he must look disgusting, but this is too important. He has to get it out, even if he chokes and hiccups and sobs his way through it.

"I can't," he repeats, stressing it, and Lawson's throat bobs as he swallows, "say what I want to say – what I need to say. I don't even – there's so much, and all of it's me, it's what's wrong with me, Law. There's not – there's not anything you've done wrong." He sniffs, hard and wet and gross, and his teeth start chattering with the overload of emotion, but the first sentences unstoppered something inside him, and the words come easier, then – the words come pouring out, through his choked and clotted throat.

"I want better for you. I want to be your husband."

"You are–" Lawson starts, and Tommy shakes his head.

"I want to be your husband, and not this – this sad sack you have to take care of all the time. I don't hate that you help me – I hate that I need help. I hate that I can't – that I can't drive myself anywhere, or help you take care of your dad, or run errands for your mom, or fucking – be there for you, for once. I want to surprise you at work. I want to get up on the ladder and clean the gutters so it's not one of the thousand more things you have to do. I want to take you to Hawai'i. I want us to have sex."

"We do have sex."

They do. Hand jobs, and blow jobs, and, sometimes, at the end of a massage, Lawson's breathing will get choppy and he'll dig his thumbs into the underside of Tommy's ass and say can I? Baby, can I? And he'll get himself off, hot jets across Tommy's back, and then ease Tommy over onto his back and return the favor.

But.

"Fine, I want to fuck!" Tommy bursts out. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to break me in fucking half. I want the reason I can't walk to be because you railed me into next week, not because my stupid fucking useless body is–"

"Hey." Lawson's face crumples. Shields down, eyes wet, lip wobbling. "Hey, hey, stop, come here." He cups the back of Tommy's head and pulls him in close; tucks his face back into the tear-damp collar of his shirt. His other hand splays across the center of his back, right where the exit wound scars turn the skin a puckered silver-pink, and holds him tight. "Baby," he says, pleadingly, "stop. Please stop."

He can't, though, trembling, tugging at Lawson's shirt, hiccupping and crying and just…melting down. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I made you wait for twenty years, and now I can't even give you the kind of marriage you deserve."

"Fuck," Lawson murmurs, rubbing circles on his back, rocking him gently side to side. Even if it feels like being reduced to a sobbing child – which he guesses he is right now – it's so comforting that Tommy relaxes and goes with it. "Okay, okay," Lawson says. And they sway like that a minute. Both of them sniffing hard.

Tommy's crying has quieted when Lawson finally speaks again, and there's a fierceness underlying the quiet tone of his voice. "Okay, let's get something straight, first. You didn't make me wait for twenty years. I could have moved on."

The idea sends a shudder through Tommy that Lawson definitely feels.

He ruffles the hair at his nape and kisses the side of his head, lips pressed into his hair when he says, "In a lot of ways, I did move on. I mean, yeah, you leaving broke my heart," he says, with a forthcoming bluntness he never used when Tommy was still playing a Cattaneo. He doesn't dodge and deflect the way he did at first, and it's as welcome as it is devastating, in this moment. "It was one of the very worst moments of my life. But I didn't go lie down in the woods and wait to die like Bella Swan or some shit."

Tommy barks a sudden, shocked laugh, watery with leftover tears, and Lawson huffs into his hair, breath warm on his scalp.

Softer, he continues, "When you opened your eyes in that hospital bed – when you said my name – that was the best moment of my life." Another kiss, this one lingering. "I got you back." Again, wondering, "I got you back. I got to keep you. I never thought I'd get the chance."

Tommy turns his head so he can press his cheek down on Lawson's collarbone, and blinks the last, lingering tears from his eyes. Exhaustion closes over him like a weighted blanket, and he gazes fuzzily at the lamp on the nightstand, the framed photo under it, one from their wedding day, Tommy wan and leaning on his walker, Lawson's arm around him, and his face buried in the top of Tommy's head, eyes shut and crinkled at the corners. Tommy remembers that he was smiling and crying at the same time.

"I want to be better for you," he says, voice hoarse from crying so hard.

Lawson rocks him some more. "You're everything to me. I just want you to be happy. And to feel better."

When Tommy wipes at his face, it's with a clumsy hand, shaky from the emotional upheaval. Lawson takes a corner of the blanket and gently wipes his face for him. Another small act of care, the sort of thing that always makes Tommy feel small…and that's the problem, isn't it? Tommy's perception of those acts. They only smother him because he's wracked with shame and guilt at his own weakness. And Lawson only offers them in adoration.

"Thank you," he murmurs, when Lawson's done.

Lawson tweaks his nose, chuckles at the face he makes, and then cups Tommy's jaw and tilts his head back so they can make eye contact.

He looks tired, blue eyes soft and worried, but determined, too. His thumb traces the puffy skin under Tommy's eye. "If you want me to back off a little, I will. I'm not saying it'll be easy, but I can try. I don't want – I don't want to be the one who makes you feel bad like this."

Tommy shakes his head, and then leans into his palm. "You don't." When Lawson cocks a brow, he says, "You don't. You don't ever make me feel bad. I just…" He sighs, and it loosens something in his chest. "I've not been dealing with recovery the right way. Mentally. I think I thought…" He chews at his lip. "That if I quit the force, and we got married, and my body healed, that that was it, you know? I thought…I don't know. I should be grateful I'm even alive, but I guess I thought I'd be back to one-hundred percent by now."

Lawson looks pained, thumb sweeping over his skin, back and forth, back and forth. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."

A light tap sounds at the door, and, hesitantly, Lisa calls, "Everything okay?"

"Oh fuck," Tommy groans, and buries his face in Lawson's shoulder. "I woke up your parents."

Lawson pats the back of his head soothingly. "We're fine, Mom. We were watching Homeward Bound, and Tommy gets all weepy when they leave Shadow behind."

Tommy pinches his ribs and Lawson squirms and hisses a laugh.

"Sorry, Lisa," Tommy calls. "We're good."

"Okay. Well. Sleep tight, boys."

"Night, Mom."

"Night."

They sit in silence while her slippered footfalls retreat back down the hall, Lawson playing with Tommy's hair.

When he thinks the coast is clear, Tommy wriggles to sit up higher on his lap, so they're face-to-face. "I'm sorry."

Lawson's smile is crooked and sad. He reaches up to push Tommy's hair off his face; it's longer than it used to be, more of his natural curls showing these days. "You already said that."

"I know. Jerk. I'm saying it formally. This is my formal apology, okay, so take it seriously."

Lawson sits up straight, expression going mock-stern. "Sir, yes, sir."

Tommy pinches his nipple through his shirt until he twists away, laughing and yelping. "Okay, okay. You're serious." He softens. "I get it."

"Do you, though?" Tommy places both hands on his chest. Even in the most serious of moments, when sex is the farthest thing from his mind, Tommy can't help but marvel at the breadth of him. It will never not be a turn-on. "I spent twenty years trying to get back to you, and I promised myself I'd do everything I could to make a life for us. To make you happy."

Lawson blinks, and his eyes glimmer with welling tears. "Yeah." His voice goes raspy. "I read your letters."

He did, didn't he? So he knows Tommy's heart, inside and out. And yet Tommy's wasted all this time being a stubborn shithead.

He presses his fingertips into Lawson's pecs, willing him to understand. "I wanted it to be perfect."

Lawson smiles so wide, even as a tear escapes his eye and slides down the side of his nose. "Baby." He pulls him in and kisses him, firm and sweet. "You have met me, right?" he asks, when he draws back. "You understand that if you wanted perfect, you should have picked out a Leo of your own, right?"

"Shut up." Tommy puts his arms around his neck and hugs him. As he does, he realizes they don't do it nearly enough. Lawson always has an arm around his waist, or his shoulders. They hold hands; they hook arms. Lie tangled in bed, or on the couch. But they don't hug, and it's the balm that Tommy needs in the moment, chest-to-chest, heartbeat-to-heartbeat.

Lawson needs it too, judging by the way he wraps him up tight and hugs him back.

"Dr. Wilson gave me some stuff to read," Tommy says, after a few minutes.

Lawson hums encouragingly.

"She said it might be helpful if you read it, too."

"Okay. I'll read it."

Tommy squeezes him even tighter, and Lawson cups his head, and rocks them again, and it's okay. They're okay.