4

Dana's accounting office is part of the same row of business condos as Tommy's State Farm office, so they have lunch together at least once a week at whichever food truck is set up in the parking lot. Today it's Tommy's favorite – Que Delicioso, a taco truck with the best queso and pico he's ever tasted – and they find a free picnic table where they can sit across from one another. Tommy carries his own paper boat, three tacos al pastor, and doesn't allow himself to get bent out of shape that Dana carries her food plus both their bottled waters and the Styrofoam cup of queso. It's a new feeling, that lack of guilt, and he finds himself working at it actively, but after last night, it feels important. He can carry the chips, bag gripped along with the handle of his cane, but not everything he would have once upon a time. And that's okay.

When they're seated across from each other beneath a wide, striped umbrella, he says, "How's the wedding planning coming?"

She groans theatrically and dunks a chip in queso. "You guys had the right idea. I wish we'd just gone to Vegas, honestly. His mom has all these second-cousins she wants us to invite, and it's getting out of control…" She spends a good ten minutes venting about her soon-to-be-in-laws, and Tommy makes sympathetic noises while he digs into his tacos.

"Hey," she says, after she winds down. "You okay?"

Tommy freezes, back half of his last taco raised to his mouth. He knew when he looked in the mirror this morning that he looked like he'd cried hard for a long time, but he hoped some of it faded in the half-day since.

Now, he sets his taco down, wipes his hands, and says, "Yeah. I'm fine." Skin prickling with apprehension.

Dana tips her head and makes a face. She was intimidating as hell when they were kids, and still is today. More astute and aggressive than any of the detectives he worked with.

Tommy's first instinct is to deflect, because he's been doing it forever. But after last night, after he sat at Lawson's side while he paged through the mental health booklet, he feels like he owes more than his husband a dose of reality.

He sets the rest of his taco down and says, "Actually…"

Dana perks up like a hunting dog.

"Okay, don't look so excited."

She snorts.

"I. Um. I…need to apologize to you."

She looks baffled. "What for?"

"I've, uh…I've been a jackass. While I was recovering."

She snorts again, and dunks a chip. "You've always been a jackass, dude. That's kind of your selling point."

"No, it's…" When he trails off, she looks up again, and goes still. "I'm sorry. I've been a worse jackass than normal. I already apologized to Lawson–"

"Whoa, hey, no." She pushes her paper boat of food aside and grips his hand where it rests on the table. "Are you okay?"

"I'm…yeah. I'm good." And as he says it, he realizes that it's true. Mostly. He's better. For all that he hates crying, last night cleansed him. He feels lighter, now, even as he trips over his words. "I've not been…very good about accepting help. And I – my new doctor said…well, I want to do better. So if I've made you feel awkward or shitty while I was recovering, I'm sorry, Dana. Truly."

She sits with that a beat. Squeezes his hand tight. She has a tendency to brush off sincerity, but sometimes, like now, she takes emotion seriously. "Thank you," she says, solemnly. "For the record? I know what you've been dealing with sucks, and I don't think you need to apologize to me, because I've never taken anything to heart." She squeezes his hand again. "But I'm glad to hear you apologized to Lawson."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her smile is small, but warm. "He adores you, you know."

He nods, lump forming in his throat. "Yeah. It's mutual."

~*~

Lawson works a late shift, so Dana takes him home.

"Drinks tomorrow," she reminds, and blows him a kiss as he eases out of the car. He waves in return, adjusts the notebook he's carrying, and takes the ramp instead of the stairs because, as Dana reminded on the way home, being kind to himself isn't weakness.

It's going to take an adjustment.

But he doesn't stumble, and he gets inside okay, and when he hears the TV, he calls, "Bill?"

"Hi," he calls back, an easy word to say.

Tommy loosens the knot on his tie and hangs up his jacket. "Need anything?" he calls. "Drink? Snack?"

"Water. Pleasssssse."

Tommy snags two bottles, plus a bag of pretzel sticks, and makes his careful way into the living room where Bill's chair is parked in front of People Puzzler.

"Ooh, what's the category?" Tommy asks, not having to fake interest. Lawson's teased him about it – sweetly, fondly – but he's gotten hooked on his father-in-law's game show habit.

Tommy opens both waters, and then the pretzels, and they pass them back and forth through two episodes before Bill turns to give him a pointed look.

"Are you…okay?" he asks.

Really, Tommy should have expected this. He did wake them up last night. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Bill frowns, one side of his mouth tugging down harder than the other.

"Law and I, um." He doesn't know how much he wants to tell his husband's father. "We're good," he says in a hurry, when Bill's frown deepens. "My new doctor and I talked about some things. I need to bring Lawson into my therapy a little more. I'm sorry I woke you guys up. I was. Um. Well. We're okay. But I…"

Bill nods, and he's grateful for the chance to trail off.

Then Bill reaches between them, hand slow and clumsy, and Tommy takes it on instinct. "We love you," he says with careful pronunciation.

Tommy blinks, and sniffs, and squeezes his hand hard, as he had Dana's earlier. "I know. I love you guys, too."

He's had far too many emotional milestones in the past twenty-four hours. Thankfully, he and Bill lock into Family Feud, and are laughing over the familiar, stupid dick answers when Lisa and Lawson get home.

"Hi, baby." Lawson leans over the back of the couch to kiss the top of his head, and Tommy reaches up to catch his face and hold him close before he pulls away.

"Hi."

"Good day?"

"Yeah. I had lunch with Dana."

That earns him another kiss, smacked into his hair. "Good."

"Stroganoff okay?" Lisa calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah, Mom, I'll come help," Lawson says.

Before he pulls away, Tommy grips Lawson's sleeve, and says, "Can I help?"

Lawson pauses. "You want to?" he says in a careful voice.

"Yeah. Let your mom sit down and have a break. I can chop stuff."

There's a beat, and Lawson swallows thickly, and then he says, "Okay."

Lisa takes some convincing. "Oh, honey, it's fine, I don't mind." But Tommy persists, sweetly, he hopes, and finally she agrees to pour herself a glass of wine and go into the living room with Bill.

Tommy gets a cutting board, knife, and onion, and sits down at the table to do his chopping.

Lawson stands at the stove, warming the skillet with olive oil, and glances over his shoulder as he tilts the pan. "You, uh…you good?" His expression is cautious.

Tommy tamps down his initial snarky response, because Lawson is his husband, and loves him, and worries about him, and he's been far too cold and dismissive with him. "Yeah, sweetheart." He smiles until Lawson smiles back. "I'm good. I just…your mom does so much for us…"

"Yeah. I know. You done with those?"

"Yep."

Lawson comes to get them, and then Tommy accepts his duty of buttering and spreading garlic on bread while Lawson gets things hissing in the skillet. He is tired; his legs are weak. But he's still helping.

Once the meat is browned and Lawson's turned down the heat and added the sour cream and put the pasta on to boil, he pours them both a glass and moves to the table.

Tommy perks up and says, "Thanks, honey," and has the pleasure of watching Lawson perk up in turn.

When Lawson gazes at him with such naked warmth, he says, "Hey, c'mere," and pulls him in for a kiss. Feels the shape of Lawson's smile on his lips. Such simple acts, and they make Lawson so happy.

Tommy hooks a hand behind his neck and reels him in again, and when he pulls back a second time, Lawson is beaming. "Hi," he murmurs, and Tommy's heart melts. He really is the sweetest. Under his veneer of snark and flippancy, he's the sweetest person Tommy's ever met.

He should have told him that.

He can still.

He rubs his thumb along Lawson's jaw. "You're really sweet."

Lawson's brows go up. "Um. What?"

"You're really sweet," Tommy repeats. "And I wish we could go to bed right now."

"Shit."

"That do it for ya, big guy?"

"Yeah."

Tommy grins. "Go check on the meat."

"Yeah." Lawson blinks a moment before he gets up to do so.

~*~

They have dinner, and it's good. Lisa insists on doing the dishes – a simple rinse and scrub, now, and into the new dishwasher Tommy bought them before he ended his tenure as a mob boss – and then she says, "I think we'll watch TV a while longer."

Which is a pointed go-ahead for them to go upstairs and do married things.

Tommy is mortified.

But damn if he's not going to take advantage.

"Oh, shit," he mutters when, halfway up the stairs, Lawson picks him up and slings him over his shoulder. "God, your parents know–"

"My parents are very understanding."

"You didn't have to–"

Lawson pauses at the top of the stairs. "You want me to put you down?" he asks a little uncertainly, patting his ass.

"Don't you dare."

Lawson makes a punched-out sound in response and hustles into their room.

He hesitates again, once the door is shut and locked, and Tommy knows he's being careful, being loving. It doesn't make him angry this time. Says, "Honey, would you please, please fuck me into next week?"

"Yeah."

Lawson swings him around – and then catches him, and lays him down gently. His face is terribly tender. Tommy catches it in both hands and pulls him into a kiss. "Can I tell you something?"

"You can tell me anything," Lawson pants against his lips. It's never not going to be thrilling to know how much he's wanted.

"You know I…" He doesn't think he's ever said this out loud before. Not in so many words. "I've not been good about…about being hurt, but I do like – I love – that you're…bigger than me. That you…" He trails off when he watches Lawson's pupils dilate. Touches his face again. "That you can push me around a little."

Lawson gasps. "You like when I fuck you, baby?"

"Yeah. I miss it."

"Oh my God."

"Will you do it now?"

"Yeah."

Lawson strips him out of his clothes with a slow carefulness that Tommy realizes is reverence. Not because Lawson thinks he's weak, but because he loves him, really loves him.

And Tommy loves him back, so why did this sort of care ever make him question anything?

He wants – he wants so bad – so he doesn't play shy. "Touch me. Please."

Lawson makes a guttural sound, and then slicks his fingers and does touch him. Finally.

He doesn't tease, but he goes slow, and Tommy tips his head back, closes his eyes, and sinks into the feeling of it.

~*~

Both of Tommy's parents were slight – Mom is still, as timid and brittle as a sparrow. Frank is built like Tommy, not tall, but slender, wiry, athletic (though Tommy doesn't feel so athletic these days). Noah's size was a shock from birth. The old, faded photos in the baby book show two babies side-by-side, and one looks six months older than the other. When they began kindergarten, Mom told Noah, "You have to look out for your brother, because he's so little."

Little. The world trailed after him all his childhood like Pig Pen's cloud of stench. Women thought he was adorable, and wanted to pet his curls or chuck his chin. Men gave him pitying looks, and said things like "we all have different gifts." Or "maybe you'll hit a growth spurt."

It infuriated him. Made him prickly and self-conscious. And that was before Dad died. And before he had the stomach-lurching realization that he was different from his brother in another way, too; that he liked boys instead of girls.

He hated being little. Hated being pretty. Went cold and clammy all over at the concept of being delicate.

So it came as a mighty shock when he realized how wild he was for his size difference with Lawson.

Or maybe it shouldn't have been shocking, because being little, and pretty in Lawson's eyes had always meant being cherished, and he'd never been delicate to him. Before Lawson, no one had ever looked at him like he was the best part of someone's day, or the most fascinating, attention-catching thing in the room. In any room. They teased and bickered and gave each other grief in the way of all friends, and Lawson's affection was so obvious, so wholehearted, so utterly Lawson's, unlike everyone else's, that Tommy felt safe, and sheltered, and was given the chance to come to his own revelations about what he liked best, in bed and out of it.

He likes the breadth of Lawson's shoulders; the way they stretch out all of his outgrown band and superhero t-shirts; the way, when he spreads an arm out, Tommy fits right under it, the perfect height and width, like that spot was made for him. He likes the squared-off shape of Lawson's palms, and the length of his fingers. Likes the way his hands were so damn big on his own smaller body; Jesus, when he cupped one gently around Tommy's throat…He likes the way the back of his neck and the tips of his ears always get sunburned at the start of summer. Likes the way his blue, blue eyes crinkle at the corners, temporarily in youth, but with faint, constant lines there now, happy crow's feet in the making.

He likes that, though by seventeen he had a pretty good estimation of how the still-lanky boy he loved would mature, he arrived back in Eastman to find Lawson a tall, filled-out slab of man. He loves that, actually. Loves that Lawson grew confident and sure of himself in those twenty years apart, now not simply willing, but damn good at taking Tommy apart. Rough when Tommy wants it, but sweet if left to his own devices.

It"s always good. It's always so, so good…

He doesn't realize he's making these quiet, choked whimpering sounds on every thrust until Lawson quiets him with a kiss.

"Feels good?" he whispers, and Tommy digs into those broad shoulders he loves with his fingertips.

"Yeah."

He doesn't realize there are tears leaking silently from his eyes until Lawson kisses the tracks at his temples, too, and Tommy blinks them open to see Lawson's concerned, blurry face through a screen of dampness.

Lawson's hips still. His brow furrows, and his lips compress, and he looks like he doesn't want to, but finally asks, "You okay?"

He's so much better than okay. For the first time in seven months, Lawson – his husband – is buried to the hilt inside him, and even with careful prep, it's a lot, since it's been so long; it's overwhelming, and the last thing he wants is to stop. You okay? Displeasure, a kernel of anger, even, hardens in his chest.

But that isn't fair. Because this is his husband, who doesn't see him as little or delicate or weak. And last night he almost face-planted trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed, so it's a fair question.

And he gives it a fair moment of consideration.

They're both breathing hard, bellies sliding together, slick with sweat, and it's creating an incredible glide of friction on Tommy's cock where it's trapped between them. He's full, and overwhelmed in the best way.

He's fantastic.

But when he tries to squeeze his thighs tighter around Lawson's waist, they won't respond. He grits his teeth, and tries again, but no dice. "Aw, fuck. My legs have gone numb.

"Wait, no, no," he digs in tighter with his fingers when Lawson's eyes pop wide and he starts to pull back. "Don't panic. Don't…it's alright."

Lawson looks worried, though. Tommy pats his cheek, and thumbs at his lower lip and says, "It's okay, sweetheart, I promise."

They settle on a compromise, because that's what makes marriages work, after all. Lawson pulls out and sits up on his knees; unfolds Tommy's legs out straight and massages his quads and hamstrings and hip flexors until feeling floods back into them. Both of their erections flag, and they talk quietly about non-sex-related topics, and it reminds Tommy, with a sweet pang, of being teenagers. Of short refractory periods and talking about the latest episode of Stargate between rounds, naked and sleepy tangled up on Lawson's twin bed.

The bed's only a little bigger, now. But there's a blood-warm white gold band on the third finger of the hand stroking up and down Tommy's leg where it's slung over Lawson's hip, cementing what they were already sure of as boys.

They lie on their sides, facing one another, and Lawson stops his rubbing every few sentences with a gesture to emphasize his point.

"…usually the whole thing's done over Zoom and phone calls and emails. But Leo's going to some sort of seminar in New York in a couple weeks and he thinks it might be beneficial to meet the guy in person."

Tommy frowns, and pets Lawson's chest hair idly the wrong way before smoothing it. He wiggles his toes, gratified that he can, and pretty dexterously, too. "Did the guy's email sound promising?" He thinks everything Lawson writes deserves to be published, but it's been seven months since Lawson queried Leo's friend, Keith, with a cover letter from Leo, and Keith only got back to him last week. Lawson's been shruggy and evasive about the response, and Tommy's ready to drive to New York and have words with this Keith.

Lawson lifts his hand in a so-so gesture, squints, and says, "Ehhh. He wasn't disinterested."

When Tommy makes a face and starts to slander Keith – it's pretty much standard OP at this point – Lawson resumes petting at his hip, digging his thumb firmly into the crease of his thigh which unlocks something in the tendons there, electricity zipping all the way down to the ball of his foot.

"It wasn't bad," Lawson says. "He said he'd be glad to take a look at my first five pages."

"What? The first five? Are you fucking kidding?" Tommy is outraged on his behalf.

But Lawson chuckles. "It's like I said before: all this publishing bullshit takes ages. It's not like insurance, where someone gets a call returned in a couple hours."

Tommy snorts. "It is bullshit. It's unacceptable. A book's good, or it sucks. It shouldn't take seven months to think about."

"It takes that long if you're getting thousands of queries a day."

"Yeah. Well. Keith sucks."

Lawson's smile is the smile Tommy remembers from their childhood, wide and unrestrained, eyes flipped to crescents; the same smile he wore when Tommy woke up in the hospital; nothing like the tight, mocking, angry half-sneers Lawson offered when Tommy was first back in town last year. This one, here, now, is the good kind, and it fills Tommy's chest with a molten sort of heat that makes him think he might stop breathing, or melt like a chocolate chip dropped in a hot pan, and either would be fine.

Lawson leans in and kisses him, soft and slow, and his rubbing hand shifts to Tommy's stomach, short nails teasing through his treasure trail. "How're you feeling?" he murmurs against his lips.

Tommy tightens his leg, because he can now. "Ready."

They make out a little, stroking and teasing until they're both fully hard again, and then Lawson guides him over to lie on his other side, facing away, and snugs up close to his back.

Tommy loves this position, Lawson warm and big behind him, an arm banded across his chest, inside him and surrounding him so that Tommy feels small in the way that he craves when he's with Lawson.

Lawson's mouth is open and wet on the side of his neck, and his cock hits his prostate head-on with every thrust. Tommy's seeing stars.

He reaches back to grip Lawson's hip and urge him on, head tipping back as he pants. "Shit, shit, shit," he chants, trying to be quiet. He doesn't know if Bill and Lisa have come upstairs; he can't focus on anything but Lawson. He thinks the bed's creaking steadily, tellingly, but it's hard to hear over his own choppy breaths.

Lawson reaches up to span his throat with his huge hand and Tommy whines.

"Baby," Lawson whispers, low and throaty right in his ear. "Is this what you needed? You needed me in you?"

"Yes." Tommy clutches at his forearm. "Oh God, Law, oh my God, fuck."

Lawson grinds in hard on his next thrust, and Tommy whimpers, and Lawson makes this deep, hitching noise against his throat. "Baby," he says like a prayer, like Tommy is precious to him. A wonder. "I love you. I love you so much."

Tommy slurs what he hopes is a coherent answer, and Lawson reaches down to stroke his cock. Uses each downward stroke to grind Tommy's hips back against his own, and it's so good, and it's too much.

"You gonna come, baby?" Lawson murmurs. "You can. It's okay. I want you to."

Tommy turns his head so sharply it hurts his neck and bites the pillow to keep from shouting as his orgasm tears through him. It's worlds more intense than the ones he's had since the shooting, and his whole body twists, and tightens, and cramps, and it's exquisite.

Don't stop, don't pull out, he wants to say, desperately, but is too busy bowing against Lawson's hold and shaking and falling apart.

But Lawson knows. As the first blinding wave recedes, Tommy feels the tight grip of his hand on his hip, and the erratic, hard thrusts that signal Lawson's chasing his own release. He spits out the pillow and turns his head – the room's spinning – reaches out with a half-limp arm, and Lawson knows what that means, too. Buries his face in Tommy's neck, and pants, and hisses through his teeth, and babbles, "Yes, baby, oh yes. So good. Such a good boy. Look at you." And comes with a grunt like he's hurting, and Tommy holds the back of his head, love and pleasure blasting through them like a detonation.

A few minutes later, Lawson asks, "Can you walk?"

Tommy answers honestly, scoured clean by what they've done, body humming, his weak, numb legs the last thing on his mind. "No. I really can't."

He loops grateful, trembling arms around Lawson's neck when he scoops him up, and lets himself be happily carried to the shower.