9

In the week of planning that led up to their departure, Lisa and Bill both encouraged them to see something on Broadway while they were in the city. Natalia asks them if they have tickets for any shows, or if they have any interest in this new club her friend just opened. "I can get your names on the list."

They trade a look, and Lawson's lips press flat in an effort not to laugh.

"We didn't bring any clubbing clothes, but thanks," Tommy tells her, and she throws her hands up, smiling, in mock despair.

"You're always so boring, Tom!" But she doesn't push.

Tommy has plans for their evening, and they don't involve an overlong musical or a crowded, smelly club.

It's almost four by the time they hug Nat and Noah goodbye on the sidewalk in front of La Historia, pleasantly full of rich food, a little too loud from the wine.

"I want to see you both again before you go home," Nat insists. To Lawson, she says, "Good luck tomorrow. You'll do wonderful."

"It's not a job interview. He either likes the book or he doesn't," Lawson says, but his cheeks pink prettily with bashfulness.

After Nat and Noah head for their car, Tommy loops his arm through Lawson's again and tugs him down the sidewalk.

"Are you taking me sightseeing?"

"Yeah."

The first stop is the bookshop where Tommy used to go to breathe the scent of crumbling pages, and old ink, and miss Lawson desperately without the eyes of his fellow officers on him.

Lawson pulls them to a stop on the sidewalk out front, where rolling carts of books have been parked in front of the shop windows. An older woman searches through them carefully, a small stack already accumulated in the crook of one arm. He looks up at the sign, and then down at Tommy. "This doesn't look like the Statue of Liberty."

"Nice observation, jackass," Tommy says, grinning, and Lawson's returning smile is blinding. "No," he says, softer, nudging their linked arms. "I found this spot years ago and it always made me think of you. So…" He trails off as his face heats, and turns toward the window.

They don't do the whole brushing their teeth side-by-side thing, so he doesn't often see their joint reflections. He sees them now, in the flat glass of the window: Lawson tall, and broad-shouldered, and himself smaller than he feels, but smiling. Happy. They look good together, he thinks. Complements. Light and dark. Tall and…less tall. The way they're leaning together, it's impossible to tell which of them has trouble balancing; who's the steadying presence, and who needs help.

Lawson's legs work fine, but they both do need steadying, even if it's not of the same sort.

Tommy thought, at first, that their rings, and their vows, and their hands laced together in front of a hospital chapel altar would banish all doubts, all guilt. That each of them would be sure of the other's commitment and love and willingness to stay and stick out the rough spots. Seven months, but most especially the past few weeks, have taught him that's not the case. The rings, vows, and interlaced hands were a big and vital step toward the rest of their lives…but they've both been in recovery that whole time: from heartache, for one, and from almost dying, in Tommy's case; in Lawson's case, he supposes it's a recovery from whatever future he envisioned when he thought Tommy wouldn't pull through.

There's not a cure for recovery. Only the slow, day in and day out work of nonlinear progress. And love. Love carries more than its fair share of weight.

"Do you wanna go in?" Tommy asks, and realizes Lawson is studying their reflection, too, expression heartbreakingly tender.

"Yeah." His voice is a little uneven, but Tommy doesn't comment on it; strokes his arm, instead. "Yeah, let's go in."

~*~

They only have one more planned stop before they head back to the hotel, so Tommy's content to wander the aisles, occasionally scanning covers and reading blurbs, while Lawson browses with the speed and determination of a consummate bookworm. From aisle to aisle, topic to topic, tracing spine after spine with flickering fingertips. It's cute as hell, and Tommy eventually finds an overstuffed ottoman to perch on near the science fiction section, where Lawson appears to have set up camp.

Forty-five minutes after entering the shop, Lawson comes to him, beaming, arms loaded with yellow-edged secondhand paperbacks. He found a complete set of Edgar Rice Burroughs' John Carter of Mars books, with killer pulpy cover art from the seventies.

The proprietor loads them in a canvas tote printed with the shop's logo while Tommy slides his credit card across the counter, and Lawson leans down to kiss him on the temple, right there in front of the cash register, the shop owner, and a little blue parakeet in a cage behind the counter.

The sidewalks are congested when they emerge, so Tommy unfolds his cane for the inevitable moment they'll have to go single-file to avoid crashing into anyone. It feels lighter than usual; his temple is still warm and faintly tingling where Lawson kissed him.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Lawson asks with an eyebrow waggle when Tommy tugs him into a liquor store. "To take advantage of me? ‘Cause I could get into that."

Tommy sends him a mock-stern glare. "Pick out a wine you like." For his own part, he grabs a bottle of his favorite overpriced whiskey, and a bottle of champagne, crossed necks clenched together in the fingers of his free hand.

When he finds Lawson debating two whites, one significantly cheaper than the other, he says, "Get the expensive one."

Lawson's mouth tucks sideways in a wry smile. Then his eyes widen when he spots the bottles Tommy's carrying. "I was kidding before about the drunk thing."

"Well, I'm not. Get the nice one. It's our honeymoon."

He says it because it's true, but it has the added benefit of making Lawson flush happily. He gets the good wine, and, as they head for the register, Tommy snags a bag of plastic champagne flutes from a display on the endcap.

~*~

They didn't book the honeymoon suite, but it's still a nice room: wide king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble and brushed brass fixtures in a bathroom that feels like a real bathroom: decadent and roomy, with a massive tub, as opposed to one of those narrow, economy rooms that remind you at every turn that you're in a hotel.

When they get back in, the sun is setting lavishly through the skyscrapers beyond their window, liquid orange and glittering with eye-watering ferocity off every metallic surface across the span of city that separates their thirtieth-floor room from the river. Tommy's drawn to the window; his breath fogs the glass as he stares out at the vista, the cars crawling below like ants, boats moving on the Hudson. He counts five rooftop gardens, one strung with fairy lights that snap on as he watches, tiny people gathering at a table and toasting one another with tiny glasses.

Even at his most miserable during their twenty years apart, he always found a kind of bittersweet comfort in the sheer busyness of the city. The knowledge that, even if he was pining and lonely, there were so many others out there, just beyond his window, living, and loving, and enjoying themselves.

Now, he gets to be one of their number.

He catches the ghost of his own smile in his reflection as he turns, and puts his back to the view, and focuses instead on the view that's for him only.

Lawson's sprawled on his side across the width of the bed, propped up on an elbow. He turned the TV on immediately, found a rerun of The Office, and then dug into his tote of new/old books. He's idly paging through one of the paperbacks, smiling to himself with soft delight.

It"s an innocent picture, and Tommy almost hates to dirty it up.

Almost.

He crosses to the marble-topped counter that hosts a hot plate, coffee pot, and an assortment of complimentary snacks and water bottles, and plucks the champagne from the bucket of ice they grabbed out in the hall. After years playing a mafia boss, he's developed a particular talent for uncorking bottles without showering himself and the floor in champagne, and he pulls this one neatly; fills two of the plastic flutes from the liquor store and turns back toward the bed.

Lawson's flopped over onto his back, book held overhead, properly reading now, and Tommy swallows an amused huff. He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, holding both flutes. Waits for a count of ten.

"Law."

He rolls his head, spots Tommy, and then sits upright in a hurry. Chucks the book up onto the pillows. "Oh. Hey. Right now?" His hands grip the hem of his shirt and his face takes on an eager cast.

Tommy laughs. God, he loves this man. "Right now what?" He puts a knee up onto the mattress and offers one of the champagne flutes. "I'm just handing you a drink."

"Uh-huh." Lawson takes his…and drains it all in one go like a shot.

"Dude!" Tommy laughs, and gets his other knee up onto the bed. "It's not a race. You don't win if you get drunk first."

Lawson leans over to set the flute on the nightstand, and then reaches for Tommy; grabs him by the hips and hauls him up to kneel between his legs like he weighs nothing, a move that never fails to set Tommy's stomach swooping. "Yeah, but the faster the I drink, the sooner I get to do this." His hands slide down to Tommy's thighs, and part them, and he rearranges him so he's straddling Lawson's lap.

Tommy braces his free hand on Lawson's shoulder, which is honestly its favorite spot to be anyway, and closes his eyes, head tipped down for a kiss.

Lawson's hand settles big and warm on the back of his neck, and goosebumps prickle across his skin, anticipation a pleasant shiver down his arms and legs. He doesn't kiss him, though; rubs his nose against Tommy's and murmurs, "Now, huh?" against his lips. He retreats when Tommy tries to bring their mouths together fully, and when Tommy slits his eyes open, he sees the mix of smugness and fondness in the curve of Lawson's smile. "You don't want to rest a little bit first?"

"Not" – shit, he's out of breath already – "unless you want to."

Lawson's nails scratch up into the hair at his nape and his lashes flutter, which prompts Lawson to hum a low, pleased note that goes straight to Tommy's dick.

"I thought," he continues, with no small amount of difficulty, "that we could – after – that we could get room service. After."

"After?" Lawson teases, his grin a slice of blurred white this close. "After what?"

"Law," he sighs, squeezing his shoulder hard. "What do you want? And I mean," he adds, before Lawson can say anything self-sacrificing. "What do you want? Not just what you think I want to hear."

Lawson draws back another fraction, far enough for them to see each other properly. His gaze tracks slowly from Tommy's face, to his neck, his chest, the crotch of his jeans, one hand sliding to his inner thigh and stroking over the seam there, until Tommy takes a shuddery inhale. When his gaze returns to Tommy's, it's gone hot, and hungry, intense in the way that Tommy loves, and in a way it hasn't been nearly enough lately.

"I want…" The hand on Tommy's thigh lifts to cup the bottom of the champagne flute and urge it toward Tommy's mouth. "For you to drink this. Slowly."

"Oh shit," Tommy breathes, shivering all over.

Lawson gives the bottom of the flute another nudge, and he raises it to his lips, and drinks.

Slowly, as instructed.

Lawson watches the movement of his throat, and on the last swallow, reaches up to press his palm there, right over the bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"Christ." Tommy pulls off the rim of the glass with a gasp, and Lawson plucks it from his fingers and leans over to set it on the nightstand beside his own.

Tommy leans with the movement, not wanting to separate even an inch, and overbalances; nearly goes toppling off the side of the bed.

Lawson catches him by the waist and rights him effortlessly, which gets Tommy's pulse racing. "You okay?" he asks, clearly amused, but his eyes are still big, and dark, and full of want.

"Yeah." Tommy cups his jaw between both hands and kisses him.

Tommy knows he's worked up – maybe too worked up – but doesn't realize how acute it is, how quickly he gets hard, until Lawson's murmuring, "Easy, easy," against his lips, and urging him back with a hand at his throat again.

Tommy makes a frankly embarrassing noise of distress, and Lawson grins, and hooks his fingers in the collar of his shirt.

"Now who's running a race?"

"I just…" Tommy pets over Lawson's shoulders, and down his arms, grips tight at his biceps. The champagne went straight to his head, and now he's flushed and a little dizzy – but not unpleasantly so. With the city view through the open curtains, and the big bed, he's keenly aware that, for all intents and purposes, they're alone – properly alone, locked in their own private bubble – for the first time since they got married. There's probably people in the neighboring rooms, but no one they know; no worried parents who'll come ask if they're okay; no medical crises waiting to unfold that require their intervention. He doesn't resent those things, but they're alone. He's straddling his big, pretty husband, and they have nowhere to be, and nothing else to do, and Tommy's vibrating out of his skin with how badly he wants to be destroyed.

"Okay," Lawson murmurs, leaning in to press a string of kisses up the side of his throat. He breathes warm and damp against the underside of his jaw, and licks him there. "You really need it, huh? I know, baby, I know. I'll give it to you."

"Please."

"Shh, come here."

Lawson gathers him in close and rolls them; presses Tommy down into the mattress and braces over him on one hand, so he can cup Tommy's face with the other and finally kiss him the way Tommy wants.

It's a good kiss. Deep, and slick, and messy, Lawson's tongue insistent inside his mouth; his weight blanketing and immoveable between Tommy's thighs, across his hips, his chest, putting pressure on his hard cock. Lawson kisses the way he writes, with thorough attention to detail, knowing just when to push for more, and when to back off, when to tease. He reads all of Tommy's reactions, from the hands fisted in his hair, to the little gasps and shaky exhales that slip through in the fleeting moments their lips aren't together. It's something that shocked and delighted him as a teenager, when they first started making out like it was a sporting event, and something that delights him still. He knew back then that he wanted to kiss Lawson – more than he wanted anything, most days – but he thought it would be clumsy, or awkward, or even unpleasant. Wet mouths smacking against one another. But it was good then, and it's better now, and by the time Lawson sits up and peels his shirt off over his head, Tommy's worried his brain might have melted out of his ears.

"God." The word's punched out of him, as he exhales all in a rush.

The sunset gilds Lawson like a Greek statue, all wide shoulders and thick muscle, his torso not sculpted like a gym bro's, but strong, from carrying his dad, from carrying Tommy himself.

Tommy reaches for Lawson's fly – and Lawson plucks his wrists up and pins them back against the bed on either side of his head.

"Oh."

Lawson leans down, and kisses him with deliberate slowness. "Stay there," he says as he pulls back, voice gone low and velvety-gentle. "Can you do that?"

Tommy thinks a stupid squeaking sound is all that'll come out if he tries to speak, so he nods.

Lawson kisses his cheek, the sensitive skin below his ear, and says, "Good boy."

Oh my God. Tommy wants to get fucked, but worries he might not last until then if Lawson keeps this up.

Lawson kisses his throat, right over his fluttering pulse point, and then shifts down his body. Pushes his shirt up so it's bunched above his chest, and kisses his sternum. Trails his lips up the gentle swell of his pec and sucks his nipple into his mouth.

Tommy closes his eyes and starts to reach for Lawson, wanting to cup the back of his head, to rake his fingers through his hair, those thick, short waves made fluffy by the humidity outside. But Lawson said stay, so he grips two handfuls of the coverlet instead and endures the sweat torture of Lawson's mouth.

Time drags. Lawson spends a long time working over his chest, until Tommy's nipples are hard and aching, and his hips have started lifting of their own accord, seeking friction along Lawon's ribs.

Then Lawson lays a hand down low on Tommy's stomach and presses his pelvis flat on the mattress. "Nu-uh," he tuts, and lifts up enough for Tommy to see his pink, damp lips, smirking.

Tommy clenches his handfuls of comforter. "Oh, fuck you."

Lawson grins. "Well, that's not very good."

"Lawson." He's whining. Oh well. He'll be embarrassed about it later.

Lawson chuckles, and smooths his hands up and down his stomach, teasing at his ribs, and his sucked-raw nipples. He hits Tommy's shirt, still bunched under his arms, and says, "You wanna take this off?"

"Yeah."

Tommy's arms are still braced up above his head, so Lawson pushes it easily, up and up, leaning down as he does so. When the material clears Tommy's face, Lawson kisses him, sticky-sweet, and unhurried, while he gets the shirt the rest of the way off his wrists and hands. It's the kind of mind-altering kiss that drowns out everything else: the tension in his arms and shoulders, the pulse throbbing between his legs, the hitch of his breathing. The world narrows down to the way their mouths fit and slide, nip and press.

He cranes his neck, chasing Lawson when he lifts his head, and Lawson gives him a soft, indulgent sort of look, thumb tracing his lower lip where it feels slick and swollen.

"What?" Tommy asks.

Lawson breathes a quiet laugh. "Where are your arms, baby?"

"They're…oh." They're around Lawson's neck, his hands shoved into his hair.

"That's okay." Lawson kisses his cheek, chaste compared to the way they were kissing before, and it feels more reassuring than romantic. "I like how worked up you get."

"Lawson–"

"I know, I know. Hold on."

It's awful when he sits up and then climbs off the bed, leaving Tommy cold and thrumming without him, but he enjoys the view. The shift and flex of muscles in Lawson's back as he goes to their bags, crouches down, and retrieves the lube. He turns back and tosses it onto the bed, and then unfastens and shoves down his jeans and boxers. He's a lot less clumsy about stepping out of them than he was when they were seventeen, finally grown into his long legs, but the effect's the same as it always was: Tommy has a fleeting moment of oh shit, he'll never fit, followed by the knowledge that he can, and has, and will, and then his mouth waters, and his legs fall open, and his face does whatever it is that makes Lawson's eyes dilate while he watches him and strokes himself.

Tommy reaches for the button of his jeans, and suddenly Lawson's there, batting his hands gently away and doing it for him. When they're unzipped, he hooks his long fingers into the waistband of jeans and boxer-briefs both, and drags them down in one clean movement that leaves Tommy shivering. He chucks them heedlessly over his shoulder and gets back on the bed, kneeling between Tommy's thighs. He rubs his hands up the insides, petting the hair the wrong way, and Tommy spreads them farther with a groan.

"You're so hard," Lawson marvels, touch skirting up to the join of hip and thigh, so close to where Tommy wants him, and then back down again.

"You're one to talk."

"Hm." Lawson ducks down and licks the head of his cock.

"Oh – Christ, Lawson – Don't, I'm gonna…"

Lawson sits back up, far too pleased with himself, and shuffles closer, taking Tommy by the hips and dragging him in closer, until Tommy feels the hot brand of his cock against his inner thigh. Just that sends the breath shaking out of Tommy's lungs.

"Lawson," Tommy pants, "I'm not kidding. I can't – I'm not gonna last."

"That's okay, baby." Lawson picks up the lube and squeezes a generous amount into his right hand, rubs his fingers together to warm it. "I can make you come again." Then he presses in slow and relentless with two fingers straight away.

When Lawson starts stroking his cock in a counterpoint rhythm to the thrusting of his fingers, the press of his fingertips over his prostate, Tommy comes and comes hard.

When he's aware of his surroundings again, he finds that Lawson's stretched out on top of him, letting him hold some of his weight, but not crushing him. His fingers are still inside Tommy, flexing gently, working him through the aftershocks, and he's pressing kiss after kiss to Tommy's slack, panting mouth, murmuring between, words that Tommy slowly begins to decipher.

"…beautiful, you're so beautiful, my beautiful baby."

Tommy turns his head, buries his face in Lawson's throat, and drifts off with Lawson's pulse knocking sweetly against his forehead.

~*~

"Legs okay?"

He's lying on his stomach, head toward the foot of the bed, folded arms and chin propped up on a pillow while Lawson works his glutes and hammies with frankincense oil. He's so relaxed he thinks he could melt straight down through the bed, contentedly watching The Office, which has been running the whole time, unheeded, since they first got back in the room. It's the one where Jim, Dwight, and Michael set up a sting for a guest starring Timothy Olyphant, one of Tommy's favorite episodes, and between it, and Lawson's magic, knot-unraveling hands, he almost forgets to answer.

"Good," he says, voice muffled from the pillow. "Little tingly. No pain."

"Yeah? That's good." He digs in with the heels of his hands, drawing a grunt out of Tommy. All the way down to the backs of his knees, and on the way back up, he pushes Tommy's thighs farther apart.

Heat flares deep in Tommy's pelvis. Not the flashfire, frantic neediness of before, but a lower, more pleasurable burn. He's already come once, recovered, and this time, he'll be able to last.

One of Lawson's hands lifts away, and when it returns, it's slicker than it was. It trails purposefully up the inside of his thigh, and then nudges up between his cheeks and presses at his entrance, where he's still loose.

Tommy spreads his legs wider.

"Yeah?" Lawson asks, voice gone throaty.

"Yeah."

Lawson presses in with three fingers and Tommy hisses, sensitive. "You wanna turn over?"

"In a minute. Wanna start like this."

"Shit, yeah, okay."

The mattress dips and shifts under Lawson's weight as he rearranges himself. As he grips Tommy's hips and lifts him up so he can get his knees braced on the mattress. The position immediately sends a pinching dart of pain down Tommy's right hip flexor and leg, but it also stirs something primal and Pavlovian in the back of his head. He's about to get what he wants, finally, and his cock jerks and thickens, and heat pools and pools in the pit of his stomach, a tightness that's anticipated pleasure, and nothing to do with his shoddy nerves.

The fat head of Lawson's cock nudges at him, blunt pressure that feels massive after his fingers, and then it's pressing in, and in, and in.

Tommy moans. "God, yes." He's gone from relaxed and drowsy to rock-hard and needy in the time it takes Lawson to bury himself to the hilt.

"Baby," Lawson murmurs, hands tightening on his hips, spasms Tommy knows will leave bruises. He grinds into him, breath hitching. "Don't – don't let me hurt you. I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't." Tommy braces his elbows and turns his head on the pillow so he can drag in a deep breath. "I know you won't, you never do. Fuck me."

Lawson makes a choked, whimpering noise, draws his hips back, and rolls them forward. Not fast, but hard, dragging against Tommy's insides in all the right places.

Tommy decides – as Lawson's hands tighten, and his thrusts speed up – that he wants, needs for Lawson to fuck him as hard as he wants to, as he used to, when they were stupid kids, and when they were grown men, whole and hale, and Lawson pinned him down in a featherbed in a rented mansion and took what he wanted.

Tommy arches his spine and pushes back each time Lawson drives forward. Until their skin meets with a loud smack. Until the tingling in Tommy's legs becomes numbness, and his knee slips.

Lawson falters.

"No, I'm good, I'm good, let me turn over," Tommy pants. When Lawson pulls out, his planned, sinuous roll turns into more of an inelegant flop. "Shit. You may have to help me – but I'm fine. Just. Come on."

Lawson lifts his hips up and over, and settles his legs on either side of his waist. He's flushed, chest, throat, face, and breathing hard, cock so hard it looks painful, nearly purple. But his touch is gentle up and down Tommy's thighs, kneading at the twitching muscles there. His face crimps, and Tommy's stomach drops unpleasantly. He's going to stop, he thinks. Insist on waiting, or doing something else, or…

Tommy wraps his legs tight around Lawson's waist, and hooks his ankles together at the small of his back. He reaches up to pet Lawson's forearms, feels the tension of restraint there. He's vibrating.

The desperation in Tommy's stomach swells, and then pops like a bubble, that empty, animal want giving way to the sort of tenderness that makes him want to hide his face. How is it possible to long for someone when he's right in front of you, touching you? How can love be so sharp it cuts, but in a good way?

His voice comes out small and shaky when he says, "Honey, I'm okay. Will you come inside me? Please? I want you to fuck me the way you want to."

"What if I want to be sweet to you?"

Tommy's eyes sting. "Okay. Yeah, okay, come here." He blinks hard, and reaches for him.

Lawson pushes back in, slow enough to make Tommy arch and claw at his shoulders, and then curves over him. He cups Tommy's face in one big hand and kisses him as his hips start to move, and all of it is molasses-slow, and sweet, and so good, and Tommy feels worshipped. Sheltered beneath Lawson, as he kisses him, and breathes in short little bursts that sound like he's…

A warm, wet droplet strikes Tommy's cheek, and he realizes, with a surge of distress, that Lawson is crying.

He touches his jaw, and parts their lips. "Hey, hey." He doesn't ask what's wrong, because his own eyes are damp, and nothing's wrong anyway. It's overwhelming: getting to be here together like this, after everything. "It's okay."

Lawson draws in a shuddering breath, and presses his hand flat over the scars on Tommy's stomach. "I love you."

Tommy knows that, but Lawson blinks tears out of eyes gone serious, and imploring, and Tommy wonders if either of them is ever going to get to a place where they stop trying so hard to convey what those three words really mean.

He reaches to tuck a sweat-damp lock of gold hair behind Lawson's ear. "I love you, too."

Lawson's face crumples with emotion, and he leans down to kiss him again, makes love to him, and after, when Tommy can't walk, carries him to the bathroom so they can take a bath together. By the time the water's gone tepid, Tommy can stand on his own, and Lawson smiles like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.