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It’s warm outside. Tommy is sitting on the concrete balcony, soaking up the heat of the rock through his jean shorts, watching the sun go down over the town’s horizon of buildings and loosely cradling a rum and coke in his hand. The desert is dry and warm regardless of season, but autumn is especially late to come this year. Sunkist is staying with his father for the week - something about fixing the dimensional rift caused by the Resonance Cascade. Tommy isn’t happy about it, but considering his dad’s importance to the spacetime continuum and Sunkist’s abilities, he couldn’t exactly say no. She’s a good dog and his father will take good care of her. Tommy sips his drink and chews his straw. The soda (or maybe the alcohol) makes his thoughts wander to the man inside. Gordon had bought a package of those reusable silicone straws, not for the environmental friendliness, but because they had a fun lemon pattern that ‘reminded me of you.’ The gesture was sweet, but Tommy really only used them to see Gordon’s smile. The door creaks open, and Tommy jumps, turning his head sharply. It’s Gordon. Who else could it be? The man gives him a little quirk of his eyebrow and sits down across from him, back pressed up against the balcony’s metal railing.
“It’s hot today.” Gordon offers, drinking from his own cup, which Tommy assumes is probably just a beer poured into a glass. Tommy nods, chewing on the rubber straw, not really looking into his eyes, but focusing more on the image of him haloed by the sun. He’s backlit, so his face is shadowed, but the rays are filtering through his gray-streaked hair and bouncing around like the light can’t be contained. He’s wearing his pajamas, a science shirt, and a pair of boxers, prosthetic off, but Tommy really likes it. He looks very comfortable, very safe. Gordon tilts his head.
“What’s up?” He asks, a little puff of laughter coming from him, and Tommy blinks.
“I just - I just like to look at you sometimes.”
Gordon makes a little sound in his throat and goes quiet. Tommy can’t tell if he’s blushing or not, but it sure seems like it. He sips his drink through his straw, purposefully making an obnoxious slurping sound when he hits the bottom of the ice. Gordon cracks a grin as this goes on for just a few seconds too long to be normal, and Tommy is satisfied, setting the cup down. They don’t talk. There’s something soft about sitting in the last rays of the sun, something sacred.
It’s long after dusk when they go inside together, wordlessly, just one following the other without question. Gordon puts their cups in the sink and scratches his belly absent-mindedly, staring blankly at the kitchen floor. Tommy comes up behind him and makes a quiet noise in his throat to let him know he’s there before putting his chin on his shoulder and his hand on his waist. Gordon only freezes up a little bit this time, and Tommy hums a slight apology before Gordon’s hand comes up to card through his hair. He leans into it. Gordon sighs in a contented way and turns around, and they just stand there for a while. Close. Quiet.
They go to bed the same way, quiet and close, and when Tommy pulls Gordon into his chest again he sinks into it, relaxing all of the muscles in his body one by one. Only after Gordon’s fully asleep does Tommy use the remote to turn off the light, and only after Gordon starts snoring does Tommy convince himself it’s alright for him to sleep now. By now the digital clock they keep next to the bed reads in the three digits. He doesn’t mind. It’s not like he has work tomorrow. He drifts off to sleep.
Tommy wakes up with a gut-wrenching feeling of dread in his stomach like a rat has gnawed its way into his intestines. Someone is in the apartment with them. He knows this. At first, he lies still, every muscle trembling, holding Gordon tighter with every passing second. There is a soft shuffling sound outside the closed door, and Tommy holds his breath, listening intently, very slowly reaching his hand into the underside of his pillowcase. He feels around as quietly as he can and finds what he’s looking for, easily finding it and sliding out of bed. He takes the sheath off and creeps towards the door, hunched over and walking on the balls of his feet, barely making any noise. There’s the sound of fabric rustling. Tommy inches the door knob open, painfully slow, white-knuckling his grip on the tactical knife, the one he’s kept under his pillow for weeks now. He opens the door, gliding over the carpet like a ghost, and closes it again. There’s a faint glow in the room, but he doesn’t know what from. He doesn’t see anyone. They could be hiding anywhere. Tommy steels himself and stands a little taller, brandishing the knife in front of him.
“I know you’re here.” He growls. There’s an edge to the words. No response. He stalks forwards down the short hallway, holding up his guard arm and knife together, and creeps around the corner to face the balcony door. The window is open, curtains fluttering with the breeze. Someone is here, someone broke in, someone is trying to kill them.
A door opens behind Tommy. He whips around, knife flashing in the moonlight that pours in through the open window, teeth bared.
It’s Gordon. His eyes are wide and he’s braced like he’s expecting to be hit. Tommy begins to panic. Is he hurt? Did someone sneak past him into their room?
“Honey, why do you have a knife? What’s going on?” He whispers, voice strained, and Tommy just stares at him for a moment, seeing his reflection in Gordon’s big dark eyes. His eyes are doing that reflective thing again. He points to the open window.
“I think someone broke in.” He rasps, lowering the knife. Gordon shuffles over to the window and stares at it for a good three seconds before putting his hand on the screen.
“Tommy, it’s not broken. I just left it open.” He says, looking up at Tommy, who stares at the window, dumbfounded. He relaxes a little and struggles to speak. He wants to melt into the floor. Gordon walks over to him and pries the knife from his hand, looking at it in the dull moonlight.
“Is this military grade?” He mumbles.
“Yeah,” Tommy answers dryly, “it’s a souvenir.”
…
Tommy is cooking dinner tonight. He’s making Bulalo from scratch - saved the bones from two nights ago and is using them to make the stock. He remembers, in a distant corner of his mind, sitting around in a circle with his first foster family in the Philippines, drinking the rich soup with them. After his father adopted him, he bounced around a lot in different countries. Mr. Coolatta tells him he wanted Tommy to have a varied life, but the young scientist always comes back to the fond memories of going to bed in the dark with the windows open and the jungle’s cries lulling him to sleep.
He likes to cook, and he’s good at it. He keeps a book of recipes he’s picked up throughout his life; foods from Thailand, Mexico, Russia, and just about any country you can think of. Tommy always did savor a good soup though, especially on a night like this. It’s raining very hard, unusually so for New Mexico, and the rain pelts their windows with a vengeance. In the desert, when it rains, it pours. Tommy would be worried about a flood if not for them living on the fifth floor of an apartment complex.
Gordon had been chopping green onions for him, but found it a little difficult with his left hand, so Tommy gave him stirring duty. He’s idly swirling the pot, watching him slice the onions into thin slivers with a kind of speed and accuracy that takes a while to master. When he’s done, Tommy turns his head to Gordon and the man is wearing a fond little smile, just a subtle curve of the lips that fills the room with warmth. He uses the blunt side of the knife to slide the chives into the pot, shuffling closer to give Gordon a little peck on the cheek. He laughs and leans his head into Tommy’s arm, too short to reach his shoulder, and Tommy kisses the top of his head.
“You’re a good cook, dude.” Gordon says, leaning away to look at the Bulalo again. “Is it done?”
“Basically, yeah.” Tommy answers, turning around to fetch some bowls for them, and he realizes how much louder the storm has gotten. God, it’s really trying to tear down the house. There’s an errant flash of lightning that glows through the slatted window blinds as Tommy grabs the serving ladle from the drawer next to the dishwasher. Gordon leans on the counter next to the soup and reaches out his hand to take a bowl from his partner when the entire room goes dark. There’s no warning clap of thunder. The lights are just gone.
The sound of ceramic shattering on the floor pierces the pounding rain. Tommy hears a strangled gasp come from in front of him, and his eyes are instantly lit up yellow, very softly outlining his face and letting him see that Gordon has dropped the bowl to grab his own arm in a panic. There is nothing in his eyes but pure terror. He scrabbles down to the floor, wedging himself in the corner between the stove and the cabinets. Tommy sinks with him, ending up on his knees, ignoring the shards of broken ceramic stabbing him, hands outstretched in the least threatening way possible. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Gordon - are you, having a flashback? Or a panic attack?” Gordon doesn’t respond to that, eyes squinted shut in a pained expression. He’s pulling at his hair violently, and Tommy wrings his hands together. The thunder is so loud.
“Can I, can I touch you?” He manages to sob out a choked ‘no’ before dissolving into sobs once again. Tommy stands up, as slow as possible, but Gordon still flinches.
“I’m going to go get the weighted blanket. Can you nod yes or no?” He asks softly. There’s a near imperceptible nod of his head, curls bouncing just slightly, and Tommy rushes to the bedroom, tearing the heavy blanket off the bed. He comes back and drapes it over Gordon’s legs, making an effort not to cover his head. The man instantly curls his fingers into it, taking them away from his skin, to which Tommy takes a small moment of victory to breathe. His eyes are still tightly shut. Tommy realizes it’s still dark. He fumbles for his phone and opens the flashlight app, putting it on the floor facing up. Gordon’s eyes open just a sliver at the stimulus.
“I’ll get candles.” He says, seeing the small improvement, and goes to the bathroom closet to grab a handful of candles. He doesn’t know where the lighter is but he doesn’t have time for it anyways. He returns to the kitchen floor and spreads them out in front of Gordon, concentrating on the speed of the molecules for just a brief moment before their wicks light all at once. They give off a lovely warm glow that Tommy would find soothing if not for the situation on hand. Gordon realizes the light washing over him and relaxes just a bit more, now curled into a loose and trembling ball. Tommy uses his hands to sweep the broken bowl into a heap, earning a few nicks along the way, but he’s too numb to care at the moment.
“Is there a-anything else I can do?” He asks, sitting on his knees and leaning backwards, not daring to move closer and risk making it worse. Gordon’s breathing has calmed down somewhat, but it’s still shaky and hiccuping. After a long moment full of unsteady breathing, he raises his left hand and makes a wobbly impression of the sign for water, so Tommy gets him a glass from the sink. The crying ball on the floor grabs the glass with hands outstretched and almost spills it when he fumbles with his prosthetic hand, but Tommy darts forward to right it. Gordon does a full body flinch at this like he’s preparing for a slug to the stomach, and Tommy curses his reflexes. He mumbles a sorry, but as Gordon’s chugging the water, he shakes his head and gives him a forgiving pat on the hand.
“Are you, uh, nonverbal?” Tommy asks. Gordon shrugs indifferently and sips the last of his water. It’s a new development in his symptoms; only recently have the flashbacks been able to silence the chatterbox that is Gordon Freeman. Neither of them have a problem with it, considering Tommy’s fluency in sign language and willingness to teach Gordon the basics. Looking at him now, the swollen bags under his eyes have only gotten more purple with the yellow candlelight illuminating his face from below. He’s sweating pretty badly, too. Tommy represses the urge to reach a hand forward and card through his sticky hair - not now, not now. There’s a ball of red-hot anxiety swarming in his stomach that he just now notices, and he winces at the feeling of his gut turning inside out. Gordon points at the candles and fingerspells, quite slowly, ‘fire hazard.’ Tommy gives him a tired laugh and shows him the sign for that. He repeats it with his hand in the wrong place for the second half but Tommy just nods, in too much pain to correct him. The storm rages.
It seems Gordon notices this, because he shuffles forwards to put a hand on Tommy’s knee. He gives him a concerned look, no signing needed, and he swallows, putting his other hand over Gordon’s bigger one. He has very stocky hands, worker’s hands. He thinks they look like someone has sculpted them from clay. Tommy himself has delicate, slender hands, but they’re soft, and Gordon loves to hold them.
All at once, the power comes back on. The microwave and stove beep at the same time, giving Gordon a good jump, but he looks up at the lit ceiling with relief. Tommy bends over to blow out the candles and picks them all up wordlessly, shuffling back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and stocking the closet before sitting on the floor. He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees patterns. He’s done this for such a long time he can’t remember when the habit started, but he knows it’s the only thing that calms him down anymore. Tommy fights the urge to let out a groan of pain as his gut twists again and tucks his knees against his stomach to ease the ache. His body has this horrible physical reaction to stress nowadays. It wasn’t Gordon’s fault. There’s no way he’s blaming a stomach ache on his boyfriend’s PTSD. But the situation wasn’t exactly the most calming.
There’s a knock on the door. Tommy stands up immediately and plasters on a smile, opening it to see Gordon with the blanket around his shoulders looking at him with those big brown eyes. Tommy blinks, unsure of what to say, until Gordon reaches up with his hand and puts it on the side of the taller man’s face, warm and a little clammy but not unpleasant. He just looks very tired and sad. Tommy leans into the touch before tearing away and clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Um. Do you want soup?”
...
When Gordon sleeps soundly, he snores. Not as loud as one might expect, but certainly not a quiet sort of rumble. As bad as this is for Tommy’s own light sleeping pattern, it doesn’t happen often, because Gordon rarely sleeps without any disturbances from his own mind. This creates a sort of paradox; Tommy wants Gordon to sleep well, but dreads the snoring when he does. Tonight, Tommy has been freed of that uneasy balance by the dark wing of his own rest. He’s always been a man that remembers his dreams. In the past, they’ve been pleasant, if incoherent, but since the Resonance Cascade, Tommy’s been experiencing nothing when he sleeps. Pure nothing. The void. When he wakes up, all he knows is that whatever he just escaped from was cold and big and he’s glad he’s here now. He can’t explain the feeling to Gordon past vague hand flapping and a nasty face.
Right now is a place, a plane, and a time that Tommy won’t remember when he joins the waking world. He’s walking through the halls of Black Mesa. This is enough to make him twitch and shake in the physical world, but in his head, he’s steadily walking down a long stretch of concrete and steel. He doesn’t have a gun. He doesn’t have anything. He sees himself in his pristine lab coat, but he looks scared, and he feels worse. The lights above him are hanging down off the ceiling, sparking and fizzing and broken. To him, this is the feeling of missing a step on the stairs, this is the feeling of jerking awake to a scream. Tommy starts running. He’s so painfully aware that something behind him has begun to chase him, and whether or not that’s logical in this long linear sightline is irrelevant because he’s being pursued and he has to keep his feet straight and he can’t afford to trip over anything because he’s going to die here, alone and defenseless.
He takes a heavy slam to his side. He sees his body ragdoll to the wall and crumple.
He’s dead in seconds.
Tommy wakes up. He can’t take a moment to process the feeling of cold dread that replaces the dream’s memory before Gordon’s gasping reaches him and he sits up straight, immediately checking on him despite his own delirium. He’s sweating through his shirt and looks thoroughly miserable, but still asleep, thrashing around in the bed. Tommy peels the blankets back from him and kneels, shaking him by the shoulders, not thinking about the contact sensitivity until Gordon shouts himself awake in fear. He’s terrified for a few seconds until his eyes take in the dim yellow light from Tommy’s eyes and he realizes where he is, who he’s with. Tommy just pats him on the shoulder groggily. He sits up and now they’re both sitting there, sweaty and hazy and afraid. Gordon pulls his shirt off over his head in disgust and uses it to wipe his sweat away, throwing it across the room with lackluster.
“Sorry.” He says simply, collapsing back into bed, spreading starfish. Tommy sighs deeply, wiping at his face and trying to stomach the looming cold dread caught in his throat. Gordon tugs at the back of his shirt like he wants him to lie down.
“Go back t’ sleep. It’s fine. I’ll keep watch.” Tommy mutters wearily without a second thought, staying upright to watch the door. Gordon blinks. They’re going to have to unpack that at some point. But Gordon’s eyelids are heavy and when he closes them, they don’t open back up.
I’ll keep you safe, Tommy promises. I’ll protect you.
...
The morning rolls around eventually. Tommy watches the sun rise with disinterested eyes that droop and betray his current state; exhausted, paranoid, and cold. He figures now that the room is lit he can lie down, just to keep Gordon company. Tommy pulls the comforter to him with difficulty, the weighted blanket long since kicked to the floor, and curls into Gordon’s side. The man is a furnace. All Tommy really needs is an arm around him to warm back up, but Gordon’s snoring, and he doesn’t want to disturb that, so he settles for leaning into his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly, one eye after the other, but it seems just as he’s getting to sleep he’s jerked awake by his anxiety telling him to check the door. After an hour, Tommy drifts into another dreadful dream that he will neither remember nor enjoy.
When he wakes up, it’s to the smell of eggs and rice. Gordon must be cooking breakfast. Tommy rises slowly, wriggling around in the blankets, struggling to find the resolve to get up. One foot in front of the other, he leaves bed, finding one of Gordon’s sweatshirts on the ground and pulling it over his head. It’s a ratty old thing with holes lining the collar and hem, but it’s so soft, colored a very nice shade of russet orange, with the tag long cut out. Tommy loves it. He pads into the kitchen quietly to see Gordon frying eggs, hair tied up high with a scrunchie, humming sweetly to himself. He blushes before sitting at the kitchen table, unsure of what to say at the moment. Gordon hears him and turns his head to give him a gentle close-lipped smile. It’s been months since they moved in together, but whenever he gives him that face, Tommy can’t stop the warmth that fills his chest.
“One or two eggs?” Gordon asks. Tommy gives a long pause, thinking over his answer.
“One, please.”
...
The days trudge on. Tommy misses Sunkist more with every hour. He knows better than to ask his dad about it, though. Gordon’s been trying to keep him occupied - offering to go on runs with him or go out driving, but he’s just fidgety with no real motivation to expend the energy. Logically, Tommy knows that pent up physical energy leads to destructive tendencies, but he’s just so damn fixated on the little things that he can’t focus on the long term effects of his actions. He’s busy trying to rationalize every look he gets in the grocery store, making sure the blinds are facing the right way, picking the skin off his cuticles. Between it all, he’s worrying about Gordon, too.
Is it your arm again? It’s fine, I took some painkillers. Is there a - anything I can do? No, it’s okay. Are you sure? I could get you something to eat, or a drink or - or something. I’m okay, honey. Just come sit down with me. Give me a second. I just want to check the door. Again? I ordered something.
He did not order anything. He is checking the deadbolt.
Tommy is a man of science. He’s a doctor, studied for years, animated a perfect construct immune to death and injury. He has always been firmly planted in logic. That’s changed recently. He doesn’t know why. He just knows that he needs to make sure the curtains are drawn. He needs to make sure nobody’s in the corners of the bedroom. He needs to make sure nobody followed them home. It doesn’t register as illogical at this point - it’s just safety. He’s keeping Gordon safe. Actions aren’t illogical if there is a perceived threat, and Tommy’s gut reads his surroundings as a threat much more often than he would like to admit. They’re not safe in their home. How could they be? Tommy doesn’t trust these thin apartment walls to protect Gordon; the only thing that can protect him is Tommy.
None of this is to say that Gordon is helpless. He’s perfectly competent in combat. But something in Tommy’s head just itches at him constantly, chips away at his rationality and assurance, drains him lifeless. It’s not a question of whether or not they’re strong enough to fight; it’s a question of what’s waiting to strike.
...
They eat dinner across from each other in a slightly strained silence, Gordon’s spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl while Tommy slowly picks his way through the meal. He’s always been a slow eater, but this is an exceptional effort to dodge the oppressive atmosphere of the table. Gordon inhales and Tommy feels it before he hears it.
“Honey, do you remember what you said a few nights ago?” He asks, soft but cautious in tone. Tommy winces and puts his spoon down and looks to the side. He wrings his hands before answering.
“No.” He lies. He’s not trying to be difficult, but he can’t help feeling like he’s done something wrong. Gordon swallows before telling him.
“You said you’d keep watch while I fell asleep.” He says. Tommy fakes a sound that he hopes comes across as… well, whatever Gordon wants it to be. Gordon shouldn’t be worried about him.
“Tommy, do you always keep watch?” Gordon presses. This catches Tommy off guard.
“What?”
“Do you always stay up? To watch the door?” He repeats. Tommy stutters, biting the inside of his cheek.
“I - I guess, but it’s more of a, uh, a habit, not… um.” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. He’s not sure what he was going to say, which doesn’t happen often, and Gordon knows this. He reaches across the table to put a hand on Tommy’s face.
“Tommy, are you okay?” It’s a very simple question with a very simple response, but Tommy honestly doesn’t know the right answer. He just frowns into Gordon’s hand and holds his breath. His strong thumb brushes slowly over his cheek, and Tommy pulls away, holding his face in his hands and once again pressing his palms to his eyelids. He wraps his ankles painfully around the legs of the chair like he’s trying to remind himself he’s here.
“You’ve got some trauma. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He hears Gordon say, and he really hates the feeling of his throat tightening up on itself, hates the trembling of his hands. He shakes his head. He misses Sunkist. There’s the sound of a chair scraping the tile floor and he feels Gordon’s hand on his shoulder.
“Can I pick you up, honey?” Tommy nods with his face still in his hands and Gordon lifts him effortlessly, bridal style carrying him to the couch and sitting him down in his lap. Heat rises to his face despite the situation. He can’t see Gordon’s face for his hands on his eyes, but he imagines his sad eyes and stubble and soft cheeks and chokes out a little half-formed sob. Gordon makes his own sound of distress and tries to gently take his hands away from his face. Tommy shakes his head.
“No, ’m stimming.” he mumbles, tasting some of his own tears, and Gordon shifts again, looping his arms around Tommy’s torso instead. He rocks him slightly, and though Tommy hates being babied, he knows it’s not the intention - Gordon’s probably unconsciously calming himself down.
“You - you don’t need to be so worried about me, Gordon. I’m, uh, I’m okay, I think?” He doesn’t know anymore, but he’s sinking into this hole of shame that’s growing and growing. It’s so stupid. Gordon’s the one who got his hand cut off. Tommy shouldn’t be this fucked up.
“You’re not okay,” Gordon insists, resting his hand on the back of Tommy’s skull, scratching at his hair lightly. It feels nice and he lets out a breath, calming down a bit. He takes his hands away from his face. Gordon’s looking up at him with so much love and warmth and concern in his eyes that Tommy chokes up a bit, fresh tears brimming over his cheeks, and Gordon wipes them away for him. So gentle, so caring. Tommy feels the pit of shame in his stomach grow darker.
“Please talk to me. Please, Tommy, I -”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m just stressed, I promise.” He interrupts, picking at his cuticles. Gordon’s brow creases and Tommy would kiss it away if he didn’t look so upset.
“No, you’re not fine. Stop saying that. You’re so paranoid lately, Tommy. I see you when I wake up at night, do you - do you even sleep? You -”
Tommy interrupts again without thinking, just letting the words spill out of him.
“I’m just protecting you, Gordon! I - I’m making sure we’re safe! It feels like something is there and I can’t ignore that! Do you want me to ignore that?” He barks, not exactly angry, but loud in a way like carbonation bursting out of a shaken can. Gordon blinks and opens his mouth, wordless. Tommy wants to melt into the floor and never come back. This is so stupid. He should be fine. It wasn’t that bad.
“We’re safe now, Tommy. We’re not in Black Mesa anymore. We’re safe.” He murmurs. Tommy takes a long time to string his thoughts together.
“When you got your hand cut off… When we were alone together, and you couldn’t do anything, and you were bleeding out, I. I think about it a lot, Gordon.” He rasps, closing his eyes and trying hard not to replay it on the backs of his eyelids. There’s a pause. Tommy knows Gordon is trying to process his words, so careful, so unlike him. He looks uncomfortable in a way that makes Tommy feel guilty.
“I think about it, too.” It’s all he says. He sighs jaggedly and rests his forehead against Tommy’s shoulder, curly hairs brushing against his chin. He feels his face scrunch up against the fabric, pushing into him. Tommy takes out his ponytail and cards through his hair idly, more to ground himself than anything else, but he knows Gordon likes it, too.
“Honey, I think we need therapy.” He mutters into his sweater. Tommy blinks.
“Do we?” He asks, pulling away. Gordon breathes out a mirthless laugh and looks up at him.
“Yeah. I thought it was obvious.” He says, tilting his head to the side a little bit. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek. He just never considered it. Now, with this whole talk actually happening, he doesn’t know how he could’ve denied it. Gordon has flashbacks and night terrors all the time. And despite the way Tommy knows he’s not safe, he also knows that he’s never felt like this before. He knows he feels different in a bad way.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
…
Tommy is making eggs for breakfast. The rice is almost done cooking, and Gordon’s shuffling around in their room, getting dressed. He lowers the heat on the burner and puts the lid over the pan. Gordon comes out of the bedroom, shirt on backwards and holding his prosthetic. Tommy watches him slide and pin it onto his arm while he shuffles into the kitchen towards him. He gives him a good morning kiss and Tommy hums happily, turning the rice burner off.
“Breakfast is ready.” He says. Gordon gets bowls and spoons. They eat, quiet and soothed in the warmth of company. Gordon still rushes through it, pulling on a jacket and shoes as soon as he puts his bowl in the sink.
“Hah, I’m gonna be late to therapy.” He laughs, grabbing his keys, and turns to see Tommy with a tight-lipped smile near the door. He pauses.
“Tommy, I’m gonna be okay. You don’t need to worry about me.” He says, gentle but firm. Tommy comes over to kiss him, and Gordon complies, wrapping an arm around his waist. They both taste like eggs. Gordon rests his forehead in the crook between Tommy’s neck and shoulder, taking a deep breath for comfort’s sake.
“You gonna be okay?” Gordon asks into his shoulder. Tommy nods quickly and draws back, hand still framing his face. His thumb brushes over Gordon’s stubble and he smiles lightly, leaning into the touch, content.
Gordon leaves for therapy. Tommy doesn’t worry about him while he’s out. And slowly but surely, everything is healing over.