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Tom rubs his face and sighs. Christ. And he's usually so conscientious and punctual about his paperwork. But with everything that's been going on, all these trips and exhaustive business and family strategies, he just hasn't found the time or energy to actually do his big new job. There's a huge stack of paperwork on his right – the things he’s already looked through and signed – and an even bigger, more monumental stack on his left – the things he’s yet to even look at. He checks the time on his computer. 11:58 pm, October 30th. This is going to be a long night.
Just as he goes to take another file from his left stack, the door of his office opens without a knock and in comes Greg, steps heavy, and dumps a few more on top.
“Sorry, I forgot about these earlier,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too apologetic. “Anyway, I think that’s all of them now.”
“Thanks,” Tom says distractedly, cursing every decision he’s made that got him to this point.
When Greg makes no move to leave and instead just seems to hover over his desk in silence, he looks up with raised eyebrows. “What? You can go home now,” he says, mildly irritated. “Unless you want to learn how to forge my signature so you can stay here all night instead. And then steal all the money from my bank account and go live in the Bahamas,” he adds as a joke, but it comes out flat. God, he wants to go home.
“No, no,” Greg shakes his head and laughs, but he doesn’t sound like he finds it funny either. He looks as tired as Tom feels. “Do you, uh, do you really have to do these now? Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“No,” Tom sighs and leans back into his chair. “Unfortunately not. Or it could, but then I’d never hear the end of it from Cyd. She’s just waiting for me to fuck up. No, this needs to be done by morning.”
“Oh,” Greg says. “Yeah, that’s… Good luck, man.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Tom says, swallowing his resentment. He can’t actually, much as he’d like to, make Greg stay here all night too. “Well, bye, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. If I don’t die of exhaustion, hah.”
“Yeah, hope not,” Greg laughs slightly. “Well, goodnight.”
Tom gives him a final goodbye nod and takes the topmost file from his left stack in defeat. He hears Greg shuffle through the room and fumble with the door, because of course he can’t get it right on the first try, that’s just typical Greg. He ignores it, but then it goes on for longer than expected, and Greg starts swearing under his breath and pulling on the door so hard Tom starts fearing it’ll fall off the frame.
“What are you doing?” he asks, disbelieving.
“This door, man, I swear – has someone been here? Like a cleaning lady?” he asks, and then yells nervously: “Hello! We’re locked in!”
“No, they all went home hours ago,” Tom says, irritated. “It’s just a door, Greg, for fuck’s sake.”
He gets up and pushes Greg out of the way impatiently, grabbing the handle. He pulls, but it doesn’t budge. He pushes, although he knows it’s a pull door, but it stays in place. He pulls again. Nothing.
“What the fuck,” he mutters.
“I told you, I think someone locked us in,” Greg says. “Like, a cleaning lady must’ve stayed late and didn’t know we –”
“Did you hear a lock turning?” Tom asks sarcastically and pulls on the door again, hard. “And besides, the light is on, they’d know I was here. It just got stuck, the stupid fucking – they gave me a shitty office, that’s what it is. I bet Cyd’s door doesn’t get stuck.”
“Do you have like, a spare key?” Greg asks. “This seems locked to me.”
Tom rolls his eyes but goes to get his key from the drawer anyway. There’s always a chance he was too busy commiserating to notice someone locking the door. Although they really should check the rooms before – he’s going to have to have a stern talk to whoever was in charge of their floor tomorrow morning. One of them came in, even, hours ago when the official workday was over, but he told her to leave because he was going to be staying late. Really, the incompetence of –
He puts the key in the lock, but it doesn’t turn. He frowns. He turns it the other way, and it clicks, but when he pulls the door stays closed. He turns it the first way and it clicks again, but still the door doesn’t move.
“What the fuck,” he says again.
“Can I try?” Greg asks, slightly panicked, and it ticks Tom off even more.
“It’s a fucking door, Greg, it’s not rocket science,” he says. “I think I know how to work a fucking door. It won’t let me turn the key.”
“Yeah, but can I just – like, maybe –” Greg starts again, and Tom lets out an annoyed huff and stands back.
“Sure, be my fucking guest,” he motions towards the lock with his hand, and watches Greg go through the same ordeal with no luck. “There.”
“This is weird,” Greg frowns.
“It’s fucking stuck, is what it is,” Tom says again, and kicks the leg of his chair. “Fine, whatever,” he breathes out. “I was probably going to be here all night anyway.”
He tries not to think of what will surely be a very condescending, very amused look Cyd will be giving him tomorrow morning when someone finally comes to his rescue. Fuck.
“But I need to get home,” Greg says desperately and tries the door again. “I’m like, super tired and I have a, uh, somewhat of a fear of confined spaces?”
“Fear of – it’s a big office, Greg,” Tom scoffs, going back to sit behind his desk. “It’s not the end of the world. You can sleep on the couch.”
“But what if we have to pee?” he asks, and that did not occur to Tom. He tries not to let it show. “We could be here all night.”
“If you go to sleep, you won’t need to pee,” Tom reasons and starts reading the viewership report. Maybe if he keeps signing things, he won’t need to either.
Greg doesn’t say anything, but Tom hears him walk over to the couch and take off his shoes. There’s some shuffling, and when he looks up, he sees Greg’s legs sticking over the end of the couch. He resists the urge to snort. He has to get back to work.
He tries to concentrate, but between Greg’s constant shuffling and the weird way in which the office keeps getting colder, he’s not at the height of productivity. Greg’s legs have also disappeared from his line of vision, so he must’ve curled in on himself.
“Don’t they heat overnight?” Tom asks. “What system are we even using? The temperature dropped like twenty degrees in five minutes.”
“I don’t know,” Greg’s voice from the couch says. “I’ve never stayed this late. Hey, do have like, some kind of cover? Like a blanket or a jacket or any kind of, uh, cloth?”
“I don’t keep a blanket in the office, Greg,” Tom makes a face. “And my coat is downstairs.”
“Right,” he hears a somewhat muffled response.
Another silence outstretches, but in truth, Tom wishes he had his coat here too, because trying to focus is getting harder by the minute. He’s in the middle of wondering if it would be completely embarrassing to do a little jogging in place just to get the blood flowing when he hears a quiet buzzing sound, and instinctively checks his phone on the desk. No one is calling him though.
“Greg,” he says. “I think your phone is going off.”
“Huh?” comes Greg’s reply followed by some shuffling. “No, not me. It’s not yours?”
“No,” Tom frowns. The buzzing doesn’t stop, in fact it gets louder, and Greg’s head appears from the edge of the couch. “You think someone else is here? Like, maybe in the office next door? I mean, I think I didn’t see anyone before, but, you know, maybe?”
Before Tom has a chance to reply, Greg sits upright and yells, “Hello?! In here! Our door is stuck! Hello?!”
Tom can’t help but feel a tinge of embarrassment at the prospect of someone actually coming to find him stuck in his office, with his assistant, in the middle of the night, yelling for help, but he swallows his pride because the idea of being able to actually go to the bathroom if need be is objectively worth it. And at least this way it’s just one sad fuck working late, and not the entire office in the morning.
“Yes, hello!” he joins in. “Tom Wambsgans’ office! Head of ATN! We’re having some – some difficulty with the door!”
“Help!” Greg yells again and Tom motions for him to shut up, partly to be able to hear if someone calls back, and part because there’s really no need to make this any more embarrassing than it already is.
They both stand still, listening, but nothing comes. The buzzing continues, and Tom strains to hear, but there’s no answer, no movement coming from outside.
“Fuck. Who forgets their phone in their office?” he asks Greg angrily. “Seriously, whose office is that? It’s the twenty first fucking century, you don’t forget your fucking phone.”
“Yeah, I don’t – I don’t know,” Greg answers. “Do we know it’s a phone? The buzzing is like, constant, and I don’t know if it’s only like, a default setting, but my phone buzzes in these intervals? And it’s still going, so I don’t –”
“What else would it be?” Tom huffs, and is grateful when Greg doesn’t try to answer the rhetorical. He ignores the buzzing – it’s going to have to stop sometime – and goes back to his papers, willing himself to stop thinking about what he’ll do if he actually starts needing to pee.
CRASH.
“Fuck!”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Greg yelps and springs to his feet. “What the fuck! What the fuck was that?”
“Jesus,” Tom breathes and puts a hand on his chest to calm himself down. “God, I don’t – calm down! Something just fell down, probably.”
“I don’t want to be an alarmist, but I’ve seen like, way too many horror movies this month to be like, completely at ease right now? Because the buzzing stopped, and that did not sound like a phone falling down and shattering, so I’m just,” he rakes a hand through his hair, “Well, I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but I did not plan for my Halloween to turn into an actual horror movie!”
“Would you calm down?” Tom says and gets up as well. He ignores the way his legs feel wobbly, and the way that Greg’s wide eyes glancing around the room are making him nervous too. “Stop being a little girl! A phone rings, something falls down – it’s not a horror movie, Greg!”
“Yeah, no, I know,” Greg says quickly, but the way he’s just absolutely emitting paranoia disagrees. “I’m just saying that it kind of feels like it, a bit, and – okay, can I be honest with you?”
“Wh – yes?”
“I did get like, a little bit high earlier, and I never get paranoid or anything, but I know sometimes it has that kind of an effect on people, so –”
“You got high? At work?” Tom can’t believe this. “Greg!”
“Just a little bit!” Greg puts his hands up. “’Cause you said we were gonna have to stay late, and I’ve been kind of stressed out recently, so I just thought, you know, to ease me through?”
“You can’t smoke weed on the job!” Tom pushes. “This is ATN, Greg, not some hippie jerkoff startup! I could fire you for this!”
“Yeah, but like, would you? ‘Cause Kendall would just, uh, re-hire me somewhere else, and then I wouldn’t be at ATN anymore, and we’d still like, see each other everywhere, so, you know, that’d be kind of awkward?”
“Are you trying to manipulate me?” Tom laughs, taken aback. Greg starts to protest, but Tom interrupts. “You know, you’re really playing this nepotism card to death, and the way you’ve been sucking up to Kendall of all –”
He’s interrupted by another loud crash, this time followed by a horrifying screeching sound, and he instinctively jumps towards Greg, clawing at his arms.
“Okay, I don’t think this is really the time for this,” Greg starts, panic seeping through his voice, “because I’m starting to get like, really freaked out here.”
“Fuck,” Tom swears and lets go of Greg. “It’s – it’s nothing. God. Fuck,” he laughs again. “Like a pair of preteen campers, hah-ah.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Greg says distantly, eyes wilding around. “Okay, I’m just gonna,” he bends down and starts pushing the couch closer to Tom’s desk, “I’m just gonna move this here, because I am freaking out a bit, and I think being closer to another, uh, person would make me feel a little better, so I’ll just,” he trails off as Tom watches in disbelief.
“Are you rearranging my office?” he asks dumbly. “Stop that! Put it back!”
“Look, I know it’s probably nothing, but all things considered, I’ll be a bit more relaxed if I was like, just a little closer – oh, shit!”
There’s a sudden, very distinct sound of someone – or something – scratching at Tom’s office door, and it makes his blood run cold and grab ahold of Greg’s arm again, squeezing.
“That is not normal,” Greg sounds terrified and Tom vaguely feels him squeezing his elbow. “Like, that does not happen in a normal fucking office, Tom.”
Tom’s brain feels like it’s working overtime to try and find a rational explanation for this, but it comes up blank because, well, how do you explain something persistently scratching at your door on a very high floor of a huge building in Manhattan in the middle of the night?
“Fuck off!” he yells at whatever it is that’s behind the noise, and his voice sounds wobbly and terrified. “Shoo!”
Greg’s free arm reaches towards Tom’s desk, knocking things over and sending one of the file towers scattering on the floor before it grabs onto a stapler. He throws it at the door, and it bounces off it with a thunk. The scratching stops.
“What the fuck,” Greg whispers. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”
Tom feels frozen. He doesn’t think he can actually, physically move right now, and his heart is hammering in his chest. What the fuck was that.
“Dude, I –” Greg starts, because apparently his way of dealing with maybe paranormal fucking – what, phenomena? – is to just say whatever scattered, incomplete thoughts his brain produces out loud. “Like, weapons? Do you have weapons?”
Tom’s brain is lagging behind him, and he’s barely processing what Greg is saying. “What the fuck,” he says. “Do we call someone? The police? Animal control? I mean, what the fuck was that?!” he hears himself say next, hysteria growing with every word.
He snaps himself out of his stupor but doesn’t let go of Greg, his grip only loosening marginally as he frantically checks his pockets with his other hand. He can’t find his phone, in the middle of all this and he can’t find his fucking phone, and his breaths start coming out shallow before he remembers, right, desk, his phone is on his desk, so he rips himself away from Greg and starts looking through the mess. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t bother keeping track of what’s what as he pushes things away and sends them cascading on the floor.
“I don’t have any signal,” he hears Greg say just when he finally spots his own phone and grabs it. He fumbles for a moment, but when the screen lights up, he’s horrified to see he has no signal either.
He starts laughing hysterically, because of course, of fucking course there’s no signal.
“I’m having a nightmare,” he says, still laughing. “This isn’t happening, this is – what kind of fucking shitty B production horror movie bullshit – no signal!”
He lifts his phone up for Greg to see, wide eyes staring back at him in horror, and he throws it at the wall. “Fuck!”
He rakes both hands through his hair, feeling like he’s lost it, absolutely fucking lost it, and laughs again. “We’re going to die!”
“Okay, no, we have to – we have to think rationally,” Greg is saying, but Tom barely hears him.
“Rationally?!” he asks. “What rational explanation do you have for this?! Jesus fucking Christ!”
He pinches himself, hard, in some desperate plea to the universe that this is just a fucked up, ultrarealistic nightmare he’s in, and when nothing happens, he does it again.
“We just – it went away! When I threw the thing, it went away!” Greg reasons, but he sounds out of his mind too. They’re definitely going to fucking die. “So if it comes back, we just – we throw something else! What, what do you have here?”
He comes around to Tom’s desk too, digging through piles of paper, scattered pens and file clips, putting anything with weight in a separate pile on the floor.
“And make it angry?!” Tom asks. “Make it fucking claw through the door and maul us alive?!”
“Do you have a better idea?!” Greg stands upright, meeting Tom’s eyes with an equally crazed, absolutely scared shitless look on his face.
Tom feels off the rails enough to, for a split second, consider just grabbing Greg and kissing him because fuck, they’re going to die anyway, and if there will be no consequences, then he might as well just do that and not think about the implications, because they won’t matter anyway. He doesn’t, he’s not that hysterical, and there is a chance, maybe, rationally speaking, that they do survive whatever fucked up alternate reality they’ve stepped into tonight. He clenches his jaw, grabs ahold of himself, and drops to his knees to look through his drawers. This is not the fucking time to bring his weird, fucked up attraction to Greg Hirsch, tall fucking idiot, his wife’s male cousin, into this already meltdown of a situation.
They pile all the throwable things on the side of the room opposite to the door, and move the couch in front, so its back is to the door as well and they can hide behind it if anything starts clawing through. Then they push Tom’s desk in front of the door, and it doesn’t look like it would do much to hold anything back, should it decide to come in, but it does make Tom feel just a little safer. Finally, they settle on the floor behind the couch, all the weighty things off Tom’s desk at arm’s reach. His hands are still shaking.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” Greg breathes. “Do you think that’s part of it?”
“Part of what?” Tom asks, and now that some of the adrenaline’s worn off, he starts to feel the cold again too.
“This whole thing,” Greg says, motioning with his hand. “I don’t wanna say paranormal ‘cause I like, don’t believe in that stuff, but I don’t really know what else to call it.”
“Maybe?” Tom says. “I don’t know. Probably the, ah, the heating system.”
“Yeah,” Greg agrees. “Probably. I mean, it’s not like it matters, anyway.”
Tom hums in response, and after a beat, he laughs. “Fuck, man. I’m never staying late again.”
“Yeah,” Greg laughs along. “Like, if nothing comes in to murder us and we actually like, survive, I’m clocking out at four pm on the dot from tomorrow on.”
Tom nods, wholeheartedly agreeing. Jesus, what a fucked up night. So much for catching up on paperwork. Cyd will have his balls, but he guesses that’s better than actually dying, in the end. Something occurs to him, then, and he licks his lips.
“Hey, so,” he begins, “did you really – Would you actually, ah, ask Kendall to, you know, fix you up with another job? Away from ATN?”
It’s stupid, really, to be thinking of this now, but there wasn’t much time to process when Greg’s implied it, and things seem to have calmed down now, at least for the time being. And Kendall’s pretty much dead now, in the grand scheme of things in the business aspect, but he’s still a COO, and giving Greg a job in another department is definitely something he could easily do.
“Should we be talking about this now?” Greg asks, shifting uncomfortably, and no, probably not.
“I mean, not much to do except talk,” Tom reasons. “We’ve got the whole night, hah, and nothing’s trying to actively kill us now, so. I was just wondering.”
“I mean,” Greg scratches his neck, “I don’t know. You know I’m not exactly like, enthusiastic about ATN.”
“Yeah, but I did promote you,” Tom argues. “Got you a shiny new office. And we work so well together! You’re like the perfect sidekick – I can’t turn this company into my bitch without a good sidekick.”
“Sure, but it’s just,” Greg begins and then stops himself, like he’s making up his mind on what to say next. “Like, what if I don’t want to be a sidekick, you know? What if I wanna, uh, be my own guy, too? Do my own thing?”
“That’s just proceedings, Greg,” Tom insists, letting himself get a little patronizing. “First you learn the ropes, have a mentor, and then when you’re ready, you go do your own thing.”
“See, I don’t get it,” Greg argues, gaining a little heat. “Am I like, the sidekick or the apprentice here? ‘Cause it’s not the same thing, the sidekick is just the sidekick, and I don’t –”
“This isn’t a comic book, Greg,” Tom interrupts. “Don’t be so literal.”
“It was your metaphor,” Greg bites back moodily, and Tom gives him a look. Greg sighs. “Look, can I – can I say something? Like, do you promise not to get offended if I say something?”
“Do I – Offended?” Tom scoffs. “I’m not some sensitive teenager, Greg, I don’t get offended by everything anyone says. What is it?”
“It’s just,” Greg sighs again, obviously choosing his words. “It’s just that sometimes – and don’t get me wrong, I do like you – but sometimes you’re just a little hard to work with. Work for.”
“Hard to work with?” Tom echoes, frowning. “Is this about the water bottles again? Because that was one time, and it was a stressful day. I mean, a possible shooter, you can’t –”
“No, it’s – it’s about a lot of things,” Greg says. “Like, you get a little crazy sometimes. And I get it, I really do, but it’s just hard to deal with sometimes, and I’m not like, I’m not against some friendly name-calling or whatever, I don’t mind, but sometimes,” he trails off. “Sometimes it’s just a lot, you know?”
“Well, if you’re going to be sensitive to workplace banter and the stress of being an executive, maybe you should’ve stayed in Canada and flipped burgers for a living,” Tom retorts.
Greg lets out a joyless laugh, like he’s in on some joke Tom isn’t, and it’s not even funny. “Right,” he says.
“What?”
“I’m just saying,” Greg starts again. “And I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but sometimes it feels less like banter and more like abuse?”
“Abuse?!” Tom almost shouts, disbelieving, and it’s then that there’s another screech from outside, and they both jump a little, Tom’s hands instinctively grabbing onto Greg.
“Dude, I think maybe we should be quieter,” Greg whispers, fear radiating off him in waves.
Tom just nods, and when there’s nothing else for a couple of more moments, he lets go of Greg slowly.
“So, what?” Tom asks, whispering intensely when he composes himself again, not ready to let this go. “You’re gonna go crying to Kendall? Not talk to me, your friend, first?”
“I did try to talk to you!” Greg whispers back almost angrily. “You started throwing water bottles at me!”
“We had a possible shooter situation, my wife was in the building, and we were trapped in a shitty little room where, if there was a shooter, we’d probably all get murdered in,” Tom hisses.
“I told you, it’s not about that,” Greg argues. “And Kendall’s my friend too, and he doesn’t like, go ballistic on me and insult me at every turn.”
“No, he just stages coups to overthrow his father and snorts so much coke it’s a wonder his nose is still attached to his face,” Tom says. “Go work for him if you like him so much, see how far that takes you.”
“Tom, come on,” Greg sounds tired. “I’m just letting you know how I feel. It’s just hard, sometimes. But I do like you. You’re – you’re still my best friend.”
“What does that even mean, it doesn’t mean anything,” Tom rattles, feeling himself getting worked up again. “It’s just words, they don’t mean anything, just empty fucking – things to say when you really mean fuck you, none of this means anything to me, so fuck off.”
“I didn’t say that,” Greg says quickly. “I don’t mean that, I didn’t say –”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s about the things you don’t say,” Tom laughs humorlessly.
“What about you?” Greg shoots back.
“What about me?”
“What do you mean? What are you not saying?” Greg is getting worked up too. “Because one minute you act like we’re friends, then you’re insulting me, then you’re pulling me into a fucking – a criminal conspiracy, and like, manipulating me and flat out using me, and then you accuse me of, what, not giving a shit about you?” Tom stares, feeling like he’s just been slapped. “What’s that about? What do you want from me?”
“I’m don’t – I’m not – Fuck you, man!”
“Fuck you!”
Tom doesn’t know who acts first, who jumps forward or pulls who in or what, but one moment they’re yelling, and the next they’re grabbing at each other, and he’s not sure if they’re trying to kick each other’s asses or ravish each other, but they’re kissing, anger and fury and passion and a lot of unspoken emotions running wild. His fists are full of Greg’s shirt, and Greg’s hands are grabbing at his shoulders, the back of his neck, the kisses bruising, and yes, yes, yes, fuck, it feels like some kind of denouement is being reached, like something is finally getting resolved.
Of course that’s when the horrifying screeching comes back, loud and demanding, and the scratching on the door starts up, insistent and bloodcurdling.
“Fuck you!” Greg shouts, grabbing a paperweight and hurling at the door. The sounds stop instantly.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tom mutters. “What the fuck.”
“Fuck,” Greg breathes, chest heaving.
“This is the worst night of my life, this is – why did you kiss me?” he asks Greg.
“What?” Greg’s head snaps, eyes widening. “You kissed me!”
“Ah, Jesus, we’re going to die, something is fucking – clawing at the door of my office! And here I am, making out with – with you! What the fuck!” he laughs.
“Well, I don’t know what you were thinking, but obviously you wanted to!”
“Shut up!” Tom yells.
“You shut up! That thing could come back any second!” Greg lowers his voice into an angry whisper again.
“You didn’t exactly complain,” Tom whispers back. “What is this, another little strategy? You whine about being manipulated, and then go and try to seduce the boss? Very femme fatale, Greg, very –”
“God, do you hear yourself?” Greg asks incredulously. “What are you even talking about? What could I possibly have to gain here?”
“Well, I don’t know, but obviously there’s a hidden agenda, you slimy little shit!”
“Not everything is about that!”
“Then what is it about?” Tom hisses without thinking, and immediately regrets it. They’re entering dangerous territory now, and he’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer to that question.
To his credit, Greg shuts up, but the intense silence that follows is almost worse. They’re looking at each other, charged with things Tom doesn’t want to think about, and he knows he should look away, focus on the arguably much bigger problem of an unidentified creature that could maybe come in and kill them, but he can’t. His eyes involuntarily drop to Greg’s lips, moist and slightly agape, and he looks good, like this, all riled up and angry, and before he knows it they’re kissing again. It’s desperate, bruising, but a bit gentler than before, and Tom doesn’t think, can’t think, so he loses himself in the touch he’s only just realizing he’s been so pathetically hungry for. Greg mirrors his hunger, and that’s almost scarier than anything else that’s happened tonight, but he doesn’t think about it.
They pull away, breathing heavily, and Tom feels like his insides are being pulled apart.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
There’s a tinge of satisfaction when he glances at Greg and notes he looks just as wrecked as he feels, and he laughs slightly, not sure if it’s at himself, or Greg, or the entire situation. Greg swallows.
“Well,” Tom begins, voice shaky, “I guess you’re definitely going to be asking for that transfer, now.”
He hates how sad he sounds, how pathetic and small, but there’s probably not much left to hide now, anyway. What a stupid, stupid mess.
“Yeah, I – I guess I should,” Greg replies, but he sounds unsure. There’s sadness to his voice too, and if Tom wasn’t so tired, so exhausted with everything that’s going on, he’d want to scream. Jesus.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Tom reasons, and feels the familiar tightness in his throat that would mean he’d be close to crying, had he actually the energy for it. He’s grateful he doesn’t.
“Probably,” Greg agrees. The sad eyes he’s giving Tom are almost too much to bear.
“Yeah, it – come here?” he hears himself ask, voice small and pathetically hopeful, and Greg breaks instantaneously, moving closer until their lips are on each other again.
It’s gentle, almost sweet with all the things they’re not saying, and Tom pours everything he has left into it. His hand comes up to cradle Greg’s face, and Greg’s hands are moving soothingly on his back, the back of his neck. God.
“Or I could,” Greg begins, breaking the kiss but not quite moving away. “I could not?”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Tom nods eagerly and kisses Greg again, feeling slightly feverish.
“I mean, I guess it’s not that big of a deal, and like, we – we talked, and –”
“Stay,” Tom says, and they kiss again. “Please.”
“Yeah, okay,” Greg breathes, and finally, finally, seems done talking.
Tom wakes up, completely disorientated, and it takes a few moments for his brain to process his surroundings. It’s early, the crack of dawn, and he’s lying on the floor of his office next to Greg, whose hand is gripping his middle. His lips are slightly parted, breaths even and kind of loud, but not exactly snoring. Tom sits up, takes in the absolute mess the room is in. Papers, files, and office supplies everywhere, scattered, his desk pushed up to the door, the couch unevenly standing between it and them. Last night comes back to him, and he shudders. Jesus fucking Christ. He spots his phone lying against one of the walls, and he remembers it was him who threw it there, so he untangles himself from Greg’s grip gently and goes over, hoping to all that is holy it’s still working. The screen is shattered, but it lights up fine when he presses the unlock button. 5:47 am. He breathes, in and out, and drags a hand through his hair. Okay.
He turns off the light, because the room is bright enough on its own, and goes back towards the couch to wake Greg up. He puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes gently. Greg stirs and mumbles something.
“Greg,” Tom says quietly. “Greg, come on, wake up. It’s morning.”
“Mhm,” Greg hums, and Tom shakes him again.
“Come on, Greg,” he says again. “We have to clean up before anyone gets here.”
Greg’s eyes crack open, and he looks completely lost, but he turns on his back and slowly props himself on his elbows. He looks around, and Tom lets him come to himself without saying anything.
“God, what,” Greg croaks. “How did we even manage to like, fall asleep?”
“I have no idea,” Tom laughs, not really finding it funny. “But nothing came to maul us, so. Come on, get up. We have to clean this mess up.”
“Yeah,” Greg nods, sitting up properly. “Jesus.”
He looks rumpled, eyes heavy with sleep and dark hair sticking in every direction, and it makes Tom’s heart constrict for a moment. He turns around and crouches, picking up stray pieces of paper and putting them together. He’ll organize it later. Greg joins him, grabbing a handful of pens and markers before looking at the desk holding the door and stopping in place.
“Do you think we can…?” he trails off. “The desk?”
They exchange an unsure look, but Tom figures it must be alright now, because they’ve slept for a good few hours and nothing happened, and it’s light out anyway. He nods, and they each grab one end of the desk and push it back into place. No sounds come from behind the door.
They work in silence, putting all the staplers and pens into their rightful places, and once they drag the couch back to where it should be, the office looks normal again. Like nothing happened at all. Greg is looking at him like he wants to say something, and Tom’s not sure if he wants to hear it or not.
“I,” Greg begins, but looks like he changes his mind. “We’re – we’re okay, right?” he says instead.
Tom gives him a sad smile, halfway between forced and honest, and squeezes his arm. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes, of course.”
“Okay,” Greg nods. “Some night, huh?”
“Yeah,” Tom laughs. “Some night.”
“I assume we’re not – What happens in creepy offices on Halloween night stays in them, right?” Greg asks. “I mean, whatever that thing was, we’re not – it stays between us?”
“Yeah, no, definitely,” Tom nods gravely. “I’m not feeling, ah, eager to see the inside of a psych ward.”
“No,” Greg laughs. “Yeah, okay, that’s – good.”
“Yeah.”
“So do you think, uh, the door? I mean, it should be safe now? You think it’s still stuck?” Greg asks, not moving towards it.
“I don’t know, I hope not,” Tom says quickly, swallowing down anything else he might say. “We should check.”
They stay still for a moment or two more, until Tom starts getting nervous, so he takes an abrupt few steps towards it and grabs the handle. He pulls, just a tiny bit, and it opens easily. He breathes out a small laugh.
“Oh, wow,” Greg says. “Well, looks like no one will ever know, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“But, I mean,” Greg stumbles out, a different kind of nervousness to his voice. He meets Tom’s eyes deliberately. “We know, right?”
“Yeah,” Tom swallows. “We know.”